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Plaything - Chapter 2

Book By: jjenkinsbooks
Erotica



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 6, 2010    Reads: 546    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


Plaything - Chapter Two

Well hello, I'm Hannah Hardcastle and before you ask, yes, I'm from Savannah, that's in the take no crap state of Texas. Thanks for dropping by. We don't have a lot of time. J.C. will be here soon.

This isn't our usual hook-up day. He called my office a few hours ago, asking to see me this evening. Of course, I said no, initially. Then he got demanding, which is unusual. Before, he'd always conformed to the schedule I set. I'd relented because of a subtle nuance in his tone, a note hinting at an impending scene if I didn't agree.

Dramas, at work, aren't my thing, which is synonymous for; I'm working, not humping, my way to the top of that firm. I'm not going to risk my career just because J.C. probably wants to bring me another of those gifts he bombards me with because he doesn't sexually satisfy me. Okay, you're thinking, 'How does he know?'

Jhumar is aware of his ineptitude because I repeatedly tell him of his shoddy performance. Are you shocked that I'd be so forthright with him? Well, if I don't speak up how else is he going to discover he's wasting both our times? I've invested three years with him, giving him ample opportunity to get his act together, do a little leg work to uncover what really sets my canoe to sailing and all he wants to do is throw presents at me. For instance, this condo was a gift, affording me state of the art, contemporary luxuries topped off by breathtaking views of the ocean and sunsets. He even made certain the interior was done in a neutral palette of creams and beiges, to please me.

You think I should be grateful don't you? Well, I'm not and I won't fake some sentiment that'll only make both of us miserable. I won't lie about not liking any of the stuff he's showered on me and I most certainly won't pretend to climax so he can feel macho. I only do that with the men I toy with. J. C. deserves better and so do I. He's the only man of whom I've ever had expectations. In the beginning, I'd dreamed he'd be the one who'd make me settle down. That highflying hope was quickly grounded by the realization that he was unable to pilot my aircraft.

Of course, I could bluntly tell him what to do that would have my eyes rolling back in my head and my legs wrapped around him so tightly he'd need oxygen when I finally turned him loose. But women you know it's not the same when you have to lead a man to your gridiron of love with a playbook in hand, prepared to give him maneuver-by-maneuver instructions. So, men, after this conversation, don't feign ignorance about women not wanting to be your coaches in the bedroom, and don't cover your ears, trying to ignore me, least I take I stick to you and you find yourselves in a similar position to J. C.

For me, sex is not a football game and I'll be doggone if I'm going to huddle up and tell Jhumar how to score a touch down. Ladies, you and I know that by the time we've finished our dialogue, just before the game is set to commence, and by the way, we'll always have to do this because some estrogen challenged individuals in the room won't bother to remember, the thrill is gone. We're on our backs, legs splayed open, being poked and prodded, while they're grunting and asking how they're doing. Duh, they're performing tip-top because we've done almost everything for them and if they're anything like J. C., you sometimes have to help them find the opening, which in my man's case is ridiculous when he's hit more aces, even on par 4 and 5 holes, than any pro golfer.

Hee-hee, you should see the shocked expressions on your faces. Was it the hole comment or hearing me refer to him as my man? I'm betting it was the latter. J.C. is mine, you know. He provides for me, lets me sow my oats, is loyal and loves me. There are a couple of big problems with the scenario. First, I'm not inspired to do or feel anything similarly for him. How the heck am I supposed to be loyal to and cherish a doormat? What gift should I give to something on which I wipe my feet? A good shaking once in awhile is what I offer most often and when it's really dirty I feel obliged to take a broom to it and knock some of the grit and grime loose. All in all most doormats are disposable. After they've served their purpose, I toss them out and get a new one. Luckily, for J.C. he's durable like one of those Frontgate water shield entry runners, if not I would've dropped him long ago. Now, for the second humongous issue: Jhumar doesn't sexually satisfy me, hasn't ever. And before you start letting the idea that I'm a gold-digger, user and world-class bitch take root in your minds, believe me when I say I never wanted gifts from him, except for a little pocket change every once in a blue moon. My friends and family are the ones who are heads-over-heels for the presents he tosses around and the old homeless woman I give his scarves to thinks he's the 'cat's pajamas' and that I'm too hard on him. Well it's my life; I'm going to live the way I want and I refuse to settle.

