Calico (Love Binge Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Calico

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Continue Reading

  Calico

  Love Binge 2

  Carrie Breeze

  Other works by Carrie

  Malory

  Stepmom Vacation

  PEG!

  Thirsty

  P CLUB

  Got Jacked

  Pork

  Big Bad Stepbrother

  Stepbrother Lover

  Calico

  by Carrie Breeze

  Copyright © 2016 Carrie Breeze

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED WORLDWIDE

  No part of this book may be copied,

  reproduced, or downloaded to the

  internet without prior written consent

  from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed

  in this book are fictitious and come

  Strictly from the mind of the author.

  All characters portrayed are 18+

  at the time of sexual activity

  Chapter 1

  Calico’s Dream

  *Calico*

  I wake to the patter of rain on the metal roof. The muted light of a lazy wet dawn diffuses in through the blurry window panes. I’m in Dill’s bed. In the back of his Quonset hut. On the other side of a beaded curtain from Dill’s electronics shop. He’s not here. Didn’t make it in last night. Must have met up with someone. Gives me a chance to daydream. Hmm….

  I’m naked and totally warm and mello. Hmm… I love nothing better than the freedom to just lie in bed on a rainy morn. A car splashes by on Minnesota Avenue. The room smells of patchouli. I love the world. I want to make love to the whole wide world and everyone in it. Hmm…. Words cannot express the feeling. They don’t exist in my present mind. Just a stream of images. Naked bodies. Multitudes of beautiful men and women all making love together in a warm sun-drenched meadow with flowers all around. It’s like the anti-Fight Club. It’s Fuck Club. Total peace. I check out of the straight-jacket so-called real world of clock time. Just let existence be.

  My daydream floats me back two years to when Dill, Norman Dillinger Sunday - I love his name, and I first hooked up. I was hitchhiking across country on my way to San Fran. Doing a Kerouac thing. Dill picked me up in St. Paul. He was drunk as a skunk. He told me his story. How he had been living in Boston for nine years pursuing his dream as a writer but not really making a go of it when his wife got killed in a car crash. That totally crushed him. He needed a change. So he sold most of his stuff, packed the rest of it in the back of an old Chevy Suburban, and came back to his roots. To Minnesota. Headed toward the town of Worthless Bastard. Can you dig that name? I mean, it sounded like a place for Beat people. Kerouac’s people. What’s that famous line from Kerouac? “I want to be with the mad ones. Mad to live. Mad to fuck….” Ha. Can’t remember how it all goes. Anyway, so I said to Dill, “Take me there.”

  I know what you’re thinking. How does a town get a crazy name like Worthless Bastard? In one of the town parks there’s a bronze plaque on a statue of George Philips, the town’s founder, that tells the story. Founded back in 1857. Philips was a Minneapolis milling magnate. He sent his son-in-law, Robert Beerstad, out into the untamed territory to stake a claim for a milling site. He was to meet up with a band of the Dakota Souix who would guide him to the site. He took along a wagon-load of Jewelry and whiskey for leverage. Well, it turned out they got lost in a March blizzard somewhere near the present day location of Foxhome. And, to avoid a Donner party type situation, the half dozen men in Bob Beerstad’s expedition consumed all the alcohol and beef jerky they had. By time the Souix rescued them three days later the whole thing turned into a bead and whiskey deal gone sour. The explorers were conned into settling a useless tract of land along the mosquito infested banks of the Ottertail River.

  Highly ticked, Mr Philips named the new settlement Worthless Bastard in dishonor of his drunken Son-in-law. Over the years the town has weathered many attempts to have its named changed to something more pleasant like Goose Down Falls or Fortuitous Find. But they have always been thwarted by a stipulation attached to the town charter. Something to do with a lucrative trust fund set up by Mr. Philips that would be lost and all the town’s land reverting back to the Souix should the name ever be changed.

  And so, today we have the thriving town of Worthless Bastard, Minnesota. Nicest town in America.

