Intoxication

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

You wonder how these things begin… how getting innocently drunk for a weekend and a day could land me in a man’s beach house, unknowingly, or at least half knowingly, married to a stranger. I suppose some events take flight, have a life of their own that surpasses any conscious choice or specific plans. In my life, I’ve merrily made major decisions without thinking of the consequences—lose one lover, f**k the next, floating from job to job—taking off on my whim of the week. Change was bred into my nature at birth, as though I answer the call of some pagan cycle of seasons, or respond to the planets. My bones cry out for something new and I reply, without realizing what I’m doing till I’m in the middle of a new life I’ve only half-consciously created.

This time, however, I was sideswiped by the devil, or perhaps he is a saint… or maybe he is just an ordinary guy who I met under very extraordinary circumstances. Whatever, the result is still the same. I got caught intoxicated, forced to face a whole lot more than I ever envisioned my life to include. The way I lived with such loose standard operating procedures, I should have expected something this bizarre to take hold of me… at least I could have had fair warning about the twisted subject matter of my latest escapades. But I didn’t.

I can trace the beginnings of this great charade to Walker Livingston Cameron, III. If you think his name sounds snooty, you’re right on target. Walker Cameron perfected button-down and wing-tipped, as though it were a science. Could put his nose in the air faster than a tea-totaling librarian. There was always a comb in his back pocket just in case of windy days. I always thought his hair looked better blown apart by a good ocean breeze, but Walker had no use for the invigorating effect of ocean breezes, or the ocean for that matter: too windy, too foggy, too wet, too dirty, too risqué. He never said so in so many words, but every nervous twitch of his firm jaw suggested the fact every time I suggested we go to the beach.

Walker was supposed to be an in-between lover—in-between Rock Hartaway and whoever was next. But our sojourn together lasted much too long to be considered a brief fling. As a lover, you can’t say that Walker was boring. What his button-down life lacked in real adventure, he made up for with his creative s****l juices, which were always on alert for some kinky way to spend a night.

He was the first of my lovers to talk me into the trench coat fantasy—I dress in garter belt, stockings and bra, a pair of impossible high heels and wear nothing but a trench coat over my body when I pick him up at a busy airport. I giggled when he suggested the scheme. He was on his way home from Dallas, stopping in Denver, a pretty circuitous way back to L.A., but he didn’t have much choice. I was due at LAX at midnight to retrieve him from the hellhole of that sleazy airport. In Walker’s mind, airports were as bad as slums for seedy atmosphere; but LAX seemed to piss him off the most, probably because it was his final destination at least twice a week.

Walker’s s****l suggestions were more like orders, especially when his voice was hushed and low, and his call took on X-rated overtones. With the next breath, I expected to hear him panting heavily. I visualized his hand placed over his fully erect p***s, jacking it off to the musical notes of my whorish whispers answering that infamous s****l question, “What are you wearing?” But Walker would never stoop so low as to masturbate. Not that he had any moral judgments against the practice; his s****l genius taught him to use his s****l energy productively—transmuting it into creative business endeavors, and storing the remains in his groin to use for a really good night of hand-to-hand s****l combat. Walker liked it rough in bed.

That night, Walker’s suggestion was definitely an order. He wanted me in the trench coat and my underwear, meeting him at the airport with arms spread, opening the coat wide and flinging my half-naked body at him. Good thing I have the body style that looks attractive in the nude. Nice even tan, flat stomach, round hips and ass, and just slightly augmented breasts (the boob job was Walker’s idea, too, and one of my most recent whims), just enough so that my breasts bounce heavily, retaining a natural texture and voluminous soft shape. My brown aureoles are large, but the n*****s inside them are tiny—even erect. A year before Walker arrived in my life, I had the left one pierced with a tiny ring, just large enough to alarm any man who happened to see it.

I was only slightly leery of going through with Walker’s plan. But it was late, past midnight, and the passengers at LAX would be like zombies at that hour. If they did see anything, my lace-covered t**s and thong bikini would make good fodder for the next day’s water cooler gossip.

I played Walker’s tramp, giggling as I parked his Audi in short-term and made my way to the United Airlines terminal, clicking my heels on the linoleum creating a small stir in the lonely airport. Those who looked my way saw just my legs and face, which was all that was showing at that point. They could probably imagine the rest, wondering what lucky guy was getting his fantasy come to life by this sexy blonde-haired tease. My make-up was particularly dark, my eyes shadowed in plum, my intent that sultry, overstated look that shouts Bimbo whether its walking up the street or sits beckoningly on some barstool. I swished my naked derriere inside the coat, letting the feel of it tickle me all the way to my silk-covered crotch. My p***y was hairless, a fact that anyone that night who had the good fortune to watch would notice once I opened the coat. The thong was see-through mesh and transparent enough to display the small forward cleft where my labia came together and the pink tips of my inner lips peek out.

