My head was spinning as I closed the door behind me. I could hardly believe we even had the conversation we just did, and that I'm actually going out to look for a woman for a threesome with my wife – if I can find her for tonight.
A thousand things are going through my mind. How am I going to find a girl at all, much less one who will do what we want?
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Part 1
It was almost 7:30 in the evening as I made my way east on West 53rd toward my hotel when the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down. I didn't have an umbrella, of course, because - even though my hotel had complimentary ones - men don't use umbrellas...so they can get wet...because that makes us cool. But, instead of being cool, I decided to get dry and have a drink.
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He stretches himself out, the sheets rustling as he flexes his muscles and lets out a long yawn. Nick smiles at the smooth, warm form resting at his side. Glancing over, he sees her red hair spilling across her face and pillow, her creamy white skin exposed to the air. She moans and moves closer to him, one arm draped across his chest while one leg slides up along his own.
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We'd spoken for so long without meeting that it was incredibly odd to have such specific and naughty images of a relative stranger. It threw common etiquette out the window. In meeting Heather, the point that worried me the most was the manners. How intimate is appropriate? A folder of her in every imaginable pose and posture—full tits, luscious ass, dripping pussy, strong legs—rested on my hard drive.
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I was cursed. Not by the evil witch of the mountains or some wizard living in a cave somewhere. I was cursed by my own parents. I am their first child. They named me after my mother's favorite cousin. What they either didn't know or didn't care about was that he hated his name.
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Late July is a time for some serious heat on the I-15 corridor between Las Vegas and San Bernardino, and the temperature was well over 100 F degrees still, even in the early evening. Most people looked at the Dakota pickup full of scrap metal and wondered why the Iowa plated pickup was so far from home and so heavily loaded as the driver exited I-215 southbound for I-10 eastbound.
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Sitting in the pull down seat in the back of the C-130 I had plenty of time to think. The flight back to the states would take eleven hours. I smiled, knowing I would get three weeks off when I had debriefed and knowing that I had completed my mission successfully.
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Insolent.
That was the only word that came to mind as I looked at Jeremy Saitou. Everything about him seemed to radiate impudence: his brightly colored hair (red enough to rival any fire engine), his pierced brow and lower lip, the electric blue plugs in his stretched earlobes, his mouth, which—thanks to a small scar on the right side of his upper lip—was curled into a permanent sneer.
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I moaned softly as the dark-haired man ran his tongue over my nipple and then over it again, chills running down my spine at the feel of the hard, round metal stud rubbing on my nipple. I was thinking hard, although having a hard time organizing my thoughts—Steve was his name, I thought.
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What a neat idea, Ted thought. He'd been down Lexington a couple of times a week all semester from his room to his classes at the university and he hadn't even noticed the Chance Café, down on the lower level under a hippy New Age gear store.
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