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Well...the one thing Carli Vincenzo did not expect, this evening, was live porn. Granted, she wasn’t exactly supposed to be where she was — hidden in the massive walk-in closet of a massive master bedroom of a massive condo on the twenty-fifth floor of a sleek high-rise on a Saturday night. But since the woman who inhabited that condo was out dining with her latest boyfriend, she really should not have been surprised when they wound up in bed and having very involved sex. The only surprise was how the female one seemed to enjoy him just as much as he was enjoying her...if you went by her groans, gasps, sighs, snarls, groping hands and kicking legs, not to mention perfectly manicured fingernails digging into his totally naked ass.
He was Michael Avery Malsby, and was completely immaterial to the task at hand. Carli’s focus was Anastasia Florencia Deveaux, known as Stasi to her minions.
Her...Carli hated with every fiber of her being.
To start with, she was twenty-three years old, ten years Carli’s junior and fifteen years younger than pretty-boy Mikey. Height? Five-seven. Weight? A hundred and ten pounds. Body by personal trainer, which meant strength was less important than looking good. But a pair of breasts that were overly enhanced by some upscale tool in Beverly Hills threw that off. There was also the rather obvious nose job, which did, at least, help the symmetry of her face while mitigating the cold cruelty in her big, bad, baby-blue eyes. Unfortunately, it failed to mitigate the fact that her head was also a size too large for her body and her hips a size too small.
All of which disgusted Carli.
Seriously, how could any man be attracted to a plastic, entitled bitch that was the personification of Barbie with a mean girl attitude? Was it the challenge of being the one guy who could handle Little Miss I Count And You Don’t when no one else could? All the idiot would find was he had greatly overestimated his prowess in that department.
Yet, here was Mikey, the latest in a long line of them, and Stasi showing a willingness to get as down and dirty and hard at fucking as him meant he probably thought he was important to her.
Men are so stupid, Carli thought to herself.
Of course, ticking off Stasi’s s attributes meant subconsciously comparing them to her own, whether she intended to or not. Yes, she was twenty-five pounds heavier than this wisp of nothingness, but she was also three inches taller, with natural curves and un-enhanced breasts that looked damn good. And she was strong, thanks to fourteen years in the army. She also had brown hair, dark eyes and lips that were the most kissable ever, according to the men she had known, so she had confidence enough in herself and her abilities to not let sluts like this wear her down.
Another thing that helped Carli's self-confidence was watching Mikey honestly think his humpity-humpity-bunny-fucky-fucky way was giving her really good sex. She halfway wondered if she should take him on just to show him the true path to nirvana. The way to so many serious, solid, screaming sensations, you wind up blind, for an instant, at the moment of climax, and that lifts you into the clouds and dances with you amongst the stars. He looked enough like Chris Evans for her to want to, and she knew that if she did, he would never cast a glance at a Barbi-bitch like Stasi...with her too-tight designer outfits to her B-Hills coiffed hair to her silver manicure...again.
Oh, and everything about her was silver! From the molding atop the polished white walls to the floorboards to the drapes drooping next to the sliding glass doors that opened to the silver railing on the balcony...and even the fucking sheets, comforter and duvet! Add to that a six-inch deep carpet in black and white waves with a faux polar bear rug atop it, anyone’s sense of taste would be infuriated. What made it worse was the perfectly-polished shell-like headboard done in chrome and looking like a Debbie Does Dallas version of the mirror scene in The Lady From Shanghai. Especially as it reflected Mikey’s ass moving up and down in a half-dozen angles while Stasi’s legs wiggled beside it like a crab grabbing at the air.
Talk about creepy.
At least the room faced south, to overlook the LA basin. Much better than east or west, where the morning or evening sun might have blasted in against that headboard and shot out beams so hot they could whip up fires as far away as Malibu.
Or Silver Lake.
Of course, it was like that throughout the condo. White everything with silver-framed photos of Stasi on the walls. No plants to cut through the knife-like decor. The only books were on coffee and end tables, all of them wrapped in polished silver bindings.
