Mea Culpa

Martin was already discombobulated before the knock on the door. He’d woken from the most extended and vivid dream he could recall, which had left his sheets in a state he was horrified for housekeeping to encounter.

Horny, confused, and wearing nothing but boxers and a satin housecoat, he opened the door to his suite to find Aanya wearing even less.

To call her outfit a bikini was charitable. There was so little material her aereolas were sneaking out around each edge of the triangles. She wore a coverup, presumably for modesty, but it was naught but loose mesh.

He was not at all prepared to encounter her, which was probably for the best because had he known she was coming, he might have prepared a loud and belligerent rant. He was furious about her spilling his secrets.

Her near nudity successfully derailed any chance he might have had at aligning his thoughts, and allowed her to fulfil her purpose for invading.

She thrust a thick, leather bound, and thoroughly used notebook into his hands. “Here, take this.”

It felt more massive than it should. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but somehow **** to be moved. “What is this?” He asked opening it to a random page, and finding it filled with neat handwriting.

“It’s my journal,” she explained. “It has jobs, and thoughts, and stories, and enough to ruin me professionally and socially if it gets out.”

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“It’s my mea culpa. I shouldn’t have told that girl about you. This is my guarantee that I won’t again. Now we’re even. You have my secrets too. I can’t tell anyone about you because then you can tell people about me. You can’t tell people about me because I know stuff about you. Even Stevens.”

The stench of rum floated into Martin’s room and he noticed a slight sway in his visitor. “Are you drunk?”

“Of course I’m drunk,” she replied. “You think I’m brave enough to do this sober? Do you know what’s in there? If that got out, I would die.”

“It’s ten in the morning,” said Martin.

“Which means the lines at the bars are very short,” Aanya retorted. “And you don’t get to judge me, Martin Blanc.” She poked him in the chest. “I’m my own woman. My ex didn’t like me drinking, you know that? He said it made me seem unladylike. He liked me being all respectable and shit so he could bring me to his mom and parade me at his business events. Don’t drink, don’t swear, don’t dress slutty, don’t look at other guys. I put up with that shit for two years. Meanwhile he’s fucking a Hooters waitress.”

“And you know what really hurts? She’s the one that figured it out. I write mystery novels. She’s still in college for fuck’s sake. She told me. Fuck that was embarrassing. Nice girl though, and great tits. She’s going to be a social worker.”

Martin was at an absolute loss how to deal with this woman, but couldn’t help but laugh through her animated tirade. “You know, it’s possible that we’d get along if we ever had a conversation where you weren’t just yelling at me.”

“Well I guess we’ll never know will we, Martin fucking Blanc.” She laughed and did a wobbly pirouette. “Now I’m going to go get another margarita and ogle a pool boy half my age.”

She sashayed down the hallway, leaving martin to admire her smooth back, trim waist, and entirely exposed ass in lusty bemusement.