by Vivien Vale
From my meeting with Lawrence in that sleazy bar to the ultrasound appointment, I should have seen it coming.
It was obvious. What’s wrong with me? I’m just like my father…and Lawrence.
Maybe I can just blame this on bad genes?
What a weak fucking way to deal with the whole fucking situation.
June’s gone.
The best thing that’s happened to me in a long time—probably fucking ever—and I let it slip through my fingers, like sand just running through my hand. The only thing is, I won’t be able to pick her up again.
I’ve totally fucked up.
I mean, she’s gone. Packed her bag and handed back the key type of gone—if I’d have given her a key.
Fucking fool.
“Hey, dickhead,” a familiar voice calls. “There’s still plenty of pussy to get, you know. I mean…”
He doesn’t get any further. Like a raging mad bull, I throw myself at the bastard and grab him by the lapels of his shirt.
Then I spin him around and slam him into the wall.
Unfortunately, he’s prepared.
Instead of his head hitting the wall, he brings his chin to his chest and pushes against me. At the same time, his right leg hooks around my left and unbalances me.
I fall.
Clearly, I’m not at my best. Any other day, I would’ve been on top of Lawrence already. But now, I’m approaching the ground at rapid fucking speed.
Smack!
I slam onto the pavement.
The fall knocks the wind right out of me. For a few seconds, I can’t even breathe. It feels as if a metal vice has gripped my lungs and is squeezing every last bit of air out of me.
Naturally, Lawrence uses this moment to his advantage.
Before I know what’s happening, his right fist connects with my face. Luckily, I wise up to his next move when I see the flesh of his fist from the corner of my right eye.
Unable to counter the attack, I pursue the only option I can see. I turn my head quickly at the last minute.
Instead of connecting with most of my face, his next punch only makes contact with the side of my head before his fist slams hard into the ground.
Now he’s unbalanced, and I’ve got my breath back.
I bring my knees up under me and roll.
“What the fuck do you want, Lawrence?” I yell, scrambling back to my feet.
Lawrence lunges for my legs, misses, and lands splat on his face.
This gives me enough time to take a deep breath and prepare for the next onslaught. It comes all too quick.
While I’m busy breathing and trying to gather myself, I spot my brother inching toward me on his hands and knees, but I notice too fucking late, and he’s already close enough to jab his fist right into my gut.
Again, I’m winded, and my body folds in half like a Swiss Army knife.
“I want what you’ve got,” he pants, his arms lunging wildly for me.
As I avoid one of his punches, another one connects with my mouth. It splits my lip open, and I can taste blood.
“What the fuck?” I say, spitting it out.
“You always get everything. You got Chantal when I’d been trying to get into her pants months before you even met her.”
His rage is still fucking building.
“Fuck, man,” I put my hands up in defense.
Lawrence just punches wildly at me. Occasionally, one of them connects, usually with my face—a couple times with my eyes, right and left.
“And then you end up with this gorgeous chick, the one who’s just fucking perfect, the one dad loves.” On this last word, I turn my face a little too far to the right to look at him, and wham, his fist collides forcefully with my cheek.
There’s a crack. I think he might have broken my cheekbone.
“And, you know what’s worse, you prick?” Lawrence has halted punching me. “You’re being a total prick. Instead of chasing after her, admitting your mistake, and begging her to take you back, you’re acting like you’re all of five years old.
“Man, look at yourself. You’re beating the crap out of me, and why? Because you’re so fucking busy trying not to be me. News flash, asshole: you’re exactly like me.”
All I can do is stare at him. I’m not even feeling any pain in my fucking face—it’s all in his words.
“I take it back. You’re nothing like me. If you were, you wouldn’t be here beating the shit out of me, you’d be chasing after June, doing absolutely fucking everything to get her back.”
Fuck it, I don’t care what else Lawrence has to say. I run, breaking into a sprint to my car. How fucking stupid, am I? And why was it Lawrence who had to tell me?
Fuck.
Of course I should have been chasing after her. It pains me to admit this, but my brother is one hundred percent right.
When I get to my car, I fumble with my keys. Finally, I unlock the door and jump in, getting ready to fucking floor it.
I’m easing out of the goddamn parking spot impatiently when the passenger door opens and Lawrence jumps in.
“Who said you could come?” I growl, stepping on the accelerator.
“I did,” he replies, and I can see his smug grin when I glance sideways at him. “I mean, how else are you going to have any fucking chance of getting this girl back?”
Fucking arrogant prick.
I chuckle.
“Remember in eighth grade?”
I shake my head.
Is he kidding? Eighth grade is a lifetime ago.
“You already had the girls eating out the palm of your hand, and I was left to pick up the crumbs.”
Silence.
For some reason, I wasn’t sure what to say to this.
“And you know what was worse?”
