1. “Remember to wear your Armani tux tonight”
The banquet to raise a cure for some-disease-or-other is being held tonight on my parents’ sprawling estate. My mother lives for charity events. She’s all about “giving back,” which she can afford, since she has enough money to eliminate the hunger crisis in Africa. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a tad. Actually, it’s amazing that we have any money left. It’s “old money” now, but Mother came by it the good old-fashioned way: through her bloodline of robber barons. Miraculously, it has sustained four generations of greedy, grubby hands, including mine.
Life as a trust-fund kid has been, well, highly satisfactory. I noticed early on that I seemed to worry way less than my less fortunate friends, hardly ever experienced shame and never heard “no.” I have a passion for fast cars and even faster women. As soon as they find out who I am, they seem to go down on me like it’s a competition for Slut of the Week, with the prize being a chance of becoming my wife.
As if! At age 26, I like things just fine just the way they are, and plan to keep them that way. A lifetime of fucking is kind of what I have in mind.
Over breakfast Mother reminds me, “Douglas, remember to wear your Armani tux tonight,” adding, “You have to look your best for the auction.” While I roll my eyes, our live-in maid Dolores refills my coffee cup. I’ll need all the caffeine I can get flowing through my veins in order to get through tonight.
It’s all compassionate of my mother to think of others. If only she wouldn’t drag me into it. With all of her goofy events she insists I help out, whether it’s emceeing the thing, or selling raffle tickets, or whatever—it always involves making a personal appearance, so I can’t just write a check. At times like these I wonder why Mother can’t behave more like my friends’ moms, busying themselves taking yoga classes, shopping, vacationing in Europe and so on. No, Mother has to go all Mother Teresa on my ass.
Understand, Mother is far from a saint. There’s plenty she doesn’t want her turned-up-nosed acquaintances to know, and all of that stays behind closed doors—like her devotion to gin and tonics and to screwing around with an array of men under my father’s nose. For all I know that man might not even my biological father. I look an awful lot more like my godfather—we share the same sharp features, chiseled jawline, hazel eyes with a speck of yellow mixed with light olive green. We share a lot of mannerisms too.
It’s no wonder Mother would have a romping eye, since my “father” is so dull, I believe he could put a hyper kid into a coma. I guess I do take after her in that I too revel in affairs of the heart. Well, in my case, of the pussy. I know it sounds terrible, but I don’t worry terribly much about whether a woman feels fulfilled as long as I get my fill. I mean, I’m not looking for more than that. And seriously, what kind of woman would be looking for, you know, a “relationship” with a guy like me anyway?
Except for the money, of course. A lot of women, once they know what I’m worth in dollar terms, don’t seem to care about anything else. Which is why I’m fanatical about using “protection,” even with women who swear they’re on the Pill. It would be a little too easy for them to somehow forget to take it, and then, oops!
“Well, I’m off to the beauty parlor,” Mother announces, pushing away her plate piled high with fried eggs, a biscuit and pancakes. Twenty years Dolores has been with our family—wouldn’t you think she’d “get it” that Mother is just this side of anorexic, only nibbling on morsels of fresh fruit?
“Take care,” I say, standing and kissing her gently on the cheek. Call me a mama’s boy if you like. While my classmates and friends were worrying about “jobs” and eventual “careers,” I figured out that my “job” is staying on Mother’s good side. I’m not proud to say it, but I’m just not cut out for the nine-to-five grind. I don’t handle stress well, or responsibilities, or the other annoyances that seem to come with “work.”
“Don’t forget to show up on the garden grounds at seven,” Mother reminds me yet again. Like she thinks I would blow off her event just because I happen to run into some really hot lady I just have to get to know better—for a couple of hours, anyway. I’m not saying it’s never happened, just that it’s not likely ever to happen again, not since Mother helped me appreciate that she has lawyers on call 24/7 to attend to any changes she may want to make, say, in her will, or in my trust arrangements.
