Bethany Fitz, as she had come to be known by in certain circles, awoke in accordance to her body’s natural clock. That’s to say, it had simply been a dreadfully long time since she’d eaten, and her belly was no longer content with allowing the rest of her body the luxury of sleep. She yawned, stretched, and placed her open palms atop her exposed midsection, contemplating what she’d do to address that pesky physiological requirement.
Make no mistake, the girl loved to eat. She merely wished it were the kind of activity one could engage in at their leisure strictly for the sake of pleasure, like a recreational drug or a good lay. As far as she was concerned, sex had been successfully deposed from its primitive throne of instinctive necessity. She could take it or leave it. Hunger, however, still maintained an incessant hold over her biological self—one she could abate, but never abolish. She’d rather have her hunger at her beck and call for very particular recreational applications, the sort she found herself characteristically fixated on at this very moment. How long had it been? Five months?
She closed her eyes and reminisced about her last little living morsel, the brutish detective. What was his name? He only registered in her memory slightly above other pleasant but otherwise remedial tasks. She wasn’t exactly fond of the man and hadn’t wasted much time on pleasantries before dealing with him. Unwilling prey wasn’t her thing. If he hadn’t been pure evil, she probably just would have chased him out. It wasn’t like he could pin anything on her anyway. She was too careful. If it hadn’t been for the little guy’s partner showing up and nearly making a huge mess of the situation, she might have allowed herself to forget all about him.
“A-h-h, Jones…” she said to herself with a wistful tone. Not the man she’d eaten, but certainly the one she wished she had gotten to know a little better. If she were being completely honest, which she usually was as a rule, she was a little surprised and very disappointed she hadn’t heard back from Jones since their initial encounter. Perhaps she’d misjudged the man. But no, she realized she’d judged him exactly right, and that was precisely the reason she hadn’t heard from him yet, and perhaps never would. The man was neither a villain nor a fool. He stood nothing to gain by her and perhaps everything to lose. That said, those were the same reasons she was confident in her decision to let him go. He would more than likely never bother her again, but if he ever returned, she was certain it would be to her benefit. It would be of his own free will, knowing full-well what she was capable of—what she would want from him—and that’s exactly how she liked them.
She was shaken from her reverie by the disgruntled sound of her grumbling belly. “At least his friend had plenty of fight in him,” she mused. Then she sighed, “not that it does me much good now.” She silently wished a man could last inside of her for five months. She counted herself lucky when they lasted for five minutes, in her belly or otherwise. She promised herself that the next man she found who shared in her twisted desires would be well-met, well-treated, and a well worth the wait.
Almost all mornings began this way. She would wake up hungry, fantasize about her favorite ways to satisfy that hunger, sometimes succumbing to the erotic impulses brought about by remembering some of the better times she had done so, and then she’d end up eating a completely conventional breakfast. This morning’s fare was pancakes with butter, a fruit smoothie, and about four large mugs of coffee. She was polishing off the pot when she parked herself in her computer chair and opened up her web browser. She had some private forums to check. Sure, her physical hunger was satisfied, but her real hunger was always hopeful.
It was slow going. She would have told you the internet was in its golden age, but DSL in the early Aughts was nothing to write home about in a hurry. Still, it had vastly improved her success rate in locating misguided men and guiding them into her gullet, but it was really only a vast improvement when compared to the paltry few she’d scoped out before acquiring it. She briefly recalled her first. He was more of a “convert” than an “enthusiast,” as she’d gradually brought him around to her way of thinking and given him gentle coaxing until he adopted the idea as his own and practically begged her to let him live it. But that was more than good enough for her for her first time.
“If you really could do it,” he had said, “then I honestly think I’d have to let you. At this point, just the idea makes me shiver—but in a good way.” He had laughed nervously at her smile at hearing this. “Seriously, babe, what have you turned me into?” Then they both laughed. It wasn’t long after that she’d elected to put his money where her mouth was…
The memory of the first time she’d had a man in her mouth almost made her squirm all over again from the thrill of the unique experience. It had sealed the deal in more ways than one. It was an awakening. She knew she’d have to do it again, and it solidified her resolve that a man’s—or woman’s—willingness to oblige her was half the fun. But memory was no replacement for the real thing, and fond of it as she was, five months was giving her an itch deep inside that she was in desperate need of having a helping hand scratch.
