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Plaything - Chapter 1

Book By: jjenkinsbooks

J. C. is tired of being used by his girlfried who complains he does not satisfy her. He executes a plan to give her exactly what she's been longing for.

Submitted:Dec 5, 2010    Reads: 797    Comments: 2    Likes: 2   

PLAYTHING - Chapter One

We're at the corner of Pacific and Ocean, the sun is setting while you're wondering why I'm wedged between these boxwoods. Here's the thing, I'm waiting 'til it's time to go up to my girl's condo. I've been standing beside this building so long, not in the same place mind you least the police are called to investigate a Peeping-Tom, that residue from the peach stucco has stained my Safado jeans and the pigeons have mistaken me for a statue, something to poop on. My girlfriend, of three years, shares their sentiment. When she's not working her way up the corporate law ladder or sleeping with all my industry contacts, she privileges me with visits to my Malibu crib, where she picks at my food, occasionally sipping on a flute of Dom and complains about everything under the sun, especially me. She borrows money she has no intention of repaying and occasionally allows me to sleep with her. Correction, fake-fuck her, I'm not good enough for her to spend the entire night. Being pussy whipped, I'm grateful for anything she gives because I love her. Ah, don't roll your eyes and criticize because I'm lobbing the 'L' word around. I get enough attitude from her. Especially, she bemoans my inability to make her come. I dismiss the reprehensions and promise to do better. I haven't, so far.

She's never had an orgasm with me, says I don't work hard enough, lack imagination. Ladies, are you nodding in agreement, already siding with her because your man has also left you unfulfilled? Well let me tell you, and guys pay attention too, my first year with her I did newbie boyfriend stuff that is supposed to make a woman happy: gifts of expensive perfume, scarves, etcetera, as well as weekly bouquets of roses and Richart Chocolates from Lyons. One weekend a month, I took her on romantic getaways, Barbados, Italy, Hawaii, Paris and so on. Women are you feeling the Shanghai Maglev love I was sending her way? Guys do you see I was headed for a train wreck?

The Clive Christian perfume irritated her sinuses, so she sprayed the waste bin with the stuff. She gave the scarves to her grandmother and a homeless woman who's still flying eight-hundred dollar Hermes silk as flags on her wobbly-wheeled shopping cart. The roses always made their way to one picklepuss friend or another and the candy she gave to her brother's glue-sniffing kids. Can you friggin' believe that shit? Then to really rip the ugly-ass beehive wig off Amy Winehouse's head and punt it the length of the Bruin's football field, when we were on vacations she always insisted on separate suites and never once was I gifted with a climax. And men, yes it's a gift, one we eagerly await like Rover begging for scraps from beneath the dinner table, or else we'd just sit solo, happily stroking our peters and not invest time and money on the fairer sex. But, back to the point, if I'd said to her, 'Hey, lets spend three days a month in Somalia or Liberia,' I could've understood her snatch being drier than Chile's Atacama Desert and her voiced appreciation being in the area of an audible groan of disapproval. But, we'd done Paris in the spring, the Festival de Cannes and all I got was bitch and moan, bitch and moan. I'd been playing by the wrong book, following the rules and hadn't cracked the code to her love vault.

The next year rolled around and I thought, goddamnit, that was going to be it, I was set to make her scream and writhe with passion if it broke me. So added to the expensive shit I was already shoveling out, I labored hard and plenty to buy her a BMW Z4, you know the convertible roadster, fully loaded, and was sufficiently creative to ensure the color exactly matched the deep sea blue of her eyes. I tossed in three-million large on eye-popping bling that made Dr. Dre and Lady GaGa's diamonds resemble those ugly, fake-ass crystals Joan Rivers hocks on QVC. Then I had my iron maiden extended limitless lines of credit at shops along Rodeo Drive. Finally to really show I meant business, I purchased a fully furnished condo in Santa Monica for her as a 'just because you're special' gift, which is where I'm skulking about right now.

Considering she never bought me a effing thing, I think she would've given me one tiny, 'Oh, ah, baby you're so good,' followed by a semi-believable shudder as she scraped her nails down my back, while I rammed my insistent dingis into her slightly wet pink canoe. Well, I was dreaming in hillbilly heroin land. What I actually got was a yawn accompanied by a limp-wristed pat on my shoulder and a humphed out, 'Is that it?" My accountants are still tallying up what boning her twenty-four times during those twelve months cost and she'd been impersonating Simon Cowell. You'd be spot-on if you're thinking after each occasion when I'd pulled out of her, barely having enough time to get the spunk-filled condom off and shoot it sadly to the trash, that she'd ridiculed my technique. She'd advised me to find some innovative approaches of satisfying her or she'd kick my ass to the curb with the same amount of regret she'd give to scraping dog crap off her Dolce and Gabana Python pumps.

