by Daddy X
As you probably know, many of my characters are assholes. Not their fault. They were born that way.
But this time around, I’d like to introduce a few of my more endearing characters. People you may not want to run away from. People you might actually allow in your home.
Take Paolo for instance. Paolo works as a room service waiter at a hotel along the freeway. The hotel where Olivia is staying.
Olivia is married to Frank Brazoli, a guy running for mayor. Olivia is of those socially embarrassing women who can’t get enough sex. She is presently hiding out under an assumed name in a hotel sixty miles up the freeway, having various flings with, among others, Paolo.
This is a scene from a WIP that’s been in the hopper for years. The story resides in limbo because I’ve yet to write a convincing murder and subsequent investigation, on which the story will depend. Sigh…
…Tall, blonde Olivia Whittaker Brazoli woke from her late afternoon power nap, ordered dinner from the hotel kitchen and arranged herself on the bed. Monday was the night Paolo delivered room service to her floor.
A high-pitched voice with a Castilian accent announced,
“Yes, come in.”
A young waiter wheeled in a chrome table filled with covered platters. His caramel skin, pencil-thin mustache, horn-rim glasses and slick dark hair all contrasted with the white jacket that appeared too big for his slight frame. He began to remove the lid from a poached trout when he feigned shock at the manner of pose Olivia had adopted. “Oh my, Mith Joneth. Why are you thowing me that? Most women thave down there nowadath. And why are you fooling with it?”
Tonight it was obviously going to be ‘Cougar and the Virgin Boy’.
“Oh, I thought I’d show you your first one, Paolo. It’s called a ‘pussy’… Say ‘pussy’, Paolo.”
“Uuuuh … Puthy! … Aha … aha.”
“What? Do you think it’s funny? Do you think a pussy is a funny thing, Paolo? Do you think my pussy is funny? Does my pussy make you laugh?”
“No, ma’am. Not funny. Not a funny puthy. Not at all funny. Not a funny puthy at all, Mith Joneth. Thure ith futhy though.”
“Come to think, it actually does feel a little funny, Paolo,” Olivia sighed, looking down at herself, fingers fiddling in the moist density. “Would you like to look? See if it looks or feels funny to you or not?”
“Well. If you think that’s betht, Mith Joneth, I’d be glad to take a peek. We at Marriott aim to pleath. Thould I put on glovth?”
“You wouldn’t have much sensitivity with gloves, little man. But leave the glasses on. Otherwise how would you see anything?”
Paolo was playing the role well. After two months of serving the gorgeous woman’s needs, he had a pretty good idea of what Olivia would respond to.
“What about germth, mith Joneth? Ithn’t it all thtinky down there? All nathty, thwampy, I mean?”
“Some men find it intoxicating, Paolo,” Olivia twirled her fingers. She was getting wetter with every circle she described in her thick pubic thatch. Three red fingernails tugged a puffy labia aside so he could observe the rubicund glisten. “How about you? C’mon over, Paolo. Take a little whiff.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. If it lookth like thomething I wouldn’t want to touth without glovth, why would I want to thmell one?”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t know, would you? Not for yourself. You’re now approaching an age where you’ll be meeting girls, Paolo. Other girls. We all have these things. Even girls your age.”
Abandoning the dinner on the pushcart, the young waiter stepped tentatively to her bedside.
“Here, Paolo. Here you are. Now what are we going to do?”
“Uhh … Now I thniff, right?” he bent down to her.
Olivia grabbed the waiter by a lapel and pulled him in for a deep kiss, then shoved his head between her legs. She ground his face in the bristly thatch, knocking his glasses askew. “Nuzzle it, boy. Take a deep breath—through your mouth and nose.” In Olivia’s humid places, a cooling effect developed as the boy inhaled through the moist hair. “Now let the air out. Slowly, Paolo. Let it out through your mouth. … Oh, Paolo.” Her cunt warmed in the body-heated breath from his lungs. “Now inhale!” She repeated the command, back and forth, forcibly holding him in place, his alternately cool and hot breath contrasting against each other, making her so aware of her center that she exploded in humping fits.
The night before it had been another waiter, the tall Fredrick with the long dick. He’d been standing up, Olivia bent over the dinner cart, tits squished in her linguini in clam sauce. He rolled the table back and forth with Olivia penetrated on his dick. Earlier today it was a pretty maid on her first day of work, come to change the sheets. They needed changing again after Olivia had her way with the young thing. Both proved to be women who delivered much in the way of liquids during sex.
