Keyboards and Kink (24 page)

“Damn.” She leaned forward and lay on his chest.

She felt his lips on her temple. “Yeah, that would
sum it up.”

They both chuckled. In the background the beeps and
whirs of the computer stopped and the ding of the elevator had them
both raising their heads in that direction. Whistling reached her
ears and she looked at Ian questioningly.

“Shit, it’s probably Juan coming to see if everything
is okay.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips before pushing her
off his lap. “Get dressed, sweetness. I don’t want anyone else to
see what’s mine. I’ll head him off.”

Daria stood looking around, staring at him with a
raised brow. “Where are my clothes?”

He nodded toward a dark corner as she pulled the
spent condom from his dick and dropped it in its packaging that
she’d picked up off the floor. He pulled up his jeans and tucked in
his shirt. Pushing the chair out of the way as he headed toward the
CPU room, he turned back and winked at her. With a smile on her
face, Daria watched his back as he disappeared into the darkness,
her body still tingling from their lovemaking. Grabbing her clothes
from the floor she went in the opposite direction to the other side
on the large area.

****

Ian slipped into his seat, catching a breath when
Juan bounded through the doorway. Ignoring the disturbance, Ian
stared at the multiple computer monitors, making sure the computers
all rebooted independently. Juan stepped up behind him, looking
over his shoulder.

“All the computers have started up virus-free. I
tried to reach you, but the phones kept ringing through to
voicemail.” Juan tapped him on the back.

“I never heard the phone ring.” Ian reached over,
digging through the bag he brought with him.

“Don’t worry about it. I also wanted to let you know
I traced the worm back to its root.”

“Great! Who downloaded it?” Ian looked up at his
friend.

“Martin Ritchie, Customer Care Manager.”

“Huh, that’s interesting. Send everyone home and
leave me a list of names so I can authorize the overtime.” Ian
swirled his chair around and watched as Juan circled the room
looking around. “Anything else you need, Juan?”

“I was wondering where your administrative assistant
was.”

Before he could answer Daria walked over the
threshold.

“Hi.”

Ian and Juan both looked up. He was impressed by her
quick change and glancing over at Juan, he motioned for the man to
shut his mouth. His buddy’s mouth closed with an audible snap.

“Okay, Ian, I have flipped the call center over to
India and left a message for Martin. I’m going to call it a night.”
She smiled at Juan before turning around. “Good night. Have a
pleasant weekend.”

Both men watched her walk away.

Clearing his throat, Ian stood. “I’ll let the boss
know about Martin.”

“Yeah.” Juan’s gaze stared into the darkness. He
looked away when the squeak of the door opening could be heard.
“I’ll wait for you while you clean up.”

“Don’t worry about it, get out of here. You could
still make your date.” Ian gently shoved his friend toward the
door.

“Alright, I’ll see you Monday.”

His phone chimed while he watched his buddy leave.
Turning around to disconnect his computers and gather his things he
tapped the screen on his phone. Her message was waiting for
him.

Want to type dirty with me? I’m waiting for the
last bus.
[Blackqueen77]

Forget the typing. Meet me in front of the
building. I’ll pick you up and we can play dirty all weekend. Gimme
10
. [Whiteknight1975]

LOL, I’ll be waiting.
[Blackqueen77]

Ian heaved his bag on his shoulder, and instead of
pressing the up button to drop everything off at his office, he
pushed the down one.

The End

Other Books by Kassanna:

Whip Me Real Good

Keep Me Satisfied

No Regrets

Tell Me, Touch Me, Feel Me

Annalynne Russo

Copyright © 2012

Chapter One

The Business Plan

For five long years, twenty-four year old Calliope
Handler worked her fingers to the bone. Literally. A massage
therapist at
Bella Faccia
, a pricey spa boutique in the
Hollywood Hills, she spent her days serving two distinct groups of
clientele. The working stiffs, who were nothing more than a bunch
of wealthy, middle-aged sex addicts in search of a hot piece of ass
to help whack them off on their lunch hour.

