Sweet Convictions

by Elizabeth, C.

  “Thank you again,” I say with a reddened face and quickly catch up to Drake who’s already out the door. I turn to wave to Diana but thank gracious God she’s already seeing to the next lot of guests...who look scared out of their minds and who appear more as if they should be entering a church, not a chic shag shack.

  Chapter 10

  A week later and a smack in the face of rapid realisation hits me. I feel like I’ve left my head behind. I’m back in the land of the ordinary working class less sex-craved world in which I live and I’m bored already. I’m bored of the routine, bored of my work, bored of my life. Just bored, bored, fucking mindlessly bored. The only pussy action I’m getting is the nuzzling and rubbing up against my legs from my cats, and other than their categorical love for me, the only good thing about arriving back is it’s payday tomorrow.

  I’ve also come to the realisation that as much as I care very dearly for Karl, he’s just not the guy I can see myself spending the rest of my current jaded life with. I need my life to change significantly and rapidly. I need a holiday. I need more sex. Oh dear God, I’m turning into a sex pest. I’m probably gonna to have to go for counselling I just know it! Oh shit, shit, sh...Oh shut the fuck up. You sound just like you did before you unyielding bat.

  It’s exactly what I need; just as much as the pleasures of SCM were doubtlessly necessary. I needed to feel myself like I’ve never felt myself before and I’m unapologetic about how I did it, where or how many times I did it.

  I change my track of thought and embrace more of the new me -the new me I want to be. Screw it! I whip out my laptop and credit card and book a holiday, quickly grasping at the fact that I’ve just bought a retreat for one. I wince at the thought of being alone on the flight, arriving alone at the hotel, swimming alone, eating alone, drinking alone, so I invite Tally. Annoyingly, she can’t make it. I’m fucked. I’m alone and fucked. I’m three hundred pounds down, alone and thoroughly fucked. Too late now. No refunds.

  A month of work and habit passes. My time to getaway finally arrives and I’m standing nervously in an infinite queue of excitable crowds about to board the plane. My excitement and anxiousness is indeed overruled by crapping myself. I’m not the world’s best or most relaxed airborne passenger.

  A tallish guy standing in front of me turns to ask if I’m okay, to which I snap that I am most definitely not. Tears streaming, hands shaking. I feel like I’m going to pass out from the paralysing thought of having to fly such a long haul journey on my own. Could I feel anymore embarrassed and child-like?

  For a moment, he jerks the fear from my mind with all his punch-in-the-face deliciousness. He’s hot. Hot, Hot, Hot, Hot, Hot with an inordinately large capital H. Gimme an H, gimme an O, gimme a T. What does that spell?...I want to lick your cock like a lollipop then fuck the living daylights outa you, that’s what!

  I ascertain from his distinct accent that he too is a fellow South African. Thankfully, not only is he a hunky chunky fillet of steak and a side of crispy onion rings to my eyes, but he seems genuinely decorous too. He takes my hands into his, gives them a little rub and tells me everything’s going to be just fine. Oh god I can’t stand when people say things like that. I mean how the hell could they possibly know huh?! Do they have pocket-sized crystal balls that they carry around with them? They can’t see into the future so why promise something they can’t be sure will be delivered?!

  Still, I instantly pull myself together and giggle into his smiling eyes. We get talking and in the short time it takes to get to the doorway of the plane, we discover we have similar likes and dislikes. Annoyingly, just as I’m starting to relax, we board and are separated. He’s directed to the front, although not quite first class and I’m shunted down to the opposite end in the very ass of the aircraft.

  About two hours of flight time passes. I’m engrossed in a film with three miniature wine bottles—one rosé, one white and one red, all neatly lined up in front of me. Ah such prrretty colours. I’m sipping slowly away at one of the comforting liquids and feel a tap on my shoulder. As I look up, I almost climax on my seat. It’s Saffa Boy. He smiles down at me and I honestly feel like unzipping his jeans and choking myself with his semi, which might I add is pretty visible at that angle.

