What the hell am I doing here? Part 2: The Card.

It was a regular sized business card. White. Black letters. No fancy fonts. Barely any information, just some dude's name and his number. I have seen many, many cards in my day, and in terms of cards, this one was nothing.

And yet it radiated power.

It was two days before I rediscovered the card. In the middle of the night, my eyes popped open and some mysterious force drew me to the hamper where, with the limited cognition that normally accompanies 3:34am, I instinctively reached for and found my cum soiled pants from the other day. In the left rear pocket, there it was.

I re-read the bullshit message "He will do what's next." Again, the rush of anger and annoyance, but this time it was mingled with intrigue. I wanted to know who this "He" was... and there was a growing part of me (and not just between my legs) which was beginning to yearn for a "next".

This was the biggest surprise. While I had worked hard to return my life to "normal", my ass had become a pulsing reminder of the man who left his seed inside me. It was never far out of my mind and none of my activities, none of my normally hyper-planned routines, was able to keep my mind in a groove for very long. Worst was at night, with no lights to protect me and no TV to distract me, I was left to my own thoughts... those dark and dangerous thoughts... which verged increasingly on desire. More than once, as I started out of a doze, I found a finger touching my pucker, looking not for entry, but for the feel of cum...

I placed the card on my valet, half hidden to be discreet, but visible enough to get that titillating charge every time I noticed it. And every day, at least twice a day, I paid homage to the growing power of The Card. This homage took the form of picking up the card each day to look at it anew as if, by some further mystery, there would be new words offering new clues. By Day 5, I took to smelling the card for traces of the man who wrote the words. By Day 11, I had studied each individual letter of the man's writing for some secret clue as to their meaning.

On day 17, The Card tricked me and entered my rear pocket. In the middle of an interminable conference call, when I reached for my list of "things to remember to get done on the call", The Card fell out of my pocket and onto the floor. My mouth became dry and my heart started beating more rapidly. I couldn't hear a single word being spoken on the call, only the words "He will do what is next."

It was that simple. I needed to call "him".

With no warning, I hung up on the conference call (thereby cutting off 12 bewildered people midstream in their attempts to kiss my ass) and dialed His number. It rang. Once, three times, eight times... for fuck's sake-- who the hell doesn't have fucking voicemail... 11 times... how many more times should I wait, I asked, knowing all the while I was going to at least 25... maybe 30...

And then, on about the 19th ring, a voice suddenly says: "yeah?"

That was unexpected. "Um... ah... I... well... I got this..."

"Yeah? You got this fucking what?"

"Um... this card."

"Congrats dude, now go fuck yourself with it and leave me the fuck alone."

After 17 fucking days, there was no way I was going to let Him NOT give me some fucking answers and I suddenly found my voice.

"No wait... please. A man gave me a card with your name and number with a note that you would do what's next."

Silence.

"Hello?"

"So... its you. It took you long enough to call, didn't it?"

"Um... yeah. I guess. Wasn't sure I wanted to call."

"But couldn't help it, could you, bitch?"

"I guess not."

"I guess not, SIR."

"What?"

"You will need to call me "sir" if you want to do what's next."

"Um... ok... um... Sir."

"Now bitch, let me tell you something. When a dude don't answer his fucking phone after 90 rings, it usually means the nigga is sleeping or fucking. Since it is the middle of the day, and I ain't no goddamn piece of shit vampire, you should just use that big fucking brain of yours and assume I was fucking. And you know what is funny? I was. I have this twinky cock-whore begging me to breed his tight pussy and here I am with his assjuice dripping off my cock talking to a fucking dumbass. How do you think that makes me feel, bitch?"

"Um... ah..."

"That's 'um sir', you dumb piece of shit. Now here is what we are going to do. You are going to go home, clean your shit up, and I mean really clean your shit up, get dressed in something to give me a boner and get over here in less than an hour. I will then let you lick this boy off my dick and let my dick decide whether you are worth fucking. If, after I cum in your fucking mouth or your pussy, and my dick feels happy, I will 'do what's next'... but nigga, only if you you please me, and that ain't looking good for you right now..."

My turn for silence.

"You still there, bitch? If so, listen carefully cause I am only gonna say this once: If you are not here in exactly one hour at 4:16pm, I will not open the door and this whole 'adventure' of yours is over. Got it, papi?"

He hung up before I choked out the last of my articulate "um's".

(To be continued)