Insatiable 2

by J. D. Hawkins

  “Hey man!” he says, before I’ve even brought the phone to my ear. “Where the - No dude, she’s with me - sorry about that - where the hell are you?”

  I can hear the raucous sound of thumping music and laughter in the background. If Brando is in our regular bar then it sounds like a pretty busy night.

  “Somewhere between a rock and a hard place, I think.”

  I don’t need to see Brando to know he’s shaking his head like a disappointed father.

  “Dude,” he says. “I don’t wanna hear it. You’re slacking. You haven’t called me since surfing, and I haven’t seen you at the bar in a week. You want another drink, sugar?”

  "I haven’t really been feeling up to it.”

  “Jax,” he says, changing to his inspirational, get motivated, gym voice, “you need to get your ass down here. The only reason you shouldn’t be here already is if you’re fucking that broad you like - and if you were doing that, you wouldn’t have answered the phone.”

  I force a laugh, but it comes out sounding like I’m doing a bad evil villain impression.

  “I’m just kinda busy.”

  “At eleven PM? Listen, bro, - hey wait a minute babe, can’t you see I’m talking on the phone here? – I’m staring out into a sea of women that would make a ninety-year-old gay guy hard. There is something special in the air tonight, dude! It must be a full moon or something. Either that or they’re kicking women who don’t look like tens out the door. I already banged one chick in the men’s room, and I’m about ready to go again. It’s hunting season, dude.”

  “It’s fashion week.”

  “Ah! Right!” Brando says, laughing like he just sunk a free throw from the half-court line. “Shit. That explains why these babes are taller than most of the dudes. You can’t miss this, bro. I swear to God, if you don’t come here right now, I will come up to that fancy house of yours and drag you here myself.”

  It’s kinda hard to turn Brando down when he’s blending genuine care with semi-serious threats.

  “I dunno…”

  “You don’t have to. I know. You’re gonna be here in twenty minutes. I’m going outside to wait for you now. Every second you take is a second I’m spending away from these amazing pieces of ass, remember that.”

  I’m not getting out of this. And to be honest, I’d probably just lie face-down on the rug again if I did.

  “Okay. Sure,” I say.

  “See you soon, bro.”

  I don’t really know what I’m thinking as I absently pick out some clothes, get dressed, and make my way to my car. It’s like a reverse-paralysis: my body’s functioning just fine, putting my keys in the ignition, turning them, and revving the Testarossa out of the garage doors and into the LA night - but my mind is gone.

  Once upon a time, about a week ago, this was everything I needed, wanted, and did. A good pair of shoes to set my outfit off just right. The growl of my Ferrari. A wingman who’s looking out for me. A bunch of supermodels to take my pick from, and a whole night to indulge every urge and desire.

  But right now I have all of those things, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. It still feels like something is missing. The most important part.

  I park the Ferrari, slap the sides of my face a couple of times in the hope it’ll wake me up out of my funk, and start walking.

  Brando wasn’t wrong. I can see about half a dozen gorgeous women outside already. The music is so loud that it’s vibrating through the pavement. The sound of beautiful women, high pitched laughter, stiletto heels on the floor, and screams of joy fills the street.

  God knows how, but even with all this sexy set dressing outside, I miss Brando somehow - maybe ‘cause I’ve been locking eyes with a couple of girls with black lipstick - until I feel a hand smack me on the back so hard and fast that it could only be his.

  “Dude! What did I tell you?” he says, as he steps in front of me. He nods towards the girls smoking in a circle. One of them rolls her mouth into an ‘O’ and blows smoke through it like a kiss. Brando laughs. “It’s a field of dreams, man! Come on inside - it gets even better.”

  With one arm around my neck, pushing me into the club, and the other waving, pointing, and touching the girls as we pass, Brando urges me into the packed bar.

  “Behold, my friend,” he says, waving his arm across the sea of people like an over-actor in a biblical movie.

  Even feeling like I do. Even though this is pretty much the last place I want to be right now. The sight hits me in the gut and I can’t stop the smile coming to my face. Then it hits me in the groin and I can’t stop that swelling either.

