Just for the record, I’m a pizza-holic. To me, pizza is like sex; when it’s good, it’s great, and when it’s not so good, it’s still pretty good. That is one of the reasons I chose my office location so close to my favorite pizza joint. And having my apartment close to my favorite pizza joint was – in the words of Sandra Titus – by design, too. Which meant that my apartment was near my office.
My office, the pizza joint, a liquor/convenience store, and apartment were in the same two-block cluster. I left the Crown Vic near the office, and my Harley Sportster in the space just outside my apartment window.
Which is where I was now.
After I locked up the office, I – surprise! – grabbed a pizza and made the very short walk “home,” and was now dining on a slice of thick-crust pepperoni with extra cheese, washed down with swigs of Miller Lite.
Now in a wife-beater and sweat pants, I was simply lounging while consuming my dinner. But, lounging isn’t downtime for me. My mind stays busy, so even if it looks to an outsider that I might be relaxing, I’m still processing a lot of the day’s events and any work-related considerations through my mind.
Like now. I was holding a slice of pizza in one hand and the 4x6 photograph of Holly Fortuna in the other. While my mouth chewed on the pizza, my mind was chewing on the image of the young woman in the picture, imagining her feasting on a big dick until her face was bathed in cum. What the fuck was it about this brunette chick that had me visualizing her time and again in such a blatant, sexual way?
If the girl was a redhead, I might understand it. Did I mention that I have a thing for redheads?
Anyways, for some goddamned reason I couldn’t shake my erotic conceptualization of the face of my client’s daughter. It was beginning to look like a night of little sleep if I couldn’t separate the true image of the woman in the photo from the sexual image in my brain. I still wanted to blame Mrs. Titus for adding the ingredients to my bizarre fantasy with her mature sexual prowess, but she had swallowed my cumload without leaving even a hint of my semen anywhere on her lips or face. So, where was it coming from?
It certainly wasn’t because Mrs. Titus had left me unsatisfied. And the prior night’s fun-filled romp had me feeling pretty drained and in no need of any self-gratification this evening. Still, I was going to need some shut-eye and slamming down a ton of beer wasn’t my sleep aid of choice, either.
Maybe I should check out some porn or something, maybe run a bunch of sex pics through my mind to disrupt the hyper-focus I had for Holly Fortuna? Made as good of sense as anything at the moment.
I switched on my desktop computer, but it would take a moment or two to boot up. I grabbed my remote and turned on the TV, then flicked through the channels to Hustler TV. Yeah, I’m a subscriber. For as often as I check it out it beats the hell out of pay-per-view.
I put down Holly’s picture and walked into the kitchen for another beer as the sound of a man and woman moaning over funky background music drifted in from the living room. A male voice was groaning out, “Yeah, bitch. Suck my cock,” so I hurried back to the living room so I might catch sight of some other cum-covered face to file into my memory for the evening.
When I returned, I was greeted with the image of a platinum-blond cutie, her face just a little too made-up for my liking, getting her mouth fucked by the requisite big-dicked stud. Her bright red lips formed a perfect seal around the black cock sliding in and out of her waiting mouth, and as the crescendo of music matched the tempo of the black dick’s thrusts, the guy pulled out and blasted the blonde’s face with streams of his white goo, jacking his meat to work out every drop of his jizz as he added his pearly paint to her heavy makeup.
And then it hit me.
I scrambled to snap up the remote, madly punching buttons to bring up the on-screen menu. I was watching “Blackballed Blondes, Volume Six.”
I dashed the short distance to my computer, bringing up a browser window and impatiently banging at my keyboard to enter the movie title before I lost it. I searched “Blackballed Blondes, Volume Six” in images, and a number of pics of scenes ripped from the video came available. I opened up an image that closely matched the scene I’d just witnessed.
The platinum-blond, heavy with make-up and even heavier with globs of sperm on her face, popped up in a new browser window. The image was a tad grainy from the video capture, but would easily serve my purpose. I picked up the picture of Holly and held it up to the monitor for comparison.
“Holy fuck,” I sighed.