Bite Lite, Swallow Hard

By D F Logan

Bite Lite on a seductive serial killer, sex advice from a praying mantis, confessions of an inadequate playboy, or the evolution of butt cheeks, but Swallow Hard when a captive nurse faces mutilation, a psychotic optometrist performs the perfect murder, or a cover model recounts killing her attempted rapist.

Each of these adult shorts will grab you, somewhere, and make you laugh, cringe, or both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D F Logan
• Release date: Sep 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476014180

Book preview

Bite Lite, Swallow Hard

D. F. Logan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 D. F. Logan

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Bite Lite, Swallow Hard

Innerworks

Cosmopolitan Flair

Killer Looks

No Mantis Is an Island

My Last Love Affair

Come Back

Hard to Get

Time To Spare

Devoted To You

The Blade

Jungle Fever

Know Me

And The Beat Goes On

Goodbye My Love

Give Me A Break

Jammit!

Avoid Prolonged Exposure

The Hole Truth

Sweet Treats

Flawlessly Intelligent

Tweak

The Confession

The Eyes Have It

Slippery Slopes

Once More, My Love

Only In America

The Fake

Behold the Mighty Cockroach

Cougar Hunter

Haunt Me

Women Led The Way

Too Subtle

The Assassin

This Toy Sucks

Minor Details

Remember, My Love

A Tough Job

It's Not All That Important

Numb

Justice

Sticks and Stones

Through My Eyes

Sisters

A Note from Helmutt

Certified Evil

The King

Heaven Calling

Retribution

Bite Lite, Swallow Hard

"It’s just too marvelous, too marvelous for words!"—Johnny Mercer

*

Arial Johannson plugged in her Brookstone vibrator. At the same moment, three miles away, Jeffry Sonnert, a stranger to Arial, opened a new bottle of Wet Platinum lubricant. Both shared the same thought:

Masturbation is lonely.

Weeks later, Jeffry waited in the lobby of the Westhaven Apartments, prepared to meet Arial for the first time. He held suppressed expectations; Arial’s profile picture on FB was slightly blurred—a bad sign—and she claimed to be thirty-five, just months younger than himself, yet she sounded much older on the phone. Besides, he thought, blind dates never work out.

The green vinyl couch in the lobby crackled as he sat down and texted her: I’m here. How long?

No response.

He punched her cell number and hesitated before triggering a call to her. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t even want to be here. I should just leave and forget agout it.

Although an empty space within him pleaded for more patience, he decided to give her five minutes and if she didn’t show up by then, he’d go home.

He checked himself once again in the reflection of the mirrored-glass entry door. He fluffed his thinning curls with his right hand and faked a broad smile, pleased at the brightness of his teeth. He pushed out his chest and straightened his shoulders, causing him to appear taller than six-foot.

I have to remember to stand tall. Women like that.

Ten minutes passed before he prepared to give it up and head out. He was halfway out the door when a bell pinged. He hesitated, uncertain. Right before the elevator came to a complete stop, he scampered back to the couch and quickly sat down, struggling to gain his coolness.

The doors opened and Arial stepped out as if entering the runway of a beauty contest. Her green eyes sparkled with confidence and enthusiasm, entirely trumping the anxiety that threatened her on the inside. The highlights of her blonde hair barely reached the top of the red silk dress that draped around her neck and flowed down her tall, slim frame.

Jeff was stunned. Holy shit! She’s drop-dead gorgeous!

He jumped to his feet. Hi. I’m Jeffry. Please tell me you’re Arial.

Arial was equally impressed and replied with a warm smile, If I’m not Arial, I’ll fake it.

 Jeffry blushed.

Arial said, I’m sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find my phone. I’m so glad you were patient enough to wait for me.

No problem. I never considered not waiting. Are you ready to grab a bite?

Two hours later, they sat together with their plates of spaghettini bolognese hardly touched. Arial pulled her hair back over her right ear—a look she believed made her appear intellectual—and continued their conversation. ... and that’s what led to my transfer to Wells Fargo. I’m titled a vice-president, but honestly, I spend most of my time supervising tellers...and I’m paid accordingly.

Jeffry loved her humility.

Arial continued, Enough about my work. Tell me about yours. I must admit I’ve never dated a mortician before. Sounds like a dead-end job. 

Jeffry smiled. Ha, I’ve never heard that one before.

Arial appreciated his sarcasm.

He continued, Working as a medical examiner is not exactly the same as being a mortician. Morticians put bodies together, I tend to take them apart.