  He leans down and whispers in my ear to come with him.

  “Where?” I ask. For god sake Gemma, can’t you just go with the flow and not ask questions for a change?

  “Just come,”

  I get up from my seat and we make our way to the first class cabin into an unattended bar. We naturally take a seat as if we’re one of the unduly affluent high flyers and blissfully pour ourselves a drink.

  “Ah, this is most definitely the life,” I sigh.

  “I’ll drink to that,” he says clinking my glass.

  Immediately after our first sip, one of the stewardesses pokes her head from around the corner, grimaces over at us and politely asks us to leave.

  “Oh, this isn’t for everyone?” I play ignorant.

  “No, just for first class passengers love,” she snaps. DON’T you call me love, love! Snooty condescending bitch!

  “Oh sorry, we’ll leave then. We didn’t know.”

  As she turns her back and walks off, I grab a large bottle of red and we scamper to the back of the plane where we sit on the floor chatting and laughing.

  About an hour and an empty wine bottle later, Justin looks into my eyes and stands up. He puts his hand out and tells me to escape with him to the toilets. Mile High Club here I come. And in more ways than one too!

  I look around. Everyone pretty much has their earphones in; some passengers laughing, some crying, some probably bored shitless into a deep sleep from all the crap films they have on tonight. I get up from the uncomfortable floor, my ass numb, our eyes still locked on to one another as he guides me to my feet. My heart practically beats out of my chest. Oh my god I can’t breathe!

  He shoves me hard into the cubicle, shuts and locks the door behind him. He leans into me as I lean back. Only the Lord above alone knows why I choose to do that. He comes even closer and I pull back even more—so much so I whack my head on the back panel. I giggle but he doesn’t respond. The look on his face is serious. It’s as if he wants to rape me and truthfully I wouldn’t fight very hard to stop him. I want him to fuck me so hard it’d smash a whole through the aluminium popping out all the rivets keeping it together.

  He wraps his hand powerfully around my throat and for a second I become anxious. I mean as nice as this guy seems, he could be a psycho who’s quite content with killing someone with nowhere to run afterwards. For all I know, he may get an absolute high from being caught. Thankfully, it turns out he’s no killer. He’s just a psycho sexter. I can’t even recall how many times I’ve fantasised about this exact scenario.

  His grip is firm but not too much so. With his other hand he quickly raises the silky fabric of my maxi skirt and lifts my right leg onto the wash basin. My skirt is covering my head so I’m blinded to what’s coming next. I’ve honestly never in my entire life felt so turned on and so nervous at the same time, not to mention extremely unattractive. What a sight. Indeed, a sight he wants to fuck, kiss, bite and finger. He literally takes my breath away.

  I draw my skirt down from my face to see him tearing open a condom packet with his teeth. Still gripping my neck with his left hand, he unzips his jeans with the other, whips out his cock and covers it with the rubber—all this with just with one hand. Such a talented little fella. He then moves my panties to the side and enters me. Okay, so not so little fella!

  I hold my breath for as long as possible so as not to bring any attention to the compartment, but I can’t hold back anymore and belt out a moan, which I’m sure even the pilots behind the safety of their cockpit hear.

  “Fuck. Shit. That was loud. Sorry,” I say.

  He moves his hand from my throat to my mouth. How the hell does one remain silent whilst being cock-thrashed into the clouds?

  He slams i
nto me, over and over. Holy fucking shitballs, is this guy for real? He is incredible. Note to self: Must do this again.

  My raised leg starts to cramp so I move it back down. He spins me around to face the cubicle wall as he wrenches my hips closer towards his cock and slides himself inside. I screech and immediately put my hand over my own mouth.

  “Further down,” I whisper.

  “Oh shit sorry,” he laughs. Wrong entrance!

  As he holds onto my waist with one hand and fucks me from behind, he leans forward and massages my throbbing clit with the other.

  “Oh my god I’m going to come all over your cock,” I utter.

  “Good girl. You do whatever you need to whilst I fuck you like we’re about to crash,” he whispers into my ear.

