Man in the Striped Tanga Pt. 2

Chapter 6:

Marvin finds himself tied to a bedpost with very slippery silk stockings. He likes the firm softness with which they grip his spindly arms. Though his badunkadunk has been growing more and more sculpted by the week, his arms remain just as pathetic as before, with only a slight bulge in his left bicep from bonking the proverbial bishop. “Not anymore,” he chuckles to himself, only part confident in the security of this new fairer sex that has agreed to copulate with him. The other part of Marvin’s alcohol subdued consciousness is scanning the decidedly high school level femme apartment bedroom, wondering where the colossal strap on could possibly be stashed. His eyes settle on the ajar bedside table, and every bit of carnal saliva that had been pooling in his chops makes a break for the exit via gullet, leaving his tongue quite sober and dry. Toilet flush. The thin line of electricity shooting out from under the door abandons Marvin’s nocturnal investigations with a snap. Hearing the door meet carpet in a slight swoosh, Marvin’s eyes adjust and he becomes aware that pussy-cat Caitlynn is doing her feline crawl toward him, eyes hungry and sinister as ever. She’s going to devour him. The sparse spittle occupying Marvin’s mouth attempts to make a retreat again, until it realizes it is already a solitary force. His Adam’s apple catches in his throat. “Mmm” a smile spreads across her face. “Oh baby. Seeing you all tied up. Haa. I’m so horny right now.” She drags a slightly damp index finger through the thick, neanderthal hairs parading about his strunk thighs. Marvin experiences a sudden urge to curl up his unbound legs. Protect himself from this jungle cat, perched at his feet. This is ridiculous he tells himself, you’re afraid of sex. With this goddess of a woman. Look she already said that we didn’t have to use the dildo the first couple of times. We’re just getting to know each other sexually. That’s all. Nothing to be afraid of. Her fingertips are a bit chilly. A fact that becomes abundantly clear to  both parties as they fall onto his moist, shriveled up genitals, lying at a heap on his chestnut pubes. Well, don’t just stand there. Do something.

Cougar Caitlynn pounces, on all fours now, one hand  traveling up his leg, looking to dock in the shallow sprinkle of hair on his chest, the other balled up like a menacing ape, maneuvering atop its fists. She puts her tight skimpy body over top his – slight disappointment as he realizes just how similarly – sized form. But oh. Her’s is still definitely smaller. Where his love handles used to be, he can feel those hips narrow up into a tight little river, then down into two twin tributaries. Spread as the Suez and Aqaba gulfs off the Red Sea. Those smooth kitty cat thighs, curvy as water falls, sliding between his legs. Sticky humidity balloons into the enclosure her hair has made about his head, the fist next to his chest while the scout runs the perimeter of his base camp. Ooh. Cadet Marvin, reporting for duty. As solemnly as any Vietnam-vet-turned-mountain-man, he salutes this edifice of nature. From the bottom up. A soft, dangerous chuckle ripples out from her slack lips “Oh there you are,” she toys with the puzzle piece in the crook of her hip, and Marvin feels her abdomen tense for a moment, controlling the weight of her lower extremities, as she applies pressure to the little soldier, taking care not to crush him in the encampment. The mountainside comes down on him, and Cadet Marvin pushes right back. “Oh you feel so good,” her hot breath blooms in his ear. “You too, ba-“

