by Vivien Vale
You should know better than to worry about that by now. I found someone else to have fun with in about two seconds. Great fucking night.
I don’t think he just met some random person in the restaurant or the hotel. Thebadboys.net is how he rolls, and it seems like he has no lack of success with it, no matter what the circumstances, even at the last minute when he’s already out.
Oh great, I’m glad it worked out. You’re right, I should know you better than that!
Then he just keeps it right on fucking coming.
It worked out very nicely. I forgot all about why I was even out in the first place, so don’t worry yourself for another second. Unless you want to, I can’t stop that.
This guy’s the real deal, from what I can see. Total player. The good news is that he’s leaving the door open for me, though. I can’t speculate about what that means or if that’s part of what he does. Not yet. Now’s the time to keep him engaged; I can speculate all I want later.
Don’t sell yourself short. I bet you could stop me from worrying anytime you want without breaking a sweat. Isn’t that right, Mr. BadBoy?
His reply comes fast.
You really don’t know me at all if you think I would ever sell myself short. I know what I’ve got to offer, and I’ve got no reasons for exaggeration or modesty.
I seriously want to roll my eyes here. He’s being talkative today, and I should be getting some of these lines down, at least taking a screenshot, but I don’t feel like bothering. The coffee’s beyond finished brewing now, but I can’t find it within me to give a shit about that, either.
The chat with this BadBoy figure is barely interesting enough for me to stay with. I’ll have to accept a baseline level of work from myself today.
So true! What was I thinking? I should know better coming from you. ;)
No problem. You’ll be happy to know that my heart is quite large. I’m very fortunate in that way.
A new phase is starting in the conversation, and he’s expecting me to match his banter. He looks to be having fun, but I’m having problems detaching and immersing myself in the Ms. Winters character.
Up until now, this was just work, placed in a separate compartment that had nothing to do with me personally. But talking to BadBoy today is different, and I know the reason why. It’s a simple reason, and it might seem ridiculous, but it’s so fucking strong I can’t deny it:
I wish I was having a conversation like this with Chloe.
A wave of heat surges through me just thinking about that idea. I developed this site, I should know every reason that people enjoy this chatting format inside and out.
Yet thinking about a light, teasing back and forth with Chloe, a few words that only hint at the experience we’ve had, working each other up at the possibility of having it again—damn, no wonder some clients like the chat feature so much.
The issue now is that I’m not talking to Chloe, I’m just talking to some random guy, and I need to get back to him.
If that’s the case, wouldn’t you need some help finding the forgiveness over an area that vast?
I don’t need help finding that, but if you want to come explore the vastness with me some time, I think you’ll find some things you didn’t even know you were looking for.
I give him a half-assed response:
That sounds like quite the expedition!
It’s an expedition you’ll remember for quite some time, I assure you.
Holy Christ, this is insane and kind of hilarious. I’m having this conversation with some dude, which is crazy enough in itself, and he has no idea who he’s really talking to. For all I know, he’s getting hot right now.
I’m totally laughing now, but I don’t think I can continue this pretense—not today. If I’m going to have this type of chat with someone right now, there’s only one person I’d be interested in, and it’s not this Mr. BadBoy guy. Time to say my goodbyes.
I’ve got to run again. There’s so much going on these days. Talk later?
I might be around.
I take that as the last word and exit the chat, closing the browser window for good measure. I’m fucking done with that, and I wasn’t going to be very productive if I continued.
Now if I were talking with Chloe, discussing plans for future fun in flimsy metaphors, lightly toying with each other back and forth, trying to keep it up for as long as we could before yielding to the urge to tear away the façade and talk about how fucking hot that was at Palace One last night...
That feverish wave of tingling heat is making a comeback, not dissipating like last time, but staying with me as my mouth grows dry thinking about Chloe’s lips, her tongue, her dexterous fingers, and the elevator ride of a lifetime.