  Oh God that’s so not the right thing to say to a nervous flyer!

  His hot breath and sensual baritone makes me even more excitable. I arch my back and thrust my ass into reverse as I drive further into him. I want more of him. I want his whole body inside of me.

  He continues to rub my clit, faster and faster as I dance my pussy around his cock until I erupt.

  “Oh Jesus,” I pant.

  “Was that good?” he asks after a few breath-slowing moments.

  “Good? That was fucking mind-blowing,”

  “Terrific. Now it’s my turn,” he declares.

  And he thrashes into me, harder and faster. I can see his reflection in the mirror, his expression of untainted greed and filth.

  Is that what he thinks of me? Did he think I was a filthy tramp? Oh fuck it. I’m not here to meet my perfect future husband am I?! Who the hell cares what he thinks. We’re both in here for the same reason.

  Then there’s a grunt deep from within as he delivers one more thump against my ass before he peaks.

  High Flyer Fantasy: Check.

  Chapter 11

  Tanned, shagged and refreshed, I’m safe and sound at home. And enough is enough now. It’s time for a break—not only for the sake of my poor overly occupied vagina but my mind too. I need a detox from sex, drugs and alcohol. Whilst I’ve had my turn of going off the rails a bit and living a single life to its fullest potential, it’s just no longer filling the right hole, so to say, in all of my crudeness. I need companionship of a more gratifying kind—something that’s going to last longer than a few hours of thrusts and licks.

  Five months pass and in that time I’ve made some radical adjustments. I’ve changed jobs and am now working as an Executive Assistant with better people, better money and a much nicer boss. I’ve also started my own private PA business, as well as a mobile beauty company. I’ve even designed and built their websites all on my own. So proud!

  Currently I run both businesses in my spare time. Unfortunately, I still have to continue working because annoyingly I can’t do without the security of a monthly income albeit a shitty one. I have way too much to pay out. I have my mortgage, expenses and on top of that, as well as a second lot with taking care of my mother. I have two sets of lives to upkeep so there’s no telling any boss of mine where to go just yet.

  Whilst between the hours of 9am and 5pm every week day I’m organising my manager’s life; in the evenings I’m focussing on marketing and promoting my businesses in the hope of establishing their brands. God, I so badly want to reach a point of being able to finally quit my full time work and be my own boss. I’d be such a great manager to anyone who worked for me. Ooh, perhaps I should become a Madame! I’d be so good to them, caring for them, protecting them, dressing them!

  It’s crazy to think back at how, as much as I’ve always dreamt of working for myself and putting in the efforts and time for the one and only person who’d appreciate it—that would be me—I’ve never had the confidence or balls to do anything about it, except constantly bitch about it.

  That’s until one Saturday morning when I woke up with a wave of motivation, ambition and an un-sexually related desire to be something more; to be better and to be able to give my mother and brother more than I’ve been able to.

  All of that day I wrote down lists of all the things I wanted to do in my lifetime, along with lists of my current skills then lists of pros and cons with sub-lists and sub-sub-lists. Buried under a pile of paper with vivid coloured post-it notes stuck to my arse and face, I snapped out of my mad-woman-mode, scrunched up the pages dotted around the floor of my chair and decided not only one business would do but why not try two. It’s been such a fun journey; completely knackering, but I’ve learned so much along the way.

  Life is good. Well, at least better. No more unnecessary stress, no more bullying bitches, no more degrading pricks or disapproving bosses. Simply no more shit. The best part being? No more loneliness either. Upon recently starting my businesses, I’ve managed to meet someone and he’s the most awesomestestest guy on the planet. The one I’m going to marry.

  The craziest part is that we’ve only just met over the phone—not yet face to face.

  He works at a media agency up north and I’m sadly still living alone with my cats in my two-bed flat down south - even as lovely as it is. He’s been helping me to upload my advertising profile onto the Internet and relevant advertising platforms to help get my businesses out there.

