House Play

GoddammitCocksuckerMotherfucker!
I am such an idiot.
MotherfuckingsweatyhairyballsackBitch!
I have officially, totally, and completely fucked up everything in my life, in a most royal way. Why did I have to look at her face? I thought it was safe enough, but I had no idea that her mesmerizing little perma-smile that she had would get me into so much trouble. I have never tried to read signals so unclear in my *life*. Did she or did she not make the move to kiss me first? I'll admit, I crossed the line when my hand began to wander but I'll plead insanity on that one.
She was also the first one to pull away. Acting. Chalk it up to acting and just break my fuckin' heart. Oh, and why not throw in a little aching testes for good measure?
ShitshitshitshitBalls!
How in the hell are we going to continue working together now? I'll never be able to look at her again without recalling the feel of her hips moving the way they did under mine, or how wet she was. Dear fucking Abby, how the *fuck* was that acting? Why can't she admit that she wanted me like I want her? The way it was going, you would have thought so, and for a few glorious minutes there, I was the happiest man alive. You'd have had to pull me from space, I was walking on so much air.
Now I'm the dumbest schmo in the natural world on the decidedly harder guest bed mattress in the room down the hall. Fuck.
What am I gonna do now? It kills me, but one of us is gonna have to leave Curious Goods. I don't care, I'll give her my half. Just go somewhere and rot, that'll be my future. I'll miss seeing her face everyday, but that luxury is no longer an option. Not now that I've seen it in the throes of pleasure at what I was doing to her.
JackassdicklickerFuckFuckFuck!
I wish there was an easier option, but there isn't. She's way too much of a distraction now. Not that she wasn't one before, but then it was tolerable. We had our roles, we had our *mission*. After the way things have been severed now, the torture would render me useless to be of any help during an object recovery. Jack, and most certainly Micki, would be better off without me.
I want to die.
Mistake. She called that feeling of dizzying sexual attraction a mistake. How could I argue with her without giving everything away? At least now I can leave with some shred of dignity. I won't plague her with the fact that I love her so much I can't see straight. Like she would actually want me like I thought she did. I mean, the way she was sucking my tongue into her mouth seemed to telegraph 'Fuck Me', but I guess I misread those signals, too.
This entire situation is cruel. My guts hurt. Still want to die.
Sleep is a thing that is known to those who don't have the title of Sexually-frustrated-til-stretched-thin-Idiot that I currently bear. I've been lying here, staring up at the ceiling, reduced to a state of silent catatonia for most of the night. I think I drifted off for an hour or two at most. The sun came up a few hours ago, I think, but I can't be sure. It's hard to move. It's hard to *breathe* at the moment. At some point, I suppose I should get up and meet with Spaulding. Hopefully get this whole nightmare over with, already. Shit. My clothes are all in the master bedroom. I lay here for a few more minutes before I can will myself off of this Micki-less mattress. That's probably why I couldn't sleep; this is the furthest I've slept away from her (or attempted to, at least), since I've known her. I stumble my way into the hallway, taking in the clock on the wall. Nine-something. When I reach the bedroom, she isn't there. The bed is neatly made, and the pajama top she was wearing last night is in a little heap next to the master bath entry, but other than that, the room is neat as a pin. I creep into the room and quickly snag some clothing, then shower up in the guest bath. No more of this her-accidentally-catching-me-naked business.
I decide to walk when I realize that Micki's left and she's taken the LeSabre. Well, I was forced to, but I need to feel like I had a choice in the matter. I'm so low right now, I'm fucking dirt. When I make it to the Men's Society, I track and practically hold down the "Rocky 4" robot, downing all the shots on it's serving tray, before heading my way to the bar. "I can't wait for the waitress." I tell the barkeep, "I want the biggest Caucasian you can round up. Get crazy with that Bailey's, I mean it."
George and Patrick sit a few stools down, and regard me in wary understanding, "You look like you just had a fight with the wife." Patrick says tentatively.
"You could say that." I answer. If you can call getting my entire existance crushed a 'fight'.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin around on my barstool. Spaulding. Oh right, *that*. "Topher, you look like shit."
"Feel like it, too." I answer, obtaining my Caucasian in a glass that appears to be the size of a Big Gulp. Nice to know at least the barkeep takes me seriously.
