Indecent (The Cage Sessions Book 1) (5 page)

I get out of my car and walk up the tiny
driveway. Our house is one of the L-shaped ones you see all over
Florida. 1950s style.

Translation:
no
style. If an office
cubicle were a house, this is what it would look like.

One floor. Cinderblock. A big ugly
floor-to-ceiling patch of glass block tile. No pool. Everyone I
know has a goddamned pool except me.

I open the door and walk inside.

“Annika!” says my mom. “Where’ve you been? I
thought you'd be home already seeing as you had today off."

“Hi, mom” I said. “I wasn't off. Today is my
Miami Improper
day. And I was… uh... at the library doing
research.”

"That's not a real job, dear. It doesn't
pay."

"But it
will
pay, Mom! I'm investing
in myself. Once I build a reputation as a journalist, I'll get
hired at a real magazine. But I've got to do this to start!"

She was unloading a large load of groceries,
putting them away.

"Well, I've never heard of working for free!"
she says. “Plus, you’ll never meet a nice Christian boy that way.
Only those of the devil. You should come with me to the Kingdom
Hall. That’s where you’ll find one.”

“Okay, Mom,” I say.

No, thanks. I did the whole dress up and
preach the Bible thing door-to-door when I was fourteen. When I was
sixteen, I was labeled as a non-believer for questioning basic
Bible teachings using scientific method after learning about
Charles Darwin. My mom has never quite gotten over it.

“Okay you’ll go with me to the Sunday meeting
and
Watchtower
study?” she says.

“No Mom, I told you. I'm never going to one
of those meetings again.”

"But then you won't get into the Kingdom of
Jehovah when He comes to cleanse the Earth! You'll be
destroyed!"

I walk to my room, take out the purple bag,
and stuff it under my bed.

My mom appears at the door.

“What was that?” she says.

Fuck, I can’t get away with one damned thing
in this tiny little house!

“What was what?” I say.

“That crinkly sound. It was like a bag. Did
you buy something?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I bought a new printer
cartridge from Walmart.”

“Oh.”

When I hear her back in the kitchen putting
more groceries away, I take the purple bag out from under the bed
and shove it in a portable file I use to keep organized.

I don't bother to file it under D for Dildo.
Maybe I should put it under N for
Never-going-to-get-used
.

I pour myself a drink. Cheap Gordon's vodka
over ice with lime-flavored tonic water.

Why? Because this night would be like most
nights.

I help my mom prepare dinner, hear a few
thousand Bible quotes about how we’re all sinners and need to be
redeemed, then eat while watching television with her while sitting
on the couch.

If I get up, she tries to guilt me into
staying to watch straight through to the eleven o'clock news. I’m
twenty-two years old but she makes me feel ten.

Maybe that’s why I drink. When she starts
with the Bible stuff, I can’t help myself. Vodka is the only way I
can tune her out properly.

It’s not that I don’t love my mom. I do. But
I told her a while back that I rejected the Jehovah’s Witnesses.
It’s like she never even heard me, though. According to her, she is
right and that's that. If we don't convert, then we're all going to
die.

Tonight the vodka helps keep my mind off the
eight-inch wonder waiting for me.

My plan is to go to bed early, then sneak the
bad boy into my room. Once I’m under my sheets, I have a modicum of
privacy.

Although on the weekend when she washes them,
she’ll ask, “What were you doing here? Why are there stains on
these sheets?”

See, according to my mother, sex is only to
be shared when you are in love and already married. It is something
only men enjoy and women “put up with.” She believes most men just
“use” women, completely dismissing the fact that women have a sex
drive at all. Her most famous phrase is
Go stick it in a light
socket!
Supposedly she used that line on my dad a lot.

He left.

So why don’t I move out? Credit card debt.
College loan debt. A job at a hotel that pays $9.87 an hour, which
in Miami isn’t even enough to afford rent.

Isabella keeps asking me to be her roommate,
but I can’t live with roommates. I'd start to hate her. I had one
for a while at UMiami, but I ended up destroying our friendship. I
don't want that to happen with Isabella.

