And the Cradle Will Rock

Chapter 1“She should suck his big c**k. Right then, right there.” A gasp of surprise sped all the way from Richmond, Virginia, shooting through the telephone into the Savannah, Georgia, living room. “Huh? Really?” “Yes, really. No question about it, babe. Think about it. A good old-fashioned blowjob, right there in the boardroom, and during the big meeting.” “But he’s the—” “The chairman of the board. Yeah. During the various marketing reports and presentations, all eyes will continually turn to him to view his reactions. That’s perfect. He’s sitting at the head of the table with no one at his side, right? Imagine the possibilities.” “I’m beginning to do just that…” “I knew you would.” Blythe Larson smiled, plopped the receiver on her right shoulder, and rubbed at her “phone-sore” left ear. She tugged back the curtains, allowing morning sunlight to bathe the room in warm amber, and continued the conversation that had already lasted more than an hour. Thank goodness for her “unlimited calling” phone plan. “The scenario works on several levels,” continued Blythe, “since Babette needs to get Vinnie under her thumb, to reclaim her modeling agency once and for all. She knows all his stuffed-shirt employees will be looking at him, seeking his approval throughout the meeting. And in this situation, she’s got him exactly where she wants him. At her mercy and—every pun intended—by the balls.” “Yes, that’s certainly true,” said Paige Gillette Martinelli, known to the rest of the world as “Antionette Pope” and recently proclaimed the “Number One Erotic Romance Author of the Year” by a popular romance review magazine. “Picture it, babe. There’s our favorite hero, the sexy, stubborn, and always-so-in-control Vinnie Scapulletti—the forever-horny bastard that he is!—tugging on his tie and suffering and squirming and sweating and trying not to shoot his hot load while some boring ‘suit’ is giving a presentation at the other end of the boardroom. Babette has all the power in that scene, and Vinnie knows it. He can’t keep his mind on anything but her lips and expert tongue. And when he voices a decision that does not favor her return to the modeling agency, a few sharp nips from her teeth could straighten him out. And fast. Or she could be merciful and not bring him to orgasm and embarrass the crap out of him, but only if he agrees to the recommendations of the other board members who are in league with her master agenda. Besides, got a better cliffhanger for the end of the chapter?” “Damn it, Blythe. The solution to my problem was so obvious, since the board members start arriving for the meeting during the midst of the argument between Babe and Vinnie. They both need to keep their relationship secret. And she doesn’t want to be discovered by the board members who hate her, so—” “So she slips under the table just as the door opens. When she realizes her dominance in this unique situation, she toys with Vinnie. Then she opens his zipper as she’s always prone to do, and the only one who knows she’s in the room listening to the private meeting—and doing the oral rumba with his stiffy beneath the table—is Vinnie himself.” “You’re right.” Blythe laughed. “I’m always right regarding the scenes of carnal gratification. I guess it comes with practice.” “Oh, really? Do tell! When was the last time you scrambled under a table at the ad agency to suck a c**k?” “Oh, there have been several occasions when I’ve wanted to do just that with a few of our cute junior ad execs, but…” “What stopped you? “Our boardroom tables are made of glass.” Paige giggled. “All of a sudden afraid of spectators, huh? This from the gal who, senior year in high school, did the full nasty with Clinton Meeker under the bleachers at the football game?” “His car was parked too damned far away. Besides, with age comes wisdom…or at least ‘conservativeism’…is that such a word, Ms. Author?” “‘Conservatism,’ actually. And you’re wrong. The last thing you’d ever be is conservative. Or at least, I hope not. Whatever would I do if that happened? I couldn’t ask for a better ‘sounding board’ or ‘test reader’ for my work. Thanks for getting me through yet another case of writer’s block. The deadline for Confessions of a Vengeful Vixen is looming and my editor is starting to put on the pressure. I couldn’t figure out how to