Laps dogs, the term Calliope used to describe her
female patrons, sought her out for much the same reason. But while
their male counterparts valued anonymity, the brandish antics of
the women often came as a surprise. Horny housewives on the prowl
for pussy, these pseudo-lesbians pushed the boundaries of sexual
titillation. Little did their husbands know, these pampered
princesses loved to lather in hot oil, then fondle their friends in
the steamy Roman bath.

One indecent proposal turned into a dozen and soon,
Calliope’s patience wore thin. At a measly fourteen dollars an hour
plus tips, the constant poke and prod of her derrière no longer
proved profitable. The time was ripe for change.

Fed up with it all, Calliope called Rick, her uppity,
uber-rich boss and told him to take his job and shove it where the
sun don’t shine. Five months later and still, she’d never regretted
the decision. A few quirky clients from
Bella Faccia
followed her, chomping at the bit to be a part of her new business
endeavor. At a hundred bucks a pop, Calliope could deal with their
perverse idiosyncrasies on occasion.

Unfortunately, a handful of repeat customers weren’t
enough to pay her rent. She thought about taking a desk job with a
temp agency. Then, a couple of friends from massage therapy school
suggested she work the rounds as a phone sex girl. That job lasted
a record-breaking two hours. She sighed, rolling her green-gold
eyes apathetically as she relived the unpleasant memory. Sprawled
out on the leather sofa, strands of her burgundy-red tresses
cascaded over the edge of the armrest. With long, lean legs and
curvy, voluptuous hips, she stretched her limbs atop the smooth
coolness of the cushions. Her gaze was glued to the flat-screen
television, as she tried her darnedest to ignore the guttural moans
of some old geezer on the other end of the receiver.

What a freakin’ train wreck that turned out to
be!
Calliope knew it would never last. She craved manual
stimulation way too much. She couldn’t fathom having to stifle her
need to feel bare flesh against her fingertips. Besides, she’d
already racked up thousands of dollars in student loan debt. How
could she
not
use all the resources at her disposal to
remain gainfully employed in her career of choice? Easier said than
done. If Calliope wanted to make ends meet as a massage therapist,
she had to step up her game. Grow some balls. Or at the very least,
think
like a man.

Guys had a knack for manipulating any given situation
to their advantage. Just look at all the assholes that had played
her for a fool. How many times had she fallen head over heels for a
commitment-phobic son of a bitch? Or God forbid, a married man? It
was time for her to turn the tables on those womanizing bastards
once and for all.

Research turned out to be her greatest ally. After
Googling the words
‘sensual massage, Hollywood,’
Calliope
finally hit the bull’s eye. Craigslist. She perused the services
section of the website. Before long, she found a faction of hot,
young co-eds in provocative posts, offering everything from
so-called platonic companionship to all-out submissive servitude.
There was even a hard-bodied nineteen-year-old hunk, bartering blow
jobs in exchange for donations to cover the cost of textbooks. If
college students could successfully sell sex, then surely, Calliope
could put her talented appendages to work in order to turn a
profit.

Over the next few days, Calliope let the idea of
peddling her wares in cyberspace stew around in her mind. But with
so many details to work out in order to make the endeavor enticing
to the average male Neanderthal, she needed someone to bounce her
ideas off of. Who else, other than her best friend/roommate, could
she trust with such a hair-brained business proposition?

Calliope had known Beau Jameson since high school. He
was a transplant from Kentucky with southern boy charm and raw sex
appeal. His shaggy blond hair and golden-brown tan fit in well with
the rest of the California surfer wannabes from the San Fernando
Valley. Good looks aside, Beau’s loud, obnoxious behavior was
something no girl that had attended Summit High School could
stomach. In no time at all, he became notorious for trying to cop a
feel from the innocent, unsuspecting underclassmen that happened to
cross his path. If that wasn’t degrading enough, he often followed
it up with a cringe-inducing cattle call that scared off even the
most desperate, attention-seeking heifers. Thanks to Beau’s unique
form of down-home country cajolery, the term
southern
gentleman
had taken on a whole new meaning.

