Improper

by K NILSSON

  I’d agreed to therapy when Natalie discovered my surfing history on the computer. She accused me of being over-amorous and a pervert, and I thought that was the reason her desire for me was waning.

  There wasn’t a big fight about it; she was calm as a cucumber when she pouted and said that I wasn’t attracted to her anymore. She tried to shame me, but I didn’t shame easily about sex. I enjoyed watching clips of women sucking on cocks as if they were lollipops. Another fantasy was the glory hole episodes, captured in graphic photos. The combination of those two fetishes got me so hot that my come spurt thickly and with velocity. Sometimes it took just three long pulls and a bunch of small, fast jerks. It wasn’t the same being with Natalie, but I was sated.

  Her accusation was just short of calling me a sex addict. Me, over-amorous! How ironic.

  One day, I had come home early to our seedy apartment. We’d just moved to Los Angeles to look for jobs, and the apartment was all we could afford. Sometimes my work kept me away for a couple of days at a time, and she hadn’t been expecting me until the next day. The apartment was dark except for a nightlight in the bedroom. I followed the grunts and snatches of words and found my wife with Colt, my former navy Seal buddy.

  “Fuck me as if you own me. Fuck! Fuck me! Harder!” Natalie chanted, the cheating cunt.

  “You're my bitch, Nat. Come on. I'm bigger than him, right?”

  That guy had a problem with his competitive ways, but this? Fucking my wife?

  “Bigger than who?” she asked, with the insolence of a well-used whore.

  But Colt had reached the point where he was going to bust his nut and increased his ardor, bringing my slut wife to the point of screaming out her orgasm like a stuck pig.

  I didn't remember what happened after that. I broke Colt's jaw and sent him away. I just remembered turning toward Natalie cowering in the corner. I’d never hit a woman in anger, and I wasn’t going to start. She crawled toward and knelt before me, and then she pulled my cock out of my pants toward her mouth.

  “What are you doing, cunt?” I grated through my clenched teeth.

  She smiled just as she had all the other times in our marriage, when a simple blowjob would make my anger and discontent slip away.

  “Is this what you want?” I asked, waiting for her to admit it.

  “Yes, baby,” she whispered. “I want you. Slap me, pull my hair, and do me like you do, like I love it.”

  I almost slapped her. But I let her put my cock in her mouth for the last time. I gave it to her harder than I ever had before. I jammed my cock so far down her throat that she threw up. I didn’t care. It made for a more lubricated ride. Nothing—not her tears, not her choking, not her pushing against my thighs—could loosen my grip on her hair. I didn’t stop until I pulled out of that slut’s mouth and came all over her face. I took pleasure in painting her cheeks and eyes with the thick, clotted-creamy essence that was me.

  Then I threw her out. She had to call her sister to come pick her up. I hadn't seen that cunt since.

  In retrospect, I thought Natalie had been rationing sex out as if it were currency, which made me angry. Relationships meant not holding back pleasure from your partner, right? But she had. Now I knew why she’d doled out her favors to me. She was the neighborhood doorknob, the bicycle my friends rode.

  I guess you could say that was why I became a PI specializing in infidelity.

  How did I become a sex addict? Revenge. I had an insatiable need to catch women cheating on their husbands and photograph their indisputable betrayal in the most humiliating ways. Those women had no shame. They were all Natalie.

  I’d sworn off women of my own though. I’d never even considered finding another girlfriend, someone I could trust to be faithful to me. I couldn’t expect to ever run across a lustful woman who could be honest about her obsessions and let me fulfill them.

  The women came out of the church one by one, except for Carrie. She walked out with Dr. MacCallan a good half hour after everyone else had left. Carrie was carrying a book. I wondered what that was all about. SNAP.

  She waved to Dr. Jane then walked toward her car, a chili-red Mini Coop. It was cute. She wasn’t much into going incognito for a rich girl with no bodyguards. But then, she was a carefree, if not careless, young woman.

