Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Bennett Berkshire
I open my eyes as soon as the alarm goes off, and a smile crosses my face. Rolling over, I hit the button. “You win this morning,” I tell the alarm. It’s always a race to see whether I wake up first or if the alarm wakes me up.
I slept really well last night, so I’m not surprised that the alarm won. Such sweet, wonderful dreams.
Sighing, I sit up and push my feet over the side of the bed, stuffing them into fuzzy slippers.
Lifting my hands over my head, I stretch to get the cricks out of my back.
Not that there are any, but in case there are.
I set about making my bed again, tucking in the sides so the bedding is pulled tight without a wrinkle in sight.
With a smile, I head to the kitchen to begin breakfast. “It’s a beautiful day, ah… Mm. Mmm. Mm. A beautiful life. A beautiful morning, without any strife. All that’s missing are some hands on my dick, to make it a beautiful day and my panties so slick.”
I giggle at the words. Okay, that’s not how the song goes, but I continue to hum it as I gather my morning rations: a couple of eggs, fruit, bread, and yogurt. They don’t all go together.
The fruit goes into the blender with yogurt and some honey. A touch of protein powder, too. The bread goes in the air fryer to toast, and I crack the eggs carefully into a hot skillet to cook the whites and leave the yolks runny. There’s nothing better than runny yolks on buttered toast.
While my breakfast prepares, I fill up the hummingbird feeders and pour a plate of seeds and a wide bowl of fresh water. Everything goes on a tray, and I take my goods outside.
“Good morning,” I tell my backyard. Already, the birds are gathered around, swooping in and singing for me. “Are we ready for breakfast? I know I am.”
I set my tray down and arrange the birds’ breakfast on one side of the table. I’m immediately joined by a dozen birds, seven different species. From the tiny, beautiful hummingbirds to the majestically stunning cardinals.
“You must have had good dreams last night, too,” I say as they eat and chirp. “I’m not sure what I was dreaming about, but I woke up happy, so that must mean it was a good dream.”
I dig my fork into my eggs over toast to break the yolk and get myself a drippy bite. Mmm. Seriously, nothing like this. The absolute best breakfast.
While the birds sing, I hum along about beautiful days with blow jobs. Not sure when the hands on my dick were replaced with a mouth, but it still has a pretty tone to it. This must be how the song actually goes. The rhythm is perfect.
The birds agree, since their songs continue. We could put on a concert.
I remain with the birds while I finish my breakfast and morning shake. Then I leave them to their gains and head back inside to wash the dishes. I hum another tune, though I’m not sure I recognize this one right away.
Songs get stuck in my head all the time. Probably because I move through the day with my headphones in, which means there are always lyrics in my head. I think this only proves that all songs are sexual. Even if subliminally.
Quite confident in this.
When my dishes are finished, I fill up my spray bottle with water and head to my sunporch, where my plants are enjoying the morning. They look happy.
“That smile on your face is all I see. All I see. You’re a pretty little thing with a dangly fig. Dangly fig. Does your fig grow and leak like a rain cloud? Can I see? Can I see?” I spritz my plants as I sing. “I’ll happily suck your fig if you suck mine—want to see? Want to see?”
No, wait. I think I just changed songs abruptly. Huh. Wait, what was the original song? I pause as I try to grasp the tune again. Well, that one was fleeting. I have no idea what I was singing. And a fig? Is that a metaphor for a dick or balls?
Meh. I’ll suck either. That’s fine. I’m not too picky.
When my inside plants are done, I head outside and unwind the hose to take care of my garden. Mostly, I grow flowers because they’re pretty and smell good. But I also have some herbs here and there because they also smell good, and they have a second use of seasoning your food.
And, if you’re into it, you can make incense from dried herbs and flowers.
I’ve been contemplating adding that service to my monthly subscriptions offered, but I’m not sure I can keep up with something else on my own.
Especially since I think that would take extra time.
Not to mention a learning curve, since it’s brand-new to me.
The sun is already hot, so by the time I’m finished watering my plants, I’m sweating.
I roll up the hose and hum along with the words in my head—“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round. The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town. The man on the bus rides my dick up and down, up and down, up and down. He rides my dick with the bumps up and down, all through the town.”
Hmm. The rhythm of that version needs a little work. The pace or stanzas or some shit is off.
In my closet, I strip off my sweaty clothes and dump them into my hamper.
A sigh escapes me as I step under the hot water.
It’s nice being hot from hot water because you can get out from under it and feel cool.
It’s not nearly as fun being hot from just breathing because the sun is so damn hot.
Getting away from that is a little more challenging when life takes you outside for chores.
“I’m walking on sunshine. Woah-oh. I’m walking on sunshine.
Woah-oh.” I pause in singing as I contemplate the words.
Does the song really just continue with the same ones over and over?
How boring. Oh, wait… “I’m walking on sunshine, woah-oh.
