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Topic: Heat 64-Action/Adventure A shortcut A trave

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abrahamyt View Drop Down
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    Posted: 07 Feb 2018 at 10:23pm
A crazed woman hunts down a man she barely knows, who she met through an exfriend’s facebook page. Is her journey real or imagined? You decide. (This has some soft BDSM.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                There Had to be a Shortcut

 

 

A crazed woman hunts down a man she barely knows, who she met through an exfriends facebook page. Is her journey real or imagined? You decide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fiona

 

There had to be a shortcut to get to him on the other side of the world. He began life with me as a simple facebook friend, one I’d never actually met. This did not stop me from getting into his head, however. On the contrary our connection resembled within hours something indecent stripped of anything normal or appropriate.

 

I had been commenting on Debbi’s recent Cuba trip. It was midday and I was out on in my cemented over backyard, waiting for the onset of an edible to take effect. There were many obvious telltale signs that things were about to go south, the clear and present danger of a MacBook Pro, lay open in my lap. I could become anyone in this virtual reality. I sent myself off on a journey outside of our mutual comfort zones.

 

Having visited Cuba before it became legal to do so,

I wrote that Havana looked like a bombed out Beirut. It maintained a haunting, ghost like presence signifying what had once been a bustling, glamorous, illicit, Vegas scene, one that was destructive to the Cubans who had lived through that era of hypocrisy; the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Cold War, the sanctions. The West’s decadence in plain, willfully ignorant view of the poorest people just on the outskirts of town, this was what the Soviets plugged into, a country that had been settled by the Italians and Spaniards, indigenous people having been wiped out immediately or assimilated into European’s rich white blood. Blood with other’s blood, sweat, tears, and forced poverty by uncaring hands that knew no guilt.

 

 

What began as an innocent private messenger session with William Barton turned into turned into a flirtation, the hot and heavy kind that develops out of bad habits and boredom, a little self-hatred and loathing, and a little bit of, “I can’t stand this high and want immediate attention, adulation, and caressing. My smashed ego needed stroking, and this was how I went about getting it.

 

What started out as something innocuous, innocent and fairly ordinary grew quickly into something else entirely.

 

William Barton

 

Out of the blue Fiona instant messaged me on facebook. I was glad to hear from her, but had to make sure it wasn’t her husband playing tricks on her or me. I urged her to call me, send me a picture of her.  

 

What began as a reunion of sorts, turned into a sordid mess. I used my charming voice-over man’s assurance that we would perhaps get together again sometime in the future. I was confident that’s what she wanted. Why else was she writing to me despite what had transpired between us that was so meaningless and brief? Yet, I couldn’t get the image of her straddling me in a perfect, late summer afternoon out of my head. In my head she was going down on me, making me cum in an instant through the sexual and intense images she skillfully created with words. There was nothing in it for her.

 

I was tall, thick, she was smaller than me, and we smoked after her demands for a good time were met. The glow of glass from somewhere lit up the side of the building we were facing, our legs, satisfied, dangling out the door. She rested her leg up on the driver’s side dash while she played me the sad crooning of Miranda Lambert’s Vice. A flock of tiny dark birds raced overhead, whistling low to the ground beneath hazardous telephone wires.

 

We had never actually met, but the images she painted with her words were vivid, visceral, and became dangerously disconcerting. How much of what she shared with me in her writings was fiction? It felt all too real and close. I shut my laptop, my phone. But texts kept bubbling up, messages in my facebook. I stopped responding, had told her to send all her writing too me, not wanting it to go up on her blog and exposing what we had done publically.

 

Fiona

 

I waltzed through the airport as gracefully as one of the Mossad, picking up speed and momentum as I hurried to get to my destination.