Just as his tongue is making the transition back from fossil to sponge, a cruelly dry lump of fabric is crammed into his purse. Poising herself now in a sitting position atop his form, straddling the lone soldier, Caitlynn has just stuffed a sock into his choppers. It’s a clean sock, he recognizes, but just as jarring to the recuperating wetland of his salivary glands. “No talking.” The waterfall reminds the rock just who is carving who, here. Caitlin grips Marvin’s penis, still more rock than clay, he shakily reassures himself. One of Caitlynn’s hands goes to caress her own cavern, and his thigh registers how dewy it already is. The sock becomes similarly moist. As quickly as Marvin’s trepidation takes the back burner, she’s riding him, with all the bouncy tightness of a saucer of lime jello. Cherry’s got more of a jiggle. He’s been swallowed up by one hell of a sea cave. More tunnel than cave, but enough so that Marvin is reminded of the miniature gear he’s been working with. “Oh yeah, baby!” Finger nails that used to be little kitten pads dig into his chest, just above the nipples, which before long, are being tugged and stretched away from his body. You come back with those, Marvin walks the line between pleasure and pain for a good mile, occasionally enjoying the searing stretch of such sensitive skin, and then the flood of pleasure at its alleviation. Like scratching a bug bite, he thinks. MMM the horsefly bite between his legs has been demanding more attention. Uh-oh. Too much attention.

Marvin switches gears, reluctantly forcing himself to contemplate the eventual strap-on that Caitlynn will require him to take. You know. The one you promised you were perfectly open to. Right. That one, you pathetic fuckass. WHACK. Crazy bitch just slapped me?! Even Marvin’s internal monologue was most certainly rocking the falsetto of surprise. “Stay with me,” Caitlynn demanded. Alright Alright. Jesus. Ohhh. Jesuuuuuus. Marvin became aware of a trickle – a small creek beginning to pave its way off the source, splattering across both tributaries and running all down his legs. A contemptuous chuckle entered Marvin’s internal monologue, alongside the continually affirmed assertion that she was in control and, aside from the human dildo he was currently playing the role of, she was the ultimate cause of her own cumming. Throttled from the expanse of pleasure into pain, Marvin’s own orgasm was delayed for at least 20 minutes after he initially felt its approach. The bed was taking on a bit of wet spot. The feminine part of his brain that had subtly been claiming more territory over the past week, while seeing this tigress, whispered a confusing hope that his ass wouldn’t get wrinkly.

Chapter 7:

“Alan Banks doesn’t mess around. Alan Banks knows what he wants. Alan Banks is in control. Alan Banks will always get what he wants.” Alan Banks was standing buck-ass naked in front of a full length mirror, affirming himself  the way (with a slight modification of nudity on his part) he learned to on the week long seminar he’d attended last month. Day 3, Law of Attraction. “Alan Banks will find SourStrawberry69 today and she will agree to work with you.” After persistent badgering of Strawberry’s multiple online profiles, Alan Banks had gleaned some short stories from Marvin (unbeknownst to him, on the parallel pestering from Caitlynn because “oh you should show those cute little stories you write to somebody, baby. Why not this guy?”). Well, Caitlynn, little dear – with two n’s – not ‘this guy,’ because this guy is currently stroking a monster hard-on that was provoked by the image of your cute little face – which was usually the progression of things when his obsessive focus honed in on the eternal talent-seeking dilemma that his career provided. Not this guy, Caity-did, because he’s just abandoned his Law of Attraction mantras in the mirror for a pair of underpants he thinks used to be attached to your aforementioned face, through a continuum of hip-bone’s-connected-to-the-[fill in the blank]-bones. Not this guy, little lamb, little pet, little budding dominatrix of semen and knife-play – not this guy because chances are he’s just another creep on the internet interested in luring hot young things like yourself into the public eye so he can secure regular sniffs at that pot of gold between your legs, possibly somewhere cold, damp and dank like his basement in a middle class suburb, hours from anywhere you used to call home. “Yeah. And besides. What kind of name is ‘Alan E. Banks’? Totally fake.”

Marvin slammed the laptop shut before Caitlynn could observe that he was logged into a different email than the one he used for work. An email full of shipping confirmations and requests from usernames that are including, but not limited to: Tom_bigcock, jennylikescunt, fuqenbishes19, inyourass69 (in his extensive career as an internet troll, nobody had explained – much less demonstrated – how 69ing works. You’d think he’d have figured it out from all the porn, huh? Us too.) and niceguy27. “What makes you so sure this guy isn’t who he says he is?” asked Caitlynn – n’s; two of ’em – in a manner that really wasn’t asking a lot, considering the amount of sputtering that exited Marvin’s lips, before he slugged a little more Tennessee Honey to stall. “Well, you see, Cait – the internet is full of people that aren’t who they say they are,” *gulp at the recognition that he is one of these people* “and this guy – this Alan E. Banks – could easily just be pretending to be some big shot so he can get access to  my bank account under some pretense of paying me for my stories.”