It’s hot and heavy, woah-oh. Like a freshly filled cock, woah-oh.
Sinking deep into the sunny heat, woah-oh. And don’t it feel good!”
I grin. Yep, that’s how the song goes. For sure. No argument.
All songs are about sex. I’m quite sure about that.
Sometimes the sex is good. Sometimes not so much.
Sometimes it’s violent—that’s where heavy metal comes from.
I like me some good, violent sex from time to time.
The kind where you lose a little blood and a lot of calories, and your orgasm is so intense that maybe you pass out and wake up super dehydrated.
Not that I know what that feels like.
“And don’t it feel good!” I shout in the shower as I continue washing under my armpits.
Once I’m squeaky clean, I’m a little disappointed that I’m so clean for no one. Hmm. I’m going to need to find some fun this evening, I think. That’ll bring my spirits up.
For now, I dress and head into my office, where I’m currently stuffing installment seven of my dark hockey romance subscription service.
It’s a really cool idea I stumbled across when I was a teenager.
You receive twenty-four letter-sized envelopes, two each month for a year, and within them is a story broken down into twenty-four pieces.
In my case, it’s two short chapters every month.
With those chapters are other ephemera. Hockey tickets to a game. A newspaper clipping. Murder shots from evidence files. That kind of thing.
I have a dozen different subscriptions like this across many genres, but I’ve found this one is the most popular. I receive a lot of emails when the story is finished raving about how fun it was, how good the story was, and how bummed they are that it’s over and there isn’t another.
Of course, I encourage them to try one of the other stories. I do have other dark ones. But there’s just something about superstar hockey players with dark secrets that revs people’s engines.
I get it. That’s why I came up with the idea.
Naturally, I’ve been working on the outline of a second dark hockey story. I think I have an idea. But we shall see. It’s not all coming to me yet.
New stories take a lot of time and planning. It’s not just the story itself, but all the pieces of goodies that go with it. I boast more than fifty extras, which means I need to create them all. Each individual piece takes time and care to get perfect.
I add about one new story a year. Sometimes two. I just launched the small-town cowboy, which has proven to be a huge hit so far.
One of my favorite things about my subscription service is that I get to change up my day. Sometimes I write ideas. Sometimes I move on to creating goodies. Sometimes I stuff envelopes.
The only days that remain the same are Thursdays, which is my day for labeling all the envelopes.
Not going to lie. Thursdays are really long and exhausting.
I don’t want to outsource, but I think I might need to hire someone one day a week just to take some of the burden of labeling. “The pressures of running a successful business,” I muse. There are worse problems to have.
The thing is, I like being a one-person show. I enjoy my solitude. I enjoy listening to the birds and singing, and not having to socialize if I don’t want to. This is the perfect job for my personality.
Then again, there are times when I think I need a boyfriend who only wants sex from time to time. It’s kind of exhausting jumping through all the hoops of looking for a hookup when I need a break from my hand.
Not a needy boyfriend. Maybe not even a boyfriend. Maybe just… an orgasm buddy. Like, we hit each other up when we’re hard up.
The thought makes me grin. Maybe someone who enjoys my silly puns and my singing. That way, they last for more than a couple of fucks, and I don’t have to start over again.
When I need a break from my assembly line of stuffing envelopes, I pull out my phone and go through my routine of checking apps. Answering messages. Sending new orders to the printer. And just for fun, I open the Heart2Heart app to see what’s going on. Maybe there’s someone new.
Maybe I’m bored and need some actual hands on my cock.
There’s a red dot telling me I have a potential match.
I like the red dots. I like them less when they come from assholes.
You know an asshole right away. Their profiles say it all, no matter how much they try to conceal their grossness behind pretty words.
Every dating app, even the best, has assholes mixed in.
My mother says I’m a special kind of man, and it’s going to take a saint to love me as strongly as I love. I’m not sure that’s the compliment I think it is. But I’m going to pretend that means she thinks only an angel is deserving of my love.
I click on the match and find a man named Rhodes, 26. The profile is interesting. It’s like an ad for… a specific kind of date. Not a potential love match. I’m not feeling asshole vibes. Not the type of asshole that you want to avoid, anyway.
Not going to lie. I’m a little intrigued. Especially at the words ‘impenetrable happiness.’ Yes, I might laugh a little at the choice of words, but I think this date was made for me. Mom always said no one has as much happiness as I do. She’d love to bottle it and sell it.
I tell her I give it away for free. She’s not nearly as exuberant about me sharing my joy freely as I am.
Nothing makes me unhappy, though. Which means I’m definitely the man Rhodes is looking for.
“Oh, he has puppies!” I say, grinning wider. “I bet they’re the cutest damn things.” I click the ‘Like’ button in return and send him a text. I’m totally down for a weekend of happiness and orgasms. Oh, and puppies. I’m psyched about the puppies.