2. Two minutes to showtime
At 6:58 I’m attaching platinum cuff links engraved with my initials to my crisp white shirt cuffs. I reckon I will show my face tonight for the time necessary to satisfy my good-son obligations, then split. Though Mother complains a lot that I don’t spend enough time planning for the future, I’m thinking furiously of who I might be able to hook up with on this short notice. I check my cell phone for possibilities.
• High on the list is Shelly, who not only has those exquisitely enhanced boobs but has a talent to use her tongue in ways that blow my mind.
• Then there’s Tanya, the debutante with the lusciously bushy pussy—a little desperate, maybe, but that may be why she’s so enthusiastic about letting me fuck her up the ass.
• Sue the bi is a candidate, but since she’s into threesomes, that requires lining up a third. It’s worth it, though. Two eager beavers may be too much to handle for many men, but I think of it as the kind of challenge I “rise” to.
• Jen rides my cock like a pro, and
• Angela is a wicked freak, and—
Okay, there are enough options that I really don’t need to decide until the moment arises, meaning when my dick rises. This “planning ahead” doesn’t work so well for me. Based on my experience, when the time comes, it won’t take more than a phone call or text, two at most, to line up some action.
Okay, off to the great event!
Mother will be on her best behavior. (She will have done her drinking in private, to round herself into that famously gracious hostess.)
Meanwhile there’s always the (modest) entertainment of watching my father, the world’s blandest conversationalist, send guests into agonies of boredom.
I catch my reflection in the full-size mirror and in all modesty have to say, “Looking good, Douglas,” and give myself two thumbs-up. No wonder the ladies can’t seem to get enough!
I scurry down the winding oak staircase and out to the luscious garden. It’s a good bet that Mother slept with the landscaper, to judge by the way she hums whenever he’s close by. He’s a ruggedly handsome outdoor type, and she has a thing for rough-and-tumble guys. Go figure that she’d marry my father, who’s not bad-looking but certainly isn’t her type.
I always used to wonder how it is that they of all couples never wound up in divorce court. In time I worked it out that Mother looks for different things in a husband as against, well, men.
3. Working the crowd
“Oh Douglas, darling, I’m so happy you made it,” Mother gushes in front of the fucking governor. No, she’s not fucking the idiot governor. At least not now, as far as I know. She just likes showing me off. And I put up with it—up to a point—because, well, I like being her sole heir. I shake the governor’s hand and feign interest in his political jabber. I stay abreast of that stuff just enough to be able to carry on conversations like this when required. It helps that the idiot has no more interest in what I’m saying than I have in what he is.
About the only thing the idiot governor and I have in common is that neither of us wants to offend Mother. While my mind is mostly occupied weighing the relative merits of Shelly vs. Tanya vs. Sue etc., and thinking about how to engineer my escape, I become aware of the governor blithering, “Douglas, I think you have a future in politics.” It’s all I can do to keep from busting out laughing. Me in politics? Right! Even if I gave the tiniest damn, can you imagine how scandalous even the most superficial background check would be?
I mingle, concentrating on the female portion of the crowd. It’s a lovely assortment—married, engaged and single; cougars and virgins; sluts and prudes. I don’t believe in discriminating.
Out of intellectual curiosity, I try to see if there’s anyone I think I couldn’t have my way with. As I check out the talent, out of habit I lean close, letting my lips almost graze the lucky lady’s neck, usually sending shivers up and down her body. I leave each wanting more—eyes glazed, pussy juicy. Some may get a chance, but most I keep at bay. That usually depends on my mood. Tonight I’m craving a memorable fling, and while there’s lots of talent on hand, I’m not really finding “her.”
I pop one last cocktail shrimp in my mouth, knowing the festivities are about to begin. I know because I hear Mother blowing into the microphone to “test” it before speaking into it, like she always does—as if it’s 100-year-old equipment.
“Thank you, everyone,” she blasts, “for opening up your hearts for tonight’s great cause.” And she’s off and running about the disease du jour (I should try to keep track), and last year’s haul, and her determination that this year we can do better. Applause, applause.