“I think you’d have to be pretty stupid to not be able to tell the difference between a W-4 payment contract and some dude on the internet asking for a routing number.” She had a point. And there was certainly more bullshit at the ready to be flung at that point, but now Marvin’s progressively more intoxicated mind was wondering why on earth he’d thought it would be a good idea to even mention that some guy – who probably wasn’t who he said he was – was interested in his writing. “What are you so afraid of?” Marvin’s ego shrunk up – veritably pulled back in – almost as quickly as the partial that he had been rocking. Oh right. That was why.

Ever since Marvin had sacrificed his anal virginity to this sex kitten on catnip – throwing caution and asshole elasticity to the wind – he’d been struggling to keep his grasp on masculinity that he was suddenly aware of as a pivotal part of his identity. The combination of pretending to be two-spirit (“No, baby, the red strappy ones enhance your calves waaaay more than the blue ones bring out your eyes”), spending so much time around a feminine space and of course wearing only women’s underpants, at this point in his career, had been rocking the boat on Marvin’s gender identity. Rocking the boat onto the bowsprit of his velvet-and-lace-clad masculinity, to be exact. Every thrust of that LoveHoney Double Wow Dildo pushed his masculinity closer and closer to overboard – and orgasm, but Marvin was far too insecure with his enjoyment to even look at that whirlpool. So that morning, after Caitlynn had released a home-made tidal wave somewhere between the backs of his thighs, it wasn’t how she patted his ass as she dismounted. It wasn’t her too readily assumed presumption that her thrusts had made him cum – though they had to the extent that the neighbors three stories down were currently discussing it fervently over their morning coffee. It wasn’t even that she had slingshotted a frisky little number at his collapsed form on the bed as a suggestion of what he should wear to work that day. It was Marvin’s realization that he was officially the chick in the relationship that motivated him to reclaim some masculine territory by conveying his abilities for agency to the cheerleader with a jock strap that was currently slipping into slacks at the foot of the bed. “SO this publisher in the city is interested in my writing. I probably won’t send him anything, but he simply will not let up with the emails.” Ego, ladies and gents & everything in-between; Ego leapt out of the sinking ship of Marvin’s gender identity and, twisting itself about his tonsils, caused his tongue to campaign for image – to talk out of his ass, so to speak, in an effort to feel less pathetically like Caitlynn’s little mouse toy.

Picking up where Marvin’s mental wanderings left off: “I’m not afraid of anything. I’m just – I’m just afraid that if he reads one of the longer works I’ve written, he won’t like it and all my hopes will just come crashing down.” The vulnerability card always worked on her.

“Aww, baby, your stories are so *cute* and funny. There’s no way he could just reject them. You’re a great writer, babe. I mean you go a little over the top sometimes, but this Banks guy seems to like it. Where’s the harm in just sending him one?” While Marvin’s internal monologue was railing at the description of his masterpieces as ‘cute,’ and his face was occupied with trying to look self conscious and fretful, Caitlynn with Two N’s was searching this Banks fellow on the inter webs, and coming up with everything from the New York Times to the Onion. “See, he does exist. And he seems pretty well connected…” Caitlynn with two n’s and visual proof flashed the bald-headed, red rim bespectacled man in question, and the last leg of Marvin’s argument went crashing to the floor. The neighbors from three stories down started plotting to move out of this noisy apartment complex.