Wow, I’m glad I didn’t order the meatballs.

Sorry, I just meant that—

Hey, I’m kidding. I admire what you do. I want to understand how you got into it.

Well, to start with, I’ve always been fascinated with the human body. 

Arial straightened her halter top and said, Well, I do my best, yet—

You’re funny. I like that...very much. Not much humor at the office, you know.

"Hey, try banking. You think you have to deal with the dead."

Later that night as they stood in front of her apartment door, Jeffry felt a warmth within himself he had never experienced. He knew that Arial was more than a date. The glisten in Arial’s eyes convinced him that she felt the same way. Totally out of character, he entwined his hands into hers, kissed her gently on the lips, and then lifted up their left arms in a dance pose. With his right arm firmly around her waist, they swayed back and forth in the hallway. Jeffry softly hummed the tune of an old Johnny Mercer song. He stopped after a few precious seconds, placed the crook of his finger under her chin, lifted her head, and sweetly said, Arial, will you be my baby?

Yes, Jeffry. Yes, I’ll be your baby. 

*

Arial met with her best friend, Cindy, at Norm’s for breakfast on Friday morning. Cindy appeared to many to be a friskier, younger version of Arial. She had the same highlighted, shoulder-length blonde hair, a similar body—though a little bustier than God had provided—and she was attractive enough to drink free wherever she went.

Cindy asked anxiously, Well, Ar, I’m all ears. Tell me about your second date last night with this Jeffry guy.

Arial blushed. It went well.

It went well? Cindy looked carefully at Arial’s condition. What’s with your hair, Ar? You look like you just got laid.

Cin, shish! People can hear you.

Cindy geared her voice down to an amplified whisper. Oh my God! You did, didn’t you? It’s been over a year! C’mon, girlfriend, all the details. Now!

Arial glanced around to assure they were out of eavesdropping range. "No, I didn’t get laid. Well, at least not the way you’re saying it. Jeffry and I...neither one of us want it to be like that."

So then, he’s gay?

He’s not gay. Let me assure you, Jeffry is not gay.

Okay. Take me out of this guessing game and tell me what happened.

All right, but keep it down, Arial leaned forward and half-whispered, Well, as you know, when I met him last Thursday we ended the night after dinner with a kiss and that dance thing, remember?

Honey, how could I forget? That’s all you talked about; his luscious, pouty lips, his probing tongue, his curious hands gently caressing you. Hell, Ar, you got me hornier than a spider monkey.

Right. Anyway, as you know, I agreed to come to his house last night provided he would understand that I would be leaving by ten and...and with his promise, of course, that he wouldn’t let things get out of hand.

Yeah, you only went there to see his pinball machine, right? So, did ya play with his balls?

Stop it, Cin. I showed up at seven, on time for a change, can you believe? His house was big—way too big for him alone—but it was warm and homey inside. He has some lovely European-style furniture and some decidedly unique art on his walls.

No velvet Elvis, I take it?

Cin, Jeffry has class. He’s not like any man I’ve ever dated before. Anyway, he answered the door wearing a black turtleneck and cream slacks, and he smelled like a prince. I think it was Angel-for-Men, which is one of my favorites.

Ya notice any signs of other women? Like any hidden pictures, or girl stuff in the medicine chest, or toilet paper hung the right way? That sort of thing?

Nothing. The place was clean and organized, but it definitely lacked a woman’s touch.

Great. Go on.

Well, he had this amazing sound system playing music throughout the entire home; soft, romantic songs by guys like Buble and Connick. Actually, it was perfect.

What kinda wine?

"Would you believe Far Niente? $50 a bottle. It’s one of my favorites...no, it is my favorite white."

Ar, cut to the quick. Give me details on his package.

What do you mean?

C’mon! Pee-wee or Johnny Wadd? Give me a rough idea, at least.

Their waitress interrupted their conversation with their food orders. She poured them fresh coffee and acted as if she wanted to hang around. Cindy chased her away with her Vampira gaze and turned back to Arial. Well?

I don’t know...I mean, for sure. I never actually saw it.

Wait, the guy was serving you dinner and fine wine, and he didn’t even get a BJ? If so, Ar, I’m afraid you’re never gonna see him again.

Uh, I think you’re wrong. Something did..uh, did happen. Arial was unconsciously swirling her finger through the syrup that surrounded her waffle.

Cindy’s eyes lit up. Something happened? Great! Details, please. Give ‘em to me.

