by Jamie Knight
My natural rebellion extended to my own brain, and I kept finding myself going to the full body photo, also a selfie, taking in as much of her body as I could see or infer. My cock joined the sedition, getting quite hard.
My hands started to move and I grabbed it with the right one as though the left one had become possessed. I wouldn’t go that far. I was attracted. But I didn’t know enough to sexualize. I would need to know her before eroticism could enter the equation.
Dropping the task, I switched the screen to my player, pulled up “Travel in Woods” and took back control, forcing my mind first to go blank and then to my inner realm, a mountain valley I had conceived to be as pleasant and calming as possible. I remained there until I was calm enough to sleep.
Chapter Three - Morgan
It was worse than usual. Not for a lack of choice, but rather the sheer abundance. None of which were particularly pleasant. It was like being able to choose the weapon to administer the thousand cuts by which you die.
Biting the proverbial bullet, I dove in headfirst, trying to distance myself from the questions being asked. My imagination danced in the distance with possible visions of what life as a millionaire might be like, swinging from austere saving to investment options, in which there would be no wild extravagant fantasies of sending sprees.
I was engaging in a sort of chess with myself to see how far a million dollars could really go. I could write a book about it when all the money was gone, thereby earning even more. Probably lasting a good deal longer. My curiosity satiated, my more logical mind settled in for the long haul. I knew myself well enough to recognize the difference.
It was really quite good timing. I had just finished the last of the series of soul prodding by marketeers trying to get in touch with the modern female psyche, as well as deep into the modern female body, when I got an alert. A new message waited patiently in my inbox. To my surprise, it was from Adam himself, letting me know I had been chosen to be on the show.
I had expected, and logic dictated, that the job of reviewing applications and responding to those who made the cut would fall to a functionary. A producer in the first case and more than likely an intern in the latter. But fuck logic, let strange reality reign!
“I made it!” I rejoiced, as soon as the door was open.
“Made it!” Freya echoed from her nursery down the hall.
“Good hearing,” Astrid noted.
“You have no idea,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Made what?” Astrid inquired. “Did you finally crack the mysteries of lemon meringue pie?”
“Nope, still working on that one. I did, however, get accepted to be on Who Wants to Lock Down a Billionaire. The first round, anyway.”
“That’s amazing!” Astrid said, launching at me in one of her infamous attack hugs.
“Thanks,” I wheezed.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it that way,” Astrid said, releasing me from her clutches. “I’m not shocked that you were chosen. It’s just that it happened so fast. There had to be a ton of applicants and you just zipped right up to the response line right away!”
“I know, I was just teasing. And yes, it is pretty amazing. Even the potential for a million dollars is almost too much to bear. It could even be fun. He is certainly easy on the eyes.”
“Have you given any thought to the, you know, spanky-spanky?”
“Astrid!” I objected, blushing furiously.
My face felt like it approximately resembled the hue of a tomato.
“Well, it is a factor. A pretty big one, from what I hear online. Though, mind you, I have also heard that 5G is deadly online, so take that into account. I just mean, could you, you know, be into that?”
“I-I could be. I mean, I’m curious. From what I understand, there are lots of different ways to do it. There are some I think I might even like.”
“And you might even fall in love with him,” Astrid said dreamily.
“Oh, stop it,” I said, half-heartedly feigning amusement.
Still, the last thing I needed was another rousing ranting of “One Day My Prince Will Come,” Astrid’s favorite song, aside from an intense Dutch folk song that always made me shudder.
“Hey, stranger things have happened, peanut. Just look at the platypus.”
I couldn’t really argue with her logic, so I instead tried to use the method of distraction to keep from having to tell her she might be right.
“I made cookies,” I said, making her look at my other hand while I hid the quarter up my sleeve, metaphorically speaking.
“Chocolate chip?” Astrid enthused.
“Is there any other kind?” I inquired.
“Sure, lots, but it’s still thoughtful.”
The baby fetched and the table laid, we happy three sat down to a scandalous pre-dinner round of milk and cookies.
“So, when do you go down?” Astrid asked, going in for another dunk.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be here, Captain,” Astrid barked, with a sturdy salute.
“I haven’t even asked yet.”
“As if you have to.”
Her laughter was not in vain. It really was somewhat silly. There was never a time in our lives when I had needed Astrid and she hadn’t been there. She was like the sister I’d never had. If we were apex twins born on the same day and time in the same town.
“What about your job?”
“I can afford to take the day off. My boss loves me,” Astrid said.
“Must be nice,” I said whimsically.
“No, you don’t understand. My boss actually loves me. Handwritten poetry. Flower deliveries. He would probably ask me to marry him if it wouldn’t be bigamy.”
“And you have, of course, told him you aren’t interested, in no uncertain terms,” I said, sarcasm clear.
“I did, actually. Everything short of pouring cold water over his head. Something very difficult to do through a computer screen. He is relentless. I could quit and he would probably take as a sign of devotion. Our company technically has a rule against intra-office dating. Not that he gives a fig, of course. Delusions of grandeur are one of the many, many advantages to a position of Master of the Universe. I mean, what is he going to do? Report on himself?”