A peasant’s version of nouveau-riche.
But what could one expect? Daddy built his multi-millions in real estate, working out of a double-wide mobile home in Phoenix for the first ten years. Nothing wrong with that; but daddy was also one of those people who thought wearing ten-thousand dollar bespoke suits with ostrich cowboy boots that cost two-thousand dollars, having a twenty-six year-old trophy wife slapped into a penthouse on Phoenix’s North Central, and buying yourself a seat in the Legislature meant he had class.
As for Stasi’s mom? Playing drunk golf in cotton, khaki and turquoise ensembles outside a faux-Pueblo condo that fronted an evergreen course that cost more to keep watered than the interest payments on America's national debt proved the same lack of taste. Silly people who thought wasting money meant they were important, and who stupidly thought it also bought respect. It was so steeped in desperation, she might have felt sorry for Stasi had the little bitch not caused the death of someone Carli loved.
So Carli had cringed her way through the rooms, looking for the best spot to sit and wait for her prey to come home. Her baby-bro, TF, a massive computer maven, had learned Mikey had reservations at Rudolpho’s Bistro, a fine dining establishment where they charge to breathe the air and recommend at least two hours to truly enjoy your repast.
Carli didn’t ask how he had sourced this info; he was so secretive about his abilities, he wouldn’t have told her, anyway. As he had once said in response to a question, “Better not to know and be able to go than not.”
It seemed to make sense, at the time.
Anyway, despite the building’s vaunted security system, TF had fixed it so Carli could sneak in without being seen, heard, noticed or recorded, he was such a computer maven.
If that description’s still used, today, Carli thought.
“The residents have key fobs to get in and out,” he had told her. “If that’s lost, they have passcodes to override it.”
“Even the garage?” she had asked.
“That’s a micro-bug fixed on the car. It’s automatic and the code is noted in their system. Too easy.”
“And you’ve got the override?”
He had cast her a withering glance that all but screamed, Carls, c’mon.
So in through the garage she had gone. In fact, the only negative aspect was that she had to race up twenty-five flights of stairs within a certain timeframe to get to Stasi’s floor. TF had set their cameras to loop for a certain amount of time, and while she was in good shape that was still more Stairmaster than she’d done in the last six months.
“Damn me for slacking off,” she’d gasped and grumbled at level fifteen.
But they had timed it so she could pop into the condo before the loop ended. Then she had time enough to find the spare keys to Stasi’s big, bad, silver Mercedes, and take some time to Zen. Which she did...
Until she heard the elevator chime and Mikey purr, “Y’know, Stasi, I don’t need another drink...not right now...”
“Oh, are we in a horny hurry? Or about to fall flat?”
God, even the tone of her voice was obnoxious.
Both had sounded a bit drunk with wine and lust, if one went by the giggling and growling between them. So into the closet Carli had slipped, leaving the door open just enough to peek out and watch...and that is where the porn had come in.
She wasn't interested in watching Stasi being undressed in worshipful caresses by big, bad Mikey; it was him she took pleasure in as he doffed his shirt to reveal a well-shaped back. Then dropped his pants to expose tight, dove-gray boxer-briefs covering a nice round butt. Then yanked the briefs off to verify he was definitely concu-boy material.
Oh, and could I handle that, Carli giggled to herself.
Finally, he and Stasi had fallen on the bed and after some kissy-poo he had started his bunny-humping against her. Normally, Carli would consider that a demerit; she liked men who were easy riders, not guys who thought they were on a bucking bronco. But some good clenching action by his cheeks mitigated the notion. As did his strong legs and fine hands, and how his lips focused on her breasts and neck at the same time.
Carli figured he was not like this with his lady, by marriage. The wife was probably there to make a home and care for the kids and present a nice patriarchal front to the world. Which was one reason Carli had sworn never to get married. She had long seen the institution as a means for males to own females and was nowhere near about being equals. To those men, the home-bound-partner was in one cubicle of their tiny brains, the world of available women in another, and thanks to their sense of self-importance, everything was wired to the head of their dick instead of the one on their shoulders.
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