Thank you for your continued interest and support. I appreciate it.
I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own Stuck-Up Suit.
SAM
My day had been taken over by a faceless pair of tits, a feather tattoo...and an amazing ass. Worse, they could talk.
Out of all the fucking things that she could've texted to me along with those body shots, she had to choose those words.
She had to send the one message that would undo me and completely fuck up the rest of my day.
Perhaps my week.
Your mother should be ashamed of you.
Fuck you, Mercedes Jones! Fuck you, because you're right.
This strange woman had gotten under my skin.
She'd said her name once through the intercom, but it stuck with me. And normally, names went in one ear and out the other.
Mercedes Jones.
Well, technically, her full name was Mercedes You're Welcome Asshole Jones.
How did she get my phone?
I didn't even realize it was missing. One is hard to miss out of the four or five I have.
The text continued to haunt me as I read it over and over.
Your mother should be ashamed of you.
Each time, it made me angrier than the last, because deep down, I knew there were no truer words.
My mother would've been ashamed of me. Ashamed of the way I treated people on a daily basis.
Everyone deals with tragedy differently. But after my mother died, I chose to shut people out of my life, focusing all my energy on schooling and my career.
I didn't want to feel anything anymore.
I didn't want to connect with anyone.
And the easiest way to go about achieving that was to scare people away.
If being an asshole was an art form, then I'd mastered it. And the more successful I became, the easier it was.
It was amazing what a man of my position and appearance could get away with.
Almost no one called me out on my crap or questioned me. They just accepted it.
In all these years, not one person had spoken to me in my place of business the way Mercedes Jones had today.
Not one.
While her ballsy attitude over the intercom impressed me, I'd almost forgotten about her until Anna, the receptionist, knocked on my door and handed me my phone.
And now, hours later, I was still sitting here completely obsessed with the deep realization that came from her words.
And completely obsessed with the set of tits pouring out of a dress that was the color of the devil.
Fitting.
Mercedes Jones was a little devil.
She'd left me unable to focus on work, so I canceled the one afternoon meeting I had and left the office.
Back home, I sat on my couch and sipped cognac while continuing to ruminate.
Sensing that something was off with me, my West Highland terrier, Shepp, just sat at my feet, not even bothering to try to get me to play with him.
My Upper West Side condo overlooked the Manhattan skyline. It was dark out now, and the city lights illuminated the evening sky.
The more I sipped, the brighter the lights seemed, and the more my inhibitions slipped away.
Somewhere out in the vast city, Mercedes Jones was feeling satisfied with her little act, unaware that she'd wrecked me in the process.
Staring at the image of the feather tattoo on her foot again, it occurred to me that she didn't show her face, because she was probably ugly as hell.
At that thought, my own laughter echoed throughout the stone cold, empty living space.
I wished I knew what she looked like.
I wished I had opened that office door so that I could've shut her up to her face.
My finger lingered over her name, You're Welcome Asshole. I wanted to make her feel as crappy as she'd made me.
And I was not beyond going there.
So, I did. I replied to her text.
Sam: My mother is dead, actually. But yes, I suppose she would be ashamed.
Maybe five minutes went by before my phone chimed.
You're Welcome Asshole: I'm sorry.
Sam: You should be.
I should've left it at that. But she would've felt like shit, and that would've been the end of it.
But I was buzzed.
Not to mention fucking horny. And staring at her tits, legs and ass all day had gotten me all worked up.
I replaced You're Welcome Asshole with her real name.
Sam: What are you wearing, Mercedes?
Mercedes: Are you serious right now?
Sam: As a heart attack. You ruined my day. You owe me.
Mercedes: I don't owe you anything, you fucking perv.
Sam: This from the woman who sent me a shot of her cleavage. Nice tits, by the way. They're so big. At first, I thought it was a picture of an ass.
Mercedes: You're the ass.
Sam: Show me your face.
Mercedes: Why?
Sam: Because I want to see if it matches your personality.
Mercedes: Which would mean what?
Sam: Well, that wouldn't bode well for you.
Mercedes: You won't ever see my face.
Sam: Probably better off. So, give me a hint about what you're wearing.
Mercedes: It's red.
Sam: So you haven't changed out of that dress?
Mercedes: Yes. I'm naked with dye dripping down my body and my tongue is throbbing thanks to you.
That was an odd thing to say.
Sam: That's an interesting visual.
Mercedes: You are seriously crazy, dude.
Sam: I AM a little crazy, actually. I probably need my head checked, because I've been fantasizing about a headless person all day.
Mercedes: Well, a naked pic ain't gonna happen.
Sam: How about I go first?
She must've been shell-shocked, because she never responded again after that.
Deciding to stop messing with her, I threw my phone across the couch and lifted Shepp onto my bare chest where he stayed until I fell asleep.
I'd managed to get Mercedes out of my head, somewhat, the following day. But two mornings later, the obsession came back in full force.