I moved on my seemingly endless journey to Walker’s gate, building nervous excitement with each step. I was just in time to see the first passengers self-importantly bullying their way up the corridor toward the tiny crowd of waiting friends. Walker was the near the end, having waited for the rest to disembark. He didn’t like crowds, getting bumped and shoved, or touched by anyone without his permission. Spotting my slightly graying boyfriend’s very neatly combed hairline, I moved forward, untying the sash around my waist, tossing my arms open wide, and greeting him in the appropriate attire, pressing my scantily clad torso against his muscle. The coat fell away at the sides so that my profile was nearly nude. Walker’s hardening d**k pressed against my thigh; and I wiggled my p***y into the lush warmth. We stayed clenched and easily writhing for a good thirty seconds before we parted, enough time to let the remaining passengers pass us by. My coat was wrapped around my body seconds after we pulled apart—embarrassment finally creeping up my face with a pale pink blush. My assignment had been completed in good form, and I was filled with triumph and excitement as I took Walker’s hand and we made our way to the baggage claim.

In short-term parking, I gave him the blowjob he demanded. His p***s was incensed—too many days without a decent target. I counted on Walker’s faithfulness the way I counted on the sun to rise. (He wouldn’t screw anyone behind my back—in front of me, maybe, but not behind my back. Cheating would be a blot on his lilywhite character.) You’d think my boyfriend could have waited until we were actually in the car, but Walker wanted a demonstration of my s****l willingness as soon as we were in the vicinity of the Audi. His hands were all over me, searching for my skin like heat-seeking missiles, quickly tearing away the sash and opening the trench coat so that it nearly fell off my shoulders. I was horny, too. Must have been. This much exhibitionist exposure wasn’t normal for me. He pushed me to my knees, where my mouth covered his prick, lapping pre-c*m and smiling as he twisted his fingers through my blonde curls and peered down at my face with a look of totally absent bliss. Enough sucking, he picked me up, tossed me around and over the trunk of the Audi, where I spread my legs and pulled away the thong. Walker speared my cunt with a spike the size of my favorite dildo. Leave it to Walker to be the perfect size, certainly not small, or too big to manage. I grunted thoughtlessly and he said, “Shush,” a dozen times, as if that would keep people from seeing us screwing. Never once did he think to stop, he just kept shushing me and f*****g me, finally grabbing onto my breasts like they were handles and dropping his c*m into my cunt with a final thrust. The trench coat was a gnarled mass of khaki fabric when he finally withdrew from my drenched hole and patted the remains of his sticky cream on my behind.

I hadn’t c*m, and my poor body was screaming to get off.

“On the hood of the car, or when we get home,” he told me without my having to ask. Apparently, the carnal look on my face gave away my needy appetite.

“How about on the way home?” I suggested.

“No.” He was still smoldering, still in command. That much testosterone in his system, we’d be screwing again before we slept. “On the car, Glenna.”

I gazed around at the half-empty parking garage. There was not a soul in sight. Hair-trigger fast with orgasm, I was sure I could get off quick and climb back in the car before anyone found us. Moving to the front of the Audi, I pushed my hips up on the hood and wiggled the coat around me protectively enough to be available should I need to dive for cover. That was my plan… until Walker tugged the coat away. No precautions to prevent me from being seen—things were getting more dangerous. Something during his trip must have really set him off. A pretty girl, a few drinks in a topless bar, a maid with the kind of wiggle in her ass to attract his eye. Could have been a dozen things, maybe a dirty book he picked up at a Dallas newsstand, or ten minutes watching the Playboy channel in the dark of his hotel room. Touch his c**k, though? He wouldn’t think of it. Made me think he followed some Eastern religious sect that promoted abstinence from m**********n as the way to find the Holy Grail of self-realization. But abstinence certainly didn’t apply to real s*x, or insisting that his girlfriend make a lewd example of herself before the whole world—or at the very least—the world of a gray concrete parking garage.

A grime-stained, bug-covered light bulb glowed against the wall above me… bad as a seedy nightclub and the immaculate Walker Cameron didn’t care. I think he led two separate lives—the clean one and the dirty one. Most of the time I belonged in the one sullied by s*x and crimes of lust. While I sat on the hood of the Audi, I gave him the ‘f*****g glance’, a pair of smoldering green eyes, hooded lids and slick wet lips, tongue stuck between my teeth. My hand was at my crotch, my fingers nimbly playing with the dripping folds of skin. His c*m was all over my skin, greasing the path of my fingers. He stood back, like a movie producer inspecting new talent… critical eyes, up-turned haughty nose, expressionless look on a sour face, as if he knew I’d never make it in the business. I thought I’d make a pretty good porn queen, if that had been my desire. I think Walker thought so, too. But he would never think those thoughts—not my button-down genius.

I played myself to a perfectly tuned orgasm, running my fingers over my hairless p***y, rubbing at the side of my c******s—and then for show, wetting my fingers on my tongue and using them to tease the little bud until it was ready to explode. I often got off at the thought of Walker critiquing my style of s****l play. Oddly, I got off on his judgments because they pushed me forward to things I’d never do without the challenge behind them. This time, instead of letting me take charge of my c*m, he advanced on my parted legs and shooed my hands away from their play. He drew me forward, making me clutch him around the neck. Then with his right hand, he forced several fingers into my cunt. Right at the edge of going overboard, when the waves take over and my crotch feels like it’s dancing through fire, I responded throwing my head back, my shoulders with it. Hanging on to Walker, I came.