Again, I shake my head.
“You had no fucking idea how easy it was for you to pick up a girl and how hard it was for me.”
“If I didn’t know you better—” I start, but he interrupts me.
“Don’t go down Fifth Avenue man, you’ll be there all fucking day getting to the airport. If you want to catch this girl, you better take the fast route.”
I’m torn. Should I trust Lawrence, or is he trying to lead me astray? Is this some weird plot on his part to throw me off?
“Come on, man, you’ve got to go east down 57th and then straight onto the bridge.” He takes a breath. “I thought this wasn’t about us, but about getting June back.”
He’s hit the fucking nail on the head.
And so, without giving it another thought, I make a fast, manic, rubber-burning left turn onto 57th.
Some impatient dick blows his horn at me, and I show him the finger.
I’m on a fucking mission.
Big Package
A Dark Vixens Novella
Vivien Vale
Copyright 2018 by Crimson Vixens
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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1
Michael
It’s funny, the things that my failed hookups just don’t seem to understand.
You’d think they’d figure it out eventually. Especially by the time I’m putting them in a fucking cab outside of my mansion and paying the driver to take them home.
I guess there are just some truths women don’t want to accept.
“Please, babe!” she begs. “Just give me one more chance! I can take it this time—I totally promise. I swear!”
“Look, sweetheart…”I gently disentangle her fingers from the
collar of my button down and push her hands away. “It’s cute that you think you can handle it, but—”
“I can,” she insists. “I really, really can. It’s just…it’s so big, babe. Maybe if we tried with more lube or something…”
The driver gives me one of those looks in the rear view mirror. All I can do is shrug and slip him a couple of hundreds for the inevitable sob story he’s going to be hearing from this girl the whole way back to Long Island.
“You’re really not going to let me try to take it again?” she whimpers as I help her into the cab’s back seat.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” I tell her. Which is true.
I push the door shut. I don’t even bother watching the cab drive off.
What can I say? Some women just can’t handle big packages.
Unfortunately, this happens more often than I’d like to admit. They try to suck me off. They try all the angles, hoping that maybe, somehow, they’ll get my massive, fat cock inside them.
More often than not, the effort doesn’t amount to much. I usually settle for giving them a dozen orgasms or so before sending them on their way.
The one thing that really smarts is these failed experiences usually lead to a raging fucking boner. Like right now. If it presses up against my slacks any harder, I won’t only be in the market for a new woman; I’ll need a new pair of pants, too.
Porn it is, I guess. Better than giving myself the worst case of blue balls ever.
Walking back into my living room, I slump into the plush leather sofa and boot up my laptop. Propping it up on the ottoman, I reach down to finally free this bulge with one hand while navigating to a site with the other.
Let’s see…what am I in the mood for today?
Porn stars don’t usually hold much attraction for me—or else I’d be dating one. Call me old fashioned, but when a woman is mine, any other man who so much as looks at her is going to be picking his teeth up off the floor.
You have to hand it to them, though—these women can really take dick.
I hover over various video clips to see the preview, slowly stroking my cock as I go. Finding one of a beautiful blonde giving a blowjob, I press play and lean back.
It’s exactly what the doctor ordered. I’m instantly impressed with the way her head bobs on the screen. She’s taking this giant dick in as though it’s nothing more than a gherkin. Where do I find me one of these?
I’m rock hard now, totally in the moment, and I’m pacing myself with her movements. When she slows down, so do I. When she speeds up, my movements intensify. It’s the ultimate cock-tease, and before long, I’m tensing up and twitching uncontrollably.
As this bodacious babe gets covered, I reach my limit. I groan loudly and throw my head back as cum spills out all over my hand, happy to have my release.
Fuck, that feels good.
I sit there panting for a moment before wiping up my hot, sticky mess, using up damn near an entire box of Kleenex.
Relieved at no longer being pent-up, I’m about to close the browser when I notice a flashing ad on the sidebar.
I never pay attention to these because, let’s face it, first, I have no problem getting women, so I don’t need to sign up to fuck granny down the street. Second, I have the cock that every man dreams of, and I don’t need any special pills or toys.
This one, though, has my full attention.
GET THE WIFE OF YOUR DREAMS! CUSTOMIZE YOUR MAIL-ORDER BRIDE TODAY!
Mail-order bride? Hmm, I’ve never thought about going that route before.
Maybe I’m still in that post-orgasmic state or maybe I just want to believe that this shit isn’t a huge fucking scam.
Maybe I’m just a fucking romantic—or maybe I’m the exact opposite of one.
But a man can dream, can’t he?
This could work.
Sure, I’m widely known for my one-night stands, but it’s not like I do that on purpose.
My drive is the real thing. When a woman can take my cock, I’m insatiable. I can fuck for hours. Dusk to dawn is what I’m all about.
