Booty camp dating servic.., p.1
Copyright (c) 2016 Debra Anastasia
All rights reserved
Published by Debra Anastasia
Cover Art Design - Debra Anastasia
Cover Art Image: Depositphotos Artist: kantver
Editing: Jen Matera (write Divas)
Formatting: CP Smith
Booty Camp is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's twisted imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Hazel’s throat was raw from screaming Scott’s name. He did that to her. With his hands, his mouth, and his long, thin penis. She was lying on a towel which was wet enough to have soaked through to the mattress below. His sexual talents made her feel more beautiful than she’d ever felt before. Her eyes stayed closed, but she heard him rustling around. Her fingertips felt like rubber. Hazel touched the pad of her index finger to the nail on her thumb. He’d fucked the feeling out of her hands. She could sleep like this, splayed out on the bed, naked and rosy. She was betting her nipples were a hot red and might even match the marks he’d left on her ass cheeks.
Maybe even the blush on her face would match, too, as she thought of how, in between screaming his name, God’s name, and a lot of guttural sounds, she’d told him she loved him.
That was not a step she’d planned to take while her ankles were on his shoulders, but when her body had been strung tight like a fist and he’d released it with a combo that should be in every boyfriend handbook, Hazel’s mouth made its own decisions.
Scott was taking longer than he should have to bring back a warm, wet towel from the bathroom, so she forced herself to peel open at least one eyelid to check on him.
He was buttoning his jeans.
Hazel let herself enjoy the sight of him—the bare chest and jeans was a classic combo, and he made it look good. She finally made it to his face and offered him a satisfied smile—he sure as hell had earned it.
Scott was stone-faced.
“You okay?” She was so boneless she couldn’t even move yet, so her concern was only on her tongue.
“I’m leaving.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head.
“Oh? Are you hungry? I can make something. I know you’ve got nothing to cook upstairs.” She let her hand flop onto her stomach.
Just as she was thinking about how lovely it was that they were so comfortable naked with each other, he changed the atmosphere in the entire room. “No, I’m leaving you. This is over. I’m done.”
Now Hazel was able to prop up on an elbow. Though the words were confusing and her brain was trying to wrap around what he’d said, it was his flat tone that had her heart pounding all over again—but for different reasons.
“You’re going back to your apartment?”
The room’s scent was so hardwired into her brain—telling her she was happy—that she just couldn’t make the connections she needed to.
“I’m breaking up with you right now.”
Hazel finally sat all the way up. “What?”
Scott was fully clothed now but picking up his shoes because apparently he was in such a rush that he couldn’t take the time to put them on. Scott was at her bedroom door before he looked back over his shoulder.
She was in midcrouch now, trying to gather her clothes. He took one last look at her naked, bent form.
“That last orgasm was my parting gift. I’ve got another girl. She lives on the top floor of this apartment. Don’t make this weird for me, okay?”
Scott closed the bedroom door, and she sat on the floor, holding her pants and one sock. It took him a few minutes to close the front door. Later, she would figure out that he’d stopped to take the six-pack of beer he’d stashed in her fridge while they fucked.
And that’s what they'd done. Scott had changed it on her, from making love to fucking.
It had been the first time she’d ever told a guy that she loved them.
And as she hugged her two articles of clothing to her chest, she promised herself it would be the last.
It wasn’t until he was drilling his new girlfriend on her ceiling that she realized she needed to move out of her apartment. Well, it wasn't really on her ceiling, but on his floor that also happened to be her ceiling. No amount of screaming, loud music, or broom handle banging would make him stop. Or her. The new girlfriend had a super annoying habit. The harder she came, the harder she laughed. The shrill sound of her explosive laughter as Scott made every sex dream she'd ever had come true induced nightmares for Hazel. Very specific nightmares involving clowns in fetish gear.
She had to move. She had to get out.