The heaviness I’m feeling around my cock is evolving rapidly. I picture Chloe’s faultless body, and that show she put on last night, the way her tits bounced around wildly as she exuded pure sassiness.
My cock is at full mast now, throbbing under the zipper of my jeans. In a horny daze, I unbutton my fly and nearly throw my jeans and boxer briefs down past my knees as my cock springs out, pointing straight upwards and demanding attention.
Knowing that this won’t last long, I run through a quick montage in my mind of everything that happened at Palace One, trying to remember every detail at once, but settling on Chloe’s astounding body as I grab my cock and instantly, fervently come all over the fucking place.
This girl. Fuck. She’s driving me out of my mind.
Chloe
It never feels right, coming home to an empty apartment.
I can tell the living room is vacant without even turning on the lights. The television screen isn't lit up with Keeping up with the Kardashians or old Bogart films like it usually is when Cassie is home, and there's no faint scent of an uncorked bottle of Moscato lingering in the air.
I slip off my heels and pad through the plush carpet of the living room into the kitchen in the dark.
When I pop the fridge open, the inner light emits the same kind of soft golden glow that you imagine hangs around heaven. It's a total joke, though, because our fridge is kind of a hellscape right now. Chinese takeaway containers, beer and our fancy water pitcher that turns the gross tap water from the kitchen sink into something halfway drinkable.
I pour myself a big, tall glass of it and do my best to avoid the takeaway containers. Who knows how long those things have been in there. Probably, we're growing some kind of fungus-based ecosystem in the chow mein at this point.
Like keeping pet sea monkeys, only way, way grosser. Swerve!
The water is perfectly cold on my tongue. It washes all the swears and insults I've been holding in my mouth from the journey home right down my throat.
I don't consider myself an angry person or anything, but man. Fuck traffic. Sometimes, you get the sense that you're the only one who knows how to drive around here and the rest of the fuckwads on the road learned their vehicular skills from playing Grand Theft Auto or some shit.
Easing all the tension out of my shoulders, I make my way down the hall towards Cassie's room. She's got the cutest little Gucci Dionysus bag that I'm just dying to borrow for this weekend. Since she's not home, you bet your sweet ass I'm tiptoeing in there to see if it matches the jacket I want to pair it with.
But then I hear it.
A little sound.
Something between a mouse’s squeak and a muffled murder mystery scream.
The rational part of me is like, Chill babe. Probably a rational explanation for it. Nooooo need to panic.
But, the rest of me is shrieking insistently, MURDERER! KIDNAPPER! OMG! PANIC!!!! PANIC HARD!!!!!!!
And guess which one of those thoughts my bitch ass gives into?
I sprint to the bathroom and grab the first weapon I can find, then burst into Cassie's room, brandishing the plunger like a sword.
"AAAAAAAH!" Cassie shrieks in terror.
"AAAAAAAH!" I shriek simultaneously.
"WHAT THE FUCK
?" shouts Ethan, turning around and clutching the sheets around his fine ass like a virgin teenager who just got walked in on by his mom.
Look, in my defense, Ethan was stabbing Cassie all right. It's just, he was stabbing her with his dick, and from the looks of things, he was stabbing her somewhere that she liked.
"Uh," I say, always a paragon of wit and charm. "I'm just gonna…"
"Yeah, I think you'd better," Cassie giggles.
"I'm sorry!" I say, barely able to keep a straight face. "I'm not used to having to knock on each other's doors!"
"Always a pleasure, Chloe," Ethan says, blushing and giving me a little John Wayne nod.
I sink into my bed in my own room and try not to think about what's almost definitely picking up where it left off across the hall right now. It's not that Ethan isn't attractive or anything. It's just really weird seeing him fucking someone who looks, well, pretty much exactly like me.
Especially when I have a different smoking hot piece of man candy on my mind.
Ugh. But no. I shouldn't text Aaron right now. The last thing I want him to think of me as is needy.