"It's time." Spaulding grumbles, hauling me off the barstool, "Come with me, Topher." He leads me to his office and I try my damndest not to slosh my giganta-drink on his big leather swivel chair that he deposits me in, before sitting in his own at his desk, "I take it that you and Catherine are having some problems?"
I give him a sullen nod and down a little more of my drink. Talk about the understatement of the century.
"It's hard, being married to a woman you'll never feel good enough for, isn't it?"
"Well, it's not gonna last anyway. I think we're splitting up for good. It's over." I'm numb. I can't even pretend anymore.
"What if I were to say that it doesn't have to be that way? What if I were to tell you that I know of a way to make her *completely* yours, in the most eternal sense?" Spaulding grins, leaning in with conspiracy.
"You have a handbook for executing the Gotcha noise?" I slur, taking in another big gulp from the Big Gulp. Shee, I got buzzy pretty fast.
He pulls out a bag from the briefcase next to his desk, "Can I let you in on something? I used to feel exactly the same way about Marissa. I felt like I was constantly walking on eggshells around her, because she was too beautiful for me, too powerful of a personality, and I absolutely knew that if I made one wrong move that she would leave my sorry ass."
"Jeez, what a turnaround." I say. He certainly doesn't have those kind of issues anymore. In Blissful Grove, Spaulding is King, and Marissa is the reigning and adoring beauty at his side.
"I have something that you might be interested in borrowing, to allow you to have your cupcake and eat it, too, as it were." He reveals the cupcake pan from the bag, "Looks innocent, doesn't it? Just an ordinary piece of cookingware. It has the power to make all your fears of losing your precious Catherine put to rest. She is quite the catch, Christopher; truly beautiful. When I first met you two, I couldn't help but be reminded of the way I used to look at Marissa. You love her, and deeply, and you feel like you'll never be able to live up to what she deserves."
Spaulding read me right. Shit, he fuckin' saw right through me. So how does he get to be the lucky asshole who gets to hold onto *his* object of affection? "How exactly is that thing gonna help me?" Now I'm genuinely curious.
"How much are you in love with your wife? This *does* matter; if there's any question in your mind that you'd be better off with another person, it won't do any good to go any further."
Is he fucking joking? "I want to die at the thought of her not being in my life. Does that answer your question?" I slur, plunged again into my despair, "*Die*." I repeat, finishing off my gulp and setting it down hard on his desk.
"Would you sell your soul for her, for the opportunity to have her by your side forever? And I do mean *Forever*."
Even through my haze, the initial foreboding quality in his voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, and what he's saying punctuates the horrific new light he's shining my way, "Sell my soul?"
"We all did it. Every guy here save for Donavan has given over their soul for the chance, the *guarantee* of the perfect life with the perfect wife. Beelzebub's been good to us, Topher. He gave us this wonderful Men's Society, and wives that adore us, that talk to us. Wives that don't care what we do all day, who will never nag and complain, who we never fight with. Plus, the sex is *always* amazing." he adds, a little on the proud side.
"What do I have to do?" I ask, white knuckling the arms of my chair as I consider his words.
"Bake for her, my good man. Make her some cupcakes. Once she consumes one, she'll fall into a state of sleep. You come back here, return the pan to me, sign your contract guaranteeing service to Satan, and when you return, you'll return home to an adoring domestic goddess. This of course, also will confirm full unfettered access to the Society, which as long as you are a member, allows immortality." Spaulding pauses, "Eternal life and the best head you'll ever get. Mull it over."
"No need to mull." I say, "I'll do it. I'm in."
I leave the Men's Society with the flat paper bag minutes later, trying to stop my hands from shaking. A whole community in the service of Satan. Built by Satan. Now I understand, that final missing piece of the puzzle. The men give up their souls. Isn't that his ultimate prize, anyway? It dawns on me again after the initial scariness wears off that I'm out of the business of battling Satan's afflictions now. Micki. I haven't seen her since...well, since she handed my heart and my dick right back to me and said "Mistake".
I can't believe I'm even considering this. I really have gone fucking crazy.

**********************************************************************************************************

"Donavan and I need to get out of town?" Penelope repeats, "Cat, I mean, Micki, where do you think we should go?"