Plus Isabella lives on Miami Beach in an
ocean-view apartment with a balcony. She comes from money and
doesn’t understand those of us who don’t. Her answer to most things
is “Just take the money out of the account, that’s all.”

I so want to reach out and strangle her when
she says that and say, “That’s the problem, Isabella. There’s no
fucking money in the account! Don’t you get it?”

So, for now, I’m biding my time. Betting on
myself. Investing in myself.

Like that’s going to get me anywhere.

So tonight, after finishing dinner and
"ooohing" and "aaaaahing" over the dramatic turns in my mother's
favorite TV show
Downton Abbey
, I get up from the couch.

“Don’t you want to watch
Mr.
Selfridge?
” my Mom says.

“No, one English costume drama a night is
enough for me,” I say.

“Are you saying you don’t like
Downton
Abbey?
”

My mom just doesn't get it when others don't
think exactly like she does.

“No, mom, I’m not saying that at all. It’s
very well done.”

“But you don’t
like
it.”

Oooh, I hate that accusing tone. Like there's
something wrong with somebody if they don't like it.

“Well, it’s not something I would pick out at
Redbox," I say. "Have you ever seen
Scandal
? I like
that.”

“Yes, but not for long," she says. "They take
the Lord's name in vain too much. And they all sleep with each
other. Tramps, all of them. I wish things were like they were back
in
Downton Abbey
days.”

“What, women at the beck and call of
men?”

“Well, a woman’s place is a woman’s
place.”

Don't go there, Annika. Just let it ride.
Keep your mouth shut and go to bed.

“Good night, Mom.”

“Good night dear. Love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

Oooh, I’m seething. I want to be free. I want
to enjoy my life. But I’m trapped. Trapped by bills. Trapped by
this house.

Shit, I really wish I hadn’t gone to college.
If I’m not going to be able to earn that money back, it’s hardly
worth it to pay it all back, isn’t it?

I climb into bed, listening to my mp3 player.
I have it on shuffle and on comes
Darkest Day
by Eon
Sphinx.

Shit, I forgot about my new dildo. My mom
completely put my sex drive on hold. She has a tendency to do
that.

But here now in my bed, with Damien Cage’s
powerful vocal cords gunning lyrics into my ear canal and heart,
I’m wet again.

In the dark, I sneak over to my portable file
to retrieve my reward.

Ah, come to mama.

I sneak it into the bathroom to wash it off,
then back to my bedroom. Surprised my mom didn't shout out "Is
everything all right?" like she does whenever I go to the bathroom
in the middle of the night.

I get under the covers, placing the big blue
monster on my belly.

I move it upward until the tip pokes out of
the top of the sheet.

So far, so good.

Then I let it come up to my mouth where I
lick and kiss it.

In my mind it becomes Damien Cage's cock.
Ding. Pussy activated. Faucet flowing.

Soon the big toy is in me, stretching and
filling me up with a big happy heft of rhythm.

I get into a good tempo, thrusting with my
left hand. With my right, I draw little circles on my hood.

"Annika," says my mom standing in the hallway
outside my room.

I freeze.

"Uh-huh," I say.

She proceeds to tell me about a scene from
Mr. Selfridge
, completely ignoring the fact that I already
told her I wasn't interested. But it's her house and she'll speak
when she wants. I swear she senses when I'm having any kind of
pleasure and must try to stop it.

The big dildo just rests inside the wanton
chamber inside me that used to be my pussy. Not sure if she's there
anymore. She may have gotten up and walked away, mad that I can't
even masturbate in peace.

My mom finishes describing the scene, urging
me come watch it because it's so "good", then finally says good
night. I watch her through the space between my nightstand lamp and
the wall. She returns to the couch and sits back down.

Why don't I just close the door to my
room?

Good question. I don't have an answer for
that. Maybe I do need a therapist.

I take the chance and begin fucking myself
again.

It's about time
, says my pussy.

Thanks for not giving up completely on
me
, I reply.

Three minutes later I come.

Silently.

Chapter 6

"You got yourself some mother issues there,
girl," says Isabella as she sips her margarita.

"Yeah, I know," I say.