Now, maybe it was the undeniable attraction Alan Banks had been cultivating since his Successful Publishers of New York seminar a few weeks ago, and maybe it was the post-orgasm serenity that made Marvin’s will more permeable to Caitlynn’s logical interventions, but regardless of the cause, once Alan Banks had sampled the short stories of this internet anomaly, there was no way he was just going to take the bait and walk away.

While good ole lefty continued to coax Mother Goose and all her geeslings out of Alan’s Tower of Babel sized member, a few fingers from righty traced the hairy pucker that lay situated between the two downy hilltops on the coast of his spine. The right hand had more skill in these types of things and soon enough, the right thumb was Little Jack Hornering the plum out – and then in and then out and in and out – of Alan’s asshole until a fleeting ribbon of semen slashed his visage in the mirror and he exclaimed with all the power that the law of attraction supplies “What a good boy is Alan Banks!”

Chapter 8

Almost as though each affirmation Alan had uttered in the the past month cashed their cosmic checks all at once, the ringer on his cellphone sounded its revilee, to which Alan Banks immediately clicked phone to temporal lobe with a hand that still reeked of his punctual 7am daily dump. Because successful people get up early.

“This is Alan E. Banks,” said Alan E. Banks.

“Jared here. I found that bearcat of yours.” The private investigator that Alan had hired precisely a week and a half ago.  After receiving not one, not two, but three sample pieces from SourStrawberry69, all of which his superiors ate right up. The man that could help him track down the reddit labia star who hadn’t responded to a single email, personal message or underwear request after sending the initial three pieces.

“Excellent! Where is she?!”

“I’m on 48th street right now, watching her and some cake-eater ankle around a Starbucks”

“DON’T lose sight of her, you imbecile. I’m leaving immediately!”

“Will do, boss. Don’t worry, now – everything’s Jake.” *Click* Jared Jones, PI swung characteristically from his provocative lounging stance in the doorway of the phone booth receptacle to the sidewalk, swiveling on one heel with a histrionic cock of his jaw. Shades blacker than ink assumed the driven steel of his eyes as he hailed the cab exactly two down from the one Marvin had just lassoed in from the traffic. “Follow that car – and step on it will ya?”

Alan Banks glanced down at his phone as it buzzed suggestively in his pocket. Alan’s pecker glanced to the left specutively as well. Not for you, Banks laid his semi- to rest with a dismissive swipe of the phone from his flattening pocket.

Jared Jones, PI: “They’re back at his place on Madison Ave”

Alan E Banks: “Going there now.”

Alan E Banks: “I don’t know why you insist on wasting money on pay phones when your cell phone is in perfect working condition”

Jared Jones, PI: “It builds the persona, cowboy. But why don’t you leave the undercover business to me and the business-business to yourself, eh?”

Alan E Banks: “You’re a twit”

Jared Jones, PI: “Why don’t you leave the hand that feeds you to its work & keep those teeth clamped on this girl’s floss, eh?”

Alan E Banks: “Pulling up behind you now”

     You wish, queer, thought Jared Jones, PI, rehashing the background surveillance he’d done on Mr. Banks & the self sodomizing nocturnal habits he’d witnessed through the long distance scope of his Nikon D500 DSLR – standard protocol background check when taking on new clients.

“Where is she?” Alan barked.

“Stopped at his place to get the mail. She’s waiting in the lobby.” Jared snapped some gum out the side of his mouth, punctuating his sentence with a nod of the chin.

“I suppose that package of gum doubles as a camera, as well”

“That’s for me to know, Bluenose,” retorted Jared Jones as he made a mental note to procure such a device immediately.

Alan charged ahead, the pedestrian crossing signal flashing on as if by an act of God – or the Law of Attraction, there’s really no telling which – and he skated right into the lobby of the high rise, not breaking stride until he was directly behind Caitlynn’s oblivious shoulders. “You won’t recognize me, Miss Strawberry, but I certainly recognize you,” whispered Alan E. Banks in Caitlynn’s ear. WHACK.

