The Ghostwriter's Words

Sammy: Not His Usual Path

First, he set his glass down in the sand at his feet. He would need both hands. Then on impulse, he grabbed it and tossed back the remaining two fingers of what, to his taste, was the finest Scotch in the world. After his initial pour, he'd immediately taken a healthy mouthful to celebrate his special birthday, then topped his glass once more before finally leaving the gazebo and setting off on this walk. After only a few steps, he'd paused for another healthy mouthful to reduce the level enough none would splash over the edge of his glass as he continued his walk. The whiskey was far too fine to be wasted.

Sammy had the wealth, time, and resources to search out and acquire the best of anything; cars, boats, gadgets, and toys. Even women once, when he found himself feeling particularly alone and had a short-lived epiphany concerning the foolishness of his tight-assed morality. That had been a month into, not her first, but one of Sara's earlier wanderlusts. After all, she freely admitted to having sex with other men while away. And, he'd agreed with her, forever was a very long time. He'd taught her that expression after all.

Sara had never suffered from the same tight-assed morality. She suffered from nearly none other than a loose interpretation of the Golden Rule, which she had found easy to follow, being as void of meanness as she was of rules. She would never intentionally cause harm to anyone, with her more recent proviso being the exception of a few who put particularly heinous efforts into deserving it. Sara had once confessed that she'd recently found it necessary to remove some evil from the world. Then, rather than be consumed with regret, she'd decided it would be her responsibility to do so again periodically. She had the means, opportunities, and determination to do her part. So, she had. But mostly, she was out to enjoy new experiences, have fun, and learn whatever there was to learn. She hadn't made it her specific mission to track down evil, only not to hesitate to do something about it anytime it shoved its ugly face into hers.

Her mission and occasional blurring of the Golden Rule aside, the point was Sara was out having sex with whoever was willing that she wanted. Finally, during one of his more rational moments, he'd acknowledged that she'd been doing no harm; while he'd been home, alone, masturbating, saving his memories of her face as she came to push himself over the edge. But that was his choice; he'd further acknowledged, and not her fault. And, rather than sit at home bemoaning his loneliness, he'd decided to go on a wanderlust of his own. He'd departed, determined to run up big numbers, like the Professor and likely Sara, and fuck the most beautiful women in the world. Or as many as were willing. One or more a day.

Why not? He had plenty of time. He was the wealthiest man in the world. He wasn't bad looking, which he was willing to accept as true, although well below Sara's insistence that he was a beautiful, sexy, handsome man. Bullshit. He didn't believe that for an instant or that even she sincerely meant the words. She was being kind. But he could accept that he was handsome enough that his wealth and all he owned would likely elevate him a few aesthetic levels in the eyes of some. A beautiful car, which should have meant nothing since he could have stolen it or borrowed it from a friend, would be enough in some women's eyes. More so than he'd believed when first told that would be the case. And he had warehouses filled with beautiful, exotic cars, which he rarely drove. He had his estate, according to many, among the most beautiful pieces of real estate in the world. And each new iteration of the homes he'd built there filled the pages of architectural blogs again, or the most current, 'modern' equivalent of such media. He had luxurious properties all over the planet, and planes, or other means of transportation, to deliver his guests there. And what woman wouldn't love to say she'd joined the mile-high club with the Descendant if he'd been willing to risk outing himself to play that card?

Sammy's, sadly short-lived, wanderlust had begun as successfully as he'd hoped. Before his tight-assed and untimely morality resurfaced to rip through his soul as he knelt naked between the knees of a stunning and smiling woman, to whom he'd just given an orgasm that had elevated most of her body from the bed. He'd risen with his penis so hard it had been painful gazing at the gate of that lovely part of her that he could still taste. Then it was suddenly hanging in sad, limp humiliation.