resolve that frustrating scene.” “You were just too close to the story, that’s all. You couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Or should that be, you couldn’t see the c**k for the steamy s*x?” Blythe laughed at her own joke, then grabbed her “Life’s A b***h…And So Am I” coffee mug and gulped down the last cold mouthful of Sanka. “Regardless,” continued Paige, “now I have that one special twist, the one I knew the story was missing, and again, it’s all thanks to you.” Blythe grinned in pride, pleased with herself for aiding her best friend in her most recent writing dilemma. Paige had always had a way with words—as the millions of “Antionette Pope” fans could attest—while Blythe couldn’t write her way out of a paper bag. But, although she had no talent for actually penning the blockbusters that had each ridden the New York Times best-seller list and had made her best gal-pal a superstar in the literary world, Blythe did have a sharp mind for plotting. Additionally, she could easily discover flaws in character motivation, detect when a story had begun to languish in too many minute details, and of greater importance, she had a “gift” for dreaming up the hot and steamy s*x scenes, which she happily shared with her friend. Besides, Paige—under her penname Antionette Pope—always dedicated the books to her and gave her a sparkling acknowledgment, which was most definitely good enough for Blythe. “My pleasure, babe. Besides, apart from this ending section, the rest of the book worked perfectly. So perfectly, in fact, that I’m sending you the bill for the case of batteries I went through while reading the draft. And I should probably order another King Dong Vibrator while I’m at it, since mine is now shot from overuse, thanks to you.” Paige burst into another round of giggles. “Okay, it’s a deal. Bill me for the King Dong and a case of Double-Ds and I’ll do my best to explain the purchase to my accountant, and especially to my tolerant hubby. Oh, and speaking of which…” “Not again!” interrupted a male voice from the Virginia end of the telephone line, somewhere in the background, but clearly legible. “Are you two crazy s*x kittens at it again? Isn’t that five times already this week? I think you should both have phone headsets surgically attached to your eardrums and mouths. And say ‘hey’ from me to the wilder half of the Southern Belle Bitches.” “Did you hear that, Blythe?” asked Paige. “My own Italian Stallion sends his regards.” “Yeah, I heard your sexy spouse. And tell him he’s damned lucky to have labeled me the wilder one also, or there would have been hell to pay.” “I don’t know…these days, Vince might not agree with the ‘wilder’ part.” “Oh? Whoring it up with your hubby this week? For shame, Paige, for shame. Although I’m not surprised, since ‘S-E-X’ is what brings in the bucks for you. Why not conduct the most research you can with a handsome stud, right? By the way, is he still on break? I thought he was going back to teaching this week.” “Next week, unfortunately. And I sure will miss him.” “Miss him? Or miss the ‘Stallion Phallus’? That’s the ultimate question.” Her friend did nothing but giggle again. Of course, Blythe knew her best pal well enough to imagine the red cheeks accompanying the laughter. “Okay, so I’ve gotta ask, babe. What the hell are you doing talking to me about the aforementioned ‘S-E-X’ when you could be riding the beefy stallion you married? Don’t tell me the honeymoon is already history. It’s been only a few months.” “Who says I’m not riding him even as we speak?” “I’d normally be jolly for you, b***h, if I wasn’t so jealous, so don’t piss me off, even in jest. Besides, I still find it amusing, and annoying as spit, that you’ve learned to type your naughty books with only one hand while your other hand is always busy stroking that ‘perfectly proportioned p***s of passion’—your words, not mine!” “I hate it when my purple prose comes back to haunt me. Now, speaking of your love department—” “I admire the way you always turn the tables from your outrageous s*x life to mine.” “Did you find a date for the charity banquet and auction?” finished Paige, ignoring Blythe’s sarcastic quip. “Oh, damn it, why bring that up?” A genuine groan poured out of Blythe’s mouth. “It’s hopeless. No one’s available.” “No one? Come on…with your connections? And your big