Her email stated: “Arriving Miami on the 4th for ten days. Book me a room at the Delano with an ocean view. Shave your head bald. Wax your chest, pubes, and ass.”
I hadn’t seen Lady Sarah in nearly a year, since I visited the UK. The Brits say the weather’s always bad there. I honestly couldn’t tell, since I spent the entire week locked in a dog crate in her basement, slurping spaghetti from a plastic bowl without my hands. Such bliss!
She had commanded me not to masturbate until I got back to the States. Yeah, right! As soon as I left her beautiful home, I handed the taxi driver a hundred-dollar bill and told him to keep his eyes facing forward. I hunched down in the back seat, pulled my cock through the fly, and jacked a load into a sock. The driver kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror. I swear that guy’s a perv!
I got home late from work on the 4th and checked my email, expecting further instructions from Lady Sarah. Nothing! My heart threatened to break. Maybe she didn’t come? Maybe her flight was delayed? Maybe she had come, but didn’t wish to see me?
I began to drink myself into a depressed stupor, until I remembered the answering machine. The crystal full of Bacardi fell from my fingers onto the terra cotta tile as I jumped for the phone. I dialed the number, screwed it up, dialed it again, entered the pin, and… YES!!! Her voice!
“Slave, knock on my door tomorrow morning, 9am sharp. We’re going to the beach.”
I fucked my sheets wildly that night, then fell asleep in the wet spot.
At the concierge’s desk, I stood impatiently behind a New Yorker. They’re an easy breed to spot. Much to my surprise, he asked for Lady Sarah’s room number!
“I’ll announce you, sir.” That’s how the staff is at the Delano. Nice, polite, and first rate. Like they’ve got rods up their asses.
“Announce me, too,” I said to the concierge, but I bore my eyes into the New Yorker. We sized each other up. Taller than me, thinner, not bad looking. His head was shaved bald, too, just like mine. I puffed out my carved chest and flexed my ripped biceps. I’m sure the same “what the fuck” thoughts swam through both of our minds. He held two wrapped gifts in his hands, plus roses. Roses? Typical New Yorker.
I only had one gift, but it was bigger than both of his combined. And I had a bouquet of the most beautiful native flowers, fresh from the Everglades. The score was in and I was winning.
“Gentlemen, you can both go up.”
Up the elevator went, just the two of us. Silent. At the door to Lady Sarah’s room, we checked our watches and found ourselves two minutes early. So, we stood and waited. Silently. He stood taller and straighter. I puffed out my muscles.
I guess his watch was faster than mine, for he knocked a full 17 seconds before I would have, then stood in the middle of the doorway, completely blocking me out. Asshole!
Footsteps approached the door from inside. It was her! I knew it would be her! The locks and latches were all undone and nervous anticipation gripped my spine. The door opened and…
A fag answered the door. How did I know he was a fag? Because he stood in the doorway in just a bright pink thong bikini! His bulge jutted out prominently, even though not erect. No hair on his chest and a shaved bald head. Besides, South Beach is a mecca for wild party types and many of those are gay. That’s how I knew he was a fag. What the fuck? Had Mr. New York and I both gotten the room number wrong?
The fag in the bright pink thong bikini with the shaved chest and bald head spoke to the New Yorker in a British accent. “You must be Metro Slave.” Then, the fag looked past Mr. New York/Metro Slave at me. “And you must be Crayon. My name is Cunt Slut. Come in, please. Lady Sarah is expecting you both.”
