Fake It For Me, page 4
More plainly, the only reason why I have the waterbed is that it doesn’t make a sound, as opposed to a regular bed which creaks and groans when you move too quickly on it. I’m sure you can guess where I’m going with this. Therefore, I reasoned that no one would have any reason to suspect that we were having sex, apart from her screams, of course.
Usually, I leave the waterbed for a second or third session, as the girl has to have some rhythm. Cassy had loads of rhythm, so she knew what to do and before long we were both lying on the bed, I had my hands all over her body, kissing, touching and pulling her closer. The bed created a rhythm that moved us in sync, and as I entered her, she bit my lip slightly and crossed her legs around my hips.
I could feel her body against mine, her thighs against mine, her calves gripping my body as hard as they were able. Her fingers clawed against my back as I pumped my hips like a piston, sliding my cock into her repeatedly. She was wetter than Niagara Falls, and I could feel her wetness dripping down my thighs, beads of it splashing and flicking against me as I pounded her. Cassy’s noises of ecstasy turned from groans and moans to animalistic growls, almost like a dog barking. I felt her fingernails dig into my skin, making tiny little crescents in my back as I planted my heads either side of her head and gave her the business.
“Fuck me, Nick!” Cassy all but screamed in my ear, her arms wrapped around my neck and her lips pressed against my ear. “Fuck me harder! Right there! Right there, Nick! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”
The waterbed sloshed and ebbed beneath us as I bore down on her. Cassy gripped me with her body even tighter and gently bit down on my ear, sending bolts of pleasure and pain jolting through my body. The buzz was gone as quickly as it arrived, however, and I began to get submerged in the feeling that I was just out here getting a work-out. Cassy didn’t appeal to me anywhere near as much today as she had perhaps a week ago, and it probably had something to do with the fact that she’d probably fallen for me. I made a face at the thought of this. Words really couldn’t convey the disappointment I felt at the notion.
Try as I might, I couldn’t understand the difficulty that certain people had in separating the physical from the emotional. Personally, for me, it was the easiest thing in the world. All you had to do was remind yourself of what you wanted, and stick to it. It was that easy. At least it was for me. Maybe I just had the right mind for it, like maybe other people’s brains were just wired in a completely different way. Emotions may have been what made us human, and in a way, they were our greatest strengths, but they were also our biggest weaknesses because they had the power to completely debilitate us and leave us a sniveling wreck.
The pain of death, of loss, heartbreak. All emotions, all designed to destroy us. And that’s the reason my life’s mantra is to not let those emotions rule me. Just like my Dad doesn’t. When you’re ruled by logic instead of emotion, not only can you never be hurt, but you can also never be controlled.
I untangled myself from Cassy’s arms and sat back on my haunches. I gripped her bare thighs with my hands and lifted her legs up and spread them outward. Now I had the freedom to move as much as I wanted - long strokes tend to finish me off quicker, and I wanted nothing more than to be out of here as quickly as possible. I began stroking again, and Cassy’s body started convulsing with pleasure.
We pounded at each other like that for a few minutes, and then I decided to shift position. Sex was all fun and games, but there was only one position that I was really interested in doing, and for some reason, the few privileged people that I’ve shared this information with have all seemed to guess which position I’m referring to on the first try.
I’m talking about the doggy-style, of course. Bending her over and hitting it from the back. There’s just something satisfying about it. I have every confidence that if a therapist were to hear this, they’d link it with some form of a pathological need for dominance that I supposedly have, but seriously, I can’t take psychologists and therapists, I point and laugh at them.
When I bent Cassy over, she immediately started moaning loudly, and so I placed my hand on the back of her head and shoved her face down into the waterbed to quiet her. It did the trick for the most part, although I could still hear her groaning as I pounded into her, though the sounds were muffled.
I’ll be honest, this time I came quite quickly when compared with my previous performances. I privately attributed it to the fact that I was just ‘over’ her, and, purely by virtue of being a gentleman, I had to satisfy her with a hand-job. I spread her legs from behind, slipped two fingers into her pussy and worked my index and middle fingers like a pianist. Cassy’s moans and groans escalated, getting louder and louder, closer and closer together, until finally, she was in that sweet spot.
Her body involuntarily bucked with pleasure as she came onto my fingers. Next moment, she turned around, took my wrist in her little hand, and locked eyes with me seductively as she licked my fingers clean. Next, she moved in for another kiss, but I pulled away exasperatedly. At that moment, I fully took back my comment from earlier about her being a “sharp journalist.” She must have been about the thickest girl I’d ever had the misfortune to behold.
“Cassy, I thought I explained this to you,” I said testily. “We’re not a couple, I’m not your boyfriend, we’re just fucking. How many times do I have to explain it to you?”
She didn’t like that. She didn’t like it at all. Instantly, her demeanor changed from warm and infatuated to ice-cold and frosty. Cassy got dressed in cold silence and left via the other door that led to the inside of the house. I stayed where I was, lying half-naked on the bed and wondered if this was really all I wanted.
