Indecent (The Cage Sessions Book 1) (2 page)

"Step out of the car!" he says.

I open the door and gingerly get out, hoping
the dong will fall out onto the car floor.

But no.

My panties keep it in just long enough for me
to stand up.

Thanks, panties. Glad you got my back
there.

Then the weight of the dildo allows it to
slide past them.

Plop!

Right onto the ground.

With a little bounce and a flop.

The cop looks down, his gun still pointed at
me.

Everyone stopped next to us looks down.

The cop tries to suppress a laugh, but it
comes out as a snort.

He holsters his weapon.

I hear whistles from somewhere.

The cop, visibly embarrassed, puts on as
square a face as he can muster.

"Pick that up please, miss," he says.

I pick it up. It jiggles and flops all over
the place.

"Woo-hoo!" shouts someone from a car.

"Hey!" shouts the cop, scanning the drivers'
faces for who said it.

Here's where I do something that I can't
believe I do. It just hits me. I don't know if it was my nerves,
the mad adrenaline, or just the fact that the crowd was watching me
and I got caught. Something about getting caught doing something
bad kicks me up a notch.

So as his attention is away from me and on
the crowd, I hold the dildo up and give it a big lick on the side
that didn't touch the pavement.

When he turns back to me, I innocently throw
it in the car. I see a few thumbs-ups and fist pumps behind
him.

"Distracted driving is a serious issue,
miss," he says.

"Yes, officer," I say, "I'm sorry."

"So is driving in the breakdown lane. I don't
care how much of a rush you're in to get somewhere. You can't just
drive in the breakdown lane. Now, I'm going to write you a ticket
for that alone. Hand me your license and registration and then sit
back in your car."

I get in to the sound of a few more whistles,
and retrieve the paperwork.

The cop takes it, goes to his car, and gets
in.

As soon as his door closes, cheers and
applause erupt from several cars.

"Suck it!" shouts someone.

"Put it in your ass!" shouts someone
else.

Possessed by an unknown force, I pick up the
big jiggly cock and place the base onto the top of my steering
wheel. The big head points directly at my mouth. From inside his
cruiser, I'm not sure if the trooper can see me. I only see the
back of his head in his side mirror.

I don't know what gets into me, but the
excitement and the danger of getting caught are sending me into a
hyper-sexual frenzy.

I love having an audience.

God, I must be a slut.

I open my mouth and lean forward, taking the
entire head of the cock into my mouth. I move my head back and
forth.

Hoots and hollers everywhere.

The cop leaps out of his car and shouts
"Quiet!" to the crowd.

I throw the dildo on the passenger seat. He
glares at me. I just smile at him, then he gets back in the
car.

I look over at the crowd. I'm getting fist
pumps all over, except for a few prudes who give me a disgusting
look.

Fuck
them
!

I make a curtsy-like movement with my hands
like I'm taking a bow.

The cop returns, hands me the ticket, and
says, "Have a nice day."

As he turns his back on me, I pick up the
dildo, hold it up to my audience, point at it, then point to
him.

Laughter and cheers erupt.

"Hey!" shouts the cop at them.

Then he gets in his car and drives off. I
follow him surrounded by applause.

Chapter 2

The day had begun as it usually does on
MiamiImproper.com
days. I wake up, shower and make up, get
dressed, then drive to Panera Bread for a bagel and coffee.

I have two jobs. I write feature articles for
MiamiImproper.com
, an online magazine about local fashion,
entertainment, and nightlife.

The other is a part-time gig at Studio
Suites, an extended stay-type hotel that's quiet and allows me to
write while on duty at the desk.

But today is all about my chosen career,
writing.

Which pays shit.

As in, nothing.

But I do it because a) it gets me into places
and things that I would never be able to get into otherwise; b) I
get to meet a lot of movers and shakers; and c) I'm developing my
name as a journalist.

I look at it as investing in myself.

The cramped offices of
MiamiImproper.com
are located between a private eye's office
and a promotion company in the back of a strip mall behind a
Chinese restaurant and a liquor store.