  “Huh?” Brando says, when he sees my reaction. “I told you, right?

  It’s like a crowd scene from the dirtiest, hottest, and most realistic renaissance painting ever. Everywhere you look your eyes settle on a perfectly-toned ass in hot pants, or a set of teardrop tits bursting out of a crop top, or a statuesque face with sexual eyes and juicy lips. It’s almost too much to take in. Just when I see a girl I like, I catch sight of another who makes me redefine my tastes.

  “Jesus Christ,” is about all I can manage to say.

  Brando laughs, and slaps me on the back again. I think it hurts, but it’s hard to feel anything when all sensation in your body is flowing into your cock.

  “I was just working that group of girls over there,” Brando says, pointing.

  It takes me a while to figure out which ones he’s talking about - it’s pretty much girls as far as the eye can see - but when I set eyes on them I see why Brando was working them. Even by the pretty fucking high standards of tonight they’re a cut above.

  “See that brunette? That’s Tasha. She’s from some ex-Soviet country or something - that fucking accent, man. And look at those thighs. Shit! They look like they could crack your head open like a walnut - and I’m planning to find out. That blonde in the jean shorts? That’s Alli, she’s from Texas. Real fucking cowgirl. Talks like a Baptist preacher, but the way she keeps cupping my balls she sure ain’t abstinent. The others I don’t even know, but damn - just look at them!”

  “Christmas has come early,” I say.

  “For sure. Shit. I’d be outta here already if I could just fucking choose. Come on, man. I need the competition. This is too easy.”

  I follow Brando through the crowd, almost losing him as I check out the girls blowing me kisses and showing me their best sides. We reach the group and Brando greets them like he’s been away for a year.

  “Brando!” Tasha says, and I see what he means about the accent. “I thought you gone!”

  “I’m not leaving without you, baby!”

  The girls laugh, and I see what he means about it being easy, too.

  “Who’s your friend?” Alli says in a southern drawl, tonguing the straw in her drink with about as much subtlety as a wrecking ball.

  “Jax,” I say, “and you’re Alli, right?”

  She smiles. “Brando told you?”

  “He told me a little bit about you. I’d like to find out more for myself, though.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  I look around, and it takes a little effort to peel my eyes away from the girls around us and put them back on Alli.

  “He said you like to take a hands-on approach.”

  Alli giggles and I feel like I’m down south in more senses than the geographic one.

  “Depends what I can get my hands on.”

  I take her empty cocktail glass from her with one hand, and put my other on her arm.

  “Let’s take a walk to the bar. I’m gonna see what I can do about filling you up.”

  Alli giggles again and softens under my grip, letting me guide her to the bar where I get her a refill and order a whisky of my own.

  “So you’re a model?” I say, trying to keep my eyes from roaming whenever yet another beautiful woman enters my field of vision. Alli’s got cold-blue eyes that glitter when the light catches them, making it a little easier.

  She
tosses her blond curls and sucks from her straw - her eyes fixed on mine and begging me to observe her technique.

  “Yeah, I’m a model. Like every other girl in this bar. They flew us out early for the shows next week. We decided to all go together - some of the foreign girls are anxious. Strength in numbers.”

  “Well with guys like Brando around, even numbers won’t save you.”

  She grins. “And guys like you, too, I bet.”

  I sip my drink instead of answering.

  “So what do you do?” she asks.

  “I’m an architect.”

  “No kidding! Wow. So you’re not just good-looking, but rich, too? Big house? Fancy cars?”

  “Three big houses. But just one Ferrari. I try to keep it humble.”

  Alli laughs. “You must be a player then. If you wasn’t, some girl would have snagged you and tied you down by now.”

  It’s a harmless joke. Small talk. Flirting. I should respond with something in kind. But suddenly my mind is drawing a blank. All I’m seeing is Lizzie’s face – even now, in this bar, filled with the most beautiful women on the planet. All I can think about is her. The first time I saw her here, looking back over her shoulder as she brushed me off. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s Alli talking about ‘some girl.’ About why I’m out here, playing.