That was the thing about sex with strangers. Not that Cassy was totally a stranger, but we weren’t dating either. But regardless, that was the issue. Sex is seldom as good as you build it up to be in your head. Before coming to the pool party, my mind never left Cassy, and the images of her breasts and thighs that were burned into my mind. All I could think about was bending her over and pounding her like an animal.
But now that I lay in the aftermath of my debauchery, I found myself questioning my own sexual appetite.
But then again, it was all a trick, wasn’t it? The entire concept of sexual appetite. That desire that a man gets to tear off a woman’s clothes and pound her into submission. Women got sexual urges as well, but they were particularly, typically, stronger in the male brain. It was a trick. That urge to procreate was a reflex, an impulse to prevent the species from dying out. So when I gave into my sexual desires, didn’t that imply that I had no control over my own brain?
And if women and their bodies control my impulses, and my impulses control me, who really controlled me?
I scowled to myself. Despite the chronological impropriety for philosophical thoughts, I felt as though I’d just happened upon my very first epiphany - the realization that I wasn’t in control of my own mind, and I didn’t like it one bit. As I lay there on the waterbed, as naked as the day I was born and covered in a strange woman’s bodily fluids, I made a silent promise to myself that the next opportunity I had to sleep with a woman, I’d turn them down. Only one person controls Nick McConnery, and that person is Nick McConnery.
My internal monologue was suddenly interrupted by the sound of laughter outside, and immediately, my attention was drawn to the fun outside. I got dressed and went out again towards the pool, my friends were at the Takiti bar, all roaring with laughter.
I must say, I use the term “friends” very loosely, because of who I am and who my Dad is, it’s pretty hard to make genuine friends that aren’t either rich snobs or after me for my money. And really, who wants a rich snob for a friend? I understand the hypocrisy of this line of thinking, especially considering I’m not just rich, I grew up richer than most wealthy people in the State.
They poured me a drink, and with my drink in my hand, I turned to face the pool, with all the hot ladies, some were models, some were girlfriends, or even a stranger some of his friends picked up on the street on their way here. It has always been fascinating to meet the mixture of characters that ended up at his parties. I found myself hoping that Cassy at least got a story for her tabloid. If not, I’m sure she would find someone else to write about.
I noticed a new girl at my party, and I noticed her because I realized that I’d never seen her before. The next thing I noticed was how much she resembled a girl I’d known from college. Mousy blond hair, full curvy body, not very tall, but I remembered her eyes. This girl was standing with her back towards me, talking to one of her friends. When she turned around, she caught me staring at her, but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t Sandy.
I could feel myself turn into a scowl as my mind went back to her - the girl who’d got away.
I’m sure I didn’t give any indication that I wanted her to come over, but she must have felt confident with the amount of alcohol she has had, cause her breath was reeking of strong rum. She wrapped her arms around my neck and started to pull me towards the pool. “Come play with me, pretty boy.”
I knew there was only one way to get out of her clutches without causing a scene, and that was to play along and then slip into the pool, pulling her in with me. As she tumbles into the water, in the commotion, I break free from her arms and swim to the other side. The water usually shakes them off my scent and then as others join, they get caught up with another more willing male.
I had my fun, and I decided to retire to my private wing, I got into the shower and turned on steaming hot water. What a mood killer the thought of Sandy was? I wonder where she is, had she gotten married already, or is she still as stubborn as always?
Chapter Five
Sandy
Early the next morning, I was subtly awoken by my ringing cellphone. I wasn’t surprised, being woken up by someone (usually a colleague, or a demanding client, naming no names) was hardly a rare occurrence for me, or anyone on my level in the profession of interior decorating, for that matter.
As I picked up the phone, I looked at the ringing display and saw that it was Abby calling me; I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t got a single wink of shut-eye since last night. If I knew Abby (and I was one of the few people in the world who could say for the fact that she did know the real Abby), she was far too busy enjoying herself with the task at hand that I’d bestowed upon her. It had to be said that Abigail’s enthusiasm was both a strength and a weakness at times, depending on your point of view.
She found these little missions, assignments where she got to play Cupid and match-make people (often against their will), so enjoyable, even right through High School and College. Despite her belligerent, obnoxious persistence and refusal to let anyone have their way if it went against what she wanted, Abby’s uncanny success rate was undeniable, and it was this success rate that spurred her on to become even more obnoxiously and pigheadedly persistent.
It certainly didn’t help that Abby had somehow been gifted with a razor-sharp memory where her own success was concerned and was able to smugly bring up countless examples of the times that she was right.
“Hello?” I asked groggily, using the back of my pajama sleeve to wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth. Yes, I drool when I sleep, lots of people do.
To be honest, I must admit that I’m not what one would call a morning person, I need at least two cups of coffee before I believe that I can even be considered a citizen among my fellow human beings. And I need three cups before I remember that I have friends. However, Abby was a special case, as always.
The excitement and joy in her voice was simply palpable when she spoke her favored five words in my ear, moments after I answered the phone.
“I have the perfect candidate.”