Glamorous, huh?

Normally when I arrive I log on, check email,
and make action plans for my assignments.

But today, Steve comes in all excited.

I love Steve. He started
MiamiImproper.com
from his university dorm room, growing it
into... well, okay it's not much right now... but we do get some
semi-decent advertising revenue. Not enough to pay me, but
whatever. I'm investing in myself, remember?

Steve is a big black gay man. And when I say
big, I mean fucking jacked. When he's not working obsessively on
the website, he's at the gym.

Handsome in a masculine yet beautiful way.
Always impeccably dressed in the latest fashions. Short hair with a
carved part. Goatee. Sharp.

"Annnnnn-ika!" he says as he barrels in with
his bright green briefcase all a-smiling. "I'm so
exciiiiiiiiii-ted! I've got news! Come in my office right now,
bitch."

"Coming, dickwad," I say with a smile. I love
Steve.

"Annika Annika Annika! We're about to go big!
And when I say big I mean huge! And when I say huge I mean two feet
long and
throb-bing!
"

I sit down across from his desk in his
cramped office. A framed
Some Like It Hot
poster hangs on
the pastel wall behind Steve. Marilyn Monroe winks at me while Tony
Curtis and Jack Lemmon in drag look surprised.

"I got us an interview with somebody huge,"
he says. "This is going to put us on the map. And girl, I want
you
to do it."

Now I'm getting excited. Who?

"Are you ready?" he says.

"Yes, I'm goddamned ready. Tell me!"

"Damien Cage."

I feel a gash attack coming on. My skin
tightens and my knees twitch. Fluids run free.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I must need a hearing
aid. I swear you just said Damien Cage."

"I did!" says Steve with a little squeal.

"Damien Cage. Frontman for Eon Sphinx.
America's Top Voice
judge. That Damien Cage?"

"Yes,
that
Damien Cage."

I'm in a full-on gash attack now. Almost
shaking.

"You don't mind if I masturbate right here,
do you?" I say.

"Only if I can join you, sis," he says.

"Oh my God! I'm going to interview Damien
Cage! Are you fucking serious?"

"You're going to interview Damien Cage!"

"My God, when?"

"At two."

"Two when? Two what?"

"Two p.m."

"Fuck no. Today? No, no no no. I have to go
home and change. I can't let him see me in this."

"You look hot in that. Perfect hipster chic.
He'll like it."

"No," I say, "I need something hotter."

"Girl, you have no idea how hot you are. You
would look hot in a flowered shirt and old man jeans after crawling
out of a pile of donkey poop."

"That's why you're sending me instead of
giving it to Dale or taking it yourself, right? Because you think
he'll open up more to me."

"Honey, Damien Cage is the most heterosexual
man on planet Earth. He will
only
talk to hot girls. He
wouldn't even notice me if I was in the room naked with a spotlight
on me. It's so unfair. So do your research, line up some questions,
and get ready to interview Damien Cage. I know you'll rock it out
like you always do."

Research? Is he kidding? I have every Eon
Sphinx song ever recorded on my mp3 player. In high school, I had a
poster of Damien Cage and his naked chest on the wall of my room
until my mom told me to take it down because she called it "filth."
My best friend Isabella and I were in the tenth row at Dolphin
Stadium in 2009 on their "Summer Kink" tour. At one point during
the show, a droplet of Damien Cage's sweat landed on me. I almost
came.

Research? I don't need no stinkin'
research.

I get up from the chair, knees a little
wobbly, and go to my desk. I take out an Ativan from my emergency
pack and pop it with a swig of spring water. Might need another one
before I go.

I reach into my bag and pull out my chintzy
cell phone. I go to Contacts and hit "Send" on Isabella.

Isabella is my best friend from middle school
on, recently returned to Miami after four years of college in
Boston.

"Is everything all right?" says Isabella with
concern in her voice.

"Yes," I say. "Better than alright."

"You
never
call, girl. You
always
text. This has to be something either very good or
very bad."

"It's very good. Super good. Iz, you'll never
believe who I'm being sent to interview today, as in
this
afternoon!"