  Once she got inside, she tapped on her cell phone. Was she texting, browsing?

  I need to insinuate myself into her life. She needed to meet me as a pickup, a one-night (or two) stand. First order of business was to install an app on Carrie's phone so that I could access it remotely. I had no doubt the Drazens gave their children the very best communication technology money could buy. I didn’t like to call it hacking, but it was. I could use the app to access her call logs, messages, location, browsing history, apps, and more. The tricky part was getting her phone away to install it. The operation would take a little reconnaissance, but my buddy Max was working on the technology. He already had her cell number and was finding out which apps she used.

  Sawyer Saint James was going to get lucky. Carrie might have a magic cunt, and there was only one way to find out… for reference, of course.

  I looked back at her car again and… wait a minute, what was she doing? Her eyes were glassy, her shoulder moving with a definite rhythm. For fuck’s sake… She was either finger painting or slicing pie. SNAP.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Margie

  My desk was littered with legal documents, most of them for Daddy’s takeover bid of new businesses. His pockets were full of politicians, almost solidifying his reputation as a kingmaker.

  Going into business for me had just been an exercise in paperwork. Daddy was my only client. Because of that, I had a staff of lawyers who feared the wrath of the Drazens if they broke the non-disclosure agreements. Will’s job was to find their weak link for leverage. That information he gave to my father—no go-between needed, not even me. Dispensing wrath wasn’t my department. My job was to hire the right people—specialists, not generalists—and see the contracts fulfilled.

  Carrie called me just a few moments ago, and I’d agreed to meet her for lunch at our usual place. I hadn’t seen my sister since before she disappeared, and I only knew she was okay thanks to Will and his colleague, some private dick named Saint. He did a good job and provided details of his investigation. There was no question I wanted him to continue on the case.

  I had to postpone a telephone meeting with Daddy to leave early enough for lunch though.

  “Daddy.”

  “Margie. You’re calling a little earlier than scheduled.”

  “I heard from Carrie. We’re meeting for lunch shortly.”

  Nothing. He was just breathing.

  “Did she sound okay?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, she did. She caught me off guard though. I’m normally the one who has to chase her down.”

  “Go on. Enjoy your lunch. I’m open this afternoon, so call me after and give me a rundown.”

  “Sure.”

  I arrived at the Breakwater Grill right at twelve and was surprised to see Carrie sitting at our usual table by the window. She looked well—no sunken eyes, her hair pulled back into a low braid, and her usual attire of a blouse, designer jeans, and heels. I was wearing my work uniform of a designer suit with sensible heels. Despite the difference in our attire, no one could mistake us for anything but sisters.

  “Hi, little sister.”

  Carrie stood, and we embraced with a light kiss that brushed the corners of our mouths.

  “What’s been going on with you?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Working with Daddy monopolizes all my time.”

  “You still don’t have any other clients?” she asked incredulously, and I shook my head.

  “I hope that changes soon. You need some independence.”

  “Nobody walks away from Daddy.”

  “Have you tried to make a deal with him?”

  “Nobody makes a deal with Daddy that doesn’t bene
fit him a hundred percent.”

  Carrie nodded.

  “That’s why I keep my distance from him.”

  “What’s going on with you?” I asked nonchalantly.

  I knew better than to be the grand inquisitor with Carrie. She clams up.

  “Open pledge, Margie.”

  Pledge was a secret pact among the siblings present. Only truth could be shared during pledge, and not a word could be disclosed to anyone outside of that pledge. Ever.

  I raised my hand. “Pledge open.”

  Carrie was uncomfortable. She was silent for a couple of minutes as if trying to figure out where to start.

  “Go on,” I prompted. “A pledge is a promise for a reason.”

  For sharing secrets, humiliations, shame, and confessions, I thought ruefully.

  “I know. I remembered part of the dream and talked to Dr. Jane about it. The things he did, he did to me... for real.”