These words induced a certain amount of nervousness in me, and for a good reason. For all her apparent genius, Abby tended to have some very weird ideas sometimes, for want of a better word, but I was trying to keep an open mind. And hey, maybe odd was my best option here! Was normal even a thing when one was looking to orchestrate a fake wedding in the far-flung hopes of winning a million dollars? The whole situation just screamed ‘unusual.’
So, being a little cautious, I asked the question that I both wanted and didn’t want to know the answer to at the same time. “Is that right? Well? Spill the beans! Who do you have in mind? And before you answer that, please tell me it’s not some desperate, clingy secret admirer.”
“Secret admirer?” Abby laughed at this. “Wow, doesn’t someone think a bit much of herself?”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, my own indignation clearing up a good deal of my sleep-induced grogginess.
“I would have thought it’s meaning was obvious,” Abby drawled. “What in the world makes you think you have any secret admirers?”
I sighed exasperatedly, but with a touch of sarcasm, the way a shallow diva does when anyone questions her “animal magnetism,” so to speak. “Honey, please. You know I’m gorgeous.”
Abby laughed out loud at this. “Did you just do one of those girly hair flips?”
“No, but you can picture it, right?” I grinned. “Anyway, get to the point. Who is this so-called perfect candidate for me? Because if it’s who I think it is, then this is going to be a really short conversation.”
Abby scoffed at this. “I don’t know why you’re so dead-set against him! You know Nick is still single and available, well he has a current girlfriend, but I’m sure she is just a void filler, as she has nothing else between her ears,” Abby was quiet for a moment and then added, “Well, she has boobs and a set of legs, but truly no imagination.”
I felt shocked, and ever so slightly annoyed at first. Nick and I had been the favorite “will they/won’t they” couple all through high school, and ever since it turned out that we were a “won’t they” instead of a “will they,” Abby’s been advising me to get back together with him. Advising is far too tame a word to describe Abby’s relentless badgering, however. It’s the agenda she just won’t stop pushing.
And I wasn’t the only one - everyone I spoke to (at least everyone who had known Nick and I in high school), supported the rekindling of whatever spark we’d had in our youth. I know for a fact that I was the only girl who said no to Nick on the spot. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t want to, Nick was only too willing. But he’d had a reputation and a label as a serial womanizer even back in school, and I knew enough about Nick to know that the rumors were much more than just rumors. Quite plainly, Nick was a fuck-boy, and as such, I’d turned him down every time he’d asked me out ever since school.
Now, however, suddenly and ironically, the tables have turned, and I desperately need someone that would be willing to play the part and then get lost without any strings attached. I decided to entertain Abby’s seemingly crazy proposal, for the time being, at least.
“Say I go with your idea,” I said slowly. “And make no mistake, I’m not saying that I will or won’t for sure yet, but use that brilliant imagination and just imagine, hypothetically, if I did. How do you propose I convince him to get hitched and then know that it won’t be forever? I don’t really want to share the winnings with him; he’s already a billionaire, you know? A million dollars is chicken feed to him.”
“Oh, please,” Abby scoffed. “Give me some credit, babe. That idea did occur to me, you know!”
“Oh, really?” I drawled, sitting back down in bed and propping my socked feet up on the chair next to my bedside table. “And what did your brilliant mind conceive, O Great One?”
Abby saw my sarcastic tone and raised me one flippant comment. “Actually, it’s “O Great Goddess.” At least get it right, Sandy, Jesus.”
I snorted at this. You really couldn’t put a price on good banter.
“And secondly,” Abby went on. “What’s the one thing Nick McConnery loves more than anything else?”
“Himself,” I said immediately. I surprised even myself at how quickly I fired the answer from the hip, without even having to think about it. But then again, anyone who spent more than ten seconds in a room with Nick McConnery would know without an inkling of a shadow of a doubt that Nick McConnery loved nothing and no one like he loved himself.
“Okay, that’s fair,” Abby admitted. “What’s the second thing he loves more than anything else?”
“Uhhh…” I faltered. Now this one was a bit trickier. In fact, I felt like it was a trick question. ‘Himself’ were the top five things that Nick loved more than anything else, I was certain of it. Outside of himself, what else was there?
“Attention,” I cottoned on finally.
“And the crowd goes wild!” Abby crowed excitedly. “Took you long enough, girl! Have you had your coffee yet?”
I grinned. “You know me so well.”
“That I do,” Abby agreed. “But yes, attention. Especially as he loves publicity, imagine how big the stunt would be if he could be the romantic and you are the one that gives up too easily. Most of his type of girls fall for that type of story, line, hook, and sinker. This way he has a guaranteed pick-up line for the rest of his life, with proof in the tabloids. He’s not just a playboy; he would settle for the right woman. With a pitch like that, it’ll be a cold day in Hell when he refuses that offer!”
While I was listening to Abby over the phone, I got out of bed and walked to the coffee table where we’d left the last few pieces of pizza. As I was chewing on the last cold and chewy slice of pizza, I couldn’t deny that I had many several doubts about her plan, but then again Nick’s crowd wasn’t my crowd, and I could never understand how their web of public relationships worked.
Sometimes I wondered at Abby being able to fit in so seamlessly with such different societies, but then again, I think she is in love with one of the men in the groupie.
