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petticoat but above all her righteous milk jugs squeezed together and pushed up high on display…
Or dressed up in fetish wear, something with chains and a lot of vinyl, like a bright red and black cupless corset tightly cinched at the waist with satiny garters delicious legs killing it all the more with 6-inch spiked clear stripper heels…
What was she doing in her room now?
He wouldn’t mind just…watching, her. Watching her do herself. He’d get off on that.
She looked dead on the bed—since he’d last seen her, face-down on the mattress. The view would be perfect: he’d photograph her. Run the photo through a Photoshop filter, if need be. She’d be poetry in pictures.
He’d sit her down with instructions— “work, slave” —have her bang a whole group of studs, watch her mouth pleasing the congregation of dicks around her. It wasn’t demeaning if she enjoyed it. Something that all the little whores in bed did.
Andy wanted to stab his eyes out with a fork. Was she a virgin, or a whore, now that she wasn’t holding on to her modest image any more? Which would he rather have her be? She wasn’t a nun—why’d she have to care what he really thought?
He was torn. He’d always associated (his) Christina with an element of purity. But he wanted her flat out drunk, now, like the wasted guys and girls who wanted the easiest excuse to get laid quick, so he could explore the contours of her body with his tongue and hands and mouth.
They hadn’t even touched each other, apart from the initial greeting with a hug. And the slight bit of skin contact, in the elevator.
He thought she’d smack him, if she could view his thoughts. He didn’t think he’d mind, actually, being smacked around by her.
He felt a dull ache/pain, deep in his heart. Realistically, it’d only be a disaster, and more pain and misery, which he didn’t want to live with for the rest of his life.
It’s not worth it, Andy. It’s not worth it.
Andy rolled over to the side, and started watching the Dirrty video on his iPhone, since he couldn’t get the song out of his head. He decided he’d kick back, lose himself in, and enjoy the raunchy video with the intro scene of Christina riding into a boxing ring on a motorcycle, and the naked-ass girls in the raw video, with the fire-engine-red skintight leather hot pants, back-up dancers splashing dancing being sprayed with water in a room with urinals on the wall, gyrating semi-clothed in a boxing ring, fight scenes plus girl-on-girl action, bondage—a real post-apocalyptic orgy.
That turned out to be even worse, because Andy saw the face of his Christina, instead of the one of the blonde, iconic singer on the screen—his Christina, with black streaks in her hair like X-tina, surefire hotties who’d still be dirrrrrrrty even while rolling around and thrashing about in clean water.
He didn’t know that Christina (Acklin) had picked up on his silence during the cab ride. He wasn’t usually that quiet with her. She’d seen he was at the mercy of the tension that had him in its unrelenting, cruel grip.
She’d also seen his hand drawing back at the slightest fraction of an inch, when they made some skin contact with the trolley bag’s handle at the elevator. She picked up on his tension like she had an inner fine-tuned radar, even though she couldn’t explain it.
And she wasn’t lying down “dead” in the next room. She was awake, and very much alive, “with him” throughout the night that way, though Andy didn’t know it.
Christina’s door was still closed, when Andy got up in the morning and left for work.
He had to meet some clients for a meeting. He’d always been focused and on task, but felt perplexingly out of place throughout the seemingly endless hours. He only felt like playing with paper planes, putting his legs up on the table, and doing immature things as his mind drifted in and out of the conversation. He watched his colleagues and