 

William Barton

 

Cuba is what started a chain of events that quickly became a nightmare for me. I was interested in Fiona’s observations she’d made, why she felt it looked to her like a bombed out Beirut. Fiona was beautiful, and I told her so. Her insights were like no others, she was intelligent, funny, and brutally honest. When she wrote to me that she wanted to f**k me I was stunned, but my cock was not. I selfishly encouraged her to keep going. I had no intention of writing much back. Just a few words of encouragement took her to a whole other level of sexual misconduct in her writing. These images and scenarios keep me cumming.

I didn’t ban Fiona and I didn’t block her, not sensing the very real, imminent danger I was actually putting myself in, mostly unwittingly. “You are so f**king hot,” I told her one lazy afternoon as I had just laid down to napped before heading out to preside over, perform really as I am a comedian and actor, Debbi’s wedding ceremony. I wondered why my vapor friend fatale was not at the wedding. It turned out Fiona was on everyone’s radar as someone to avoid, someone who would know you, post all of your public embarrassments and flaws on her quasi popular blog, all in the name of truth. A truth she craftily fabricated in her head, all the while plotting against you. Some of the images she shared were quite violent. Decapitating people who had wronged her, ripping their stomach muscles apart with shear force and massaging her victims deep blackish red guts, just rolling her hands through them like she was massaging a meatloaf, one that oozed out the sides of her clenched fists as she kneaded and kneaded the dough of an imagined enemy who had scorned her.

 

Fiona

 

I was floating in the ocean of the Virgin Islands, a chair in the ocean. In the salty sea I’d turned myself into a chair, and gently like a small cubed Box Fish move my hands to and fro like fins. I kept afloat and watched a wedding take place in front of me on one of the world’s most prestigious beaches.

 

A shortcut. I’d taken a short cut to get here. Commandeered a boat off of the Costa Rican coast, a boat belonging to a boomer couple, very well educated and intelligently friendly couple who, had retired as world sailors after they’d been attacked and held captive by modern day pirates. Their story showed what a commitment travel lovers have of exploring little known destinations. I was about to explore William Barton like he’d never been explored before.

 

I parked the stolen boat illegally without paying taxes or fees over at the Port of Saint Johns, then stowed away in a jeep passengers had left innocently unlocked. I masturbated on the floorboards of the jeep, keys dangling in my face as I tried to find an acceptable position to finish myself in. Having cum once or twice, I popped a pill into my mouth, and got out of the car on St. Thomas’ soil.

 

William had simply friended me because my profile read that I am a travel agent. I was a travel agent for friends like Debbi, getting her all the best deals. I knew all about her Cuban adventure, I’d sent her to down every step she took on the island. Horseback adventures in Trinidad del Mar, snorkeling, the glamorous Varadero beach where not many native Cubans could afford to adventure to.

 

I exploited her, used all of the stories she sent me as my own stories and what I thought of her and them. They were sometimes scandalous the way I portrayed them, her hunt to get laid and find the best jazz musicians around. She tried to lay most every man she met, had her wallet stolen by a man who turned out to be married. Had a friend buy her a condom she was to shy to buy in her limited Spanish. Her stories were too much to not be shared on my public blog.

 

Floating as I was, I spied Miguel from my vantage point as I had a relaxed conversation with a mom and daughter surfing in the waves, the daughter draped all over her momma.

 

This was my shortcut. I’d stolen the nice couples boat in Costa Rica, sailed under the radar to St. John’s, and caught a free ride to St. Thomas where now I floated happily on Coki Beach, where I was the only white person around save for Miguel Buenos who stood out in a crowd wherever he went.

 

The sun beat down on my head. I could feel myself slightly burning as the salt water licked the sunblock right off of my smooth shoulders, chest and neck. My face tingled in the sun and surf, but I continued my gaze toward the object of my obsession. How I’d obsessed about finally coming face to face with this man. Since then my addictions had only gotten worse. I took myself off all of my medications and increased my use of pot and alcohol instead.

