Tool Of The Nile (revised)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Erotic Flash  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by Amy F. Turner

Tool of the Nile (revised)

A dozen gym patrons watched admiringly as Andrew Gadbois squeezed out eight repetitions and racked the Olympic bar. 

Big Al, the gym's owner, shook his head in disbelief. "That's three hundred-seventy-five pounds," he said.

"What's his body weight?" asked Al's lifting buddy.

"One-eighty, maybe."

Andrew enjoyed having the world by the balls. At age twenty-two, he wasn't yet in his prime. He returned the plates to the weight rack, grabbed his gym bag, and headed for the exit.

"Nice lift," called out a woman.

Andrew turned and smiled. "Thanks, Peg."

Peg turned to her sister-in-law. "Did you see that body?" she whispered.

"Ah, yeah. I thought it was freaking Steve McQueen when he turned around."

Andrew tossed his bag into the back seat of his Challenger SRT Hellcat, started the engine, then cranked the sound system as he pulled onto the Diagonal Highway. "Back in black, I hit the sack…."

He tapped the accelerator, and the car launched.

He'd gotten his first muscle car at age sixteen, a gift from his father, Andrew Sr., who was heir to a pharmaceutical fortune. A new vehicle followed every year. Made in America was the only catch. That suited Andrew just fine. After all, he was a patriot with an eye on becoming a Navy Seal. It would take grit, determination, endurance, and bravery, but he had those things and more. Yeah, though, Andrew, stepping on the accelerator, Hell week, underwater demolition training—bring it on.

The guardrails blurred as the Hellcat hit 110 mph, rushing by like picket fences. Maybe he'd become a navy fighter pilot instead of a Seal, a modern-day version of the Red Baron, who was one scary sonofabitch. He'd need to think about it. 

He glanced at his watch, 7:00 p.m. on the button. In another hour, he'd meet Monique. She'd lean on the check-in counter inside the Hyatt, waiting for him: Andrew Gadbois, aka, Tool of the Nile. She'd be wearing the outfit he'd requested, the one she'd worn on the cover of Vogue: a black fascinator, red lipstick, white cashmere waistcoat, Issy Miyake chiffon twist front top, Simone Parele minimizer bra, blue Valentino slacks, Manolo Blahniks. 

When she saw him striding into the lobby, she'd bite her bottom lip in anticipation. Would he be gentle? That depended. Each woman had a unique setup. Monique's clit worked with the front of her exquisite opening. She wanted him dipping the tool, teasing out her pleasure, just the head, and a couple more inches. Other women wanted as much as they could take. It was all good. Either way, he'd end up with an ass full of nail digs.

Fucking NFL wives were the worst. And they'd put him on the shitlist with half a dozen quarterbacks. But that was water under the bridge. Was it his fault when husbands couldn't please their wives?


Speaking of wives, He'd been hanging around in his parent's estate just a month before when he heard Trixie Philips' Mclaren 720S pulling into the roundabout. Andrew watched from a kitchen window as Trixie killed the engine and slipped out of the driver's seat.

Calling her athletic was an understatement. Her tennis serve was a rocket, and so was her return. She'd worked the pro circuit and met her husband at the U.S. Open. The rest was history, as the saying goes. Trixie and her husband had moved to the neighborhood seven years ago. She was a Nordic beauty: flaxen blonde hair with feathered bangs, blue eyes, perfect teeth, small, perfectly proportioned, and tight all over. Her ass was a song.

She'd worn a jumpsuit with shoulder straps. Andrew waited before pulling the door open. He didn't want to seem too eager.

She stood there with the sun at her back, a glow that turned the material of her suit translucent.

Andrew's eyes lingered on her black panties, the outline of her hips.

She cleared her throat. "Nice to see you, too, Andrew."


"Oh, hello, Mrs. Philips. What brings you out this early in the day?"

"Well, let me think," she said, tapping her temple with an index finger. "Oh yes, I promised your mom I'd ride Will-o'-the-wisp while she and your dad are in Guatemala. Well… aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Oh, sure, sorry, Mrs…."

“Trixie, call me Trixie. I don't bite, you know,"

Andrew nodded his head and laughed, "Ms. Trixie."

"Oh, stop that, Andrew." She slapped him playfully on the chest. "Wow, somebody's been hitting the gym."

"Here and there,"

"Is the stable master on hand today?"

"The staff's off today, but I can help you saddle him up. It's faster if we cut through the house. Can I get you something from the kitchen, water, Red Bull?"

"I wouldn't turn down a Red Bull," she said, following.

She leaned on the kitchen's granite counters, clicking her nails while Andrew pulled the refrigerator door and fished for her drink.

Damn, she was fragrant. What was that bouquet? Holy fuck, her pheromones are strong.

He was already at half mast, standing in the refrigerator light while his tool stretched out. He reached for the Red Bull, and his cock pushed past his underpants and started down his leg, swelling, breaching, stretching the threadbare material of his sweatpants to form a perfect outline.

He turned around, holding out the drink.

Her eyes dropped.

"Wow, HELLO!" She giggled, trying to control her astonishment.

Suddenly, she burst out laughing.

"Sorry," she said, doubling over in laughter and holding out a hand as if to hold off something inevitable. "Sorry," she repeated, "But that thing is huge. Oh my god!"

She cupped an elbow at her waist and chewed a fingernail. Her eyes darted around the room.

"Can I see it?"

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"This," she said, stepping forward and grabbing his joint through the sweatpants. She yanked his pants to his knees. "Good Lord," Trixie said, leaning back with widening eyes. "Oof! Just give me a minute here. Ok, yeah, I'm a big fan."

She set a chair in front of Andrew, sat down, and planted a wet smooch on the head. "Oh, it's fucking warm."

She pulled the zipper on her jumpsuit and stepped out.

Andrew dropped to his knees and tugged her panties down. Nice! She even had that soft strip of pube fuzz running to her navel, but Andrew already knew Trixie's cunt was beautiful; he'd spied on her when she'd stripped in the poolhouse during one of his parent's lobster parties.

He'd also stolen her panties. Hell, she'd been too looped to notice, and he'd jerked off for a year with the panties in his face, getting the right angle, so a couple of her embedded pubes tickled the inside of his nostrils. But then her scent faded, and it wasn't the same. It was all good; he'd ask her for her panties when this was over. Mmm--she was sucking his cock!

She grabbed a piece of the table and bent over. "Take it easy, Andrew. Ah! Easy! I don't know. I.. don't…Oh, yeah, oh fuck. Mmmm..."


Andrew glanced at his watch again. It was 7:10 p.m., and his break was over. He'd nodded out. He rubbed his weary eyes and slouched forward off the breakroom couch. He was too old for this shit and too old for his spot on the widget assembly line.

Submitted: September 27, 2022

© Copyright 2022 Laird. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


Amy F. Turner

Dream a little dream. Sometimes it just that little glimpse of that alternate universe that keeps us going or wanting us to rush back off to lala land to see what's next. Andrew is livin' his best life sleepin' by the look of it. :D

Tue, September 27th, 2022 8:45am


Haha! Too true, Ms. Turner! If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.


Tue, September 27th, 2022 5:02am


Sometimes those dreams are so much more better than real life. Poor guy, I wonder if maybe it became a repetitive dream for him. At least till he reached its potential end?

Tue, September 27th, 2022 12:01pm


That's a good question. Speaking strictly from Andrew's point of view, I'd count myself better off sleeping.


Tue, September 27th, 2022 5:09am

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