Olivia is what used to be called a nymphomaniac. She hoped the maid would request this floor again, but considering the girl’s low seniority it would be ‘catch as catch can’ for a while. Olivia was good at ‘catch as catch can’. After all, she had caught Frankie. She caught him or he caught her, it was never clear to either of them.
And then there’s little Irish Kaiteleen. From “Tenters”, a story about the kink surrounding the collegiate practice of sex under blankets. Available in “Brand X”.
WANTED Over 18…
Mature young woman wanted part time to sleep under our blankets.
TO WARM OUR BED ONLY. NO SEX. Must be small in stature.
413 555 1234
“Embarrassing, those first few interviews,” I said. “That is, until little Kate showed up.”
Sweet Kate was a Black Irish amalgam of the ancient cultures that raped and pillaged the vulnerable coasts of the little green isle throughout millennia of horny seafarers. Hers were the bright rosy cheeks and dimples of the Anglo Celts, over fine and fair Norse skin, accented with the full black tresses, dark features, and even darker passions fathered by Roman seminal overflows from occupied England. The morning following our first encounter I drove straight to the quad to remove the hinky post. We had found our girl. Or so we thought.
Amanda loved reminiscing about the old times. “That chubby little Irish lass with the big black bush?” Her eyes brightened. “Sure was some piece of ass. Wasn’t she, honey? Really got into it under there!” Amanda had really loved that kid.
“Is that what y’ be callin’ what happened wit’ th’ silly gurl?” I attempted Katie’s thick Irish brogue. “Really gettin’ into it she was? HA! Yes, me fine Amanda. Yer lit’l Kaiteleen Molloy really got herself into it. Got herself deported is surely what I remember th’ colleen to be doin’!”
Someone complained to the campus police. Seems our little Katie had been caught trying to sneak under the blankets in another student’s bed. Kate claimed it was all “Just a stoopid inaccuracy in calculatin’ th’ bloody room noombers!” after too many Irish whiskeys.
However, in the long run, “tenting” came to be a “thing”.
The interview with Kate went something like this:
“So y’s ain’t expectin’ any o’ th’ sex, are y’s?” Such a charming brogue. “ So y’ twain wouldin’ be lookin’ to fook me then?”
“Absolutely not, my dear,” Amanda lied. “Not even if you change your mind, sweetie.” Really piled it on.
Kate was so cute. At first. The way she said “fook!” How her bunny-toothed ‘F’s pinched her plump red bottom lip. The hard ‘K’s.
Wouldn’t be long before it was: “Aw… fook me… Oh! Fook me mon… Fook me as if I’m fair Isle o’ Eire an’ yer th’ fookin’ King o’ England!”
We were delighted when she came back to us the following night. The girl was visibly excited and wanted to go to bed right away. Next night the same thing. If it weren’t for her period, we would have had to say ‘no’ to the fourth night in a row.
Things went on like that for another month or so. Sometime we said, “No way can we do it again!” At first we would let her come in, just to hang out. But then she’d keep pestering us. She’d hike up her skirt so we would see her white cotton panties with all the black curls sticking out. She’d diddle herself on the sofa, bothering her cunt with one hand while beckoning to me or Amanda (or whoever else was in the room) with the other.
If that didn’t work, she’d curl a couple of fingers in through one side of the undies, past all the hair to probe around in the hot slick inside. With her other fist she’d squeeze the swollen labia together, making sure her long clit was pinched between. Grasping her whole pudenda with both hands, she’d shove the entire fleshy affair from side to side, round and round, making unintelligible noises. A white paste would develop in the tangle. She’d stare down at her own improvised display then make some cockeyed eye contact with whoever she thought might feel sorry for her, to go get a blanket and fuck her.
Sometimes Katie would wind up sleeping bundled on the porch waiting for the girl of the night to emerge. She would spit her Irish blasphemies at the poor thing: “Fate an’ begorrah” she’d holler. “Sookin’ ‘em off are y’? Gittin’ yerself sooked as well?” Katie’s chattery breath would steam through the space between her front teeth in the chill morning air. “They’re f… fookin’’ y’ as well, I’ll bet… Why, y’ fookin’ lit’ool ssloot!”
By that time we had refused to see her anymore. Too crazed. Obsessed she was.
Obviously I like obsessed personalities whose particular excesses absorb them, allowing the characters to enter situations they (or we) hadn’t previously considered.
More about Kate in "Brand X", link to your right >