I had to leave the house early this morning, driving around aimlessly through the neighborhood until ending up at Penelope's. I spilled *everything*. I am still in shock that she believes me. In fact, after I came clean and explained who Ryan and I were and what we were after, she said that it made 'Way more sense than gorgeous robotic bitches and dorks hanging out just because'. Penelope is a true friend. Which is why I had to try to save her and let her in on the whole truth. "Go anywhere. Tell Donavan you need to have a weekend away, I don't care. Just don't let him get the chance to have his meeting with Spaulding before we can leave with that cupcake pan."
"I still think you should just go back to your fake house and fuck his brains out." Penelope slyly interjects, "Take advantage of the wonderbed while you still have it."
When I said everything, I meant I spilled *Everything*. Including the details of last night and the way I feel. Which is like total and complete shit, in case you're wondering. I threw up in the bathroom after he left last night, crawling into bed and failing to ignore the hot tears that streamed into my pillow for hours before passing out in a fitful sleep, "He doesn't really want me, Penny." I carve out another spoonful of butter-pecan ice cream and plunge it into my mouth.
We're sitting in huge plush beanbag chairs in the conversation pit in her living room, eating ice-cream straight from the container. She's smoking a joint, and is in mid-inhale at my last statement. She starts choking at my words, "Doesn't (cough) want you? Are you fucking mad?" she berates through a fit of coughing, "I thought you were a smart cookie, but apparently, you're fucking AR-tarded."
"Penelope, you're high. And you don't even know what you're talking about in regards to Ryan and I. It's too complex. And don't call me an Ar-tard. It's mean."
"Sorry sweetie, but I stick by my jibe if you're gonna blame my third party status on the weed. Maybe I *don't* know, fuckin' eh, I just learned your real name this morning, *Micki*. I totally know that you can't fake tongue-wrestling that hot, or his extra-bone that I walked in on. That shit was hotter than porn, and I've watched my share of porn." Penelope shovels another spoon of ice-cream in her mouth, setting her joint in the ashtray, "There's one thing I know, and well, and that's Dudes. Ryan looks at you like he's already going to the boneyard with you in his mind. It's extra hot." She lets out a sigh, "Speaking of men, you can bet your ass my Donavan has some 'splainin' to do when he comes home from that meeting in LA today."
"Just wait until you get him out of town first." I warn, "For me? He might be able to think with a clearer head if he's away from this place."
"Dude, for you. Even though I'm itching for answers. I can understand why Ryan would do it; but Donavan, why would you want to reduce *all this* to boring and mindless?" she sprawls, resuming her smoking, "I'm Rad-Ass."
"What do you mean, you understand why Ryan would do it? Am I not also radass?"
"Micki, you're the raddest. Which is why I understand his motives. He thinks he can't have you. You two have never done it, and I *know* your consitant lack of boulder-holders around his person has given him crushing mighty-wood." Penelope cracks, causing me to move an arm across my unfettered chest, "That'll drive any guy, especially one that's *in love* with you, apeshit bonkers." Penelope reminds me of the smoking caterpillar in 'Alice in Wonderland' at the moment. If the smoking caterpillar was a pigtailed, pot-consuming, wisecracking out-of-work model in a tank undershirt and her husband's boxers. She regards me silently after her tirade. I've been shaking my head in disagreement and going double time on the ice-cream."You still don't fucking believe me? I give up, and I *don't* take it back. You are an AR-*tard*." she says in disgust.
"You really think he's in love with me?" I ask in a voice that's mushy with ice-cream.
"Dude." Her eyes roll a bit in tense exasperation, "Must I stroke your ego any fuckin' more? You're tres gor-jay, you happen to be smart (when you want to be) *and* a good person, not to mention the fact that he really can't let on to *any other chick* the whole truth regarding what you two do. Mix all that shit in a blender and how could he *not* fall in love with you? Ar-tard."
"But he's not *telling me* the truth. That's just it." I argue.
"Maybe they have massage girls at the Man-Palace that give happy endings, and he's embarrassed to talk about it. Hell, what if they suit up in drag and perform scenes from 'Victor/Victoria' or some shit like that? There are more reasons than just the obvious sinister one to withold the truth for, ya know. Maybe it *isn't* the cigar, this time."
Despite her current stony demeanor, her meaning comes across as wise, even if her wording is a little crass, and reminds me of Jack logic. If what she's saying is true, than he was in his right mind when last night almost happened. Which means I made an astronomical mistake, and that he might do something rash, like leave the store for good. "Maybe it isn't the cigar." I say slowly in realization.