I smile when I hear her burbling on about “the eligible bachelors you ladies will be bidding on, including a weekend getaway together to Cabo San Lucas.” Applause, applause. Poor saps!
“First on the auction block is a gentleman I know you ladies are all dying for a crack at, my son Douglas.” Applause, ap- . . . hey, what the fuck???
How could she do this to me? My own mother? Without even asking me? I have a horrible flash of weathered old Mrs. Patterson, who’s even richer than Mother, gnawing on my dick with her dentures. My already meager interest in whichever disease we’re here to honor tonight drops off the charts.
I glance nervously around the garden and am horrified to see that all eyes are on me. Damn! I glare up at Mother, who is beaming at me. She blows another explosion into the microphone, then says, “Now you come on up here, Dougie.” Ohmygod, she never calls me Dougie. She knows how much I hate it.
As if this wasn’t all horrible enough, the crowd in the garden is still applauding as I, seeing no way out, set out to make my extraordinarily unenthusiastic way to the temporary stage that’s been erected for the occasion.
4. On the block
As I make my way toward the stage, I swear I feel my ass being pinched! Peering over my shoulder, I see Mrs. Patterson winking at me. Even in the bad light I can count the liver spots on her face. The number isn’t pretty.
“Okay, ladies,” Mother says when I’m at her side, after giving me a peck on the cheek for the benefit of all those cameras with all the exploding flashes. “The starting bid is $500.”
Is that all she thinks I’m worth?
Mrs. Patterson raises her paddle and says “$1000,” puckering her gnarled lips at me. Yuck!
From the back of the garden comes a shout of “$1500.” I look and see a guy with slick jet-black hair. What the fuck? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just hope he knows the only action he stands to get in Mexico is if he decides to try some scuba diving.
Mrs. Patterson counters with $5500, which worries me. Just how badly does she want to win? With all her dough, if she wants it badly enough, she can keep this up all evening.
I shoot daggers at my mother. Still beaming, she mouths back, “Sorry, but it’s for a good cause.” Bullshit! I liked it better when her idea of a good cause was sending me to Amsterdam for my 21st birthday to sample the legal reefer and hookers.
I’m visualizing smoking weed in Cabo with Mrs. Patterson. I try to erase the image. Just then an angelic voice wafts into my ears saying “$10,000.” I know it’s not Mrs. Patterson or Mr. Slick, but I can’t see the bidder.
“Going once!” Mother cries. “Going twice! Sold to the young lady in the pink sundress.” Her bellowing into the microphone is almost deafening me.
I wait for the woman to come forward, but she doesn’t. “Mother, who is she?” I whisper, growing more agitated by the second, wondering how the fuck I wound up in this situation. Mother shrugs and moves on to the next lucky bachelor, appallingly unconcerned that she may have auctioned off her beloved only offspring to some maniac in a pink dress who will dispose of my poor body south of the border. I may never return from Mexico. The best solution I can think of is to throw myself in the nearby lake (yes, the property includes a lake) and hope that the idiot governor is in charge of the rescue operation.
But before I can put the plan into action, I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Can I claim my prize?” says a petite blonde beauty with rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes who has appeared out of nowhere. I mean, she is stunning. I’m too awestruck to ask where she came from, or for that matter who she is. I’m lost in her, lost in admiration. I scrutinize her from the ground up: the cotton-candy-pink toenails, the delicate ankles, the smooth legs, the tiny waist and—oh my, yes!—the heaving breasts that appear to yearn to escape from the confines of the pink sundress.
I can’t talk! “I . . . guess . . . you . . . ”
Suddenly, in the presence of this angel, I’m a stammering clod. If there’s one thing Ol’ Dougie (oh shit, now I’m doing it!) has never been at a loss for, it’s confidence with women. Probably most would say I’m an overconfident asshole. (To which I can only say, isn’t it amazing what a difference a really lot of money can make?) Now, though, I might remain standing there indefinitely making those odd noises, except that my goddess grabs my hand and drags me down off the stage.
