E.G. Saunders here. By now you know there’s actually a deep story wrapped around the sex – and, yes, there is more sex coming. Pleasures come to those with patience – Subs know what I mean. I’m going to tease your mind, grip it tightly. I wasn’ t joking when i wrote that this is a suspense thriller. Enjoy yourselves.

Don’t be afraid to send me a note – if you want the whole story. Yes, yours free for staying with me this far. At 55 chapters, this is a full novel. Find me elsewhere on the web. Search my name, then email me. Mention you come from here and I’ll hook you up.

———————————–



Chapter 7


I don’t know just how long I stood staring at that damn thing, but my legs started aching, so I figured it must have been a considerable length.

I couldn’t process my thoughts well. And, yes, I wanted a drink.

There was one thing about me, though; I could fast between drinks for days—even weeks—if needed. I had that much capacity, courage, and conviction. The toughest part was rallying my persistence against the onslaught of the need.

I had to use that ability now. The dark stiletto lying on the floor told me that I had to buck up onto the wagon or get run under it by a hot woman who probably wouldn’t break a sweat or shed a tear from my demise.

And if you don’t die between now and then…

Her last sentence held firm in the thick fog of my indecision.

I went over everything I had told her, all the people she had pulled from me.

I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed. I was still nude, but at least I wasn’t holding my dick in my hand. Thoughts of taking a little swig of rum—only one, just a little sip—went through me as often as I breathed. But I held firm. I knew I would be going through that for a while. I knew the symptoms. The ache.

I’ve been at this struggle many times. It was something I faced daily—more so on long gigs, which is why I tried not to take them: I won’t work drunk. Period. I wasn’t that bad, though. I would kill myself if it got to that point.

I had an uncle who carried a curved flask in his sock daily. Lifted his pant leg and took a little pop every time he got majorly stressed on the set. No, he didn’t do it in front of everyone, only me. Yes, he was the reason I got into the business. But he wasn’t the one who got me started on the drink. My parents were drunks. I mean “socialites.” They had money and connections. I think Mother is dead now, but I’m not really sure. They left for France and then greater Europe when I was still in my teens. I haven’t seen them since.

My uncle, Tim, took care of me. As I said, he didn’t start me on the drink, but he did nurture me into the alcoholic I am today. Helped me craft my particular habit in a way that didn’t disrupt my work.

All in all, he was the best parent I could’ve had. He actually cared what happened to me. In turn, I cared for him. I ended up putting him to bed more than any man should, but it was our way. He took me under his wing, gave me the skills with cameras and lighting, pointed me out to the right people. I helped get him to bed so he wouldn’t end up on the front end of someone’s bumper staggering home at night.

It was our deal.

He was the only one I didn’t mention to Candy.

I would protect him until the day I died. I owed him that.

He was dead, too, but I knew about his death. Cared that it happened. I was at the funeral. Gave a good eulogy, from what I recall. Yes, I drank a bit before and after, but he truly would’ve wanted it that way.