Don't crease your brows and glare at me, so what, if on occasion I've asked for money, and slept with some of his contacts, only the really influential ones by the way. That's a perk of knowing a media mover and shaker.

Guys, here's a serious news bulletin: money and power are sexy. Women you might as well admit that you want their cash and the influential people that surround your significant other, be those peripheral individuals recline in the shape of a man or woman. Did I just hear 'bullshit' from the men?

Think about the reality of what you see around you every day. How else can you explain old, fugly men getting young, beautiful women to sleep with them? Not that J.C. is similar to King, Rourke, Crous and let's not forget J. Howard Marshall. Jhumar has a baby-face reminiscent of the young DiCaprio or Macchio. In order to look older he constantly sports fashionable facial scruff. Being a French-Caribbean, Italian-Jew he's tall and exotically swarthy, having thick, dark hair and mesmerizing, wolf-gold eyes. His body is leanly muscular and should be on the cover of a coffee-table book exhibiting the world's sexiest swimmers. His junk is more than impressive, a set that most men would envy and women would love to get a hold of, if he knew what to do with his endowments. By far his mind is his greatest asset, and for all of you gathered here, know this, great sex is a good part psychology as well as physiology. I wish he'd mind-fuck me more and keep his dick in his pants. For example, If you meet J.C., you'd be fooled by that hip-hop jive he's cultivated for his career, probably get to thinking he's liable to bust a cap in your ass at the blink of an eye, but you'd never mistake him for a poser, although he doesn't manufacture or deal drugs like the tabloids lead the public to believe. Those stories are all ghetto-fabulous hype to keep his money train on the tracks, and he grew up in Brentwood, so don't be suckered by that Steve Martin, 'I was born a poor black child' mumbo-jumbo. Jhumar has a PhD in Cinema and Media Studies, another degree in music composition for visual media and a MBA, all from UCLA. More impressively, he makes money as if he has private access to The U.S. Treasury. I'm bragging a little aren't I? Are you surprised? Well don't be.

As far as his looks, big Italian salami, wealth and professional power go, J.C. can't be improved upon. What keeps him at a position beneath my Christian Louboutin, patent leather peep-toes is his lack of personal authority, his inability to dominate and thrill me.

Men stop salivating and women no cringing allowed. I don't want J. C. to tie me up, bathe me in golden showers or attach electrodes to my nipples and sensitive stadium gates. I need my man to sometimes be in control of our relationship, set the pace, make me see that his needs are equally significant to mine, on occasion more important and when I resist and oppose, I want him to make me yield. I know that's a tall order and if those things aren't enough for him to have to accomplish, I also want him to provide me with sudden, unexpected sensations of excitement and alright, I'll admit I want him to frighten me, just a little bit, really get me revved up. Unfortunately, for J. C., I don't believe he has the stones to do any of those things personally; professionally I'd be hesitant to fuck with him.

In business Jhumar is highly creative, perfectionistic and quietly ruthless. He's callously ruined people, gobbled up agencies, stolen performers and most frighteningly brought industry giants to their knees where they remain childishly weeping because of their downfall. I wouldn't want his 'taking it to the neck' posture directed at me. A measure of his firm control I want, but the thought of complete annihilation doesn't get me wet. Such an idea makes me want to fortify myself for a hard-ass, Texas-style standoff.

'Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz.' Well, that'll be J. C. Stick around and witness his pitiful efforts to gift an O out of me. He won't be here long. I have plans for the evening that don't include his trying to score in my end zone. Let's hope he's not still in that odd, demanding mood, because if he is, Jhumar just might find himself getting the boot, literally.





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