"See, I knew you were smart." Penelope smiles, "Oh, and I have decided that I should book Donavan and I a flight for Rio de Janeiro and just call him and *tell* him we're going. I'll have him meet me at the airport so he can't back out."
"Great." I breathe out a sigh of relief, "I think blindsiding him is a nominal idea."
"Take some of your own advice and blindside Ryan by fucking him ar-tarded."
"Penelope!"
"Just fuck him."
"Penelope! I have to talk to him..."
"Yeah, *passionately*." she laughs, "Fuck him 'til he drools."
"You're incorrigable."
"Totally. Fuck him 'til his teeth rattle."
"You aren't going to stop, are you?"
"Nope. Fuck him 'til he speaks 'eating out' as a second language."
"You can quit it now. I'm leaving." I giggle, standing up with purse in hand, "You have my card; keep in touch with me when I'm back in the real world."
Penelope nods, "I don't lose track of my friends, Mademoiselle. You'll truly get sick of me calling so much." she says, standing to give me a hug. "Oh, *Girl*," she begins, hit with inspiration as she pulls back with a grin, "Fuck him 'til he sees God."
I return to the Silverman Chalet in the LeSabre minutes later, rampant rollercoasters surging forth in my stomach. I wonder if he's made it back from that meeting yet. I have to clear the air. It's time to fish or cut bait. I love him, I want him, and I need the whole truth from him before we can move forward.
I enter the kitchen and he's there, mixing something in a plastic bowl, looking manic and just, like hell. The dark circles under his eyes and overall washed-out tone to his skin gives away his lack of sleep. I suspect he's also a little drunk, too, by the looks of things. "Ryan."
The spoon halts in the bowl and he looks up, startled by my presense, "Oh, hi." he says in a quiet voice, "Didn't hear you come home."
I get about as close as I can to him without it getting painful, "We need to talk about what happened." I begin, playing with my skirt, trying to find the right words.
"What happened?" Ryan says blankly, "Oh, I just made the biggest fool out of myself, that's all. Sorry you had to bear witness." he apologizes as he castigates himself.
For some reason, I am struck by the fact that Ryan seems to be preparing something, "What are you making?" I ask, stalling the words I really want to say.
"Cupcakes." he answers, and I freeze.
Oh my fucking God. It *is* the cigar, and it's smouldering in the ashtray. My eyes well up with tears and I regard him with disbelief. He does not love me. He *is* affected by this curse. "Why would you...*how* could you..." I begin, whispering with harsh accusation, "I take it your meeting with Spaulding was enlightening?"
Ryan looks me in the face, "Pretty much so." he nods, reading that I know what he's trying to do. He's guilty. "Did you know that most of the other men in this town used to feel like I do? That they weren't good enough?" He asks me, then sighs in defeat, "Fuckin' eh, I just don't care anymore!" he drops the mixing bowl onto the counter and it tips over, running batter across the countertop before falling on the floor, "I wasn't trying to burden you, but now I'm backed into a corner, and you deserve the truth." He sucks in a breath, looking me straight in the eye, "Did you know that I can't even look at you because the sight of you turns me into a permanent hard-on? Did you know that isn't even the worst part? The knowledge that I'm not good enough for the woman I wake up for every morning is the *real* killer, Micki. I love you, and I'll never be good enough."
The truth. He loves me. He wants me. This is good. 'Fuck him 'til he sees God', Penelope's voice echoes.