  Anyway, so I peg Dill to be one of those “mad ones” and I hop in his ride, the Burban, as he calls it. It’s filled to the gills with all his worldly lovethings and we head northwest on State Highway 55. One thing we have in common, we both like the back roads.

  He is so vivid. He’s right here with me now.

  About a half hour up 55 we’re somewhere around this farmer’s town called Cokato where we pull into a convenience store and pick up a six pack of Old Mill and hit the road again. It’s a hot sunny afternoon. We’re cruising along, each of us has got a cold can of beer in our hands. I’m in tight jean shorts. I kick off my tennies onto the passenger floor and lean back against Dill’s massive bicep. I stick my bare feet out the passenger window.

  “Those dreadlocks of yours feel like burlap,” he laughs. He’s real loose, checking me out, my long slender tanned legs. I grab his burly right hand and guide it down to my tender inner thigh. He smiles at me. Until then our road talk had been mostly of trivial stuff. Stuff like how much Minneapolis has changed in the nine years he’d been away - things like there’s three new stadiums, the light rail, old hang-outs that have disappeared.

  He squeezes and caresses my thigh and runs his sausage fingers up and down all along my loins.

  I purr, snuggling his rock of a shoulder.

  “So what do you have planned in Worthless Bastard?”

  “I’m just going to chill awhile.”

  “You still got family there?”

  “Just an aunt. Aunt Jane. Librarian at the Worthless Bastard Public Library. Got my dad’s shop, too.”

  “What’s your dad’s shop?”

  “Dad was a TV repairman. Had a shop, Norm’s TV and Repair. As a kid I hung out there and helped him. Learned a little about fixing TVs what have you. It’s been closed since he died. Cancer, back in oh-five. I’d like to get it up and running again.”

  “That’s cool. Can I help?”

  I’m wearing nothing but a plaid cotton shirt. The front tails tied in a knot at my ribs. No bra underneath. I take a sip of beer. The can is cold and beaded with sweat.

  “Check this out,” rubbing the cold can against my nipples. The moisture soaks through the shirt intensifying my pleasure. My nipples go from zero to hard-on in two-point-one seconds. Dill sees this and slobbers beer all down his bare hairy chest. He almost loses control, swerving across the centerline. But corrects, barely missing an on-coming Toyota, it’s tinny horn blaring before going Doppler, trailing obscenities from the driver.

  Dill’s now got a tent in the crotch of his Levi’s that could easily house a full-grown python. I reach over, undo his pants and pull out his huge lizard. God, I love the feel of rock-hard cock. Just the sight and touch of him’s got my pussy watering.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You want to help me get the shop up and running.”

  “You’ll need an assistant.”

  “Know anything about old radios and TVs?”

  “I know about music and how to turn a record on a stereo.”

  “There’s an idea. We could sell vintage vinyl.”

  “I know about sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll. Here let me give you an audition. I peel off my shor
ts. I go pantyless for convenience. Skooch over on top of him. Squeezing in to the tight space between his chest and the steering wheel. He sits up to make more room. Doing his best to stay in our lane as I lower my pussy down onto his throbbing shaft. I grab the back of the seat around his shoulders and start bouncing up and down on him like I’m riding a bronco out in the Badlands.

  “God what a rush,” pressing my mouth to his. His eyes are popping trying to see the road around me while maintaining seventy miles per.

  “Oh, man, ain’t this the wildest fuck ever?”

  Farmers in pickups honk as they stream by.

  He’s got me in a fuck frenzy. Grinding myself down onto his cock. Squirming, twisting, panting, pounding. I’m so crazy for him I’m sucking the lips off bis face.

  We swerve off the road into the ditch. Fall out into the tall soft wet grass. I feel his weight heavy upon me.

  “Cal… Cal.”

  He’s calling me. Shaking my shoulders.

  “Cal. I need you.”

  My lashes flutter open. My dream flutters away like a butterfly leaving behind the blue-gray dawn of Dill’s bedroom.