  I stilled, silently willing her to go on.

  “I know why I hate candy.”

  She’d opened pledge to talk about candy?

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “The candy was used to coerce me... into doing something I didn't want to do.”

  “Like what, Carrie?”

  She was pale, so very pale, that I reached for her hand and held it.

  “He made me suck his cock. The candy was to cover the aftertaste.

  The words had come out in a rush, probably before she lost her nerve. I knew it was hard for her to say. It was hard for me to hear. I hoped it wasn't true.

  “Are you sure?”

  She shook her head. “Yes”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No, not yet. I hope Dr. Jane can tell me where to go from here. You know these things I'm remembering... might be the key to my crazy sexuality.”

  I shook my head, silently cursing the fact that my siblings and I all had issues with our sexuality.

  Then I remembered the aftermath of her dreams when she’d lived at home when we lived altogether.

  “Did you throw up?”

  “Every single time.”

  “Are you going to go out and pick someone up now?”

  I knew what Carrie did, and that it wasn’t a regular thing.

  “What? How?” She stuttered.

  “Don’t try to deny it, sister. I’m under pledge. You are under pledge. No judgement here.

  “I don’t plan on it, but then, I never plan on it. It’s usually an impulsive act. My plan is to keep busy.”

  I patted her hand.

  “Whatever happens, whatever you figure out, I’m your sister. I’m here for you.”

  “Is there anything else?” I asked.

  “And that’s pledge closed,” she said, raising her hand.

  “Pledge closed,” I echoed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carrie

  “I plan to keep busy”… my famous last words to Margie had jinxed me. I didn’t even try to control the impulse. That evening, I got the recurring itch to hunt for a dirty scene. I found myself in a swank hotel bar, a Westin or someplace like that, and flirted shamelessly with a well-dressed man who invited me up to his room. Perhaps he’d slipped a Mickey into my drink, but when I came to, the man had his belt around my neck and choked me, while riding me from behind and calling me names.

  When he finished, he asked if I was okay and reminded me I agreed to this type of breath play. Maybe I did. But the episode hurled me into my own purgatory again. I need to fucking stop this train wreck. Desperate sex made me lose a little bit more of myself every time, beautiful, shiny, empty Carrie.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saint

  Carrie was on the move, and I needed to be ready to follow her. She started up that little fireplug of hers and got on I-10 toward Santa Monica. The Mini Coop was like a toy, changing lanes quickly and seamlessly, as if it were a prop in a video game. She wouldn’t be able to blow me off, but I didn't want to be spotted. I needed Max to put a GPS device on her car.

  She pulled up in front of a nondescript little cottage bar, right on the beach, called Jay’s. I got there in time to see her toss her keys at the valet and saunter inside, her hips swaying from side to side.

  Me? I was playing catch-up all the way. I handed the valet the keys. My 1962 blue Buick Skylark convertible, though a little beat up, was perfect for Southern California driving, and it was my pride and joy.

  “See this fifty-dollar bill? It’s yours when I leave if you park it over there.” I pointed at a slot that said Reserved.

  It took me two minutes inside to find Carrie. She’d scrambled up to the bar as if the house was on fire. I looked around for the usual suspects—girls down for whatever and putting in the effort to get noticed. I wanted to meander over to Carrie right away, but I couldn’t look as if I was stalking her.

  She sat on the stool at the far end of the bar, her right leg elongated, anchored her in place, while she rested her left foot on the stool's spindle, just watching, scoping, evaluating. It looked as though she had gone to the same school of experience that I had.

  Carrie looked like a wealthy, half-classy biker chick, one that works at being inelegant in an expensive way. Her burgundy hair was loose; there was no sign of the ponytail from earlier. She wore a soft leather jacket that had an off-the-shoulder collar. It was skintight and wrapped her upper body like a glove. It was decorated with zippers and buckles. On her sexy bottom, she had crisp, white, linen shorts that ended just above her dimpled knees. She must have pulled off her T-shirt in the car before driving here. The collar of her jacket was cut low and wide across her chest, and all but tempted someone like me to nibble along her collarbone. I got an eyeful of those long stems and beautiful feet tucked into elegant black boots.