The problem is most women can’t handle what I have to offer. In turn, I can’t handle the fact that I tire them out after one fucking round.
They fall asleep, and I’m left to my own devices because it’s simply not enough. Being a doctor means I’m always under pressure, and I need that release. It’s not their fault, but I’m over these one-night stands and short-lived flings.
I have no aversions to marriage. On the contrary, I want a wife to come home to that I can bang after a grueling day. I want a family that I can play with outside and go on vacations with.
Time, however, presents the biggest burden. When you’re performing surgery after surgery, and you’re on call all the time, it leaves little room for finding Ms. Right.
A struggle I know all too fucking well. Hell, I can’t even find Ms. Right Now—I just sent the latest off in a cab for Christ’s sake. Add to that my ridiculously high standards.
It’s no wonder I’m still single.
Back to this mail-order bride ad. I click on it, and the ad brings me to a flashy website that looks like it should’ve went out with the Y2K era. I half expect the page to stop loading midway through like the porn of yesteryear.
Thank God for fiber optics.
Now I’m looking at a pretty lengthy survey attached to the order form. I start going through the questions one by one.
Hair color?
She’s gotta be a blonde, no doubt about it. Nothing gets my motor revving more. The longer, the better.
Eyes?
Blue, but not because I’m looking for a blonde-hair, blue-eyed bimbo. This woman’s gotta be intelligent.
Yeah, I want hot, passionate sex all over the place, but any woman worthy of being my wife has to be able to carry a conversation. That shit would get old, otherwise. An Ivy League education is preferred.
Figure?
Voluptuous, for sure. I want a large rack and a nice, round ass that I can grab and spank.
Sexual preference?
I check off virginal and adventurous, chuckling at the irony of those two options. I want someone who isn’t afraid to take it in all three holes, but I want to be the first to pop that sweet cherry.
I’m dreaming here, and I know it.
But what the hell, right?
Aim high, miss high. I’m hardly taking this shit seriously.
After going through the rest of the questions, which stop short of asking my blood type and burial plans, I have created the perfect wife.
I take a quick look at the price tag—one million dollars.
Well, Christ. It’s definitely a scam. But at the same time, a million bucks is barely a drop in the bucket when I’m looking at my bank account.
It’ll annoy my accountant, but next month, I’ll barely even notice.
And what can I say? I admire their fucking moxy.
Sold.
The phone rings as I click submit, placing my order for the woman of my dreams. Glancing at my caller ID, I see it’s the hospital.
“Kirkwood here,” I answer immediately.
“Michael, we need you to come in right away, it’s an emergency. Dr. Scola nicked a good portion of Ms. Medina’s intestines, and only you can fix it.”
“I’m on my way.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to cover for that prick.
Fuck.
I grab my lab coat, swinging it on over my blue dress shirt as the front door closes behind me. Hopping in my Lambo, I’m off to save yet another life.
2
Stella
A Russian mobster unceremoniously dumps another shovelful of Styrofoam packing peanuts into the Stella-sized box I’m currently standing in.
“Excuse you!”
I put on my best I want to speak to your manager pout and glare up at him.
“Can’t you read? The box says handle with care, dickwad!”
“I can’t wait to get rid of this blyad,
” the mobster tells his cohort.
He dumps another shovelful down on me. The Styrofoam feels weird against my bare nipples—because yeah, I’m totally naked right now.
“Can you believe some poor ublyuok paid a cool million for her?”
“Not so poor, then,” a voice I know all too well says back.
I thought I was going to lose my virginity to that voice.
Or, at least, to the dick that’s attached to it.
I had my whole awesome fucking life laid out ahead of me on a silver platter before Moscow fashion week.
Harvard degree. International modeling contract. The whole Hensley family fortune coming to me as soon as my parents have the decency to kick the bucket.
But fucking Moscow. Moscow is where it all went wrong.
The night before the Moscow fashion show, I had found myself in the hotel bar. I was dressed to the nines in a black dress and stilettos that could kill a man. My blonde hair was looking thick and shiny and especially stunning.
So when he walked in, it felt pretty natural that his eyes went straight to me.
He was gorgeous. Tall, buff, blonde. Pretty much checking all of my boxes.
I moved my purse from the stool beside me, a silent invitation that he accepted without hesitation.
“How does it feel?” he asked in a thick Russian accent as he sat down beside me.
“How does what feel?”
“Being the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I laughed. Not because I hadn’t heard the same line countless times before, but because I’d never heard it from a mouth as captivating as his.
“At the moment,” I said, “it feels pretty fucking great.”
That was it. No games, no pretense of being coy. We flirted openly for all of five minutes before he asked me to come home with him.
In retrospect, I most definitely should’ve thought twice before accepting. I should’ve pondered those helpful PSAs about being a woman alone and abroad.