  It’s his particularly deep and eminently attractive tone that did it for me. His voice is the sound of sex. Each time he speaks, I peak. Honestly, I could melt like a dollop of butter to a hot sizzling pan. Sssssssss. His tone is as rich as a smooth, belly-warming, throat-soothing, arm-numbing whiskey. It sends shivers down my spine, a tingle in my pussy and a twinge on my clit. Listening to his gravelly tone is like the sensation of having a head massager sensually stroked through my hair. Arousing, relaxing, lustful.

  I still have no idea what he looks like yet but I’m consumed into a complete state of debauchery. I can’t get enough of it. I’ve called him every day and played the ditsy dumb-ass pretending I don’t know what I’m doing just so I can hear his sensual tones. Although, of course, I so know what I’m doing.

  A desolate and destitute Christmas and New Year sped by like a desert sandstorm. Thankfully. I can’t stand this time of the year! Bah-friggin-humbug and all that. Christmas is such a sham. It causes havoc, debt, selfishness and greed. Everything it’s supposed to count against. Nobody celebrates it for the right reason anymore. For so many people, too much of it is about what or how much they receive and nothing to do with why we even have Christmas in the first place. I’m anything but religious, so fear not, I’m not about to preach to you but at least I understand and respect the reasons why we have this day. People give gifts mainly with an expectation of receiving one back and even more so in the hope of it being bigger, better or more expensive. It’s utter bollocks. It’s not what it’s all about. It’s a time for giving and not expecting anything. God, I really do go off on one.

  Anyway, there isn’t much I can do with my beauty business because as usual during that time of the year everyone has very limited spare cash to fill their pantry and fridge let alone splash out and titivate themselves with lengthy lashes or fake tans.

  It’s been a very quiet one for me. Most of my three weeks off from work has consisted of improving my business websites, eating shitloads, enjoying some tranquil cuddle time with my babies and entertaining my sexual needs with my toys. On the rare occasion after realising I had run out of batteries, I humped my hot water bottle—surprisingly pleasurable with the warmth and soft squidginess soothingly massaging against me. Who knew you could carry out such gratifying things with an everyday home accessory. Hmmm, so much more to it than just keeping you warm on a cold night or easing excruciating period pains. On top of that, it beats paying exorbitant prices on life-like love dolls or a decent sized rubber pussy to bump ugly with. Hmmm, actually, I might still start saving towards one of those.

  I log into my emails which I haven’t checked for a good month now; after all, who’s really going to need a PA during December when everyone’s jetting across the world to s
oak up some sun or visit family?

  I see an email from Mark and my heart skips about ten beats. The smile on my face causes my cheeks to cramp. I scramble about the keyboard in an attempt to open it, but I’m so excessively excited I hit the delete button in error.

  “Noooooooooooooooooo!” I shriek. The cats shit themselves and simultaneously scamper out from under the duvet which we were, until now, snuggled in.

  “Sorry babies. Mommy’s a little excited. Sorry, come, come.” They stare at me dubiously as they peer from behind the door, and wonder off into the bedroom to a more noiseless safety.

  “Fine,” I say feeling rejected and less snug.

  “You’ll be back and you know it you fuzzy little fuckers.”

  I finally calm myself and move the email back to the inbox and open it.

  “Shit, it’s from last fucking week. He must think I’m completely not interested. Oh why the hell didn’t I check my fucking emails for fuck sake?”

  From: Mark

  Sent: 20 December 20:19

  To: Gemma

  Subject: Contact – Your Business

  Hi Gemma

  It’s Mark here. I’m just dropping you a line to let you know that the original free offer of technical assistance from our company has now expired. Unfortunately, it becomes chargeable should you require any additional support.

  “Oh the joy of this email. True salesman. He’s just looking to build up his commission.” I sigh as I become deflated. Still, I read on.

  Saying that, I’d really like to continue providing support should you require any if you’d like to get me out of hours?

  Another beat skipped.

  I must admit too that I read your email from a few days back and whilst at the time, I had no idea how to take it, I did find you rather funny.