Page 2 of Queenpin
With that simple statement, I about busted a nut. What is it about this woman telling me what to do that has me so turned on? I can’t help myself.
I’m quick as I align myself in between her thighs and piston my hips to chase my own release. I need to come. She lifts her hips and wraps her legs around my shoulders giving me better access to her pussy. It’s not long before her pussy is fluttering, and she is squeezing me as tight as a closed fist as I come.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I chant. “Fuck!” I yell out once more and shoot out my release.
“Damn!” The girl screams while tightening her legs around my neck. “You are fucking amazing in bed.”
“You’re not so bad yourself either,” I coo.
***
When I woke up this morning, I felt my world shift a little. I have kicked out the woman that I brought home from the bar after an unsatisfying round of fucking. For real, I have no idea why I try to make it work with these bar whores, but at least one night a month, I have one in my bed.
Shit.
I’m trying to bust out of my M.O. and that is always trying to “wife” someone. I’m a fucking idiot who is looking for love in all the wrong places. So, when I bury my dick in these bar sluts, I secretly hope for some sort of connection. Of course, there isn’t much of a one. Just a ‘So, that was nice. Maybe I will see you around’.
Sex is great and everything. A majority of the time I get some sort of satisfaction. It’s just at times… it’s empty. I feel empty. I’ve been missing something all along and I can’t figure it out. There’s just something…
Hell!
I roll over and pick up my phone off the bedside table and roll my eyes at the series of text messages that are flooding over my phone. The constant ‘bing’ of the messages are making me want to throw the phone aside. It’s annoying the hell out of me.
Paul: Wtf mason! Get your ass over here!
Paul: Where the fuck are you?
Paul: You have five fucking minutes to get your ass on the phone. Call me NOW!
My finger hovers over his name and then I bite back the anxiety and give him a call. “Where the fuck are you? If you weren’t such a great chef, I would can your ass right now! Do you have any idea what you have cost me? You have cost me so much fucking money. You are a piece of shit!”
I zone out and then rub the center of my head to relieve some of this tension in my head. My hang over is playing some nasty tricks on me. A wave of nausea floods me and I’m about to throw up. “What do you want, Paul? I’m about hurl. Spit it out!”
“Fucking shit head kids! You had your audition for the Venetian Club today. Do you remember? Or were you too busy bringing home some slut?”
With strength I didn’t know I had, I bite back my snide comment of it being his daughter that I slept with. Which it wasn’t. But that would shut him up. “That was today?”
He screams and then gets back on the phone. “You need to fix this. I want results. Today! Or you are fired, you are never going to cook in this shit again.”
Click.
Great. Now I’m nursing a headache and I have to try and get the biggest heavy hitter in club industry to take us in for a business. I am an intern with Professional Metro Party Planning.
Yeah, I’m a guy and I’m straight. However, cooking for a party planning business has always been fun for me. Plus, the girls are always more fun. Especially the bridesmaids who are all depressed that their sorority sister got married before them.
Rolling out of bed is more of a struggle than I would like it to be. The room start spinning and I fight the urge to hurl. By the time I make it to the bathroom, I heave my stomach empty into the toilet before starting the shower. My body convulses from the onslaught of the retching.
I drag my weakened and hungover body into the shower and rinse off the stale perfume of the woman who had just left. What was her name? Jessica? Tiffany?
Damn it.
Good thing I used a condom.
By the time I’m clean enough to beg the Ice Queen to hire us, I comb through what I have clean in the closet. Normally, I do my laundry on Mondays because that’s my day off. Today is Monday and it’s no longer my fucking day off.
I dry off fast and throw on my chef uniform, the boxy white coat and black pants, and run out the door. Good thing for me, the club is not the far from my house and I run there in order to get there in timely manner.
The club is large. It’s high enough to be considered a high rise but those people that are familiar with the club, knows that the owner of the club is a bad ass who rents the floors out on top for after parties. They are highly coveted, and many people try to get a reservation for the suites almost every weekend.
