Dick Jones
copyright © 2004 by Imagineer.
lay Misty for me
All right, I bet you’re not convinced. You’re thinking maybe I have some kind of super-pheromone power—or maybe Wendy was a closet sex-fiend all this time and I just happened to be in the right place at the right time—but whatever it is, you’re thinking that all this talk about Dick being in control is just a coping mechanism for guilt. Like “It’s not me, it’s Dick” is an excuse. You’re thinking it’s me, not Dick.
Au contraire. And I can prove it.
See, Dick is into stuff that I’m not into.
“But I thought it was you who wakes Dick up,” you say. (Well, you’d say that if you were paying attention. I know I ramble a little, but try to stay with me. The next dirty story is just ahead.)
Yeah, Dick’s sleeping until he gets a call from my libido, but once he’s awake it doesn’t take him long to get off in the bushes. Er, weeds. Whatever.
Anyway, he gets into some weird weeds. Places I’d never think about going.
Calm down, I’m not going there. Dick’s not into dick either. You didn’t see an “MM” story code at the top of this page, did you? (To those of you who are disappointed: get your own Dick.)
So. Weird weeds.
Well, there’s Marge in Human Resources. Really nice lady. She’s been there since they hired me. Knows all the ins and outs of sexual harassment and inappropriate conduct. And that was before we hooked up. But she’s 54 years old and 300 pounds, so most of you don’t want to hear her story. I don’t really want to tell it. We’re still friends, but... like I said, weird weeds.
But I’ve got another one.
Biker chick.
Woah, don’t go, this isn’t one of those scary old broads on the back of a hog.
I’m talking hot chick on the back of a hog.
What’s the problem? you ask. Don’t like leather?
Actually, no. I don’t think a girl in leather is attractive at all. It’s thick, it doesn’t move well, it hides curves, it doesn’t breathe... Okay, it smells nice when it’s taken care of, and a black leather trenchcoat is just about the coolest ever—I’m still saving up for mine—and a piece or two can look good as outerwear, but the whole leather outfit thing, no thanks. I cried when I saw Halle Berry in X-Men—she looked like a dude. Besides, you ever try to peel leather pants off a hot biker chick? But I’m getting ahead of myself...
So I’m not into the leather. But that’s not the real problem with Misty. Misty—the hot chick on the back of the hog.
This hot chick on the back of a hog came with the requisite scary boyfriend.
Big guy.
Named Tank.
Yeah, Tank. Normally you hear that and assume it’s a nickname. Not this guy. His momma actually named him Tank. He grew into the name.
Even carried a big-ass gun. Desert Eagle fifty cal. You know, the one with the triangular barrel all the bad guys like to use in movies.
I know what it was because I got a real close look at it.
Well, that, and Tank told me “Desert Eagle fifty caliber” is what they’d write on my autopsy report if I kept staring at his ride.
I think he meant his girlfriend.
I dunno, he could have meant his motorcycle.
But I wasn’t gonna take any chances.
Dick, on the other hand, is a gambler.
Because right after Tank said the thing about my autopsy, I found myself asking for clarification.
“When you say, ‘stop staring at my ride,’ do you mean that fine piece of ass I’m about to take to the nearest motel and fuck silly, or the piece of shit motorized Huffy out front that I’m gonna take to get there?”
Jesus, Dick.
I would have at least said Schwinn.
In one second, Tank’s hand was around my neck.
In two seconds, Tank’s gun was in my teeth.
In three seconds, Tank was falling over backwards like Paul Bunyan himself had done the honors.
In ten seconds, a smile was spreading across his face.
And a dark globby stain was spreading on the crotch of his Wranglers.
Dick thought: Big guy, big bike, big gun, small package. Figures.
“Just bring ‘em back when you’re done,” Tank said weakly.
See, I told you Dick was persuasive.
“What the hell did you do to Tank?” Misty was on me in two seconds. I found my right wrist in the small of my back involuntarily reaching for my shoulder blades.
Uh-oh.
It suddenly occurred to me that this “fine piece of ass” could take my ass to pieces.
“Um, I kinda need that arm.”
“Not where I’m sending you.”
Uhh, Dick? Little help?
The next thing I heard was this strange panting sound, like a small puppy.
Dick’s Invisible Touch.
My arm went slack. I quickly spun around and grabbed this biker bitch’s hair, pulling that thousand-yard-post-orgasmic-stare toward me for a sloppy full-mouth groping kiss.
Damn, Dick, I didn’t want to do that. She fucking smokes, man.
I yanked back on her hair to set her a little off balance and back her far enough away from me to take another look.
Kinda skinny. Small tits, made to look almost flat under a leather tube top. Low-slung leather pants, long since broken in. She’d been on the road for a while. I imagined the transaction where her daddy sold her to this biker for some Canadian whisky.
“Get some breath mints from the machine and meet me out front,” I ordered.
As I reached into Tank’s pocket for his key, I heard the sound of breaking glass. I should have been more specific and told her to buy some breath mints from the machine...
A half hour later, I was still trying to help her get those fucking leather pants off. Man, she was ripe. Apparently she’d just been taking Marine showers for the last few weeks, and doing a piss-poor job of it at that. So first order of business was a proper full-body scrubbing. Soaping her down was fun... until we eventually ran out of hot water.
Next time, go Ramada Inn.
We did plenty of fucking and sucking after that. Do I really need to describe every position? I mean, it wasn’t that great. Dick had a great time, I’m sure, because we came five or six times in as many hours, but the girl had no technique at all, and I could never quite get Dick to coach her to do anything useful. Plus she just kept talking dirty, using obscure (to me) biker lingo.
And then after the fourth time, or maybe the fifth, she started bucking and whinnying like a horse—and this just made Dick get even harder. He actually made me ride her around the room, pulling her hair like reins. Then she took the little chain belt off her pants and looped it through her nipple rings and said to tug that instead. See, weird shit. So I just kept to myself and counted her tattoos until Dick had finished with us.
Tank looked wicked-pissed when we got back to the diner, but as I got close to him he got real quiet. I think he was afraid of what had happened to him before. He probably thought it meant he was secretly gay, which is pretty much a suicide order for a dude like that. I had his old lady take him into the bathroom and give him a quickie to restore his confidence.
See, I’m not a total dick.