I can’t say I handle it well. I feel like a deflated blow-up doll, with no fight in me, as she drags me through the crowd of charity bidders basking in the glow of their good works. (Or is it the tax write-offs, or maybe getting their pictures in the local paper?) I don’t resist the goddess when she parks my ass on a stone bench under the rose bushes far away from anyone.
5. And the winner is . . .
“Take off your tux,” the angel in the pink sundress says.
Say what? Just who does she think she’s giving orders to? Recovering my dignity a little, I cross my arms across my chest and remain firm. I’m feeling back in control, more or less. Whatever this babe may think she’s bought, our time together doesn’t start until the Mexico trip. I don’t care how hot she is, she doesn’t own me.
She doesn’t take well to not getting her way. (Reminds me of someone. Can’t think who.) She stomps her feet, then tries to unlink my folded arms by yanking on them, but she isn’t strong enough to break me. The girl has clearly never faced rejection, and now doesn’t know how to deal with it. (I realize who she’s reminding me of.)
“Look, sweetie,” I say, “I don’t know who you are, but—”
She cuts me off, snapping back, “Oh yes you do! My daddy sits on most of the same boards as yours.”
I think. Wait a minute, maybe I do know her. But no, it can’t be! She can’t be the lanky, flat-chested, pimple-faced brat with the overbite that used to follow me around like a shadow. I remember the mad crush she had on me. I found her annoying, unattractive and immature and paid no attention to her.
“Rebecca?” I say dubiously. I mean, it really can’t be, can it?
Her eyelashes flutter like a butterfly ready to take flight. “Hi, Dougie.”
“Wow, you’ve changed.”
Now I find out just how much she’s changed. She yanks her cotton dress over her head, strips off her white lace panties and bra, and stands there gorgeously nude, displaying her assets.
“Yeah, I guess I have,” she says.
I hold out my hand to caress her silky skin, but she swipes it away. “You can’t touch me unless you strip out of your tux,” she announces. She tempts me by squishing her tits together. Man, I want her so bad, my balls ache. With my eyes riveted to her, she steps back and slips a few fingers in her glistening slit. I shed my clothes so fast, I look like one of those pro basketball players tearing off his Velcro sweatpants.
My risen dick pokes out of my briefs. Rebecca helps me out of them, then kneels on the manicured lawn and inhales my erection in her tender mouth. I grip her silky blonde tresses, and her tongue runs up and down my shaft. I nudge her face closer to my dick, prodding her to take the plunge. Finally she clamps her mouth over my dick, and I drive it in and out of her mouth.
My pink angel gives incredible head, bobbing and sucking with such force, I think I’m going to blow. But she has a different plan. She wants in on the action. She shoves me down on the stone bench, almost making me lose my balance, then positions her sizzling body astride me. My cock teases her warm box and I fondle her full tits, tweaking the stiff nipples with my fingers.
“Enough with the foreplay, Dougie,” she says. “Dammit, fuck me!”
In an instant I drive my dick deep in her wet pussy and start pumping. She nibbles on my earlobe as she rides me, bouncing up and down on my heaving dick. Our bodies slam into each other and our breathing quickens. She holds tight onto my neck, almost in a chokehold, but I weather it because I sense she’s at her breaking point.
“Oh Dougie, I’m fucking coming,” she moans, sounding like she’s going to cry. In a split second Rebecca dismounts from me. I’m sure she’s going to get me off. But no, she’s stumbling into her discarded clothes!
“What are you doing?” I hiss. “Finish me off!” She can’t leave me here with a hard-on on the verge of blowing!
“Sorry, Dougie,” she says, flashing me a smile of triumph, “you’ll have to wait for Mexico.”
“Fine,” I shout as I reluctantly put my clothes back on. “If that’s how you’re going to be. Just don’t ever call me Dougie.” With great difficulty I’m stuffing my hard-on back in my briefs.
“Anything you say, Dougie,” she teases, then leans in and sticks her tongue deep in my mouth.
And I’m thinking, it does have a certain ring when she calls me Dougie. I have a feeling that by the time we finish with each other after our weekend getaway, I’m not going to give a damn what she calls me. ¡Hola, México!