The morning train was particularly crowded, and I didn't get a seat. Hanging onto a metal pole for balance, I looked around me.
I almost never actually paid attention to the people on the train, and now, I was reminded of why.
Fucking freaks.
At one point, my eyes wandered to the ground, to a woman's foot diagonally across the aisle. Smooth, brown and shapely.
And my heart started to pound furiously as my eyes landed on the same feather tattoo as Mercedes'.
Something else...the toes of this foot were also painted the same shade of red.
Holy fuck!
It was her.
She took the same train! That must've been how she found my phone.
I couldn't look up.
I didn't want to be disappointed.
It would be much better to just keep the fantasy going without actually having to face reality.
But God, I had to.
I had to know what she really looked like.
Counting to ten slowly, I let my eyes slowly travel up the length of her pretty legs that were crossed.
Black leather skirt, leopard-print purse at her side, bright purple low-cut shirt showcasing in the flesh...the rack I'd been fantasizing about.
Then, my eyes landed above the neck.
Fuck!
Fuck!
Fuck!
She was looking straight ahead.
Silky, straight black hair, dyed blood red at the bottom, tied back into a ponytail, displaying the soft looking bitable skin of her neck.
Bright red lips in the shape of a perfect bow. Button nose. Big brown eyes like saucers. What do you know, the devil had the face of an angel.
In fact, Mercedes Jones was a bombshell.
My dick twitched in excitement. If I was trying to forget her before, it was going to be impossible now.
When she turned and noticed me looking at her, our eyes locked. Unsure of whether she knew who I was, my heartbeat accelerated.
Then, she simply looked away unaffected towards the train window.
Did she not know what I looked like?
I wracked my brain.
There were only a couple of pictures of me in the phone, ones where I was dressed casually while visiting my grandmother.
Maybe she hadn't gone through the photos.
No, who was I kidding? Mercedes Jones would've definitely opened her big mouth if she had recognized me.
She didn't know.
Letting out a sigh of relief, I continued to stare at her beautiful face, in awe that this was the same person who had turned my life upside down the other day.
A vacant seat caught my eye, so I sat down, took out my phone, and scrolled down to her name.
This was going to be fun.
Sam: Is your hair long or short?
It was the most innocuous thing I could think of to say.
I figured if I'd started off telling her what I fantasized about in the shower this morning...oiling up those big, incredible tits and slipping my dick in and out...she might not respond again.
Mercedes: Do you have a preference?
Sam: Long. I love a woman with long hair.
I couldn't look in her direction, but I realized if I looked out the window I could watch her reflection.
Her head lifted, and she glanced my way before looking back down at her phone.
Mercedes: Short. I have very short hair.
Liar.
After she sent the text, a sly smirk tempted at her lips. I'd fix her.
Sam: That's too bad. I had a recurring fantasy all day yesterday, about you having hair long enough to tie around my waist.
I got a thrill watching that sly smirk disappear.
Her lips parted, and I was certain if I was closer I would've heard a sharp intake of breath.
She fidgeted in her seat for a minute before responding.
Mercedes: Sorry. No can do. I'm under strict instructions not to engage in any oral activity for a while.
What the fuck?
Sam: From who?
Mercedes: Whom. From whom would be the proper phrasing.
Sam: Proper text etiquette from a woman who sends porn to strangers.
Mercedes: I don't send porn to strangers. You just pissed me off. I wanted to show you what you were missing refusing to step down off your throne and see me.
Sam: If that's the result, I plan to piss you off again. Often.
She stared out the window for a while.
It was getting close to my stop. But this woman had a way of getting under my skin.
And I knew I wouldn't be able to focus on my eight o'clock meeting, with her oral activity restriction comment hanging in the air.
So I caved.
Sam: Who told you not engage in any oral activities for a while?
Mercedes: Quinn
Fuck! Was she a lesbian? That thought had never even crossed my mind. What kind of a lesbian sends skin shots to a man?
Sam: You're gay?
The train slowed as we pulled into my stop. And if I didn't have an important meeting, I would've stayed on just to see where she got off.
Against my better judgment, I let my eyes wander to her before I stood to leave.
Her head was down as she texted, but there was a smile on her face.
A gorgeous, real smile. Not one of those plastered, practiced-in-the-mirror smiles that most of my dates seemed to perfect.
No. Mercedes Jones really smiled. This one was a little crooked and a lot beautiful.
My phone flashed indicating a new text had arrived.
Thankfully, it pulled my attention from staring at her before I got caught.
Mercedes: LOL. No, I'm not gay. My friend Quinn pierced my tongue two days ago. Hence the strict ban on oral activities until it's had time to heal.
Fuck!
I closed my eyes in an attempt to calm myself, but it only made things worse.
A visual of her sweet face with that wicked pierced tongue going down on my shaft had my eyes springing back open.
Completely distracted, I barely made it out of the train before the door closed.
How the hell was I going to accomplish anything today with that new piece of information?
Stay safe!