Act 3: A Parody in Three Acts: A Night in the Life of Andre (yes, that Andre…sorta)

Act 3:

Andre exited the briefless briefing with a skippity in his doo-da – he was greatly and immensely and totally satisfied – happy, even – with his day’s handiwork:

• One set of nails buffed just so?  Check!
• One favorite T-Ball team advanced to their finals?  Check!
• Two Palace thieves caught?  Check!
• One missing favorite shoe found?  Check!
• One Were tortured? Check!
• Two meals swallowed? Check!
• One objet d’art/ashtray created and gifted to his Maker? Check!
• Two broders made jelly as fuck?  Check and Check!

BOOO-YEAH!

With a refined pep in his step – making his tight ass even tighter, inner thigh chaffing or not – Andre sauntered down to the Fuck-n-Feed level.  There was a new batch of ass in that night and It had been a while – at least three whole nights – since he’d had a bout of raunchy-raunch in the ol’ sackity-sack, and his ass was looking mighty fine that evening if he did say so himself.

And he did.

Often.

After all, mirrors don’t lie.

Fuckers couldn’t even speak, actually.

As he perused the night’s offerings with a cocky, arrogant, overly-confident li’l smirky-smirk, he found himself (no magnifying glasses needed for that, TVYM!) continually gesturing the ladies away. He was heartily sick and tired and bored and sick and tired and, yeah, bored with O+…and B-…

For some reason B- always put him in a bad mood…

No, no O- or A-, either.  Ew.  (Yes, Andre, that Andre, says “ew”.)

Indigestion, you know.

With a sigh he finally nodded in reluctant approval of a little redhead filled with what was described as AB+.

Andre shrugged.

He didn’t really need a mood enhancer, but hell, why not…he’d never had that particular pair of schwangin’ tits before.

She, Esmeralda (nicknamed Ezzie, naturally) was a newbie to The Establishment so when she saw that The Master Torturer – she knew him by sight because of the posters scattered about the Palace and because of a short-lived and ill-fated and ill-advised (failed) PR campaign by said Palace to boost his public perception (failed because it didn’t,  you know, work) – requested her presence for the night, she started lickin’ her lips and rockin’ her hips.

(Ok, so she’d worked in the Palace as a daytime maid and had heard…stories…about Andre.)

She was gonna be in for a ***GOOD*** time tonight!!11!!  *wink emoticon…heart emoticon…wink emoticon…heart emoticon…wink emoticon*

Andre, already in route to his not-private suite (the one where he entertained meals and guests, not the one where he rested his weary head and tight ass), didn’t notice the meal’s overly-swiveling hip problem or her unsecured-therefore-bouncing-all-over-the-damn-place boob problem.

Nope, he missed the ponderous sight/s (and sounds…apparently overly-swiveling-hips makes a sort of squeaking noise) as the had already turned around in front of her and started walking away.  He made sure she got an appropriately full eye-full of his appropriately-tight (and full, as in “not-lacking”) ass.

And she did.

She was all properly impressed and stuff.

Really.

.

.

.

Once they reached his not-quarters (he with tight ass not-wiggling and she with boobs and hips both wiggling – one of the Were maintenance workers wondered if he should schedule an exterminator to come – he feared there must be a bug infestation of some sort what with all that schwangin’ goin’ on), Andre keyed in the super-duper super-private super-code – 156 digits long and punched in at vamp speed (not at vamp pressure since he’d learned the hard way about how much pressure to use when punching in the super-duper super-private super-codey 156 numbers and had had to call in the security tech team at, like, 5am one morning and it took them AN HOUR – A SOLID FUCKING HOUR – to wire in a new box…dammit), he finally let her in to what she hoped would be her BRAND….NEW….. CAR home.  (Sorry, The Price Is Right was on…)

(Remember, folks, spay and neuter your pets!)

With a gratified sigh Ezzie (Ok, so, her name was really Mary-Sue-Who’d-Do-You but she had gotten tired of that name in 9th grade and started going by Ezzie but nobody believed her and called her MSWDY anyway) perused the new location eagerly, eagerly taking in the furnishings, eagerly looking at the curtains over the non-existent windows, eagerly fingering the upholstery on the sofas, fondling the couches, caressing the divans, petting the daybeds, stroking the chairs and just plain feelin’ up the upholstery that was on one wall for some reason she wasn’t eager to discover.

She then eagerly itemized the changes she eagerly wanted to make – ottomans were so 2014…sigh… – and finally noticed that he seemed to be waiting on her to join him at the door to what she fervently and with much fervor hoped was…The Bedroom.

The magic room.

The room where the magic would happen.

Ezzie had waited her whole entire life – all 21.268 years of it – for this. very.  moment.

Finally, her true cosmic purpose would be served – she would finally become some high-class dick-ass’d vampire’s Play Toy and/or Bed Warmer.

She didn’t much care which.  HER TIME WAS NOW!!

Ezzie felt the moisture gathering at the apex of her thighs (they weren’t chafing tonight, thankfully) and hoped she didn’t START chafing or leaving a trail of ‘gina slime behind her or anything along those lines.  (She knew that one never knew what was going to happen to the heroine’s girlie bits in a fanfic and was thus emotionally prepared for just about anything, well, anything except that…)

(Or…that…  Even fanfic heroines had their limits, ya know…)

With an elegant shrug shrugged elegantly and with elegance, she and her swivelly hips and uncontrollably bouncing boobs followed The Master Torturer (squeee!!!) into The Bedroom.

