The Chalupa Conundrum

by Lyle Christie

  “Or perhaps moan.”

  “Yes, and perhaps call out loudly,” she added.

  “Well, m’lady—the name’s Bondage. James Bondage,” I said, as I took the scarf, wrapped it around her wrists, then did several loops across the middle to take up any slack before running the free end up to the post at the center of the head board, where I secured it with a pretty decent quick release knot that I often used when sailing.

  She tested her bonds and, feeling suitably restrained, smiled up at me.

  “Now, Mr. Bondage, I want to you fuck me until I can’t remember my name.”

  “That might take a while.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Looking at the beautiful woman before me, I couldn’t help but smile at the proliferation of bondage in the last few years since the success of Fifty Shades of Grey. The weird part was everybody had already been experimenting with it from the moment they started humping, but, these days, it was experiencing a real renaissance and had managed to penetrate the main stream of the western world. Still, it didn’t matter if it was about silk ties, whipped cream, riding crops, vibrators, or nipple clamps, as it was all just a part of the bigger picture of sexual interaction, which, ultimately, was about making sweet love to a beautiful woman. The real decision was about where to start, and I decided to begin with her lips. I kissed her and we had a hot, heated, and wanton exchange, before I moved to her neck then breasts. Her heart was now pounding and every breath sent her full breasts heaving up and down, making her large, hard nipples a delectable target for my tongue. I ensnared one and encircled the areola before giving the tip the gentlest of nibbles. She moaned as she arched her back and strained against her silken bonds, but it held firm as I moved on to her other breast. I again encircled the areola, but, instead of a nibble, I gave the tip a brief though thorough tongue lashing before setting off for her feminine essence.

  I slid my lips past her belly button, and she pressed up with her hips in hopes of finding the sweet pleasure of my mouth, but I cruelly paused. She writhed below me, and I could abstain no longer and plunged my tongue into her hot, wet center then moved upward until finding her clitoris, and she instantly started to tense. I decided to take it slow and applied the pressure and speed gradually, and I could feel her body going into a kind of sexual holding pattern where the pleasure center of her brain was overriding all other functions. It was pure bliss and a place in our own personal universe that we sadly only visited for limited amounts of time—though perhaps tonight we might stay a bit longer. I increased the pressure and speed, but then reduced it in order to keep her floating on the edge between extreme pleasure and release, and it made her moan in pleasure and strain against her silken bonds and all but beg for sweet climax. At last I ceased the delightful torture and pushed her ruthlessly over the orgasmic edge until her entire body spasmed in delight.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Fabiana.”

  “Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to keep going.”

  “I guess you will.”

  I slid my manhood into her essence but took it slow, pressing in inch by inch until our bodies were tightly together at the hips. She was still in the aftershocks of her first orgasm and therefore incredibly sensitive, so every movement made her squirm and moan in delight. It was a visual and visceral extravaganza that made holding back my own release nearly impossible, but I soldiered on by slowing down my pace as necessary when I felt too close to the edge. At last, I pressed in and used a grinding motion that put more emphasis on the clitoris, and she set into her next climax. Finished, she opened her eyes and gazed up at me longingly.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Fa—Fabiana,” she said, breathlessly.

  “Oh well, I better keep going.”

  “Such is the cruelty of life.”

  I switched to a new position that entailed sliding my knees under her thighs. It brought the penis into more direct contract with the fabled Gräfenberg Spot and, combined with a little manual stimulation of the clitoris, could be brutally effective at bringing forth orgasm. Employing the new position, Fabiana was quick to vocalize her pleasure, even more so when I placed my index and middle fingers upon her golden button of love. Had I been holding a stopwatch, I would have seen about twenty-one seconds elapse before the great moment of orgasmic release came on like a great speeding locomotive. It may have come on quickly, but it was slow to trail off, and her body continued to spasm until I finally slowed my efforts.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think it might start with an F,” she said, with a teasing smile.

  “Oh well, I guess we’re not quite there yet.”

  “OK, but it might kill me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a supermodel, and, unlike normal models, you’re impervious to death by orgasm.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  I slid my manhood out of her and dropped my lips upon her lady fruit and ever so gently moved my tongue over ground zero of her erogenous zone. Her clitoris was so sensitive that even the slightest touch made her back arch in anticipation, and I therefore used the gentlest of approaches and made sure little red riding hood kept her hood on, as its presence provided enough cover to move Fabiana gradually back up into the excitement stage. Mere seconds later, I could feel all her muscles contract and knew that the inevitable was close, but this time I had a new and sneaky plan to combine orgasmic forces. I moved up and slid my manhood inside, and she moaned and called out in sweet pleasure. I decided it was the perfect time to reach up and pull the slipknot loose in order to free her hands, and she immediately wrapped them behind my back and stared longingly into my eyes.

  “I want to come together” she screamed.

  “Your wish is my demand.”