  I leaned in close to her and tried to get the bartender's attention, but instead of his, I hoped to get hers. First impressions were everything, but I didn’t know what kind of impression I wanted to make. I shuttered my face into an expression I’d perfected from my years of entrapping cheating wives.

  “Sir?” prompted the bartender.

  “Balvenie 14.”

  “Ice?”

  “Neat,” I said, and turned my palm down with a slight back-and-forth motion.

  Why did she have to smell so good? Like vanilla and oranges, with a little floral soap mixed in. It was a heady concoction. I hoped her whole body would taste like Sugar Pops.

  She turned toward me, and our eyes locked.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carrie

  The musician was playing light jazz. The soft piano keys dulled the noise in my head. The smell of the ocean, fresh and salty, wafted in behind me. I saw suits. I liked suits. Suits score every time. And the guy who leaned over my back? He was a good-looking man who smelled like leather, and scotch, and trouble. He wore something like a suit, and all together, he was just my type—a dark Viking.

  He didn’t look like any man I'd ever seen. He was a double D—dramatic and distinguished. His salt-and-pepper hair was darker than not. It was longish, brushing the collar of his shirt, and slicked back off his forehead. He was a bronze god with a manicured beard trimmed in such a way that made his face look angular and neatly sculpted. He had on aviator sunglasses inside, after dusk. What was he looking at? What were the colors of his eyes?

  I stared at his Adam's apple and worked my way up, past a nose sharp enough to cut a piece of paper—a Roman nose. He took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were the same color as mine. When our blue-eyed gazes met, I heard an intake of breath. It was mine.

  I broke eye contact first and studied the rest of him. The sharp collar bone, a shirt that was tight across the chest, a dark sport coat, and black jeans.

  I wanted to ask his name, but that would be violating the first rule of one-night stands—no names, ever.

  He asked, “Are you here alone?”

  I was almost embarrassed by how my eyes were roami
ng boldly back up his body, then I saw that he was doing the same to mine.

  Usually I would say yes in a flash, but I didn't want Mr. Balvenie to think I was too easy. Then again, his eyes were telling me I was alone. I expected him to mark me as his territory.

  “I’m not alone,” I whispered in my best smoky voice. “I'm talking to you.”

  I tipped my glass toward my lips and tasted the scotch. Its warmth spread slowly through my body, warding off the chill from the ocean.

  Lips weren't a part of the male anatomy that I’d ever paid much attention to, but when I looked at his thick lips, a dark rose color, and thought about the mysteries of a first kiss, my body moved toward his. I recalled Dr. Jane’s discussion of a first kiss. Naturally, I licked mine.

  What was I doing? This perusal was nothing more than a chase for a sexual encounter.

  On that note, my thoughts ran away from me. As my eyes wandered down toward his hips, I tried to gauge the dark Viking’s anatomy, how hard he was beneath his clothes. I fantasized him commando. His jeans rode low on his waist, and I saw an opportunity to slip my hand inside and inspect him firsthand. I wanted to lick my way down both sides of his torso. Suddenly it was hot in the bar and hard to concentrate on the attempt at conversation.

  He was arrogant. He smirked.

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked.

  There were things I never asked when picking up a stranger. I didn't want to know what they did for a living. I didn’t care what they drove, where they lived, or what their favorite color was. I wanted to know how they liked their cock sucked. I wanted to know if they made love or fucked. Did they eat pussy? Did they like rough sex?

  He laughs. “I thought those kinds of pickup lines weren’t allowed.”

  He was cocky. I liked that. It was a cousin to arrogance and cruelty; I liked that even more. Was this what it felt like to find your true north?