  “Honey, you’re back… look at you. You’re all wet. Were you been all night?”

  “I don’t know, dear. But I think I’ve done something bad.”

  “Oh, My sweet Dill. Nobody as sweet as you could ever do anything bad. How did you get so wet?”

  He seems dazed and confused. I help him out of his jeans and pull him back into bed. We cuddle. His body feels damp and clammy like a dead fish. I wrap my warm legs around his thighs and hug him tight, burying his head in my breasts.

  “Why do you think you’ve done something bad?”

  “It was a strange night. I’m driving home from Cliteral with a load of TVs and I come upon Malory Mark naked on the highway.”

  “What? Malory, the preacher’s daughter?”

  “Yes, the Reverend Mark’s daughter.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Don’t know. I gave her a lift. Stopped at Quick Pump for beer. Deputy Ramirez was there. The two of them are seeing each other, you know.”

  “Yes, I heard… from Downy at the dentist’s office.”

  “Well, the deputy was looking for her. But Malory hid in my truck. I picked up the beer. That’s all I remember. I blacked out. Woke about half an hour ago, face down in the gravel alley behind Quick Pump. Rain pouring down on me. Get up, stumble back to the Burban. Malory’s gone. The beer is gone. I got a bad feeling. I’ve really fucked up this time. I probably got wasted, fucked Malory and done who knows what hideous things to her.”

  “Oh, sweetie. Try not to think about it. We got a couple hours before we open. Let’s just hold each other tight and bask in the beauty of this blissful world.”

  Chapter 2

  Blaine Wyndmere’s Secret Jack-off Journal

  March 21, 2016

  5:30AM Woke feeling erotic and gave into searching internet porn sites for girls who look like Malory. After a couple hours I found a near-identical look-a-like. She was lying in bed asleep with her legs spread wide showing her huge blond bush. I pleasured myself imagining that’s how Malory slept every night and I ejaculated contemplating sneaking into her room in the middle of the night and having intercourse with her like that without her waking.

  I wiped up my spilled semen with a crusty hanky I keep under my pillow because I like the smell of dried cum.

  Almost immediately I felt remorse realizing how damaging my fantasies are to her honor and to my image of her. It only reinforces my obsession with her and introduces the false idea that sex is free without need of conversation and relationship. It further damages my own self-image.

  Recently, Malory has begun mentioning hanging out with a “friend.” Sometimes, if she’s away for the evening, when she gets back I ask her what she’s been doing. She’ll say her friend helped her fix her car or something. But that’s all. She won’t elaborate. Won’t even give me a name. This sets off flares of jealousy. And now, whenever I hear her talking down below, I feel a pang of fear that she might be on the phone with the “friend.” I drop to the hardwood floor of my bedroom and put my ear to it. It transmits sound so well I hear my heart beating loud as day. I have to lift my chest off the floor, then I can hear down into her bedroom. This time she’s speaking to her father. My nerves relax. I go back to reading C.S. Lewis.

  8:15 Thought I heard talking. Put my ear to the floor…. Nothing.

  8:30 Ear to floor again….Nothing. Must have briefly said something to the Reverend.

  10:30 I spy on Malory through my window as she and her dad leave on an evangelical outing. After they’re safely gone I’m tempted to go down into her room and sniff her dirty panties. Why would this not be a good idea? It would only contribute to my low self-esteem and tarnish her image. I would become untrustworthy. It would damage my capacity to respect her and diminish my ability to speak openly with her. After much self-debate, I give in to snooping in her bathroom. Just to satisfy my curiosity about what kind of personal things she keeps. Like shampoo, facial scrubs, feminine hygiene, etc. My heart is racing the whole time. Fear her returning unexpected. I go back to my room.