While the rest of the student body bought Beau’s act,
Calliope had easily seen through the façade. Something about his
behavior didn’t quite mesh. His harassment of the opposite sex was
too blatant. Too forced. Almost as if he had had to work double
time so he could prove his masculinity to others. Or possibly, to
himself.

Well into their freshman year in college, Beau had
played his role to the “T,” seducing women at every turn. Hell, he
had even tried to get inside Calliope’s panties a time or two. It
wasn’t until one alcohol-fueled confession that the
Kentucky
Casanova,
as she often referred to him, had conquered his
demons.

In a last ditch effort to certify his manhood, Beau
had come on to Calliope again. As he moved closer, his mouth only
inches from her lips, his whiskey-infused breath drifted past her
nose. When he went in for the kiss, the stagnant smell of alcohol,
coupled with the fact that she hadn’t eaten dinner before she
started drinking, made her stomach lurch. Calliope turned away,
afraid she’d vomit in his mouth if she didn’t.

That night, the combination of alcohol and rejection
had pushed Beau over the edge. But it also helped him come to grips
with his deepest, darkest fear. He had a hankering for hot, hunky
shlong.

“Women just don’t do it for me anymore, darlin’,” he
said. “I’ve sampled every texture and flavor of the feminine fruit,
yet none can rev my motor more than a rock-hard, one-eyed
Willy.”

“Damn, Beau. You must be drunk off your ass! What the
hell is a one-eyed Willy?”

Beau scrubbed his hand through his sandy blond locks,
then took a swig of Southern Comfort. Calliope raised her glass
too, chugging its contents.

“Callie, I think I might be gay,” he said. She choked
on the whiskey, feeling the burning sensation shoot through her
flared nostrils. It took her a few minutes until the gasps subsided
and she was able to get her bearings back. Still, she didn’t want
to believe it. But the sincerity in his cloudy, inebriated stare
seemed undeniable.

Suddenly, everything about Beau’s insatiable interest
in women made sense. He had to overcompensate in order to hide
behind his true sexual identity. Once Calliope had gotten over the
initial shock of his admission, their friendship skyrocketed into
instant inseparable status. Beau was her best friend. Her
confidante. The only person alive she could trust. Especially with
something as important as a bold, new career move. He might think
she was off her rocker. Regardless, he’d give her the benefit of
the doubt and listen to her wacky scheme.

Sex-shop sales clerk by day and amateur photographer
by night, Beau jumped at the chance to help Calliope set up shop.
Their first task was to take some racy, pin-up girl shots to
compliment the well-crafted advertisement she’d spent hours honing
to perfection. They scavenged through her bedroom on the hunt for
the raunchiest, most revealing get-up they could find. Soon, a pile
of lacy lingerie and multi-colored boas littered the red shag
carpet. At the back of the closet, they finally found a short,
black spandex and leather dress she’d had worn to a Halloween
party. That year, they’d gone as a couple—Calliope as a dominatrix
and Beau as her super-submissive boy toy.

Beau made her pose in a variety of precarious
positions, snapping shots of her ample assets from all different
angles. Afterwards, they uploaded the images he’d taken and looked
at each of them one by one. Her vision scanned the half-naked
images on the screen, as bits of pale pink flesh and thigh-high
fuck-me-boots flashed before her eyes. When the fifty-third frame
came into view, Calliope’s brow sprang up. In that particular shot,
she was lying with her back against the red shag carpet. Her legs
sat propped provocatively against the wall, splayed wide open to
reveal her lacy, rose-colored G-string. Calliope’s breasts heaved
over the edge of the matching bra, visible through the translucent
material of her dress. But it was her burgundy locks that made the
photograph stand out above all the rest. Arranged like a fan spread
over a bed of fiery-hot coals, her shiny tresses reflected a
million shades of brilliant light.

Beau drew back momentarily as his gaze locked onto
the blinding image. Calliope could have sworn she saw drool pool in
the corners of his mouth. He wet his lips, then bit down on the
inside of his cheek. “Oh, Callie. This is it! You look amazing! If
those horny bastards on Craigslist don’t crown you the
Queen of
Happy Endings
, then they’re out of their minds.”