Okay. Well, first of all, he served a scrumptious-looking dinner, though both of us were too nervous to eat. We laughed about all the food we left on our plates—Chicken Cordon-bleu with all the trimmings. It was a total waste, yet I thought it demonstrated his thoughtfulness and I told him so. He had obviously gone to a lot of trouble for me.

Cindy scooped up the whipped cream piled high atop her Belgium with her fingers and licked them dry. Argh, Ar, get to the good part before one of us dies!

"Well, we talked for awhile, then we went to his media room. He had this super large screen and these theater-style seats, three rows of them. He put on this old movie called Trapeze, my dad’s favorite movie, which Jeff and I had talked about over dinner.

We hadn’t gone much past the credits before we started necking like two teenagers in a balcony. Cin, I can’t explain it. It got so hot, so fast, I just couldn’t believe it.

"Damn. You can hurt yourself doing it on movie seats. I still have a scar on my right knee from when my seat folded up on Bill Thomas and me while we were watching Basic Instinct."

Well, that wasn’t a problem. He laid this lamb’s wool blanket on the carpeted floor in front of the screen, and within minutes, we were rolling around all over it.

Cindy’s face flushed. And you still didn’t blow him?

Cin, I have to tell you in my own way."

All right, but get on with it.

His kisses, our kisses, were magical. We both got worked up and were practically out of control and started pulling on each other's clothes. I couldn’t undress him as fast as he managed to get my dress and panties off. I finally had to rip open his shirt buttons. He wasn’t wearing an undershirt and his chest was firm; nice, curly black and grey hairs; not too heavy, yet not too sparse.

You have my full attention, girlfriend.

"So, he got on top of me. My legs parted and I was soaking wet and ready, and he started to push himself into me. I don’t know how, but I stopped kissing him long enough to say, ‘Jeffry, you promised’.

What? You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t stop him!

I did, even though he had already pushed an inch into me. It was the hardest thing I’d ever felt,,,ever. He looked down at me with those puppy-dog eyes, hesitated for a second, and then pulled back out.

He stopped? Are you telling me in the heat of the moment with everything perfect, and you wanting it—probably as much as him—and he stopped?

Yes, he did. He pulled it all the way out.

That’s crazy.

But listen, he didn’t have an attitude or anything. He withdrew and yet he still kept kissing me and licking my neck and chest, as loving as ever. I was pleasantly surprised. He was so cool.

That’s it? What did the two of you do, go around banging your heads against the wall all night?

No, not at all. He kept caressing me, loving me, making me feel so...so fucking good! Oops, sorry.

How long did this go on?

Not long. Before I knew it, he ended up with his face between my legs. Thank you for suggesting the Brazilian pube-trim, by the way. I’m sure Jeffry thanks you as well.

Tell me about it. Did he know his way around down there?

Cin, it was the single most incredible moment of my life. He seemed to know me. Being a medical examiner comes in handy, I guess. His lips and fingers touched me so gently. He licked around the edges for what seemed like hours, but it was probably only a couple of minutes. He put his fingers in and kept licking me in a steady, perfect rhythm. What can I say? I went off like a rocket. Like...never before. I literally exploded.

Literally?

Yes. I splashed all over his face, repeatedly. It wouldn’t stop. I probably came like that at least ten times in a row. I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t...at all. I thought I was going to die, and I loved every second of it.

Good God, girl. That doesn’t happen in real life, at least it’s never happened to me.

Me neither, ever. But it did last night. I finally had to force myself to stop. He’d have kept going, I’m sure.

Wow. And still no BJ?

No, we were way past that sort of thing. He pulled his body up and over me, and I felt him start to enter me again. I looked at him and he looked at me and no words were necessary. He thrust himself deeper inside of me than I thought to be possible. We were both sweating, grasping the blanket with our hands as we moved together, perfectly imperfect, with every move unpredictable. I started to orgasm again. Then, he let out a roar—a gurgling roar, no less—that went on and on as he started to...,uh, cum.

Wow. That’s hot.

Yeah, very. So hot, so intimate, so together. Cin, I think I’m falling in love.

Ar, I think I’m falling in love and I haven’t even met the guy. I’m so happy for you. How did the evening end?

Well, I needed to get home...for the cats and all. After about an hour of laying there in each other's arms, gently touching and sighing, I reminded him that I had to leave. He insisted on calling a limo service for me so I wouldn’t have to drive. He picked me up this morning and took me back to my car, and I came straight here.