  11:45 While cleaning the lint screen on the dryer I came upon an unexpected treasure - a long, thick, shiny, twisted blond pubic hair. It is undoubtedly hers since she is the only blond in the house. I carefully extract it from its bed of lint and put it between my lips. I relish its coarse texture and imagine this is what it would be like to give Malory cunnilingus. I suck on this invaluable find and search the screen for more but find none. Back up in my room I find a tiny plastic bag to preserve the pube and hide it in the back of my copy of Infinite Jest.

  What does this specimen from her privates do for me? Does it bring me closer to her?

  1:00PM I comb the bathroom floor around her toilet for pubic hair. Nothing.

  1:15 Against all decency, I harvest four of her long blond hairs from the rim of her bathtub and then found another waiting for me on the bathroom floor. I save them. Start a collection of Malory’s hair. I need to do this in order to maintain my possession of her.

  7:18 Haven’t heard from her all day. I feel disappointed when she does not call me. This leads to brooding and feelings of inadequacy over the loss of her attentions to someone else. Tempted with thoughts of self-pity, thinking that when she sees me it’s not out of desire but out of obligation or, worse, out of a sense of kindness. These thoughts are triggered by the growing realization that her text messages have become less frequent. She doesn’t message me on her own initiative but only in response to mine.

  8:00 Thoughts of fear and anger toward her “friend” are brought on by the speculation that she might invite him into the house sometime when her father is away, creating an anxiety scenario.

  10:00 Malory and I had planned to meet after she and her father finished eating. I went down stairs. Her bedroom door is closed - probably on the phone with the friend. Big time anxiety. Go back upstairs and put my ear to the floor. Nothing. Might be texting. Don’t let this destroy you. Maintain perspective.

  A few minutes later we meet. Question her. She was texting her friend Jade Haugenson who waitresses at Phuc’s Po House - the Vietnamese restaurant in town. What a relief. We Bible study for half an hour until she’s nearly falling asleep and then we say good night.

  11:00 Searching porn sites, I accidentally hit upon a gay video. Watch it out of curiosity. My penis feels titillated. I get hard and ejaculate. What just happened? Describing my feelings - such acts are so taboo to me that I think the thrill of transgression released me from my anxiety and jealousy feelings about the “friend.” Can’t make a habit of this though.

  11:48 Prayers and bed time.

  Chapter 3

  Blaine Panics

  Blaine Wyndmere didn’t get much sleep last night. He worked part-time cashiering at the new Blackmart megastore out by I-94. His usual morning routine was to enjoy a long delicious lie-in. Hugging
his pillow and fantasizing about holding Malory in his arms and the things they might do together. But this morning was different. He hadn’t seen nor heard from her since he helped her put away the folding chairs after last night’s Bible study. He remembered one of the BroFos coming to Malory and telling her that her father needed her in the sacristy. He hung around waiting for her return. Waited till nine-thirty and then figured she’d probably gone home to bed. But why hadn’t she told him. He texted her. Got no reply. Went home himself.

  This morning, at eight, he texted a “Good morning, Malory.” Message to her. Still no reply. Her Facebook Messenger page showed that she hadn’t been active for twelve hours.

  Odd. She’s a popular girl with a ton of Fb friends.

  Bordering on disturbing.

  He and the Marks lived in the house next to Church of the Immaculate Revelation. Malory’s Neon was still parked out front. Its windows still fogged with night condensation. It would be too rude to knock on the pastor’s door and inquire about her. That act might also raise suspicions in the Reverend’s mind about Blaine’s true feelings toward his daughter.

  Blaine took a long hot shower and then hopped into his clunker hand-me-down Honda Prelude. Worthless Bastard was getting hammered by thunder showers and Blaine had a broken wiper but he did the best he could. She was a barrista at the Coffee Cabin on Humphrey Avenue. He drove downtown and went into the coffee shop. Marlene the manager was working. She asked him if he’d heard from Malory because she hadn’t called in. He told her he hadn’t and ordered a medium hazelnut with cream and sugar and then left. He texted her again, asking her if she was ok. Waited several minutes, parked across the street.