Chapter 24. MR. HAPPY
The holidays in New York were extra happy with my arm entwined in Bobby Dangler’s. He was courting me whirlwind style and I sparkled at his side in an array of designer outfits. Dinners, theatre, and a by-invitation-only holiday festival at the Dangler Outlets mall in Poughkeepsie filled our weekends.
We were seated in our favorite corner at Le Bernadin, a chic little French restaurant on Fifty-First Street just off 7th Ave. The four-course chef’s tasting menu just cleared from the table, Bobby ordered desert wine and feasted his eyes on me across the table.
“Happy?” He asked.
“Happy.” I confirmed.
“Can you handle a little more holiday glamour?”
“Ooh, fun!” I exclaimed.
“It’s at the New York Design Center on Lexington. I’m particularly interested in Tad Haste. Do you know his stuff?” Bobby asked.
“Tell me more,” I purred.
“Chairs, couches. 1500 designers, furniture, champagne and caviar. Music, and Michael Bublé singing a few Christmas songs for a select guest list. How does that sound?”
“Sounds amazing. Oooh la la.” I flirted.
“Pack an overnight bag.” He said. “It’s in town, but runs deep into the night, so there are hotel suites for special guests.”
“Are we special guests?” I teased, excited that Mr. Dangler was inviting me for an overnight, and an introduction to his Mr. Happy. After weeks of dinners, with plenty of hand holding, subtle petting and lots of luscious lip action, I was ready to move on from foreplay to Dangler happy.
The black car with license plate RDC-100 pulled into my driveway on Saturday evening. Jimmy loaded my suitcase into the trunk, and I slid across the back seat into Bobby’s arms. We leaned into a kiss that sucked the breath out of me, and filled my head with dancing lights as the scent of his skin misted into and around me.
Let me cut to the happy. Among the select crowd of New York’s most beautiful, we strolled and admired Haste furniture. We circled Haste’s orchid cocktail table, cha-cha’d in and out of the silk ottomans, and canoodled on Haste’s one cushion settee, letting the taupe linen upholstery tickle my tushy. We meeted and greeted and partook of champagne and caviar, and then sneaked to the elevator to our special guest room.
Ignoring the glamour of the Tad Haste décor, we slipped into the king-sized swan bed to culminate our artistic experience. Sweetness slithered to the tips of my toes as Mr. Happy moved inside me, as gently as the caviar had slid down my throat. Then his rod, not with haste but with persistent driving, filled my essence. Tongue sucking my ear and licking across my neck, he arched his back and lengthened his strokes. Satisfying, pulsing softness and hardness entered deeper into my candy cave, to find my wetness.
Through a steamy cloud of lust, I reached for his thighs, cupping Mr. Happy ball sacs, as they banged and bumped. Hanging hairy and loose, I filled my palm and tightened. Oh, pressure. Oh finger sliding up my arse. Oh. He lowered his hips as Mr. Happy lunged to the throne with a sweet explosion. A blaze of ecstasy filled my loins. I cried out, “Oh, oh. OH.” And bit my lip, bringing tears, because in my heart I heard, “Oh, oh Dick. OH.” And I knew Mr. Happy was sweet relief, but not the Master of Ceremonies my deepest heart yearned for.