I attack him with no preliminaries, enveloping him in a searing kiss while backing him into the counter as he recovers from the surprise of it all and begins kissing me back. His mouth tastes like Bailey's, and it's delicious. I remember his diabolical intent from before as his arms circle around my waist, and I temporarily break contact with his lips, giving him a hard slap to the face, "Fuck you, you scheming bastard." I growl as I fluidly latch back onto his bottom lip, chewing it a little. A hand moves to my ass and squeezes hard as he shifts our positions and backs *me* up into the counter with a roughness that aids in the complete destruction of another pair of my panties. I have no patience for slow, easy lovemaking, and I don't think he does, either. I let out an "oof" into our deluxe monster-kiss, which is so filled with our combined state of 'tension release' that the region of it exists on the entire portion of our faces, and has no deliberation whatsoever. I just want to taste him all over. I slip my hands down from where they had been anchored on his upper waist toward the bottom of his golf shirt, untucking it from his pants and quickly assisting in it's removal. There, that's better. "I hate those fucking things." I say in a voice that doesn't sound like my own, It sounds wicked. His eyes are wild again; to the point of rabid, and the once before sad sack expression is replaced with one of near-violence. Holy shit, he's got me so turned on. Maybe it's because he's panting like a bull. Or maybe it's because the hand on my back has snaked its way into my hair and is pulling hard. Or maybe it's the *other* hand that's squeezing my bottom one last time before he swiftly presses his fingers hard against my aching center, ripping a moan from my vocal chords. Before I can decide on the exact culprit of these distinct indicators, his mouth lands hungrily on the source of the sound as I clutch bare flesh on his back, my nails digging in and breaking skin. Ryan hoists me onto the island countertop, utilizing the hands in my hair and on my groin as a brute-force lever of sorts, and I land with my lower back in a pool of cold sticky cupcake batter. His artful mouth and hand never breaks contact as he scrambles feverishly to join me, pushing me back a little as he uses the hand that was in my hair in assisting his efforts to brace and pull himself into a semi-kneeling position over me, fingers working my already overrun libido into maddening heights. I slash my nails down his back in response as I am aware of the wicked voice again that doesn't sound like my own, "Ryan, fuck me 'til we see God." I entreat him as I find his goods and grasp hard, amending Penelope's earlier statement. Oh, he's not going to be the only one, not by the way this is already going.
He growls animalistically, kissing me so roughly that he bruises my lips and releases his focus on my lap, using both hands to rip open my white silk button-down blouse. Little buttons fly, scattering all over the floor, and the half-damp with cupcake batter silk material flys off into a dark kitchen corner, forgotten. In the meantime, I go to work on his fly, not giving one iota about the button on these stupid Dockers, breaking it off as I rip to get at the one thing I desire to be freed most. He's so hard; even through these terrible pants that need to be off of him, I can tell that it's painful. He lifts me slightly by my lower back as he jerks my skirt around my waist, and victory is mine as I win my battle against his fly, pulling his pants down with such force that I slip a little in the pool of batter, ending our sloppy yet fabulous liplock. My head lands hard against the countertop, my black high-heels scraping against white formica as I attempt to flatten them against the surface. Ryan slides his body between my bent knees, the whole of it pressing firmly against mine, and feeling like the equivalent of cannonballing into a giant vat of the tastiest ice-cream ever. He had taken my hold of my hands somewhere during my batter accident, and moves them over my head, holding them down as he shoves his hips against my own, his erection teasing me through my underwear. I use my heels to buck my hips violently into his, raising up so hard that his manhood stabs me a little through the thin barrier as his face meets mine again. He's feral, and it's magnetic. He appears to be smelling me, but maybe that's just because he's panting raggedly and humping me through my panties. The insane look in his eyes heightens as he drags his nose across my cheekbone, "I'm not good enough for you." he says lowly, his voice reduced to half-wolf into my ear, and he bites a little at the tip of it.
He's insane. My brows furrow as I move one set of our joined hands to my lips, kissing and attempting my best efforts at untwining our fingers as I execute another heel-powered thrust into his big purpose. I try to give a look that's chiding, but I probably appear as psychotic as he does right now. He's the only person for me. How can he not know that? I free his index finger and take it into my mouth. There's a little batter on it and it tastes good, sweet, like him. Like the feeling I'm getting from the way he's looking at me with crazed, wonderous need as I suck tightly onto his digit. I reluctantly let go of it after a few beats, but I also have much better things in mind, so it was for the greater good. "Why don't you take these panties off of me and prove yourself wrong?" the wicked voice makes her appearance, wrapped up in my own shaky breathing.