Caitlynn’s elbow, n’s and all, leapt from its relaxed position at the perfect angle for her to lean on the desk counter while checking her phone – straight into the flaring nostrils of the now 90 degree angle Alan Banks.

“Relax woman! It’s me – Alan Banks” the words came out muffled, as expected when spoken through a cupped palm & a stream of nasal blood and boogers.

“Alan Banks? The – the publishing agent? Marvi -“ Marin intervened just in time. Before Caitlynn could give away his identity as the true author of the short stories and before Alan could reveal the side business that her beau had been cooking for the past three months.

“Exactly what  do you think you’re doing assaulting my girlfriend?” Marvin was almost too glad to speak such a masculine sentence in Caitlynn’s ear. Whisking Caitlynn and her n’s away by the especially salty elbow, as Alan Banks recovered enough from the elbow’s conquest to stand vertical again. Still cupping his bleeding nostrils “Wait!”

“What the hell is going on here, Marvin? That guy says he’s the publishing agent you sent your stories to a couple weeks back. He just came up behind me like a FREAK OF NATURE -“ Caitlynn tastefully launched this part over her shoulder, as they cleared the lobby & exited the building “whispering in my ear and calling me Miss Strawberry? What the -“

Stall. All the gears inside Marvin’s skull started churning at once to figure out the best course of action. WD-40 was administered, flips were switched, more than one screw driver was utilized to clear up the works. “Fuck.” Obviously not enough screw drivers.

“Oh jesus, baby, I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m so sorry. Fuck! This wasn’t supposed to happen. I have no idea how this guy found us -“ a lounging Jared Jones winked at the non existent camera trained on the street corner he shared with the conspiring couple. “Oh christ. There’s something I have to tell you…”

By the time Alan Banks could reach the door, the couple was being whisked away by a cab – and Jared Jones stood next to the open door of a stalled cab, beckoning for his employer to get in.

Chapter 9:

They arrange a meeting after Caitlynn reluctantly agrees – only if Marvin will sit two tables down in the same cafe, while she and the strange man talk. Only because she loves him and wants to see him finally escape the executive world he’s suffered for so long in. And writing really was his dream…

Marvin pretends to read a paper, feeling like James Bond or some other spy on an operation. He calls it operation panty-liner in his head – equating it with headlines, like that of a newspaper or magazine article that – should this deal go through – //he would be writing//. He almost can’t contain his excitement as he watches the woman he loves “thoughtlessly” spilling cleavage all over the table, and “accidentally” knocking her knees into the agent’s, touching his hand for the sake of rapport, and licking her lip after every taste of latte.

“I thought you stayed away from caffeine and lactose – to, eh, ‘craft your scent’?” he used Marvin’s internet personality’s phrasing.

“Special project for a longterm customer,” she breezily passed it off, gulping down another sugary swig of her two percent, half-caff, double vanilla, 3 extra shots pure cane, with whip.

“Of course,” Mr. Banks nodded greedily, wetting his lips while eyeing the plug in her throat shoot up & down.

Caitlynn thought to herself, despite the possibly dislocated schnoz, this Banks fellow wasn’t half bad. Bald head freshly shaved, so you couldn’t tell where the hairline actually ended, Alan Banks inclined his head towards her as he explained the benefits she would reap, should she agree to work with him. The physical flirtations slowly turned the tides from “for Marvin’s sake,” to “to spite that s.o.b.,” to “gee, he looks kinda sexy when he looks at me over those red rimmed glasses”. Caitlynn hadn’t been this into the preppy businessman archetype since her daddy-issues sex binges in college. But my, mister Banks, mister Banks. Under the table, Caitlynn twirled her fingertips around Alan Banks’s knee cap. His face went dead cold as a thousand Htz volt shot from scrotum to meatus. A smile twitched on both their faces. On Mr. Banks, because he was certainly getting laid after that one. On Caitlynn’s face, because she knew Marvin couldn’t see anything below the table from his position.