The magic room.

The room where the magic would happen.

When he firmly closed the door behind her, she almost came in her nonexistent butt floss.

Actually, she did. There was a whimper and then a groan, and a moan, and then a whine (remember The Nanny?) and, yeah, her feet squished in her shoes immediately thereafter.

Apparently lots of liquid must be involved in such things.

It was…not silent.  It was…squishy, even…

Andre pretended not to notice but made a mental note to have the maids spray some Lysol in that exact spot later on.

And then clean the carpeting.

And then remove the carpeting.

And then replace the carpeting.

Andre, as one might notice should one properly focus one’s attention toward such things, tended to be a bit…persnickety.  Particular.   Annoyingly anal.

Three and a half minutes later our dear Ezzie rested on her back and stared up at the ceiling – the one with the “reproduction mural” (badly faked painting) of The Triumph Of Galatea, not the one with the “reproduction mural” (badly faked painting) of Epcot Center during a lightening storm – in shock.

In flabbergastment.  (No, it’s not a REAL word.  Much.)

In…in…in something that was the opposite of satisfaction and/or joy.

Two of those previous minutes had been spent watching him remove his clothing.

She had no idea that vampires could be so fucking peculiar with their clothing removal processes! Did they all have to rebutton their shirts after they took them off?

Really?

And their trousers…did they really have to rezip and rebutton them, too, then fold them per their crease marks??

Really?

By the time Andre had retied his shoelaces after he’d removed his shoes (but not his socks…never his socks!), Ezzie had finally managed to shake out of her shock and shimmy out of her dress and had one boob firmly in place. The other was still jiggling somewhere behind her left shoulder, but no one said anything.

Then…then…what she would call in later years The Great Disappointment happened.

Andre, as it happened, or, well, didn’t, was a 2-Poke Bloke…

…a 2-Thrust Bust.

…a 2-Buck Chuck of the vampire variety.

His willie wasn’t wee but it wasn’t wacky and wonderful, either.

He didn’t blow his load so much as it leaked out with a vague splutter.

There was no whipping…no beating…no slime trails…no spanking or tying down or hauling up or any other vaguely threatening-sounding prepositional phrasings used.

He didn’t even bite her nipple off!

All that was great, splendid, actually, because who the fuck in their right mind would want to be abused during sexual intercourse, but neither were there very many thrusts, either.  She’d fully expected to be at least a little “pleasantly sore” the next day, but the damn crack fic writer denied her even that!

There were few thrusts, no driving force, no pistoning, no oddly mechanical-sounding adjectives or verbs to indicate plentiful and satisfactory hip movements or mechanizations meant to sound sexually exciting?

There were no lingual acrobatics, no magical auto-finding of internal (or, hell, external either for that matter) pleasure centers, no titillating, no references to odors/smells/scents/fragrances originating from bodily process…

Nothing.

Nada.

*hrumph*

When she heard what could only be described as snoring to her side (vampires snore?), she and her boobs and her still-swivelling hips finally managed to writhe, slide, glide, roll, and slither out of the twin bed, into her clothing, and out the door.

Those would now be her favorite prepositional phrases.

With great heaving sighs and groans of whatever groans are comprised of, Ezzie enrolled in law school the next day and was neither seen nor heard from again.

*She tried to complain to the crack fic writer about the less than sextastic encounter with Andre but shut the hell up when the crack fic writer reminded her that she – Ezzie – could always find herself working for minimum wage in an over-crowded toddler daycare while enduring perma-PMS while supporting a shiftless fuckoff of a user-boyfriend who was addicted to Cheetos, X-Box, and farting while living in a cramped apartment near someone who boiled cabbage every other evening for the rest of her life.  Yeah, she hushed up fast.*  #writerpower

After a nice, sweet, restorative nap, Andre rose from the bed, showered, showered again, dried off, flexed his tight ass several hundred times while staring at his side-ways body in the mirror and giggling when his cock “danced” from the motion of flexing said tight ass (did I mention that his ass is tight?), dressed, and went back to his real quarters with his real bed (XXX-California Double King, naturally) and his real pillows (hypoallergic fiber-fill, naturally) and his real sheets (50,000-count Abyssinian  cotton, naturally), etcetera, etcetera, and, yeah, more etcetera (cause he’s rich, ya know, and kind of spoiled)…(just a little)… to curl up with his teddy and have an early day while contemplating just how ridiculously long this one sentence really is.

And why, you might (or might not) ask would Andre, The Esteemed and Reviled Master Torturer with The Really Tight Ass, want to have an early day?

He wanted to practice creating matching vases second thing tomorrow evening and therefore he would need to get an early start!

Maker-Mommy would be so proud…

End Act 3

END ALL THE ACTS

SRSLY, THE END

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**A/N:  Thank you very much for taking this silly little ride with me, and I hope it brought a bit of a smile – perhaps even a giggle-snort or a surprised guffaw?? – to your life.  As always and as for every chapter/fic I post, reviews are sincerely appreciated.  Have a great one (the “one” is, of course, entirely to your own discretion…)**

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 (Bye now!)