"Oh, is it that guy I was telling you about
who owns that new club on the beach?"

"No! Hotter! Better! Bigger!"

"Huh? I can't imagine. Tell me!"

"You might want to sit down for this. Ready?
Damien. Cage."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Get the fuck out!"

"Yes!"

We both scream like we're still twelve.

"Hey!" shouts Steve from his office.

"Sorry," I say. "Better go, but I'll call you
later with the deets."

"Ohmigod ohmigod, yes, call me later!"

I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to
center myself.
Om
I repeat to myself several times.

Then I sign into my computer but can't see
the screen. All my emails are there but the words make no sense to
me. All I can see is Damien Cage's face. And chest. And abs.

Shit, I want to change. Let me go look at
myself.

I go to the ladies room we share with the
private eye and the promotion company.

I stand in front of the mirror and look at
the twenty-two year old brunette with glasses staring back at me.
Not bad, but I wish I had worn my contacts.

I turn to my side.

I hate the way my breasts look in this
faux-punk T-shirt. I wish they were bigger, but I refuse to do
implants. Well, at least I know Damien Cage is an ass man.

I will admit my ass looks perky in my short
denim skirt. That's good.

But I wish I had worn my South Beach dress,
put in some contacts, and threw on some fancy nails.

I lean over the sink and stare into my
eyes.

"I can do this!" I say to my blue eyes in the
mirror. "Yes I can!"

I hear a toilet flush.

Shit, I didn't know someone else is in here
with me.

The woman comes out of the stall and says
"hi" while trying to suppress a laugh. I know her. She's the
receptionist at the promotion company. Ashley, I think. Or is it
Amber?

"Hi", I say as I walk past her into the
stall.

Bitch.

Chapter 3

Damien Cage's mansion on Biscayne Bay is just
the kind of place you would expect to be owned by a rock star.

Spanish-style stucco with orange tile roof.
Corinthian columns. Lots of expensive white stone leading down to
the water. A giant sunken pool in front of a courtyard. A yacht
moored at a grass-covered dock.

And, of course, several bikini-clad girls
bouncing around in the pool. I think they're attempting some sort
of game.

Or not.

There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason
to it. Lots of jumping, hitting the ball, and screaming. They
remind me of dolphins for some reason. Sorry, no, that's unfair to
dolphins.

I sit there on the wide patio, second Ativan
infusing through my bloodstream, enjoying the hot breeze. Dramatic
sky over Key Biscayne.

Enter Damien Cage.

He walks right out of the house wearing
nothing but a pair of black shorts, big pink drink in hand.

Cue pussy.

I'm not even going to try to control her. I
mean, this is Damien Fucking Cage! If she drips all over his
outdoor furniture, it serves him right for being a god among
mortals.

He had to be fucking shirtless, didn't
he?

His chest thumps outward with shiny pectoral
muscles. His left shoulder has a tribal tattoo, very detailed and
yummy. My sphincter clenches.

The shorts are loose, but I swear he's hard
because I see a pointy bulge. God, I bet he's ready 24/7! With his
life, how could he not be?

His waist is trim with the most glorious
six-pack I've ever seen. I know those abs well, having licked the
ones on my wall poster as a teenager.

He pauses, saying something to the girls in
the pool. They all give him their attention. I can't hear his
words, but they all giggle.

Fuck.

I wonder what would happen if I threw a
plugged-in hair dryer in the pool.

Out of the house walks an incredibly tall
black girl. Fucking gorgeous. Wearing the tightest bright pink
dress I've ever seen. She carries a small laptop.

This must be Jasmine, his public relations
manager. Steve warned me about her. I was prepared for this. Her
job is to protect Damien.

They both walk toward me. My mouth goes dry.
I sip my water.

I can't help but stare at Damien Cage. His
black hair is buzzed on the sides but flared up with blond
highlights in long spikes on the top. Like flames.

Under his strong forehead are those trademark
eyebrows with the piercing and tattoo. Being the Damien Cage fan
that I am, I know what the tattoo says and why he has it.