  I moved into a variation of the missionary position that resembled the core exercise technique known as the plank. This orientation put the majority of my weight on my toes and elbows while the rest of my body was suspended, thus allowing me the ability to control how much pressure and circular motion I placed upon her lady region. It essentially made Fabiana’s clitoris a tiny hostage in an unusual negotiation being conducted for the very simple purpose of sexual release. She started calling out, as did I, and, within moments, the two of us set forth unto the otherworldly pleasure of a mutual orgasm. Pleasure filled our bodies, and cries of ecstasy filled the air until our lovemaking finally came to an end that left us sweaty and breathing hard.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Bilbo Bigguns, and I’m looking for the one orgasm to rule them all,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you, Bilbo. I’m Dildo and I’m here to help.”

  We exchanged a stupid smile, then she wrapped her arms around me, and we shared an epic kiss—the kind that could start a war or stop a heart, but, in this instance, served as the perfect bookend to our sexual union. I gazed at Fabiana and couldn’t help but wonder if we had experienced the spark of love, or was it just the warm haze of post coital reflection. Fabiana was apparently feeling equally smitten, as she slid beside me and we held each other and exchanged a number of soft, tender kisses.

  “That’s it. I’m going to start packing my things, so I can leave Lars by the end of this week.”

  “Good for you, because San Francisco is lovely this time of year.”

  “As is Europe, so perhaps you might enjoy a visit to my beach house in Saint-Tropez.”

  “That sounds terrible, but I could probably arrange it.”

  Still entwined, we drifted off to sleep, and my very eventful evening faded into my subconscious as I escaped into the world of dreams—though no dream would ever be as amazing as the reality I had just experienced.

  Morning came, and I opened my eyes to see Fabiana looking utterly beautiful as she slept peacefully beside me. Watching her made me wonder what supermodels dreamed about? They had everything most people desired—money, fame, a
nd good looks, so what filled their subconscious minds? Was it the same crap we all worried about or was it supermodel specific? Insecurity over thigh gap? Anxiety about aging and saggy boobs? Fear of public restrooms perhaps? I leaned over, kissed her forehead, then slipped out of bed to take a massive horse piss, after which I brushed my teeth and headed for the kitchen. I started a pot of coffee and sat there with my mind still hazy as I thought about the day ahead and the calls I needed to make. Last night had been eventful, but it left me with more questions than answers, and that meant I needed to call in more favors from Doug and possibly even my other good friend Justin Beeber. He knew everything there was to know about security software and, more importantly, how to crack it. Well, assuming he wasn’t too busy fucking around with a flight simulator or playing a strategy based video game against Doug.

  The coffee finished brewing, and I filled two cups and added cream, hopeful that was how my guest took her morning cup of java. I returned to the bedroom, set her cup on the side table, then got back in bed and used my iPhone to check my email and messages. About five minutes passed until the smell of fresh coffee made Fabiana stir and wake out of her glorious slumber. Her eyes opened, and she looked over at me with a lovely smile on her beautiful lips.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Morning. Have you been awake long?”

  “Yeah, I’ve just been sitting here—watching you sleep,” I said, in a slightly creepy sounding voice.

  “And imagining making a jacket out of my skin?”

  “Yeah, how’d you guess?”

  “Well, cruelty to animals is one of the obvious signs of a serial killer.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “Well, obviously I said that because I thought you were pretty hard on my beaver last night.”

  Now, I understood her little joke, and I smiled.

  “Well, just so you know, I was actually making coffee,” I said.

  “Good to know, as in my line of work, it’s not uncommon for male attention to turn a little crazy.”

  “Well then, let me put your mind at ease. There’s no way I would have just been sitting there staring, as I would have probably been masturbating as well.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, though I would have hoped you would have woken me up to help you finish the job.”

  I laughed, but a part of my brain seriously pondered her statement, and a small wave of blood began rushing to my mantool. Fucking women had no idea how much weight their words could carry in the fragile confines of the male mind.

  “Speaking of coffee, it’s right there beside you. I hope you take it with cream,” I said, pointing at the nightstand.

  “I do,” she responded, as she took a sip and then let out a long, soft sigh of pleasure.

  Her reaction to coffee was proof positive that she was truly a woman after my own heart.

  “Have you already brushed your teeth?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “In that case, I’ll be right back.”

  She got up and loped to the bathroom, which normally wouldn’t have been all that exciting—had she not still been unabashedly naked. Supermodels’ comfort with their bodies was a fucking awesome side benefit, as it left them very willing to traipse around without their clothes—and everyone knew that naked women made the morning a hell of a lot more enjoyable. I heard the water running, then the toilet flushed, and she was back, grabbing her coffee, and slipping into bed. She took another sip then leaned over and kissed me.

  “I wish we could stay here in this moment forever,” she said.

  “Me too. If only those UCLA assholes would stay missing a bit longer.”

  “We can always hope.”

  “So, speaking of my exciting latest case, last night I saw some interesting stuff when I followed one of Von Träger’s research scientists—a guy named Wainright who works out in the Chalupa lab.”

  “I believe I’ve met him. He’s British and a bit stuffy as I remember.”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “So, what did you see—besides him sipping tea and eating crumpets?”