“So tell me something, Mr. Banks. You’re really into this just for my writing, hmm? I mean, of course I appreciate your attentiveness to my other business, but you’re not here just to rope me into some shady sex ring, are you?”

Alan Banks flicked a business card right from his lapel to under Caitlynn’s perfect 12 degree lifted pixie nose. She removed her deep sea divers from Alan’s muscular thigh to snatch the business card with one hand & quickly google the LLC with her smart-phone-elbow hand. Sure enough, smiling like a slick rabbit next to his title on the “Talent Recruiters” page was Alan Banks, flashing the same cocky grin he was flashing now, she looked up to see the identical grin spreading across his face.

“So it doesn’t even matter if I’m the one really writing these stories that you want out of me. Just that you get their rights signed to you, so you can publish them in whatever magazine or journal that calls for them.”

“Well, see it does matter actually. I don’t just want these stories. I need their source too – or rather, I need a consistent stream of stories, well they don’t have to be stories exactly – writers. I desperately need writers. I spend so much of my time weeding through the pimple puss collegiate journalists, that I hardly make my deadlines anymore. What I need is a writer of confirmed quality who can deliver consistently. Really, Miss uh Caitlynn? Though I have greatly admired your other services – I cannot stress how greatly,” -he really can’t – “I’m strictly here for the talent. You wouldn’t even need to come into the office. Just submit your assignments electronically before deadline. Now of course, it’s still up in the air exactly how much we would-“


“How’s that now?”

“Deal,” Caitlynn pivoted out of her seat, yanking the befuddled Mr. Banks along with her down to the booth that Marvin was squirming with increasing excessivity in. “Marvin. Game’s up. Mr. Banks, meet Marvin. Marvin, Mr. Banks. Marvin here, this slime, this scum of the earth that’s been using my pictures on his ‘product,’” the air quotes were palpable “for the past few months, has been fooling you, Mr. Banks. He’s been selling you panties with his bodily waste on them. Some smelly spring flowers that mimic the scent of pussy. I don’t even know. He’s been fooling you this whole time with his own smelly ass, essentially. However, he’s also the writer that you’re looking for. Marvin: it was nice knowing you, but I don’t take kindly to being lied to and I certainly am not going to stay with somebody who’s been exploiting my image on the internet for money. What if I run for president one day? huh? I would just love to watch your spindly ass explain yourself in a press conference on the merits of So, we’re done. OB-viously” eye roll included, hair flip sold separately. “That being said, doing anything tonight Mr. Banks? Got a bona fide gourmet dish right here that finally doesn’t have to pretend it’s enjoying being eaten” -patting herself on the crotch, she threw a meaningful glance at Marvin’s interwoven browline.

Both men sputtered for a few moments, exchanging confused nods, slowly progressing to nods of agreement. Mr. Banks nodded at Caitlynn. Marvin dribbled a nod in her direction as well, unable to meet her eyes since the lobby of his apartment complex. Marvin nodded at Alan. Alan nodded at Marvin. “Alrighty then,” Caitlynn pressed her full body against Alan Bank’s threateningly muscular form, to slip two serene fingers into his lapel & flick a business card in Marvin’s direction, before hooking more volatile fingers around Alan’s Gucci tie & pulled him after her revolving hips as they rolled away from Marvin’s booth. “And get your shit out of my apartment before I get home tonight. Take your time though. I won’t get back until late.”

Cane around his neck, Alan Banks disappeared through the swinging glass doors behind Caitlynn.

     Marvin slid the business card from the table and began to think on the future he had as a writer with the man that used to vehemently enjoy sniffing the excretions of his sweaty balls. “Well, I guess I’ll pay for the coffees then.”


So the cycle continues. Most bored men tend to find adventure. Most strong women tend to find exciting flings in weak men. Most stressed out businessmen tend to look for stress outlets in all the wrong places (they like it that way). And some men find greatness in flowers that mimic the scent of unwashed genitals – tendency to find it here has not yet been analyzed by any notable institutions. Updates to follow.


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