"Nngah, yeah." his own foreign wolflike grunting agrees, releasing my grasp and groping at the side of the island with his left hand, yanking open a drawer. He raises up on his knees, breaking body contact with me to carefully obtain a steak knife and my hips twitch as he drags the flat of it across the side of them. I trust him, and I have to be still. Goddamn, how did he know that I've always wanted this done? I don't even try to contain my satisfied gasp as the knife tears through the side of my panties, successfully relieving that final barrier. I must be like a small pond down there, I'm so fucking excited. The knife skitters across the counter and lands on the floor when he tosses it aside and moves to curl an arm around my right thigh, raising it with him as he slides back on top of me. The other arm grasps my shoulder from behind for leverage as I use my recently freed hands to guide his impossibly smooth, slightly upward curved cock to where I need it to be. Where *he* needs it to be. There is no ease when he thrusts himself in. It's actually so hard and deep that my eyes roll back in my head and my hands fall helplessly to my sides for a moment. He repeats business, pulling all the way out and slamming back inside, feeling scrumptious and wonderful and beautiful and glorious, because that's what he is to me. Ryan establishes this rhythm as I regain a little control, circling my own hips to meet with his, my hands moving to rest on his waist. He feels so good I need to hold on to something; that little curve is massaging that special secret spot in just the right way and I know it's not going to take very long before the boiling in my sticky, batter-soaked lower back spills over into my tingling clitoris. His intent stare hasn't moved from mine this whole time, and we've been into this for quite a few minutes now. His fevered watching of my face's reactions at what he's been doing to me hasn't gone unnoticed. Instead, it's moving along the scarily overbearing orgasm that takes over my body like a massive shockwave. It's violently powerful, causing me to quiver with an earthquake quality, including the muscles of my inner walls that hug onto his member in a deathgrip. A whimper escapes me, followed by a low keening that degenerates into an almost operatic-quality high-pitched yell as this incredibly long and frustratingly overwhelming orgasm kicks into overdrive, forcing me to scratch skin as I ball up the left fist on his waist. I feel his cock surge inside of me as he reaches peak, and have no control over my fist as it pulls back and punches him hard in the jaw. He grunts and shakes it off, thrusts becoming faster and unchecked in pace as he rides me in his own prolonged release, shoving in deep with a groan one last time as his body finally tenses up and stops moving. I can't stop shaking. The affectations of the orgasm that finally slips away has left a quivering aftermath, and I am blissed out with the best feeling I have ever experienced. Bar-fucking-none. "I love you, you twisted bastard." I tremor against him, and kiss his chin with trembling lips.
His laugh is surprisingly easy, and the look in his eyes is no longer feverish and manic. It's relieved. Happy and relieved. "Gotcha."

**********************************************************************

"You're an idiot." she says to me with a beatific grin.
"I know." Pause. "So are you." I shoot back at her, grinning myself.
We're on an airplane back home, a trusty late-night red-eye. We managed to book a flight for a little after 3 in the morning. It was easier to sneak away from Blissful Grove that way; doing it in the dead of night. Not a lot of people around to notice you packing up your car, and we were less likely to get caught leaving with the cursed pan. And in an entire community in the service of Satan, who knows *what* they would have done to us. Perish the thought. I came clean with her about the whole ball of wax after she got her bearings and started in on her post orgasmic line of questioning. Good fucking man, she is the hottest woman alive, and I have proof. Has one hell of a left hook, too. Micki blindsided me with the most outstanding sexual encounter I've ever been party to, just when I thought it was all over. The end of it all. I have never been so glad to have been so wrong.
"I can't believe you were actually contemplating the exchange of your soul." she whispers in her window seat, snuggling next to me as we huddle under a shitty airplane blanket together.
"You can't?" I whisper back, "Did I not tell you about the 'Rocky 4' robot?" I joke, preparing correctly for the slap to my arm when it comes. Predictable as the day is long. At least it's one thing I can read about her, "I thought my life as I knew it was finished." I admit in all seriousness, "I thought you'd hate me, or at the very least, we would be awkward to the point of unbearable and I would have to leave."
"Well, if you weren't such a myopic asshole maybe our signals wouldn't have been so misconstrued. The 'I want you/I'm not gonna look at you' schtick was enough to make my brain melt." she kids in amusement.
My jaw drops a little on the animated side and I give her a terse look, "What about *you*, Miss Foster?" I huff in whispered tones. Still feeling happy as hell, though. She's my perfect woman, the only one for me, and she's mine for good. Gotcha noise established. "How long have you had the habit of punching your lovers when you come?" I add, rubbing my hand against my aching jaw. Redheads. 'Nuff said.
"I keep telling you I had no control over that." she surpresses a grin as she attempts to argue, "I didn't punch you the second time, did I?"