“A fig?” I asked, the word sticking out in my mind like Boy George at the philharmonic.
“It’s kind of like a plum,” Astrid explained.
“I know, but I’ve never heard you sound so British,” I said.
“It’s a tactic I picked up to keep from swearing.”
“Very clever.”
“I do my best,” she said with genuine humility.
“Fig!” Freya parroted, clearly liking the sound of the word.
“It is fun, isn’t it little one?” Astrid asked.
“Fig, fig, fig, fig,” Freya sang, clearly with no idea what the word actually meant. Though I was always glad to help build her vocabulary.
***
As promised, Astrid was there right on time for the appointment and was clearly identified by her knock, which resembled an agitated woodpecker. It always managed to alert Freya to her presence as well.
“Astrid!” I heard Freya call from down the hall.
“You are expected,” I said, opening the door to reveal Astrid herself darkening our door.
“Well, I should bloody well think so.”
“I shall go and fetch your charge,” I said, getting into the spirit of the thing.
Freya started bouncing in my arms as I carried her to Astrid, making it clear I had chosen well in the babysitter department. Not that I doubted it for a moment.
“Knock ‘em dead,” Astrid said, giving me a kiss on the cheek for luck.
“Let’s lower our expectations a bit, yeah?”
“Never. I’m the bright-eyed optimist, you’re the world-bitten cynic. It’s kind of our thing.”
“Fair enough.”
The show sent a car. Not a taxi as I had been expecting,
but an actual car. A late model Cadillac that looked as though it could have had bullet-proof windows.
But these still weren’t as impenetrable as the driver’s stare, augmented for civilians by a snazzy pair of Alexander McQueen shades. His hunter green Israeli Defense Force T-shirt spoke volumes.
When we arrived, the building looked like the villain’s lair in a fantasy movie. A gleaming tower of black crystal, reaching to the sky, the top floor was obscured by gathering clouds. I only hoped there would be an elevator.
“You’re on time!” a perky assistant noted.
“The driver is very good.”
“Former advanced driving and tactics instructor, but you didn’t hear it from me,” the assistant said, tapping the side of her nose.
As no cocaine was forthcoming, I figured she meant by the gesture that I should keep this bit of sensitive intelligence quiet, lest there be dire consequences. I took the suggestion under advisement.
Plunked into a chair, the hair and makeup wizards did what they could with what they had to work with. Softly muttered mentions of silk purses and sow’s ears floated between them. I failed to see what one really had to do with the other.
Whisked away so fast I couldn’t really see what had happened and ordered to close my eyes so frequently that I decided to save them the trouble of repetition, I was taken into what looked very much like a room-sized closet. It was preferable to a closet-sized room by a long shot.
Stripped to my unmentionables, the swarm of wardrobe assistants set about building back up, all but sewing me into a black dress that just screamed medieval times. They must have read the bit about my minor in Elizabethan Literature on the “background” section of my write up and ran with it.
However, the style of dress was more Pre-Raphaelite than actual Renaissance. It was then that I saw what had been done to my face and hair and it all made sense.
“You look gorgeous,” the perky assistant said, rather stating the obvious, “they’re ready for you now.”
The studio was quite a bit smaller than I expected. The screen they showed him on looked huge. It took up most of the room in the studio.
I climbed up into the diabolically comfortable chair upon which all the contestants sat and did my best to ignore the cameras, slipping quietly into my inner realm until I could actually hear Adam’s voice. His sweet, lyrical lilt eased me back to concrete reality.
“Wow,” he managed.
I opened my eyes to see Adam’s face at wall-size, his mouth quite agape. It was clear I would have to break the ice.
“Mr. Leary,” I said, giving a cordial bow, accidentally showing off quite a bit of my rather ample cleavage.
“It is most definitely my pleasure to meet you,” he said.
I didn’t think my heart could beat any faster than it currently was. Nor could my panties be any more drenched.
Chapter Four - Adam
I never used an alarm clock. I never really needed to. My internal clock was apparently set so well that I always knew when to wake up if I had a set time in mind before going to sleep. It was part of why I always keep a clear and complete journal of events.
I was also never really the type to be able to just fly by the seat of my pants. “Free time” was the worst part of any visit to camp when I was a kid. I needed structure to be able to do much of anything, partly so I had something to rebel against.
Something I realized early on was that there was no reason to do what I was told. There was no inherent reason anything had to be a particular way, so I started setting my own schedule to my own liking.
The balancing of sufficient rest with enough time to get things done was one of the secrets of my success. That and a mostly fish diet augmented by responsible amounts of indulgence.
The automatic blinds whirred softly, letting in the bright day. I was already on the floor doing my thousand morning sit ups. The gentle sun was embracing me as I did what was required to keep myself in shape.
