CHP 5 – IN WHICH MICKY IS EXPOSED AS A POSSIBLE CREEP.
Having been hooked from the start, it was no surprise to me, that a few weeks in, I was in direst danger of losing my mind to this seductress of laundry and maintenance – Rosy’s beguiling pubes and toe nail clippings selling like hot cakes all over the internet; ‘Clean me up!’ she demanded anonymously, or thereabouts.
Beyond the mere exchange of intimate data that sweet Carla Regaliza and I, fated by providence, were currently poised to undertake, I had come to believe it highly probable that the two of us were implausibly written in the pixelated stars – my suspension of disbelief having been violently hijacked by an actual conviction that this must surely be the case; such had been the effect of my thinking about this young woman on a quantum level.
On a more basic level, my obsessive contemplation of the little strumpet had created an alternate imagined reality, where the two of us lived happily ever after in a rural idle of infinite meadows and constant fucking.
As the days slowly passed, waiting for Rosy and Carla to coalesce as one back in their student house in Manchester, so we could get down to the photographic nuts and bolts of my genius marketing campaign, I endlessly perused all the images of them that I already had – searching like an obsessed detective for visual clues to the meaning of this illusive woman with multiple identities; most of which, admittedly were imagined into existence by me; the only one really worth knowing, the only one with a beating heart, the only one I really wanted to know, I knew I would probably never meet – alas.
With increasing rapidity my notions about what the fuck was going on became more and more twisted and confused.
Maybe she was a twin! I had noticed that the photos of Carla were taken in two different rooms. And it appeared that in two of the images she clearly had a mole on her knee that was not present in any of the other photographs; although strangely all of her other noticeably discernible features and facets were extant.
But why would a set of twins masquerade as one? Well, I crazily surmised, perhaps one of them was getting married, and, before they both parted for their separate lives, the betrothed one decided to help her single sister find a suitable partner; and maybe that unpaired twin was specifically interested in middle-aged men who sniff pants?
Well, stranger things have happened – haven’t they?
From my increasingly paranoid tower I began to view the whole interaction as a sort of breadcrumb trail leading to possible and probable doom.
Blackmail! Robbery! Catfishing!!
But, then again, I wasn’t keeping any secrets, and I didn’t possess anything worth stealing. And I was certainly no catch.
The problem was, I didn’t have much information to go on – and what little data I did have seemed infinitely adaptable to any crazy idea I cared to ponder.
Although, that said, in my more lucid moments I did have a vague idea that this was to be a relationship conducted entirely in images and descriptions of images, and that the only real aspect of our interaction’s would remain confined to the purchase of her delightful panties – all sweaty and creamy and stinking of that unattainable paradise between her perfect Spanish thighs; mmmmmm . . . But, of course, for the majority of the time I seemed singularly unable to bear that fact in mind; knowing only, in my ecstatic obsessed heart, that I would agree to anything to get inside that beautiful woman; to ride her like a stolen hover-bike in a multidimensional rodeo!
It was about this time that the words ‘Dick Tingle and Pussy Twitch’ sprang into my head – they seemed to have a certain ring to them; chuckling, I noted them down for consideration at a later date.
I also noted down some more peculiar words, ‘Are you just a tasty snack, asked the starving man with a fork in his hand, or are you a feast? The girl replied that she was neither, more a confection, crafted by goddesses. Goddesses? queried the mouth, drooling a constant stream of dust. Yes, was her simple reply . . .’
I imagined what it would be like to actually meet her, in the flesh . . . I’m in an anonymous hotel room, sitting on the edge of a large double bed, wearing nothing but black boxer-shorts beneath a bright white robe, fiddling with a remote control, trying – with much irritation – to get pornography to appear on the TV, when an unexpected knock at the door arrests me from my fruitless task and suddenly finds me standing in the cramped hallway with my hand reaching out to the knob. As I slowly open the door, presuming a chamber maid with nothing but bad news about my need for special soap, I am surprised to see Rosy in tight black leggings and cute orange top, barefoot, looking up at me with a telling glint in her gorgeous green eyes and a smile on her plump biteable lips that could mean only one thing – I was dreaming.
Overcoming my cowardly instinct to jump from the window – a difficult task in that hermetically sealed world – I stand aside and beckon her in. Rosy sashays past, brushing the tip of my cock with her hand through my open robe as she makes her way into the bedroom. I sense that things are about to get spicy.