  It doesn’t help that as I’m struck by these libido-killing thoughts, Alli reaches for my balls. I smack her hand away.

  “Ow!” she says, looking up at me like I just turned into a monster. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

  I sigh. “You know what? You’re not the first girl to ask me that.”

  Alli stares at me for a few seconds, waiting for me to say something to explain myself, or hoping that some clue as to why I just did that will appear on my forehead. When it doesn’t come she settles for calling me an asshole and walking away.

  I down my whisky, order another, sip it, and spend a few minutes staring into it over the bar. Something’s deeply wrong with me. That’s the first time I’ve ever done something like that. The last (and pretty much only) time I got turned down by a girl was Lizzie. But this time wasn’t even rejection, that girl was all over me. No; this time I couldn’t close the deal.

  And that’s the first time in history that it’s happened.

  I look back towards the club, looking for Brando. Supermodels are tall, but ‘spot the giant, loud, New Yorker Italian’ is a pretty short game. I catch sight of him, Tasha at his side, as he makes his way back to the entrance, holds the door open, and pats her on the ass as she goes through.

  It’s not like I really need to talk to him, I know him well enough to figure out what he’d say. Something like ‘You never lose. You either win, or you learn.’ Or ‘Defeat is a state of mind.’ Something he probably read on the walls of his gym. I always thought that kinda thing was for losers - but right now I could do with hearing it.

  I get to the bathroom and splash some water over my face. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m good looking. I’ve got the moves. I’m the same guy I was a few weeks ago. I just need to get out there, fuck the most beautiful woman I see, and get this damn funk off me.

  Before I know it, I’m out there again. Smiling my way through the crowd of sexy bodies. Scanning my hunter’s eyes over the goods on display, judging and considering like a wine connoisseur in the south of France.

  When I do find the girl, I know it immediately. She’s got dirty-blonde hair, dark eyebrows, and lips that look like they’re always pouting. She’s dancing easily with her friends, her little black dress short enough to reveal all the moving curves of her slim legs, but with a neckline low enough to reveal the pert tits that rise out from her slender frame like mountains of sexual potential.

  I watch her for a few minutes until she sees me. She flashes me a knowing, sexy smile, and continues dancing - this time though, it’s all for me. She winds her head around, looking back at me over her shoulder as she swings her ass slowly from side to side. She’s projecting her tasty curves and sultry eyes like it’s just me in the bar. If anyone knows how to make their body look good, it’s a model, and she’s giving me the full tour of her cock-calling curves.

  Slowly, she starts working her way to the side, beckoning me to follow with a sly smile on her face and those mesmerizing hips. I happily oblige - I’m a gentleman after all. Somehow she finds a corner of the bar that’s not filled with writhing bodies, and I step in close. It’s dark - and close to the exit. She doesn’t look back - she knows she’s got me on the hook, just where I wanna be. I drink in her body, wishing I had more than one pair of eyes so I could focus on every perfect move she’s making from her ankles to her sunkissed hair.

  We’re in sync. So in sync that she doesn’t even need to look. She spins around when she gets to the corner, grabs my shirt, and pulls me onto her lips. My body reacts before I even tell it to, pressing her up against the wall, hands grabbing her waist.

  I bite and suck on her lips like it’s water in the desert. She smells like thousand-dollar champagne, her body fits against mine like it was meant to be here, our sweat and our lust mixing in the millimeters between us. I thrust my tongue into her throat, and something about the way she tastes drives me wild. I know that taste. That wetness. It’s like sweet fruit. Bursting its juices. Like a hit of alcohol you never expected, shooting me up into the sky. Like cherries and red wine.

  Like Lizzie.

  My body reacts once again - only this time it’s in the opposite direction. I push her against the wall again as I step back, mouth open, eyes wide. I’m freaked out. And when she finds herself kissing air where I used to be, she opens her eyes and looks just as freaked out as me.