t**s?” “No f*****g one at all. And believe me, I’ve tried…worn the pages of my little black book down to unreadable pages of dust. I stopped just shy of standing on the street and shaking these knockers at passing cars. The single men in this town seem to have vanished overnight, almost as if some Whoring Goddess in the stratosphere decided she needed all the available beefy sperm donors from Savannah for herself.” Blythe scratched her head in frustration and eyed the newspaper ad that had caught—and had held, if the truth be told—her attention earlier that day. “Maybe I should try Acme,” she said, almost in a whisper. “What’s that?” “Oh, nothing, really, it’s just…” A loud and obnoxious groan washed through the phone lines. “Don’t make me guess.” “Oh, hell’s bells! It’s just something stupid.” “Like what?” “You know me…always a hare-brained scheme bound to get me into trouble. Like marrying Dickless, for example. Or like—” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, or like the thousands of pranks you pulled in high school, always dragging me into the mess, making me play ‘Ethel Mertz’ to your ‘Lucy Ricardo.’” Blythe laughed. “Right. Just like those. So just never mind, Ethel, and forget I said anything.” “The hell I will. And I’m too far away to tickle the truth out of you, Lucy, so spill it. What’s on the tip of your tongue that you’re trying so hard not to say?” Feeling like she would burst if she didn’t share her idea with her best gal-pal, Blythe snatched up the crumbled and folded newspaper, her gaze instantly focusing on the section she had outlined earlier with a red marker. “Okay, check out this little ditty I discovered in this morning’s classifieds.” Because she had read the ad so many times since spotting it, the copy spilled from her mouth almost by memory. Still, she uttered the words with an air of disdain, sarcasm, and—she couldn’t help herself—a hint of optimism. “‘Allow us to make you feel like the world revolves around you, yet completely safe and relaxed. Professional, young, good-looking males and females providing intelligent, witty, and romantic company for any occasion. We’re also trained in alternative therapies and massage, so when you call, ask about our special services and rates. Discretion is our middle name. At Acme, we’re at your service—” Blythe paused for dramatic effect “—day or night!” For what felt an eon, silence filled the phone receiver. Then a burst of delight in a union of a gasp-snort shot through the wires. “It’s kismet, I tell you, kismet!” shrieked Paige. “What is?” “The escort ad.” “Oh, yeah, right. Acme? What the hell kind of name is that? ‘At your service day or night, we do the job and do it right…’” Blythe waited a moment for her friend to get the hint and take a breath, then in tandem, they both said the next word into the receiver. “Aaaaaaacme!” Also in unison, they both gave an exaggerated chuckle—”Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.” “Best Curly impression I’ve ever heard from the mouths of females.” Paige chortled. “Who would have thought that two prim-and-proper Southern belles—” “Hey! Speak for yourself.” “Sorry, I forgot…how about one prim-and-proper Southern belle and one amoral Southern slut?” “That’s much better, babe. I pride myself in my licentious experience. Hell, you based your most infamous female character, Babette Hendricks, off of my naughty antics, and that’s my claim to fame, or shame, whatever the case may be.” “Anyway, belles or sluts, who would have thought either type would be die-hard fans of The Three Stooges?” “Yeah, really. But now you can imagine what’s going on in my brain.” “Sure can. But don’t picture a Moe, Larry, or a Curly working for this company and showing up at your door. Instead picture a…hmm…a Biff, Lance, or a Chad.” “Good God! Nice monikers. You’ve been writing smut for way too long, girlfriend.” “Be that as it may, I’m also serious. They’re probably hot, muscular college guys looking to earn extra bucks.” “Says who?” “Says me, or how else would the company stay in business? Hmmm?” “Good point, Miss Marple. Your deduction skills are still in tip-top form. But a college guy?” “It’s not like you’re as old as Mrs. Robinson seducing The Graduate, for s**t’s sake. You’re not even thirty yet.” “True. Still, the prospect of hiring a younger guy makes a part of me feel as if I’d be robbing the cradle.” “Yeah, and the cradle will rock!” “Well, younger guys do have better stamina, right? And gee, I am seriously horny…” “No shock there.” “Piss off. But even though I’m so randy at the moment I could screw the entire fleet of the S.S. Studmuffins—were a ship like that bound for Savannah, I wish!