Bootycall

By: J. D. Hawkins

PART ONE




Chapter 1




Dylan



Movie reviews are bullshit, but I like to think the one that said I have the 'eyes of a man before the kill and the smile of one who enjoys it' got it right.

At least tonight, anyway.

I’ve spent almost the entire day working out, and though there’s a dull ache flowing through my body, there’s also that tingle of electricity I get whenever I stand still for too long. A twinge in my muscles that makes me want to move, to find some action. Luckily I know all the right places to find it.

I step out of the shower and towel myself off as I walk into the bedroom, grabbing the beer I left on the desk and downing all of it. It’ll take a lot more than beer to cool off the energy that’s gathering momentum inside of me though. There’s a song with a slow beat and a growling guitar playing, and the dusty light of a dying LA sun highlighting parts of my room through the blinds. I grab my phone as I settle on the edge of the bed and spin through the contacts.

I pause before hitting dial on a friend. I could dress sharp and head out to the bars of Los Angeles, get plenty drunk, and see where my instincts lead me – most likely my place or hers – but that’s not what I want tonight. I love the thrill of the chase, but I’m ready for action right now.

Then there’s ‘Hot Ass,’ ‘Kinky Blonde,’ ‘Finger Sucker,’ ‘Leggy Redhead,’ and all the other girls with talents memorable enough to give them a special place in my contacts, but even that won’t cut it.

Tonight I want something dirty. Something new. Something a little dangerous. My body’s thirsting for a new taste.

I walk through the long hallway and down the staircase that runs to the gigantic den of the mansion, big and empty but for the expensive toys and random beer bottles lying around. I open the BootyCall app on my phone and it presents me with a big green button, the word ‘chat’ written across it like a big understatement. I swipe it with my thumb and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” comes a dark, husky voice on the other end. Now this is more like it. I pour myself some of the whiskey I keep on the coffee table and stretch out on the couch.

“Hello there.”

“So. What you looking for?” she says, making it clear what she’s looking for herself.

“I’m not sure. But I’ll know when I find it.”

She laughs, and it sounds like she’s making love to the phone.

“I like your accent,” she says. “Where you from?”

“I’m Irish.”

“Ooh,” she coos appreciatively. “You got money?”

It’s not my favorite question, but hey, this is Hollywood after all. If I didn’t fuck girls who said stuff like this I’d be a monk here.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling, “I’m fucking loaded. You got a nice rack? Since we’re asking personal questions and all.”

“Thirty-four double-dees. As good as money can buy.”

Again, it’s a weird turn of phrase, but I’ve heard worse.

“So what are you offering?” I ask.

She laughs a little, and I can hear her tongue rolling around her lips as she does so. The combination of a husky voice and my imagination is pretty cock-pulling, and I’m pressing the cold whiskey glass against my boxers to keep my dick from bursting out like something in a monster movie.

“I’m offering a whole night of the dirtiest, nastiest stuff you could ever imagine,” she says, breathing into each word like her body’s so hot even she can’t handle it. My imagination is running wild. “We can do it slow…or we can do it fast…I’ll be like hot chocolate in your mouth…”

“How can I refuse…”

“…for only three grand.”

A cold shower could not have crippled my hard-on more. “What?! Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her voice is all innocence now. “What’s the matter, honey?”

“I thought this was a hook-up app, not a hooker app.” That’s one thing I don’t do.

She giggles. “It’s worth it, sugar. If I like you, I’ll even give you a discount.”

“Yeah, thanks, but no thanks. Paying for sex kinda kills it for me, you know? Good luck.”

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