  We stay like that, staring at each other for a few seconds. Me gawping like she just turned into an alligator, her wearing the most confused look I’ve seen since I tried explaining architectural principles to Brando.

  Then she shoves a hand on my chest, pushes me aside, and steps back into the dancing throng, shaking her head. I grab her arm limply but nothing can hold a woman back when she looks at you like that. I lose sight of her in the mass of bodies, and stand there, alone.

  Something is wrong with me. Something is very fucking wrong.

  When I get home I undress as soon as I enter, dropping clothes every few steps as I make my way to the shower. I need to wash whatever this is off me. My body is a mixture of horny pheromones from the bar, angry frustration that I left it alone, and a weird hollowness that I genuinely think is starting to eat me from the inside out.

  I slam the shower on and step inside. As soon as the hot water starts rolling down my back I zone out, leaning against the glass walls of my big, well-designed, expensive shower. (The thing they never tell you about big homes is that it’s way easier to feel lonely in them.)

  I try to shake the bad feelings about Lizzie from my body by thinking about something that makes me happy. The weird thing is that those involve Lizzie, too. How can one person make you feel so bad, and so good at the same time?

  Memories flash through my mind like a montage, like flicking through an old photo album. I stop on the ones I like.

  Lizzie and me in my Ferrari, looking out at the LA skyline as I teach her to suck my dick. Her eyes flicking over to mine as she tears up a dance floor all by herself, sending waves of blood rushing through my body. Lizzie in the broom closet of her ex’s friends’ wedding, angrily fucking herself free of him. My hand goes to my cock, rock hard from the moment I allowed myself to think about her. That cute-weird tension between us as she masturbated on my couch, the sense of control going to my head, the pleasure of losing her inhibitions going to hers. The first taste of her pussy at the Hollywood party…

  My mind settles on the image of her in the lingerie shop, the swell of her ass accentuated by garters, her tits held up for my admiration by the lace bra. The way she bends her knee and gently spins from side to side to catch all angles, a small gesture that drives me wilder than the hottest lapdance. It’s so be
autiful I can remember every single detail; the smell of her perfumed skin, the lock of hair hanging over her eye, the way her shoulder’s hunched up a little like some fifties movie star playing coy.

  I reach out and rub my hand over that ass. Run it up into the small of her back, the curve that I could fucking lose my mind staring at. My blood runs about three degrees hotter in her presence, and I feel like I can bring down a building when she flashes her eyes over me. She’s sheer fucking perfection. I wouldn’t change one inch of her body.

  I remember how she felt under me, pinned against the wall, her mouth urging me to thrust my tongue inside of her. Her slender thighs pressing against my legs as she gives herself up to me. There’s a soft spot under her ear that I feel like only I know about. She tries to hide it, our heads wrestling playfully as I get my lips close to it, but when I suck it softly, I can feel the vibrations of her body flutter through those tits against my chest.

  I hold her wrists together above her head. She’s a prisoner to me, physically and mentally. And she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I slide my hand down her stomach, my fingers tickling her smooth skin, and press them into the wetness of her pussy. Her body convulses against mine, on tip toe, held up by my fingers inside her and my chest against hers.

  She lashes her tongue at me as I work my fingers inside her, softly at first, pulling back a little, but slowly working my way deeper. Hitting the spots she likes. Pressing the buttons that make her hot, make her lose control, make her feel like a puppet that I can do what I want with. Her deadly eyes beg for me to push her deeper, to give her more of this good feeling.

  I oblige. And her eyes glaze over like she just overdosed on pleasure. She’s falling, her muscles loosening, her body throbbing a few last times, and her head slamming back against the wall, dizzy and lost. Her mouth falls open, wet and lush, and her eyes turn to me, sleepy and satisfied.

  I come hard. A hot rush pulsing out of me, running with the shower water down the drain like my hopes of getting with Lizzie again. I tried to hold back. Tried to make the moment last longer. Tried to keep it in the sweet spot between pleasure and relief, but I couldn’t - I don’t know when to stop.