And then Rosy speaks! – of course, being a dream, I could not tell whether she spoke with her own tongue or one borrowed from my overly stimulated psyche; that voice, like the undying echo of the first sound the universe had ever really uttered, shattering my frozen heart, ‘Come on then, Micky. You filthy old cunt. Fuck me till I walk like Charlie Chaplin.’
This seemed like the right moment to approach the petite little fuckmeat and start straight in with a powerful massaging of her sweaty young crotch combined with a widely transmitted groaning kiss – in response to which Rosy flicks herself off the ground, encircling my waist with her feverish legs beneath my open gown; relaxing her torso with her arms hanging limp; her head supported by my hair grasping hand. As I grind my other hand against the rapidly dampening material of her thin leggings I can deduce that she is wearing a simple cotton thong, probably white – judging from what I’d gleaned as she’d entered; fucking hell, she was hot; and there in that dream with my hand between those glorious legs, making her pussy all wet like that; I mean, really working on that dirty little fuck hole . . . Momentarily I lift my hand to our clashing faces and smear us with stank, before throwing Rosy back onto the bed, turning her over and continuing on with the marathon cunt rubbing – the worn gusset of her leggings quickly now becoming slimy with cum as my fingers explore the ridges of her centre and press inside her clearly visible little arsehole; godamn, what a pretty little arsehole.
Holding Rosy’s folded arms against her back, pressing her down into the mattress, standing in between her flailing open legs, I make the little cunt cum; make her clench up like a salted slug; the sound of piss desperately escaping through cotton underwear audible above the growling appeals and breathless prayers muffled deep down below . . .
A few days later, out of the blue, my phone chimed, alerting me to an email from Rosy!
Not only had Rosy emailed to say she approved of the shopping list I’d previously sent her, and to give me an approximate date for the fulfilling of my saucy marketing requirements, but also she explained that her sometime lack of communication – which had oft times rent my heart in twain – was in no way a sign of contempt and that in fact it was actually down to her mental health. Now, this was like sweet music to my ears, being that I myself was not unknown upon the shores of that most dread land.
Immediately I emailed Rosy back, giving her a preview of my own insanity, telling her all about how amazingly connected this was to my own mental life – feeling more and more how incredibly important this all was; how real it was becoming.
Then I emailed her again, coming across like a genuine human being, revealing a little more about my current biscuit-less situation and wishing her only the best; at the same time falling into a slightly obsessive spiral of confused and unrealistic thinking – essentially trying to surreptitiously engage her in a full on email flirt, which was only cut short by my sudden need to fall head-long into a Jack and Coke themed slumber . . .
The hotel bed is of just the right dimensions to get Rosy nice and settled on her back. And does she ever look cute, lying there all hot and sweaty, wriggling about with her wet little cunt messing up the duvet, her wrists and ankles cuffed and secured – no need for a gag, the sound-proofing is industrial.
She waits, cute as a bug, a ready monsoon between her open thigh’s. I make my cock hard like granite and enter her pussy without pause. It seems going in like it will never stop. I push until our bellies are one – I can feel her muscle’s ripple against my own; the head of my cock pressing hard up inside her; her arching back cracking into place; her mouth gapping; her toes curling. As she begins to moan and writhe I fuck her in every way I know how – expanding her horizon’s from here to world’s without name. The way her pussy grips my thrusting cock is a though she’s holding me with all her might, containing me as I fill her with all my lust and frothing fevered joy; banging her godamn brains out; hooking my cock up in all the places she hides for fear of their being found out; knobbing her supremely in an imaginary hotel room . . .
Waking sometime in the early afternoon, my head still stuffed with wicked thoughts about Carla Regaliza, I did something stupid.
Being that I had recently signed up to Instagram – in the vain hopes of using it as an additional route to market for The Empty Headed Prick – but had yet to add any meaningful content, I decided to load it up with photographs of myself; sort of Micky through the ages – my thinking being that although I was presently a flaky middle-aged man with little to offer but a surfeit of ear hair and endless conversations about slippers, in the past I’d been near cool (in the right light), so hopefully, if I could get Carla to notice the pictures at all, then maybe the more youthful ones might help mitigate the shocking elderly reality; my insane hope being that she’d take one look at my craggy old face and fall instantly in love with the sad old man buying dirty knickers and smutty photos from her. It even seemed reasonable. So, once the images were in place, I emailed her again – just an off-handed little note; a phony after-thought masquerading as nothing, but meaning everything.
M: “Forgot to say, if you want to put a face to my name, I’ve just uploaded some pictures to Instagram. My user name is feather.mick X”
How perfect life would be, I thought, if I could just bury my face between Carla’s thighs all day long, and then at night fuck her brains out.