—that’s hardly cause to give these—dare I say, stooges—a jingle.” “But you’re also desperate, my friend, and that does make a big difference.” “Another good f*****g point.” “And don’t forget, you’re still a knockout, so any college guy the agency sends will likely think he won the s****l lottery.” “Thanks for saying that, babe. You are a true pal.” “A pal who wants to encourage you to do something, however drastic, just like you encouraged me once upon a time.” Blythe smiled in remembrance. A little more than a year earlier, she had convinced her somewhat-shy friend to return home to Savannah for their ten-year high school reunion. What Paige didn’t know at the time, however, was that Blythe had played matchmaker. She had sent copies of her friend’s naughty bestsellers to their former English teacher, Vince Martinelli, knowing how her friend had always wanted to “snag him” and suspecting that the studly teacher, who would be in attendance at the event, had always had a “fondness” for his former student. The plan had succeeded better than anyone could have imagined, and just months afterward, Blythe had acted as maid of honor at the couple’s romantic wedding in Virginia. Blythe still patted herself on the back for her scheming genius, one of her finest moments, she thought with no small degree of modesty. “If it wasn’t for you and your manipulations,” continued Paige, “Vince and I wouldn’t be together right now.” “Yeah, well, I suppose so, babe…but…” “Hell, I wouldn’t be stroking that huge c**k with my free hand even as we speak. Just think about that.” “b***h. And I didn’t even get a finder’s fee from you or the Italian Stallion. But you do have yet another f*****g point, which is why you’re not only a b***h, but a b***h Queen!” “I prefer b***h Goddess, thank you very much. But seriously, you have to attend the event and face Richard and his new wife, right?” “You mean Dickless and the second Mrs. I-Ain’t-Getting-d**k Whitaker? Probably not even a lick either, poor gal, knowing him and his phobias about germs. And not to mention all my ‘dickless’ and ‘lickless’ ex-in-laws.” Another laugh. “Exactly, so just because you’re in between boyfriends at the moment doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go without a rent-a-stud on your arm. Besides, who’s gonna know you ‘rented’ him, anyway?” “I will. But again, you do have another damned point.” The idea of hiring an escort for a single evening, an honest-to-goodness, no-strings solution to her nagging dilemma, so intrigued Blythe, she fell into a speechless lethargy. So long so that Paige interrupted her frantic musings by calling her name several times. “Oh, yeah, sorry, babe, I’m still here. I was just thinking…” “About taking my advice?” “Yeah, that, and also wondering just what type of studs these guys really do have at their disposal. After all, your notion about the good-looking college guys is probably death-on. They’re likely pleasant looking enough or otherwise they would have christened the company ‘Ac-ne’ instead of ‘Ac-me.’ Stands to reason.” “And?” “And what?” “And you’re undoubtedly also wondering what size wieners they have for you to play with, right?” “Damn it, wench, you do know me all too well.” Blythe sighed. “And I miss you dearly.” “Miss you, too. Now hang the hell up and call that damned escort service before this upcoming weekend is booked solid and you’re really forced to prowl the streets for a date. What have you got to lose, anyway, apart from a few bucks for their fees? Just fill me in on all the details. You know what I need…face type, body type, hair color, eye color—” “And their length and girth in exact inches. Yes, yes, I know the drill. Your alter-ego ‘Antionette Pope’ needs the specific juicy fodder for her next worldwide blockbuster.” Before her giggling friend could drive her even more batty by spouting additional valid points, Blythe hurriedly said her good-byes, then punched in the telephone number in the ad—which, like the ad copy, she had also relegated to memory.