Wow. That’s so awesome. How’d ya leave it? What’s next?

Dinner tonight at my place. I told him to bring his toothbrush.

Sweet.

*

B-B-B-Bad. Bad to the bone. —George Thorogood

*

Arial paid for their breakfast and left Cindy alone in the booth, finishing her fourth coffee, and processing all the emotional and physical reactions her mind and body could stand.

God, it’d be so wonderful if Jeffry turned out to be a good guy and Arial could be happy again.

The waitress interrupted Cindy’s train of thought. Do you want more coffee? If not, we could use the booth.

Cindy stared down the grease-splattered server. My friend paid the bill and asked me to leave the tip, so I suggest you leave me alone.

The waitress ignored the threat and began wiping down the table. Cindy was ready to tell her off when she noticed the two jumping-bean children whining at their frazzled mother standing by the door. Cindy suspected they were the ones needing the booth. She left a fifty-cent tip on the table, and walked out.

I’m so happy for Arial.

She felt shame for what she planned to do today. Arial’s story of love making had tipped her over the edge. She decided today was the day she would live out one of her strongest fantasies.  

She entered her three-bedroom apartment overlooking the Santa Monica coast and headed straight for the closet. She pulled out her chocolate brown leather skirt and stretched it around her thighs like a horseman’s saddle. She put on a pastel blouse that was sprinkled with dragonfly prints, creating a look which contradicted the skirt, adding a touch of reserve and elegance. She liked the mixed message.

While freshening up her make-up, the picture of her graduation from Byrn Mawr, arm in arm with her dad, Senator Irwin Hawkins, glared at her from her bathroom counter.

She picked up her hairbrush and pretended it was a microphone. Mocking the voice of a news reporter, she started, So, Cynthia Hawkins, it’s been three years since your father, the dynamic Senator Hawkins, has passed away. From a personal perspective, let me ask you, was he as great a father as he was a congressman and bold leader?

Cindy responded as herself, Well, when Dad would come home—an increasingly rare event in the later days—he’d devote most of his time helping us children learn. He’d work with each of us, one at a time in developing a vision of our future. As we grew older, he’d encourage us and help us with our education and career opportunities. I would have never become a PR director for Kline and Goodman without Dad’s guidance and assistance.

That’s a great story, Ms. Hawkins. Now for the sports—

Cindy extended the interview. Oh, by the way, he also raped me now and then.

Again assuming the role of the reporter, Cindy frowned into the mirror and held her hairbrush-microphone tight to her lips. Well, that’s something our listeners haven’t heard before, Ms. Hawkins. Were they...uh, aggressive rapes?

I think the word rape stands on its own.

In her deepest, reporter voice, she asked the mirror, Ah, Ms. Hawkins, did your mother know about the rapes before she passed away last year?

Cindy’s eyes swelled as she answered, That’s something I can’t figure out. Mom refused to talk about Dad...or about anything remotely related to him. This week, I’m inclined to think Mom knew and refused to accept it. Last week, though, I had convinced myself that she never had a clue.

She picked up the framed photo and said aloud, It’s not your fault, Dad. You raised me to believe in you. You were so loving and supportive in every other way. I...I love you, Papa. You fucking bastard!

She threw the frame across the room and it smashed against the cold tile floor.

She flashed back to the failed marriage that had dragged her through her twenties, and the series of abusive relationships that had followed. Each of them supplied her with all the fuel she needed to keep her personal cable TV tragedy in full syndication. 

At age thirty-two, she was successful, attractive, and blessed with wit and charm, living life on her own terms now. She worked from her apartment most days and enjoyed being coddled by an endless string of men at any one of a dozen nearby clubs at night. She often went alone to Rita’s or Chasen’s, and brought home a toy to play with for the night. Most guys provided her with the basics she needed. Nothing like a Jeffry, she mused, but adequate.

Today, however, she needed more, much more. The impulsive drive inside her reflected the darkest of her dark side. Waiting for tonight and doing the usual wasn’t going to cut it for her. She drove to The Anchor Grill near the beach. 

The Anchor was something less than a restaurant, but more than a bar. It offered bland food, poor service, tables etched in grime, blaring music, and a view blocked by a three-story motel. Yet The Anchor enjoyed an endless stream of patrons, mostly men. 

When Cindy entered, she counted a half-dozen men waiting patiently in line in the hall at the read of the restaurant, each taking turns to enter a vacant, windowless office.

