Boy Toy Chronicles
Page 3
“You know…” Allie says while I shrug on a shirt. “If you ever need any help with that—”
I hit the phone out of his hand.
“Hello?” Allie’s voice sounds from somewhere under my TV stand.
Chase smirks and picks up the pen from the whiteboard stuck on my door.
Mrs. Fletcher. 6pm Tonight. Requested you specifically.
I push him out the door and shut it.
“Hello?” Allie says again. “What the hell happened?”
I find the phone and tell her I have to go.
She makes me look at her tits once more.
I tell her they’re great. Because really, they are.
Then I head to Biology, hoping for a glimpse of that redhead with the horn-rimmed glasses.
***
One of the major rules of BTC is that we’re not just there for sex. We’re whatever the lovely ladies want us to be—within reason, and within our comfort zone. Some of the guys are more open to things than others, and we make sure that there’s never any pressure to be or do something we don’t want.
For example; one of our regular clients likes to be in control. And when I say in control—I mean whips, chains, and dog collars—obviously, not every dude’s cup of tea. But Troy—he’ll try anything twice. You know? Just in case he’s intoxicated the first time and lacks better judgment. Now Troy’s known as that guy. The one that loves being on the leash.
Our second highest reason for being hired—second only to sex, obviously—is to accompany the ladies to certain events to make ex’s jealous. Yeah…apparently that mind fucking bullshit doesn’t end even when you’re in your forties and fifties.
And, sometimes, women just want someone to talk to—to listen to their problems. Because there are a lot of lonely housewives out there—and not all of them can be saved by a decent cock slamming. Some of them just need to vent about their cheating husbands…and then get fucked a million different ways right afterward. It’s like angry make-up sex, only you’re not the one that did anything wrong.
Those are my favorite.
Then, there are the emergency call-outs. Double the standard price if needed within twenty-four hours. That’s where I am now—seeing Mrs. Fletcher on an emergency call-out.
Mrs. Fletcher—also known as Crazy Cat Lady.
Her loving husband died two years ago, leaving her with an empty house and a bunch of so-called friends that abandoned her before the dirt had even settled. What was special about Mrs. Fletcher is that she didn’t hire us for sex. She hired us for companionship. She just wanted someone to talk to and someone to hold her. She was by far our easiest client because it meant we were able to sleep while she cuddled us in the spot her husband used to occupy.
She’s only in her mid-forties but for some reason she thinks this is as good as her life gets.
It’s kind of sad now that I relay her story.
Really fucking sad.
What’s even sadder is that today she hired me to dig a hole in her backyard to bury one of her eighteen cats.
Misty was old.
It was time.
She cried the entire time.
There was a half hour left by the time I’d covered up kitty’s body. Mrs. Fletcher took my hand, led me upstairs to her bedroom where she waited for me to lie down with open arms. She crawled in beside me and cried into my chest.
So that’s where I find myself; with a sad, lonely woman crying in my arms.
Fuck, it’s pathetic.
And the thing is—this could’ve been any one of our moms.
Not the sex part. Well, apart from Troy’s mom… she’s a fox.
What I mean is the desperation. The need to feel someone close like this.
“Time’s up,” Mrs. Fletcher sniffles as she starts to pull away.
I hold her closer. “I got time,” I tell her. “Off the clock. Promise.”
This makes her cry harder. “You’re a good boy, Tyler.”
“Thanks, Ma’am. I try.”
“I know why you boys do this…but I’d love to see you fall in love with a girl...have a life like me and my husband,” she says through a sob.
“One day, Mrs. Fletcher. Just got to find the right girl, you know?”
She sits up now and runs a hand through my hair. Then she smiles. “I think I’m ready, Tyler, to move to that next step…” she says, averting her gaze.
I sit up with her and hold her hands. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “But I want it to be with you…if that’s okay?” She looks up now, her big brown eyes coated with tears. “You’ll be gentle with me?”
I return her nod and kiss her on the lips. Just once. “Promise Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll make love to you. Like you want me to. And I’ll hold you tight, baby, all through the night…or...you know...at least until your time’s up.”
CHAPTER THREE
Back at the house, I strip out of my clothes and change. Not that I can smell sex on them—but I still feel dirty for taking Mrs. Fletcher’s money.
Someone bangs on my door and I turn down the Boyz II Men. Stupid song has been stuck in my head since I left her house. Chase throws my door open before I can respond. “House meeting.” He pauses for a beat and focuses on the music. “Is that Boyz II Men?”
“Client research.” I shrug. “I’ll be down in a second.”