Okay, get your eyes set to roll… The threat made me diamond hard and I would've been back inside her lickety-split if she hadn't always put her perfectly arched foot on my chest and dismissively pushed me to the floor. She was my 'Hard Hearted Hannah' and I was her J. C., that's my money name, cashing in on movies, music and crank. My bi-racial parents named me Jhumar Castiglione. Go ahead and laugh, is it my fault I was conceived during their vacation at the third apex of the 'Golden Triangle'.

Stop crackin' up and let me go on. Year three rolls around and I'm bustin' my ass to keep the cash flowing in so she'll at least allow me to dry hump her, which now takes place once a month. I'm still doing the attentive boyfriend bullshit, adding a lot of something every now and again, stocks, land and a Cessna Citation Mustang. Albert Einstein said insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, well… I won't own being clinically senseless, but clearly I have issues, because although I was offering her different things, always sweetening the pot, I wasn't getting what I wanted in return and that was to see her O face. Dawgs, y'all know what that's like, seeing your main squeeze, your boo, with her head thrown back, eyes shut tight and her mouth forming an inviting oval as she bucks beneath you. For fuck's sake, a caring man would sell his soul to see that expression, feel the sensation. Before Hannah, I was handing out orgasms with more frequency than Florida writes speeding tickets. With her though, my ballpoint seemed to be out of ink. So what was the solution? Have you guessed?

Yo dawgs, we've been schooled in this lesson before. In 'Sexy Origins and Intimate Things,' we were taught that many words mean both penis and idiot because desperately horny men think with their wienies instead of using their brain. So, I had to stop letting, helmet-head, the bald yogurt slinger run the show and do what I did best and that was make informed decisions using readily available information.

The combination to vault H.H.H. (hard-hearted Hannah for those of you who haven't been following along) was her telling me to be creative, imaginative and innovative. She'd never asked for any of that stuff I'd spent a gruntload on. What I'd needed to do was invest some time in learning about her and I had. This is what I'd done.

A couple of months ago, I hired two retired Marines, who now do P.I. work throughout California and Nevada, to determine what got her off. She has the ability to climax; I know that truth as well as I know my name. Hannah is a sexy, confident woman, a fact that figuratively flashed in neon around her, alerting the public that she's better than damn good in the sack and high rollers line up to get between her thighs. Never once have I thought my Hannah is frigid and the investigators provided me with enough glossies of her and various players working their way through the Kama Sutra, an O on her face every time, to validate my certainty. So why wasn't I rockin' her boat? What in the world, did I have to do to bring my woman to climax? Men, you won't believe how easy it was for the private dicks to come up with the skinny.

The answer had been evident, right out in the open and women don't go getting kitty spittin' mad because I'm about to give up your secrets. Drum roll please… The answer to what makes a woman sexually tick sits on her bookshelves. Brothers, men, comrades, there you'll find the things she's open to letting you do to her. If you want to delve deep into her sexual psyche then invade the back of her closet or check beneath the bed for some mind blowing porn, erotica and depravity that will make the skin-rags and girl-on-girl action we beat off to seem G-rated. Alright ladies, so now you want a slice of my salami for opening my mouth. Put your Fissler deboning knives away, I had my bris many years ago. Look, I'm doing us all a favor. Listen up and I'll tell you what I specifically learned about Hannah.

You and I all know she's been 304-ing, which is hoeing for those of you who aren't up on the lingo, her way to the top of her profession and I don't hold her drive and determination against her. She's a sizzling copper-haired, wispily layered, pixie-cut sporting, Jenny McCarthy, promiscuous, flirtatious, provocative and let's not forget hardhearted. She doesn't suffer fools lightly. Those other sweet dick daddies with their candied balls hadn't lasted more than a few weeks with her. The fact that she still tolerated my boneheadness showed she was at least, on some level diggin' me and now that I had the down and dirty on her fantasies, I was hoping to soon get that 'I Love You' text I'd been long awaiting, keyed by my Hannah from Savannah, a ball-bustin', heartbreaker. So are you eager for me to spit out the lowdown? Brace yourselves cause my gal is into some serious shit. She openly reads 'I Claudius' and 'Claudius The God', having dog-eared pages and underlined passages. More of her favorites were the books of the Sleeping Beauty Trilogy and I'm not talking about the Disney Classic, with sections that showed faded text and held the pungency of her hungry, little red snapper. Collectively the five books had been handled so frequently they were on the verge of falling apart. The investigators also found a grip of vampire erotica in the living room and enough lupine, lycan-loving tales beneath her bed to let me know Hannah was a serious freak, of the sexually adventurous kind, and I planned to gain her devotion by making her my plaything.

So, that's the gist of what's gone down and why I'm here. Now, it's time to go give her what she needs. Let's posse up quick, that bike cop is mad-dogging me. Oh, here comes trouble. Y'all go on and I'll catch up, then we'll see how this plays out.


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