But worse, aside from the alluring stench of perfect sweaty teenaged pussy, and the hopes of selling a million books on Amazon, it had now become apparent that my feelings for Carla Regaliza were suddenly taking on an epic hue; in fact, it seemed I was fucked from that point on.
And furthermore, I was dying for another pair of those lovely smelly girlie pants, but felt it inappropriate to ask whilst we were working on the marketing together – professional courtesy frustrating my building need for a bit of sweat and sauce.
As the hours passed, waiting for a response, I entered an increasingly intense Rosy/Carla themed fugue state – high with joyful savage lust, yet drowned in the deep of my unattainable heart’s desire; all blood pumped now by her breath alone . . .
And right there, as I flailed about in a fog of wilful unknowing, the entire Universe made of Carla, my stupidity unsurprisingly reaped its own reward. Checking Carla’s Instagram page in the hopes of her having put up an image that somehow confirmed her love for me – some desperate sign, anything, something that would let me know that we would soon be one – I was shocked to find an image of petite little Carla posing with a tall young man and three Great Danes; Carla staring straight into camera, a smile on her face as wide as the Balearic Sea.
What did this all mean? I pondered. The only fact that seemed evident – above the blinding radiance of Carla’s smile, and the way her eyes seemed to take me away to some distant place that felt like here and now – was that Carla had a boyfriend, and dogs, big dogs.
My dumb ignorance scrambled in vain to catch up with reason, what the fuck was going on? – my discombobulated mind mused on the notion of all three of us romping in some Easy Rider hippy commune type scenario, sharing the love, and taking turns walking the dogs; and in all honesty, weighing it up, right at that moment, I thought, if that’s what Carla wants, well ok.
Moments later an email arrived.
R: “Hey Micky, I don’t know how comfortable I feel about you looking through my Instagram . . .”
Instantly I was plunged into despair! sputtering away at my keyboard – fighting for my life!
M: “I’m a naughty boy Carla. I feel like a total shmuck. I’ve been racking my brains thinking of a way of making it seem less crap, but I can’t. I’m utterly sorry. Micky”
No reply.
M: I’m not going to make some rubbish excuse. I wanted to know what you looked like. I wouldn’t of considered asking you to do the photos if I hadn’t been certain you were as beautiful as you are hot. I’ll understand if you want nothing more to do with me, but if by some miracle we could get past this . . . (Incidentally, I think the photo you posted was perfect; I’m guessing I’ll never see your perfect face again.) x”
Still no reply.
M: “How can I make this right? X”
For the next thirty-seven and a half hours I slowly died inside whilst making increasingly desperate emailed attempts to rectify the seemingly irreparable damage done by my dishonest dealings – finally sending Carla the money for the clothes unbidden, with a note telling her that if she felt disinclined to continue with the project then she should keep it and no hard feelings . . .
Back in the augmented reality hotel room, I’ve got my face deep in Rosy’s arse crack; she’s bent over and being eaten out like a watermelon; juices dripping down her shuddering thighs and from my busy chin. As she twists and strains she groans and quivers, sometimes fluttering like she’s done forever, a cuter display you’ll never witness in this dimension; or any other dimension, for that matter. I lick her cunt until she bursts, spraying me with an outpouring of unstoppable force, blowing me backwards onto the floor; her continuing orgasm twisting her up like a sprig of lightning floating above the bed.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice a young man has entered the room, or maybe he was there all along; immediately he starts fucking Rosy’s cunt from behind, slamming her in a furious frenzy of precise penetrating thrusts. Rosy howls approvingly, pushing back on the young man as he darts in and out of her like a hummingbird crossed with a jack hammer. Caught up in a hazy maelstrom of unanswerable concerns, I quickly see myself with my dribbling cock in Rosy’s wide open mouth, reaching down to squeeze her swollen nipples as I cover the back of her tongue with piping hot cum; spunking both nuts into and onto her, as she gets a further cockful up her burning fuckhole; the young man giving her a load so massive it oozes out the sides of her.
Rosy trembles there, on that hotel bed, dripping thick white sperm from both ends, licking her lips and clearing out her sinuses, face like a plasterer’s iPhone . . .
As I drifted into blissful unconsciousness that desperate regretful morning, strangely I dreamed easy, and slept secure, inexplicably safe in the utterly unfounded belief that I had not yet heard the last from sweet Carla Regaliza Vargas.