Cabin Fever - An Erotic Novel

Chapter 8 - Christina uncovered (FINAL EDIT)

I went straight home after my brush with Bella.

On my way, I changed my mind about who to call a hundred times.

Abbie. Not Abbie. Abbie. Not Abbie.

The problem was: I could get someone else, easy as that. But I wanted Abbie, and no one else.

Simple as that.

I unlocked and got inside. Locked up. Threw the keys on top of the small dresser where I keep my gloves, scarves, and such. I missed the toss – the keys hit a little decorative vase I couldn't remember having bought – probably a gift from some girl – and slid off the edge and landed on the floor.

I sighed.

I'm a meticulous kind of person – I like order, I like being in control. I would typically bend down, pick up the keys, and proceed with my routine. Not so today. Instead, I just dropped my stash – shoes, coat, and shoulder bag - on the tiled floor next to the keys. I felt a small wave of satisfaction at the little puddle of chaos in my otherwise so orderly apartment. A physical manifestation of my inner turmoil.

I needed a beer, so I made my way to the fridge. Had a sip. Had another mouthful of brew, much larger this time – well into 'manly swig' territory. I fiddled my phone for a spell. I pulled up Abbie and hit dial. It rang for a while, but she didn't pick up. I cut the call short of her voicemail.

I sighed again, dumped my Rolex (I don't really like wearing one, but having an expensive, useless watch is expected of a manly male) and the phone on the kitchen counter. Had another swig. Took the rest of the beer with me into the bathroom. Undressed. Inspected my lean, hard body. Still looking just as good as I had in the morning.

Muscled, but lean and functional rather than useless volume. I had competed in Judo at a very high level and done some full-contact karate. Less martial arts these days, but I did manage to keep fit. I used the Norseman Triathlon as my yardstick. As long as I could finish that one with style, I was in acceptable physical shape.

I contemplated growing a beard – it was all the rage with handsome, young men these days. Did Abbie like beards? I wasn't sure. I sure didn't. It looked kind of hot, but it just wasn't me – and it itched like crazy.

I determined to let it grow – it wouldn't be a beard come weekend, but there would be some stubble. Stubble was good. Very 'rugged outdoorsman.'

I took the beer with me into the shower. I considered jerking off to a fantasy of a threesome with Abbie and Bella but found that I wasn't all that aroused anymore – too many worries, I suppose – so I dropped it after a few half-hearted pulls.

I got out of the shower, dried off, and engaged in some light manly grooming. By the time I was satisfied with my hair, the beer was empty, so I went back to the kitchen to get another. I didn't bother dressing – I was alone, and the apartment is discreetly located, so the chances of the neighbors admiring my perfect dick are slim.

I got my second beer out of the fridge. Twisted the cap with a practiced motion – twist-off beer caps is a great American invention as far as I'm concerned. I picked up my phone from the kitchen counter. One missed call. Abbie. My heart skipped a beat. She had tried to call me back while I was in the shower. The phone also said I had a voicemail message – from Abbie. I pressed the quick dial button and turned around, beer halfway to my lips.

And found I wasn't quite as alone as I had thought.

On the far side of the kitchen island stood a petite platinum blonde (by choice) woman in a very short, tight dress. She was of average height, a bit taller than Abbie, but nowhere near Bella's height. Nature had, however, bestowed upon her unusually long, slender legs. If thigh gaps are your thing, she could be your queen. When perched on top of her stilettos, she appeared far taller than she actually was. It was a familiar view.