  “Well, he happened to be eating at the same restaurant as me, and I followed him from it to an unusual meeting at a deserted parking garage, where he met with a couple of unexpected visitors.”

  Fabiana suddenly looked intrigued.

  “Was one of them Lars?” she asked excitedly.

  “No, but one of them happened to be a fellow scientist from the lab while the other was the very mysterious Hector Gomez—the very same asshole who tried to drug me on the plane then shoved a gun in my face and tried to kidnap me off the street the day I arrived in Costa Rica.”

  “The very same one that you asked Lars about yesterday?”

  “Yep—one and the same.”

  “That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Definitely not, and it gets more interesting. After the meeting, Hector went across the street to report to our favorite fucking billionaire.”

  “So, that piece of shit lied when he said he didn’t know him.”

  “Yeah, and there’s absolutely no denying it, as I watched the entire exchange from across the street.”

  “So, assuming you were in Lars’s parking garage, then I imagine you had a pretty good view of the penthouse.”

  “I did.”

  “And I suspect you saw other things as well.”

  “Yeah, you were definitely right about Alessandra and Lars.”

  Fabiana thought for a moment then looked concerned.

  “So, if Lars is working with this Hector guy, then where does Alessandra stand in all this? Is she one of the bad guys?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s certainly a possibility.”

  “I don’t envy your job right now.”

  “Yeah, I’m a thousand miles from home with sixteen missing scientists, and I have no idea who I can trust.”

  “Except me.”

  “True—except you, which means I’ll have to rely on your supermodel superpower of super trustworthiness.”

  “And super sore thighs from all that super sex last night.”

  “Does it make me super if I have super sore balls?” I asked.

  “I think so.

  “Well, that’s super.”

  We spent the next fifteen minutes sipping our coffee, talking, and enjoying the morning until Fabiana adjourned to the bathroom. She was likely taking a super dump and would follow it up with a super shower. Meanwhile, I refilled my coffee and waited my turn, thankful I didn’t have any super poops particularly prone to preemptively popping out of my poop-shoot—so, I had that going for me. The toilet flushed, and soon the shower was running and stayed on a full five minutes before it turned off, and Fabiana appeared in a towel, still wet, glistening, and as expected, looking super amazingly beautiful.

  “All yours,” she said.

  “Are you referring to you or the bathroom?”

  “Both.”

  She came forward and kissed me then continued over to the bed, where she sat and rummaged through her small overnight bag.

  “I have to compliment you on your bathroom efficiency. I would think you’d need more time in there. Hell, I couldn’t have shit, let alone showered, in double that amount of time.”

  “I’m a girl. We can shit a lot faster than men. We’re all super that way.”

  “Yeah, girls are super fast, and guys are super slow when it comes to the art of the number two. It’s the old story of the tortoise and the hare, though I’m not sure I feel like the winner in that scenario. Being a slow dumper can be a real handicap, and I’ve all but written a doctoral thesis on this phenomena.”

  “And what were your findings?”

  “Well, I call it the Dump-Time Continuum, and it basically states that women can poo faster because men can pee easier, which, in turn, balances out our unique biological waste processing abilities.”

  “A man of action, adventure, and scientific reasoning who is also
a philosopher with a keen insight of the human condition. I think you’re wasting your skills only focusing on private investigative work.”

  “Thank you. I’ve often considered a life in research and academia.”

  A pang of pain shot through my stomach, and I realized it was time to hit the baño. I grabbed my cup of coffee and iPhone then headed for the door, curious if I would be so fortunate as to have the next five or so minutes of time to myself. I hadn’t exactly explained my whole privacy in the bathroom thing to Fabiana, so I was entering strange new territory. Just as I was closing the door, I heard her speak.

  “If you truly love me, you won’t lock it,” she said.

  “Oh, sorry. I couldn’t hear you. What was that?”

  “You heard me correctly. Now, don’t disappoint me.”

  Oh fuck—my first test had to be this one? I’d been through this with several women—everyone from a Playboy Playmate to a FBI Special Agent—and now it was with a supermodel. Fuck! Why were they all so concerned with my special time? Perhaps my concern for my special time was reason for their concern. If my need for personal privacy eclipsed my feelings for them, then they would always feel like second class citizens. If, on the other hand, my concern for them could eclipse my need for privacy, then it would theoretically prove that my feelings were indeed legitimate—at least that’s what my deep inner psych major would postulate. Either way, I was risking a serious run-in with either fate or a beautiful woman—and both were equally dangerous. I chose fate and left the door unlocked, and, as I turned and approached the toilet—my lifetime ally suddenly felt more like a clever enemy.

  “How could they do this to us, my porcelain mistress?” I whispered aloud.

  “What was that?” Fabiana asked from the other room.

  “Nothing,” I called out, realizing supermodels also had super sensitive hearing.

  I stood and turned back to my porcelain mistress and spoke more quietly.

  “I won’t let them tear us apart. We’ve been in this together since I stopped wearing diapers, and we’ll be in it together until I’m in adult diapers. Right now, it’s you and me, my darling, so, let’s do this.”