Instead, I flip open my laptop and continue my chat with Ms. Winters. Our previous chat logs are on the screen, but I'm ready to try a new angle.
Tell me, I type into the input box. What's a classy lady like yourself do with your free time?
I expect a little bit of a delay, but I can see that she's writing her response immediately.
What free time, cupcake? she writes back.
Ugh. She’s hilariously good. Cupcake! Like Mr. BadBoy is some kind of dessert.
Which, I guess, he's sort of supposed to be. Just like a cupcake, in fact. The kind that you feel a little guilty about after you eat it but, when you think about it, you have to admit that you enjoyed it the entire time.
I lay back on my bed, thinking of something clever to say in response, but then I look at my screen and see she's typing again.
Although, I'll admit that I do love a good cream pie, Ms. Winters writes back.
My jaw just about slams into my mattress in surprise, although I could hardly tell you why. That's typical Ms. Winters. Entirely. Says whatever the hell she wants, whenever the hell she wants to. Double entendres abound.
And no matter what you say back to her, she's always got a witty little comeback to snap your way without missing a beat.
If I were a lesser man, I'd say you were suggesting something, I type to her.
Darling, you are, and I am.
My heart skips a beat. For a second, it's like I really am Mr. BadBoy. Falling into her sinister little web of seduction. Then she sends a follow-up:
You should know that baking has always been a passion of mine ;)
Sounds like you enjoy your indulgences piping hot, I write back with a giggle.
Naughty! You're being even fresher with me than my cinnamon rolls.
Do those cinnamon rolls come with icing, or should I bring my own?
Mmm. I adooooore icing. I'm sure I could help you whip up a batch.
We could use my special recipe, I suggest, but admittedly, I'm fucking losing it. This is too hilarious and if I keep laughing like this, I'm not going to be able to keep up with Ms. Winters' infamous wit.
Sounds like you're looking to put a bun in my oven, she writes back, and that fucking slays me.
I'm going to have to bring you a different kind of icing if you keep being such a tart, I write back. Remember to miss me.
I'll think about it, Ms. Winters says back. She signs off before I do, cheeky little cunt.
All of this dirty talking has my juices flowing. And not just my creative juices, either. It's sexy, going head to head with Ms. Winters in such a battle of wits!
I can see perfectly the way she works her magic. She reveals little bits and pieces of herself, hiding behind her sexuality the way normal women usually hide their sexuality behind who they really are.
Small talk with Ms. Winters comes with big implications. She's so candid about her cunt and tits that she must leave men popping boners when they imagine something so simple as the color of her eyes.
But falling in love with Ms. Winters isn't exactly on my to-do list for the night. In fact, the only thing that I have planned for the evening is a little dirty talk on my own time.
I reach for my phone and start composing a message to Aaron. Imagine my fucking surprise when, just as I'm about to hit send, my phone buzzes as he messages me first.
How do you feel about cinnamon rolls? the text reads.
I nearly fall off my fucking bed. Nooooo way.
He sends me another message. This time with a picture. He's currently out somewhere, half-way through a bite of a cinnamon roll nearly the size of his head.
I get butterflies in my stomach at just the sight of him. Sexting has gotten even hotter because I know what Aaron looks like. And feels like.
Aaron makes me want to lick my damn phone screen and not just because of the massive cinnamon roll in the frame. It's not the only thing in that picture that looks good enough to eat.
Doesn't look like it's gonna fit, I text back with a giggle.
I get that a lot.
Late night craving?
Only for you, he messages back.
Which, obviously, makes me melt.
How's the icing? I ask.
Nice and hot. Want me to save you some?
Loooooove icing, I send back with a giggle. Maybe I'm learning a thing or two from the Ms. Winters School of Seduction after all.
Yeah? Where you want it?
In and around my mouth, baby.
Anytime you want. The special recipe, just for you.