Isabella and I are enjoying happy hour at the
Sunset Lounge. Older crowd, but classy. Not my favorite place, but
you can't beat the view at sunset. The sun is beginning its descent
behind the Miami skyscrapers in a spectacular variety of oranges,
reds, and purples.

I always feel like I'm on display over here.
I know I'm semi-hot, but when I'm not on a Damien Cage-fueled
adrenaline high being pulled over by cops for masturbating in my
car I'm more of a
prefer-not-to-be-ogled
girl. Isabella, on
the other hand, thrives on ogling. The more eyes on her, the
happier she feels.

And there's no shortage of eyes. Isabella
is... how shall I say this?... the most gorgeous girl I have ever
seen in my life. Part Brazilian, part Colombian. Black curly hair
in wild streams. Thick eyelashes. Big full lips. Big brown eyes
that slant upwards a little. Hypnotizing. Amazing perky breasts.
The most perfectly shaped round ass. Long legs that shine and
glisten.

But what I like best about Isabella's
stunning appearance is that it draws attention away from me. I'm
happily invisible when I'm with her.

Don't get me wrong, though. I
am
wearing my tight one-shoulder blue floral mini-dress with Jimmy
Choo pumps and matching blue alligator purse.

Hey, it
is
South Beach! Well, close
enough anyway.

A paunchy fifty-ish man wearing a blue blazer
with a white shirt open at the collar saunters up to our table. A
gold chain hangs over a tuft of gray-and-black chest hair.

"May I buy you ladies a drink?" he says.

"No thanks," I say. "Private
conversation."

My tone is probably a little too nasty. The
oldster snorts and drifts away.

"Annika!" says Isabella. "Why so nasty? He
was nice."

"He's a fossil," I say.

"You're too picky. Not to mention a little
nasty. I spent a night with a sixty year old guy once. He did
things to me with his tongue that no man or woman ever did before.
I'm getting wet just thinking about it now."

"You're sick, Iz."

"You have to let go of your rules. You have
too many damn rules. If there's one thing Tristan taught me, it's
to let go and enjoy life."

Tristan is a billionaire who Isabella can't
stop talking about. He has some sort of weird sexual training thing
in Boston. I say that, even though part of me is considering going
to one of Damien Cage's ass-fisting parties.

"So why didn't you stay there with him?" I
say.

"Because he closed up shop," she says. "Fell
for this girl named Meghan. Who was gorgeous. I wanted her myself,
but she was all about Tristan."

Oh, did I mention Isabella is bisexual?
Probably trisexual, omnisexual, quadrisexual, and pansexual
too.

She used to be a little weird about it but
since coming home she's proud and puts it out there. Tristan must
have been quite something indeed.

"Well, I gotta hand it to you, Iz," I say,
"you're living your life, that's for sure."

"I have sex with the person inside," she
says, "not their physical representation. There's a beautiful human
being inside many ugly or old people, male and female."

"Wish I could get on board with that, Iz, but
unlike you I'm a mere mortal. Now Damien Cage,
there's
physical perfection."

"I'm so jealous, Annika! You sat at a table
with Damien Cage. Did he invite you to one of his parties?"

I take a big swig of my Strawberry
Daiquiri.

"Actually," I say, "yes."

Isabella squeals, then puts her hands up to
her mouth to squelch it. Several eyes look over at us. I'm used to
it. She's done it ever since middle school. Yet another patented
attention-grabbing device.

"You know what goes on at the private
after-party with his select guests, don't you?" she says.

"Of course," I say. "Who doesn't know?"

"What is it he calls it again?"

"Training girls in the Deviant Arts of
Pleasure."

"That's right. And you
know
what his
favorite thing to teach is. Have you ever been ass-fisted
before?"

"Isabella! Keep your voice down. No."

"Sorry. I'm just... wow... Damien Cage...
hmm. Have you been practicing?"

"Practicing what?"

"Stretching out your butthole."

"Iz, I'm not getting ass-fisted! Not by
Damien Cage. Not by any man."

"Annika, this is Damien Cage we're talking
about here. Damien. Cage. Remember you licked your arm where his
sweat fell on you?"