Tattoos would look rather silly on me if I got fat. I had done most of them myself with a custom made needle and Kuro Sumi ink. It was the only way to be sure it was as safe as possible and that I got exactly what I wanted. Any mistakes that resulted were mine and mine alone.
Standing in the mirror, considering what to put where, I had given a moment’s mad consideration to tattooing GOD across my chest, an absurdist tribute to Kenneth Anger’s infamous LUCIFER tattoo. But that seemed a bit too blasphemous even for a lost lamb such as myself. In the end I had compromised by putting ANGER.
It was no use. I had half hoped that getting Morgan on video link might satisfy my curiosity and allow me to finally get her out of my head so I could focus. In a twist of fate that so often occurs in tales such as this, discovering that she was not only beautiful in a natural way one rarely saw anymore, but also brilliant, did little to quell the fires burning within. If anything, it made them stronger.
I didn’t often dream anymore. My dreams had gone away, which was quite a fight when I was younger. I’d had a bit of an issue with a nightmare disorder as a teen and decided to just end the whole thing. No dreams, no nightmares.
It seemed like a pretty easy equation despite the objections raised by the likes of Freud and Gaiman. I hadn’t had a dream in years until that night. The night I dreamed of Morgan. Even a skeptical such as myself could tell that someone was trying to tell me something.
The music moved my legs like fuel. The connection between mind and body was at a near frightening height. It was the only way to get the blank, the pure white light of peace that invariably came along with a mind truly at ease.
The process was assisted by the adrenaline already pumping through on the course to euphoria. If only it wasn’t for that damn traffic light. Once stopped, I ran into someone I knew, who was trying to say something to me that I couldn’t hear over the sound of the music that had been playing in my headphones as I had been running.
“Sorry?” I asked, instinctively removing an earbud.
“I thought it was you. How long has it been?” she asked rhetorically.
“Depends on who you are,” I teased.
“Y-you don’t remember?” Dallas asked, a tear already threatening to cascade.
“Of course I do, how have you been?”
“Good, I’ve been good,” Dallas said.
The hand going to her black and blond, two-tone bob told me she was lying.
“Everything okay with Jim?”
“Can’t complain,” she said with a shrug.
“Can’t or won’t?” I asked.
“Won’t.”
“As I suspected.”
“I-I just, things didn’t really-”
“Sparrow,” I said, lightly touching her shoulder.
Dallas flinched slightly at the sound of the name I had used for her for years. Mostly because she was tiny and always walking around singing, like a bird. Still, making up nicknames for people wasn’t the strangest thing I had done during my 'odd duck' childhood. If anything, it qualified as comparatively normal. My obsession with corks, however, remained a mystery even to me.
“I’m sorry, I just need-”
“Some coffee,” I said, not meaning it as a question.
One of the advantages to regular runs was that I got to know the immediate area quite well. Such as the fact that the third best café in the city known for its great coffee, in my humble estimation at any rate, was a scant few blocks away. The location came up behind my eyes like a neurological GPS.
“Okay, spill,” I said, setting down the two large mugs on the polished bistro table.
“I guess I’m just kind of in a funk. Most of what I thought I wanted, I don’t want any more and I have no idea what I am going to do or where to start if I did.”
“I think that’s called the quarter life crisis. Tends to happen after college when cold harsh reality sets in after four or more years of safety in a comfortable cocoon,” I said, drawing on perhaps half of my poetic powers.
“I’m pretty far out of college,” Dallas observed.
“It can also happen later. Especially if what one has been going after is based on the expectations of others instead of what they really want to do. Too often what we think we want is what we are told we want,” I said, confusing myself slightly at points.
“That sounds about right. I mean, I love Jim, but there are other things that just don’t, you know, work.”
“Like in the bedroom for instance?” I inquired delicately.
“Well, since you ask, um, yeah. I know it was just the once but I think you might have ruined me. It was just too damn good. And just try finding someone, anyone, willing to do stuff like that who really understands what it's supposed to be like, let alone being able to do it like you can, was impossible.”
“You were curious,” I said.
“I-I was, yes. I also knew what I was doing. That’s not the problem. I wanted to know, and boy oh boy did I find out.”
“Do you regret it?” I asked, prepared for any answer.
“Not one second of it.”
“You think you’re honestly into it?”
Dallas nodded, her face the approximate color of a tomato, too overcome with Presbyterian guilt to actually say the words.
“Do you think you could, um, help me out?” she asked.
“I can’t do it. You’re married and so it wouldn’t be fair. Also, I… met someone… and don’t want to do it either.”
“You met someone?” she asked. “On your show? Like for real?”
“No spoilers,” I told her, feeling ridiculous for saying I met someone when I had no idea what would happen between us.
Morgan was really doing my head in; I was never usually like this. I tried to get back on topic.
“So, yeah, I can’t do anything with you. But I can help you broach the subject to Jim so it’s not a shock. Bring it in slowly and in a playful way. Nothing too intense that would put him in a weird position. No pain, just power play. Approach it like a game and a way to spice things up a bit. He need not know how into it you are and there shouldn’t be any moral issues.”