 

I wiped the salt and sand off as best I could in the public beach restroom and put on my best, relaxed day at the beach countenance. Blue, Indian knit headband holding back my mountain of dark curls, I left my belongings in a car I’d stolen the night before from a woman drunk at Brooks Bar. Turns out the local chef there was just like me, making up menus from barely a scrap of food the way I did with situations and scenarios I’d invented in my mind, way outside of what was real and what was not.

 

I tied you up with a belt after having paid to have you drugged, carried in, and placed how and where I wanted you. I paid some locals handsomely.

 

I shoved your woven belt in your mouth as a gag and secured it with its own uncomfortable metal buckle, one that dug into the back of your head, slightly. I kept your blue-checked, freshly pressed gingham button down hanging loosely from your thin shoulders, skin slightly dangling under your armpits that were held up by a black leather harness, one that still allowed you room to nod your chin forward. I’d left your blue jeans on purposely. You didn’t know you’d already been violated, but I took liberties to remove any obstructions from your nethers.

 

I had just practiced this technique on a Mexican I had followed home willingly. I’d met him while in a drunken as usual haze at Los Toros in the deep, country part of the valley. That valley with its wild animals and bits of wide-open space, space the Chumash had wandered through.

 

Troubling, removing your jeans. But I’d managed.

 

Once I’d uncovered you, you awoke to my pulling your ball skin tight and shaving off ever so gently and disconcertingly, your hairs, the soft, downy tuft that was there. You fainted from disbelief and embarrassment before you woke again to feel me massaging oil into your balls right before rubbing a swath of silky sheet across them.

 

Your balls moaned into the sensation of the cool, fresh sheet.

 

Your nipples stood erect under soft chest hair. I twisted the pink tips, just the tips. You clenched your teeth, not giving me the satisfaction of hearing you scream. I took this as an opportunity to kiss your soft lips, and skillfully stroke you, your member pliable in my hand, like putty till I’d wound it up, so hard, so slap encouragingly hard. And I did, and you came instantly, small spurts of gold, creamy cum. I took a swipe at it with my tongue, and then shoved my tongue deep inside your throat. I licked your chin, your throat, and left you heavy and wanting.

 

That’s it. That’s all I saw in you, standing out, in my line of sight. I saw a sexual encounter, a plaything I could cat and mouse with.

 

My perfume overwhelmed you. We were the only white people dancing provocatively at the dj slam on Coki Beach. Two rather strong security guards I’d met rushed you from behind and covered your breath with a cloth procured for just this purpose. The two men dragged your slumping corpse like body to a jeep, the club goers all parting like the sea, uncaring.

 

I bit your lip causing it to bleed. The guards drove on. You woke up to us passionately kissing. You’d been picturing Debbi in your dreams. Discombobulated with a spreading dread as who it was, you were naturally startled. But I rubbed your jeans just right into complete compliance. You would go everywhere with my touch, though naturally, you disapproved.

 

Once you were cognizant and aware of your surroundings and as to what was to transpire, you became quite verbose on subjects you’d avoided talking to me about until this unfortunate for you chain of events. A tear rolled down your cheek and I almost cared, but loosened your gag all the same. It was time to have this talk.

 

“There is a shortcut I know of, I being a travel agent and all.”

 

“What the f**k, are you even talking about Fiona? This needs to f**king end.”

 

“Shut up. This could all end, and I am calmly explaining to you how.”

 

“You were married Fiona!” Williaml cried out, “It had nothing to do with your being fat as you keep pointing out. Gawd, I even wrote to you how beautiful and smart you are, even funny when not psychotic.”

 

“Shut up,” I said softer this time, a blush spreading across my face. I couldn’t let him see he was getting to me.

 

“William, this all pretty much meant nothing to me. So I am sending you on a shortcut back to your everyday life, a life without documentation, over to Cuba. You will wash up on the shores of a Havana beach along with the Santeria fruit offerings still bobbing in the sea. And from there, you will have quite an adventure finding your way back home. If only you’d considered my emotional needs while you talked me into getting you off, then not connecting back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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