The office walls were barren, except for a paper towel rack which was replenished several times a day. Beneath the rack stood a 36-gallon swing-top trash can, usually overflowing with used sheets of Bounty towels. The main attraction of this desolate, germ-laden arm pit of a room was a waist-high hole in the wall. The Anchor Grill featured Santa Monica’s most popular glory hole.

Songs like Open Up Your Back Door, Baby played continuously through the bar's sound system. Cindy sat and ordered a rum and coke, followed by a straight shot of rum, then one more shot for good measure. She glanced over the bar and down the hall and conducted a quick assessment of the men in line.

She looked up at the clock. 10:30 in the morning! Does this place never stop?

She swallowed another shot and started her trip toward the Ladies Room. Inside, she checked the last stall. It was locked, as she had expected it to be. 

Ya gonna be long? she shouted through the stall door. 

A second passed before a demure voice answered, No. 

Cindy went to the sole sink in the restroom and looked at herself in the warped mirror. 

What are you doing? Mom would roll over in her grave if she knew. Shame on you, girl. Shame on you!

She had only been to The Anchor Grill once before. She went so far as to enter the stall, but chickened-out at the last minute. She couldn’t quite convince herself to service a stranger (or two) through the glory hole that night, but the self-debasing lust of it all stuck with her. She swore that night she'd never return, but now, she was ready and deeply in need of something wicked.  

The stall door opened, and the woman inside walked out of the room in a rush. Cindy barely got a glance at her: mid-twenties, short black hair. She was decent looking from what Cindy could tell, not that it mattered. 

Cindy took a deep breath, stepped outside of herself, and stepped into the stall, careful to latch the door behind her. She sat on the throne with the lid closed, and stared at the circular opening in the wall. Within seconds, a man’s erect penis entered the stall through the carefully cut hole.

 She briefly looked at it. It seemed clean enough. It was a decent size and she didn’t notice any marks or scars or blisters. She smirked as she watched it bounce as it throbbed in anticipation.

She closed her eyes, shook her head, and shivered with a new sense of purpose. She opened her mouth and let the cock slide in, deep to the back of her throat. She sucked on it for a few seconds, then paused to listen through the wall to the guy moaning the same, selfish moan she had heard so many times before.

She sucked on the cock again, and stroked it firmly with her right fist. The instant she felt the fluid begin to shoot from its tip into her mouth, she chomped down on it with the force of a pit-bull.

Innerworks

While serving Suzanne some cheese and a glass of wine, my shin hit the iron base of my coffee table...

Thalamus: Send extreme pain via the Central Nervous System (CNS) down the superhighway of the Spine to the right Shin. NOW!

Cerebral Cortex to Pons: What the hell is going on?!

Pons: Sorry. Misjudged the distance.

Cerebral Cortex: Misjudged it? This is where he lives. How could you?

Pons: Sorry, sir, but we have a bigger problem. He’s falling right now, face first at that.

Cerebrum: Hands! Give me an update.

Hands: We’ve released the food tray, sir. It’s flying into his lady guest. Arms are cooperating and are fully extended now, ready to break the fall.

Cerebrum: Left-Brain, you got anything to say?

Left-Brain: The usual, sir. We went with ‘Oh shit’. Had he been alone, we’d have dropped the f-bomb.

Hands: We have a problem, sir. He keeps that pointed statue on the table. Based on current trajectories, his mid-section may fall directly on it.

Testicles: Emergency! We’re definitely going to smash into the statue. We need both Hands down here ASAP!

Cerebrum: Overruled! I’m not going to let him damage headquarters just to save his balls.

Testicles: Understood, but he wants children, sir. Could we use one Hand to save us and the other to break the fall?

Cerebrum to Pons: Try it. Left Hand only, subject to immediate recall to the Head if his Skull is projected to hit the edge of the table.

Cerebrum to Optics: What’s your reading?

Optics: We’ve been wide-open, sir. We’re looking over at his lady friend on the trip down, trying to apologize for the red wine that is splashing into her face.

Cerebrum: Stop worrying about that and help us reduce the damage when he hits. Watch for the Head first, Testicles second. You got that?

Optics: Update, sir, and it’s good news. Looks like his Head is going to miss the table entirely. He’s going to fall into her lap. Unfortunately, when we sent the Right Hand to help with the Testicles, his sweater got caught on her pierced earring and yanked it out.

Auditory: "Excuse me, sir, but there is a lot of high-pitched screaming inbound. Can you send the Hands up to