"Nope." I couldn't wipe away this smile if I tried.
Another benefit of leaving in the middle of the night. After our fiery countertop encounter, we passed out in cupcake batter, waking around an hour later. We showered off, booked plane tickets, and crashed for the last time in that wonderful bed. Man, I'm gonna miss that bed. We awoke again later in the evening and killed the rest of our time waiting to leave for our plane by taking it slow and exploratory the second go around. Every inch of her tastes like butter-pecan ice cream, and her fellatio techniques are unmatched. And she shivers like a toy poodle when she comes. And she can get *seriously* wet. God *damn*. I'd better stop myself. At least until we get home, anyway. I can be patient now. I can *relax* now, because the beautiful redhead that rests her head against my shoulder loves me. Cloud 9 was passed by long ago. It's a mere speck on my scope of happy.
Hours later, and we're back at Curious Goods. It feels good to put the cupcake pan in the vault and head off to her bed together, causing Jack to shoot us a confused look for a moment, before shrugging and sipping on his coffee, heading back downstairs to mind the store while we sleep. We'll need at least a day of recovery before our rest patterns get back to normal. We zonk out in each other's arms for a couple of hours when we're awakened by insistent ringing. Micki yawns and reaches over me to snag the phone, "Mmm, Curious Goods." she states in a sleep drugged voice, "Yes, this is Micki Foster...Penelope? Did you...oh, good, I'm glad you made it to Rio!...(long pause)...Wha-What?...You're kidding!....On the midday news? The *whole* town...(pause)..Well, at least you're insured...(pause)...yeah...Oh, and I took your advice...yep, you're not allowed to call me an ar-tard anymore. Ever...yes...yes...call me back later, okay?...Okay...*okay*! Good*bye*." she says into the reciever, hanging up and laughing a little to herself. She remembers something else from the conversation than causes her face to fall into wide-eyed seriousness, "Penelope just saw on the news that the entire community of Blissful Grove had a massive earthquake early this morning and sunk into the earth. They're still digging, but all of the residents have completely disappeared, and all that's left of the town is a giant hole the size of the Grand Canyon."
"Man, when you piss off Satan, he really plays for keeps." I crack, "Should we go tell Jack?"
"I have a feeling that he already knows." she says, three of her fingers doing a silent countdown and ending with him bursting through the french doors.
"Micki, Ryan! You must come down and see what's on the news!" he exclaims.
"Oh, is it about Blissful Grove getting swallowed by the Earth?" I say, "Because we already know."
"Would you two mind terribly enough to clue *me* in to all that you know, now that you're awake?" Jack growls out in exasperated confusion.
Micki and I glance at each other, sharing sly smiles as we raise our eyebrows. We'll tell him. We'll just omit the fact of baby oil and stripper wrestling matches. Oh, and of course, we'll leave out the punching and fucking.



The End!!! Okay, I had some serious fun writing this one. I even had casting ideas in mind for the supporting characters in my head, which would only truly be applicable if I had a time-machine, a shitload of money, and copyrights, of which I have none. To amuse you though, I'll post the cast list:

Spaulding O'Clare....Kevin Spacey (anytime)
Marissa O'Clare.......Teri Hatcher (mid-90's)
Len LaPaglia............Jeff Garlin (in the now, a la Jeff Green from "Curb Your Enthusiasm")
Sheila LaPaglia.........Suzie Essman (present day Suzie Green from "CYE")
Donavan Yorke........Cary Elwes (preferred early 90's era)
Penelope Yorke.......Sherilyn Fenn (Late 80's Audrey Horne "Twin Peaks" style)
Clint Johnston...........Luke Wilson (present day)
Rain Johnston...........Joey Lauren Adams (90's "Dazed and Confused" version)

I had the rest of the dorks in mind as random ex-cast members of "The Daily Show" and the wives, honestly, were all faceless random Playboy clones in my head, B. Big ups to the punching and fucking scene in "Californication" to give M&R that little extra kick I was looking for. Bonus points that the scene mentioned involves Duchovny. Gotta heart the Du. Rock. I'm now saying Lates McGates, for I am spent.

~"I roll with douchey bitches, I roll with douchey crews, I love Ed Hardy what the fuck you gonna do?" ~Andy Milonakis "Fuck Ed Hardy"