She had a few threads of correspondence to sort through. Not many she considered legitimate bites. Perhaps one or two that might eventually bear fruit. Then she noticed she had a message from an unfamiliar handle. That wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary. She was an anonymous person on a very particular part of the internet claiming to be a hot woman looking to satisfy. Sometimes she was bombarded. But this message was in her private inbox. It was an address that she didn’t share with just anyone. Typically, if someone knew to write to this particular email, they had at least an inclination of her real business. Her interests were piqued, and she felt a small flutter of hope well up in her stomach.
Chewing on her lip, she opened the message, and as her eyes glided across the text, she actually gasped with delight. She had instinctively skimmed over the introductory drivel and arrived at the words that practically made her heart sing; “can you really do it.” At this, she backtracked and read every word of this anonymous caller’s message again with a new found relish. If this man or woman might possibly be interested in giving her what she desired, they were worth every bit of her care.
After reading the message a few times and allowing herself the foolish sensation of actual anticipation, she decided she’d repay this person with a proper response, one crafted for situations such as these when being direct and concise was paramount. Her response read simply, “Who referred you to me?” To this, there would be one of two responses, and they really should have included the information in the initial email. One was the name of a strip club where she had a very good friend who would occasionally send men her way if she picked up on their interests during some of her more intimate encounters, and the other was the handle of a sort of agent she and a few others like her had who would discover people and match them with others based on specific aspects of their interests.
The latter was a little more reliable than the former. While her friend at the club was seldom wrong about what she suspected these guys “really wanted,” they weren’t always Bethany’s type, and she’d occasionally been less than totally satisfied. A few had even backed out of the deal during the “moment of truth,” during which she’d give them one last shot to call it off before things “went past the point of no return.” While she’d never take an honest man by force, these rare occurrences really tested her patience, and she’d just as soon avoid them.
However, this had never happened when the agent was involved. She suspected this operator had a somewhat more reliable system in place for vetting customers. Good thing too, considering what she paid to get the connection. Either way, anyone writing this address must’ve gotten it from one of those two sources, and that meant there was a very good chance they were serious. If they didn’t give a right answer, she would more than likely cut contact. Never mind how they got the address. Can’t trust just anyone with these things. She fired off her reply, and then sipped on her coffee, gulping down a few mouthfuls with much more satisfaction than she had felt in weeks. She couldn’t help it. Sooner than later, she might be gulping down someone as enthusiastic about the process as she was.
Before she knew it, there was a response waiting in her inbox. “A-w-w, poor little thing must have been waiting at their desk all night for a reply!” She chuckled at her own improving disposition and opened the message with haste. She didn’t see what she was expecting. The response was one word, “Jones.”
“What the hell?” She muttered, and quickly replied, “Do you mean to tell me that Detective Jones gave you this address?” She hit send and waited with a sudden shift in emotion. Her brow was deeply furrowed, and her mind was racing a mile a minute. Was this Jones himself? How did he get this address? Why would he choose this means of approach when he knew where she lived, and she had a phone he’d given her? She must’ve refreshed her inbox twice a minute, desperate for an explanation. Why hadn’t she asked more clarifying questions in her last response?
Finally, just when she was considering writing him again, the response came. It read, “Yes. He said you’re the real thing. I couldn’t believe it. I had to know. I’m so sorry if contacting you was presumptuous, but honestly, I don’t know if I can live with knowing someone like you exists without at least reaching out and asking. Just the possibility that you’d understand where I’m coming from, let alone the idea that you could actually go through with it. I’m not trying to prank you. I’m completely serious about this, as crazy as that has to sound. If he was full of it, just tell me, and I’ll leave you be.”
After she had read this response a few times, she began to relax, and her posture gradually slackened. This wasn’t Jones, but someone else who was somehow connected to Jones. While that was somewhat of a shame, it did lead to a rather stirring possibility. Somehow Jones had tracked down her well-guarded private contact info, and he was sending her referrals! Perhaps she really had misjudged him; he wasn’t such a piss-poor detective after all.
No matter, she’d find a way to express her gratitude to the elusive man at a later date. For now, she had a tug at her line, and she was ready to reel him in. She typed out her response. “It’s perhaps only a little crazier than my desire to reciprocate, my friend. I’m finding Jones to be a surprisingly reliable source. Tell me more about yourself.”