***
Now's probably a good a time as any to cover the rules of Boy Toy Corporation.
I hit the phone out of his hand.
“Hello?” Allie’s voice sounds from somewhere under my TV stand.
Chase smirks and picks up the pen from the whiteboard stuck on my door.
Mrs. Fletcher. 6pm Tonight. Requested you specifically.
I push him out the door and shut it.
“Hello?” Allie says again. “What the hell happened?”
I find the phone and tell her I have to go.
She makes me look at her tits once more.
I tell her they’re great. Because really, they are.
Then I head to Biology, hoping for a glimpse of that redhead with the horn-rimmed glasses.
***
One of the major rules of BTC is that we’re not just there for sex. We’re whatever the lovely ladies want us to be—within reason, and within our comfort zone. Some of the guys are more open to things than others, and we make sure that there’s never any pressure to be or do something we don’t want.
For example; one of our regular clients likes to be in control. And when I say in control—I mean whips, chains, and dog collars—obviously, not every dude’s cup of tea. But Troy—he’ll try anything twice. You know? Just in case he’s intoxicated the first time and lacks better judgment. Now Troy’s known as that guy. The one that loves being on the leash.
Our second highest reason for being hired—second only to sex, obviously—is to accompany the ladies to certain events to make ex’s jealous. Yeah…apparently that mind fucking bullshit doesn’t end even when you’re in your forties and fifties.
And, sometimes, women just want someone to talk to—to listen to their problems. Because there are a lot of lonely housewives out there—and not all of them can be saved by a decent cock slamming. Some of them just need to vent about their cheating husbands…and then get fucked a million different ways right afterward. It’s like angry make-up sex, only you’re not the one that did anything wrong.
Those are my favorite.
Then, there are the emergency call-outs. Double the standard price if needed within twenty-four hours. That’s where I am now—seeing Mrs. Fletcher on an emergency call-out.
Mrs. Fletcher—also known as Crazy Cat Lady.
Her loving husband died two years ago, leaving her with an empty house and a bunch of so-called friends that abandoned her before the dirt had even settled. What was special about Mrs. Fletcher is that she didn’t hire us for sex. She hired us for companionship. She just wanted someone to talk to and someone to hold her. She was by far our easiest client because it meant we were able to sleep while she cuddled us in the spot her husband used to occupy.
She’s only in her mid-forties but for some reason she thinks this is as good as her life gets.
It’s kind of sad now that I relay her story.
Really fucking sad.
What’s even sadder is that today she hired me to dig a hole in her backyard to bury one of her eighteen cats.
Misty was old.
It was time.
She cried the entire time.
There was a half hour left by the time I’d covered up kitty’s body. Mrs. Fletcher took my hand, led me upstairs to her bedroom where she waited for me to lie down with open arms. She crawled in beside me and cried into my chest.
So that’s where I find myself; with a sad, lonely woman crying in my arms.
Fuck, it’s pathetic.
And the thing is—this could’ve been any one of our moms.
Not the sex part. Well, apart from Troy’s mom… she’s a fox.
What I mean is the desperation. The need to feel someone close like this.
“Time’s up,” Mrs. Fletcher sniffles as she starts to pull away.
I hold her closer. “I got time,” I tell her. “Off the clock. Promise.”
This makes her cry harder. “You’re a good boy, Tyler.”
“Thanks, Ma’am. I try.”
“I know why you boys do this…but I’d love to see you fall in love with a girl...have a life like me and my husband,” she says through a sob.
“One day, Mrs. Fletcher. Just got to find the right girl, you know?”
She sits up now and runs a hand through my hair. Then she smiles. “I think I’m ready, Tyler, to move to that next step…” she says, averting her gaze.
I sit up with her and hold her hands. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “But I want it to be with you…if that’s okay?” She looks up now, her big brown eyes coated with tears. “You’ll be gentle with me?”
I return her nod and kiss her on the lips. Just once. “Promise Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll make love to you. Like you want me to. And I’ll hold you tight, baby, all through the night…or...you know...at least until your time’s up.”
CHAPTER THREE
Back at the house, I strip out of my clothes and change. Not that I can smell sex on them—but I still feel dirty for taking Mrs. Fletcher’s money.
Someone bangs on my door and I turn down the Boyz II Men. Stupid song has been stuck in my head since I left her house. Chase throws my door open before I can respond. “House meeting.” He pauses for a beat and focuses on the music. “Is that Boyz II Men?”
“Client research.” I shrug. “I’ll be down in a second.”
***
Now's probably a good a time as any to cover the rules of Boy Toy Corporation.