I toss my phone back down on the bed and reach into my nightstand, grabbing my vibrator instead. As I ease it between my legs, I'm not surprised to find that I'm already slick. Sticky, even. Just like a cinnamon roll.
I gently turn the vibrator up to full blast and imagine lying back on a bed of fluffy cinnamon and sugar dough while Aaron's cum shoots all over my face and body.
When I lick it up, it's sweetly delicious. Melts in my mouth like cream cheese frosting with just a hint of cinnamon.
I orgasm thinking about it, grinding the vibrator against plenty of cream of my own.
Aaron
I rock up to Chloe's apartment with a box full of cinnamon rolls in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
Yeah, I know roses are customary. In a pinch, daises will do. But this girl is a writer, and if I know anything about writers, it's this: they'll forget to water their fucking flowers faster than you can say Dostoyevsky, but they'll never forget to water themselves with a good bottle of wine.
I made sure to set this date after our last little sexting session. Not because I just couldn't help myself or anything, but because dammit, Chloe is a clever little minx. I'm always left wondering if she'll be as quick in person as she is behind the screen of her cellphone, and she never seems to disappoint.
I can hear the bell ring through the door; it’s a pretty little chime that kind of reminds me of Chloe's giggle. Clear as a bell, even when she's trying to muffle it by holding her hand over her mouth.
The door swings open, and for a second, I'm taken aback.
At first glance, this is Chloe—same hair, same bone structure, same height, same eyes.
But something feels off to me too. And not just because this girl looks like she's preparing to measure me for a coffin.
"You're…not Chloe," I say, laughing a little and narrowing my eyes.
"Damn right. Here, let me take those off your hands." Not-Chloe takes the liberty of relieving me of the box of cinnamon rolls and the bottle of wine. I surrender them, a little dumbfounded. "And stop looking at me like I just stole your wallet."
Aw, fuck. Right. Riiiight. I forgot that Chloe had a twin sister. I was so wrapped up in her that night at the club that I barely glanced at her sister.
"There." Not-Chloe laughs. "You figured it out. I'm Cassie, remember?
Come on in."
I follow Not-Chloe—Cassie—into a spacious living room. Looks more cozy than high-fashion, which is surprisingly comforting. It's the kind of living room you can sit down in and not worry about what furniture you're ruining with your presence.
Makes me consider hiring a redecorator.
"Oooh!" Cassie coos from the kitchen. "Cinnies! Yum!"
"Those are for—" I say, but it's way too late for that.
Cassie beams at me from the kitchen with icing all over her face, somehow having managed to fit half of the biggest cinnamon rolls in the city all the way into her mouth all at once.
"Pfank youb!" she calls out, and all I can do is laugh and shake my head.
In front of the television in the living room, a guy who looks like he walked straight off the pages of a GQ is sitting. He looks like every other billionaire his age that I've met—effortlessly well-groomed, with a smile like a rogue congressional candidate, and understated but expensive clothes.
I sit down across from him, and his eyes slide over to me. He gives me a little nod, and I give him one back.
"So," the billionaire asks me. "Whose ass is bigger?"
"Ah…" I begin, even though I'm not sure what to say next. If this guy means between Chloe and Cassie, after all, I wouldn't touch that with a hazmat suit on.
"If he says Khloé's, murder him!" Cassie calls out through the kitchen.
"Kardashians," the dude on the couch explains, pointing to the television where a tiny brunette is currently mistaking a teacup pig for a chicken. "Cassie thinks Kim's ass is the biggest, but personally, I don't think implants should count."
"Wouldn't that eliminate the entire family?" I joke.
"Exactly!" Cassie exclaims. She runs across the living room on her tiptoes and tumbles into the billionaire's lap, shoving the other half of her cinnamon roll into his face. "Aaron, meet Ethan. He's wrong constantly."
"Enjoying the wine?" I ask, nodding to the bottle that Cassie has taken the liberty of uncorking.
She holds it up like a trophy.