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Spank Me Twice - Lip Service Excerpt

LIP SERVICE - Keta Diablo
One of four stories in the Spank Me Twice Antho coming May 22nd.

Setup: Navarre is finally at Bryan's hotel room. After the long drive and engaging in a little phone sex, Navarre is beside himself with desire. But . . . a surprise awaits him.


Eighth Avenue looms before my tired eyes, and then the flashing sign, Hilton Garden Inn. I made it; I’m here, and Bryan only minutes away. I pull into valet parking and hand the keys over to a tall, paunchy-looking man who looks more tired than me. Opening the back door of the Denali, I pull my bag out, sling it over my shoulder and head toward the desk.

“What room is Bryan Schaefer staying in?” I ask.

The desk clerk looks at her log and points toward a bank of elevators. “Room 468, turn left when you exit the elevator and follow the sign.”

“Thanks,” I say, and realize my legs are wobbly. My hands tremble as I push the wall button, and soon the elevator door opens. Thank God it’s empty. I step inside and push the button for the fourth floor. I’m almost there; soon I’ll be wrapped in his arms, taken to a place some have only dreamed about.

The elevator door opens. The sign tells me to turn right to find Room 468. I stand in front of his door, and can’t fucking believe it. I’m here, seconds away from bliss. I raise my hand to knock and hear muffled laughter through the door.

Bryan’s and an unfamiliar voice.

My heart falls to my feet. Someone is in the room with him, a man by the deep, baritone inflection. How could I be so stupid? Ice rushes through my veins and a wave of dizziness nearly brings me to my knees.

Two can play this game . . . two can play this game.

I look around for something to throw up in, just in case I can’t stop the bile from making it past my throat. I spy a potted plant, but rather than douse it with vomit, I want to pitch it through the nine-paned window nearby. Bryan is in his hotel room with another man, and the visions storming my brain devastate me.

He didn’t mean it, not a single word—the apology, the I love you, or the part about missing me. How can he miss me while he’s fucking another man? I tell myself it was all lies, the wing flap problem, the National Guard convention, the whole shebang. Pacing the hallway, I wonder what I should do. Knock? Barge in? Or simply leave and toss myself over the nearest bridge?

What about our life, the condo we share, the Wedgewood and the fucking Ocean Breeze candles? Everything Bryan loves or said he did. Is that all lies too? My stomach lurches and my eyes wander to the Shefflera again with its plastic yellow and green foliage. Maybe I’ll have to use it as a puke bucket after all.

Yeah, I’m a submissive I tell myself, but not a doormat. I gave Bry five years, the best five years of my life. The anger rises from my gut like a geyser about to erupt. I’m not simply walking away, nor am I going to toss myself off a bridge. I decide right then and there, I’m going to confront him, and his lover. Besides, I’m more than a little curious about what the man looks like. It seems important to me see the stranger’s face and know whether his eyes are blue, brown or gray like mine. I must know or it won’t ever seem real to me.

And I must confront Bryan; tell him what a low-life, scumbag, bastard he is. That seems almost important as seeing the stranger who’s sharing his bed, the benefactor of his exquisite touch, the luckiest fucking devil in the world.

I raise my hand to knock and the door swings open. Blue. The man’s eyes are a soft, gentle blue. Blonde hair frames his delicate features and tanned face. I recognize Bryan’s shirt covering his torso and in my frisson of jealousy it’s all I see—the pinstripe shirt I bought Bry for Christmas hugging his lover’s lean, muscular frame.

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