Not the Marrying Type
INtrinSicliValud
Not the Marrying Type
By INtrinSicliValud
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 INtrinSicliValud
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: intrinsiclivalud100@yahoo.com
“You should marry me, Kayla,” a tall, well-built, tuxedo-wearing man says after pulling his luscious, pillow-like lips from mine.
With thick wavy blonde hair and soul-devouring blue eyes, he’s a little older—late-thirties. But, wow, is he good-looking. Legit cover model material. Cliche chiseled jaw harboring just the right amount of dark stubble.
With the limo slowing and his glimmering, hopeful pools boring into me, I can’t answer. Women like me don’t get married. Beneath my dress, his large hand presses on my bare thigh, but my mind is flickering to a thousand years ago. To a world so far away as to be on another damned planet. And the first time I’d heard those exact words.
____
“You should marry me, Kayla.” With wispy gray hair, the corpulent man settled back in his wheelchair and grinned.
As a snorting laugh escaped me, I straightened my pleated skirt. While gliding a nail under his chin, I flashed him my cutest smile. We’d done this almost every time.
“Now, Mr. Kincaid. First, I’m way too young for you. And second, Mrs. Kincaid may not approve.”
He laughed. “She’d never know—”
“Besides, you can’t afford to keep me,” I cut him off, skipping ahead in our usual post-fuck banter.
Between the bus stop in front of the EconoLodge motel where I’d earned my first real money and home, he was my most convenient weekday customer. A lonely shut-in, he was a nice enough guy to whom life had dealt some shitty luck. A vet who should’ve turned to the left but went to the right and got blown up.
And, as one of the most generous clients, he always overpaid. After counting out my fee, he held out the cash. While flashing him a smile, I scooped my fingernail along his lower lip.
“You missed a bit,” I said while sliding the finger into his lips.
With his cataract-clouded blue eyes twinkling, he sucked. We both knew it was pure bullshit. He was meticulous, always cleaning me out after we fucked. To be honest, he spent much more time tonguing me than I did bouncing on him. But it was his thing, and I sure didn’t mind. Hell, on most days I’d get a decent quickie boom out of his proficient tongue work.
And as he sucked on my digit, he was enjoying his fantasy world a little longer. It was the least I could do for him. But time was money, and with a sigh, I slid my finger free.
“Sorry about your mama,” he said as I shoved the wad of cash into my book bag.
Rather than say anything, I gave him a sad expression and nodded—sadly. I wasn’t sorry about her. She’d died as she’d lived. An opioid victim, some whispered behind my back. From her I’d learned a valuable lesson, nothing stronger than high-quality booze and good weed. Although I’ve never been one to turn down the occasional snort of coke at a party. But that was as much as I’d partake. At least, back then.
“Gotta go, Mr. Kincaid.” I hefted the bag to my shoulder and flashed him another smile. “Same time, next week?”
“Of course, my cute little chocolate fuck-bunny.”
After giggling at his adorable nickname for me, which I earned every time, I leaned closer to let him kiss my cheek and run a wrinkled, pale hand under my skirt. With a quiet laugh, I pranced away and dashed from the trailer. Like I said, he was one of my best customers.
While skipping past the shiny “Dead End” sign outside my neighborhood, I flashed my usual middle-fingered salute. I mean, did the county have to hammer the point home? I lived—no, existed—in a dead-end town. In a dead-end world. But I managed to whistle a jaunty tune while heading along a weed-lined dirt path behind the fancier homes.
“One day,” I whispered while sniffing the pool chemicals and pristine freshly mowed lawns.
But no time soon.
After reaching the back gate of one of the larger houses, I pulled out my mirror and applied the vibrant cherry lipstick this guy enjoyed. Once done, I eased the creaking black iron wide and sauntered across a broad backyard. The glittering blue water of an immense pool continued sending ripples of light over me even as I reached a glass slider at the rear of the house.
With a lopsided smile, the kid was waiting. Sallow-skinned and bone-thin, he wasn’t much older than me. At his curt gesture as he slid his shorts down, I dropped the book bag and started my little dance. As my tight white blouse and skirt fell away, he got that usual wide-eyed glassy expression while running a fist along the cutest thin, rosy dick.
Once I was down to the snowy cotton panties and bra, he began to shake. White people really loved the whole white on black skin thing. Which meant better money. Win-win.
Even as I slipped to my knees and pressed my mouth to the glass, he was already bucking. When I widened my lips, smearing red all over the door, his mushroom mashed against the other side, spreading clear juice across the glass. The ultimate safe sex.
But damned if he didn’t enjoy it. Not long after I shoved my hand into my bra to flash the slightly lighter flesh of a bare tit and dark nipple, his muffled grunting echoed. And no sooner had I dragged my tongue along the cool glass than his twitching little dome sent spurts of glistening white across the inside.
Boom, an easy fifty bucks.
Which he tossed out in a roll of tens as I dressed. He was gone by the time I lifted the book bag. Not sure what his deal was, but his mom had hired me.
Fifteen minutes later, and I was at the last regular for the day. A dilapidated office trailer at the edge of an equipment yard. As I slipped inside, the chill of air conditioning going full blast spread goosebumps across my slim frame.