It wasn’t so easy to get the hell out of a one-year lease, and in her panic, Hazel had a moment of extreme insanity. Well, maybe it was a sleep-deprived decision made in anger and sadness. And a severe desire to be out from under Scott’s hyena-pounding. When her best friend, Claire called screaming about winning a chance to be a part of Booty Camp, Hazel allowed herself to be swept away in her friend's excitement.
Booty Camp Dating Service
Hazel Lavender gave her best friend, Claire Paquet, a hard look after she got the receipt from the car service driver.
“If my tits pop out of this top one more time, you owe me your firstborn child.”
Claire patted the tops of her boobs like they were friendly pets. “Stay puppies. Good job.” Then she turned her attention back to Hazel’s face with some advice. “Just don’t do any whore bends and you’ll be fine.”
Claire could convince a fish in a bowl to buy a bottle of water. Her friend’s powers of persuasion had brought them to the front doors of the old movie theater downtown. Hazel wished the wine bottle they’d polished off at Claire’s apartment while getting dressed had provided bravado with more staying power.
But all it had done was given her the courage to jam her breasts into a top owned by the slightly less-endowed Claire and call it sufficient.
But what do you wear to meet the love of your life?
That was the question the wine had answered.
The answer was a swishy skirt, a titty top, and high heels. No jacket required.
As the chill from the evening breeze swept over her chest, Hazel seriously doubted the alcohol’s qualifications to make that decision. Although she was enjoying feeling carefree and not giving a moment’s thought to Scott and his upstairs hyena.
There was a single sign on the glass doors leading to the venue.
Welcome to Booty Camp Dating Service!
Claire pointed at it. “Well, we’re in the right spot. Are you ready to fall in hopeless, orgasmic love?”
“It’s convoluted. Like the Emperor’s new clothes. This is a horrible idea, and you hate me.” Hazel concentrated on getting up the cement stairs without falling. The whole building seemed like it had come from another time when everything was smaller. Dinner plates, drinks, and—apparently—stairs. There was a generous wheelchair ramp to the left of the entrance, and Hazel couldn't have been happier to see it there. She always noted when vintage buildings successfully retro-fitted their accessibility options.
She sucked at heels. She so rarely wore them to work, but her tormentor/boss/best friend was smooth in them. Claire even had a pair of high-heeled sneakers. Now, she didn’t wear them, but the fact that they existed and Claire felt co
Hazel was a third-year special education teacher, and Claire was her assistant principal. Claire was the perfect remedy to a soggy heart that had been screwed over too hard by Scott.
They had met at the pool back home years ago. Claire was six years older and had been the college-aged pool manager when Hazel arrived there for her very first job. They'd hit it off despite the gap in their ages.
But now, hurrying into the lobby of the theater to avoid the crisp breeze, they were far from the hot summer days of years ago.
Everyone in the lobby glanced over in the city way of checking them out without appearing to check them out. Hazel smoothed down the back of Claire’s bright red hair where the elements had mussed it up.
Claire was talking to someone right off. She was just outgoing. And when she was nervous, she was even more outgoing. Hazel pulled her phone out of her purse and held it like a lifeline.
The room was full of single people looking for a connection. It felt like an odd mixture of being the steak fed to a group of sharks and fighting to get the last clearance dress at a sample sale. The competition and the want in the room were thick.
Smiling, attractive people wearing black T-shirts with “Booty Camp” emblazoned on them worked the room, holding out clipboards and pens.
Hazel looked at Claire as the tall, dark, and handsome Booty Camp Dating Service employee handed her two clipboards. She thanked him distractedly and narrowed her eyes at Claire when she placed her hand on the man’s forearm.
It was the hook-up gesture. Hazel had been in too many bars when Claire was PMS-horny not to notice it was her signature move.
If Claire was really into the guy, she would comment on the strength and squeeze.
“Do you lift? My heavens, these are some firm muscles right here.”
Hazel was too intimidated to glance around again. She started filling out her permission form, as it were. She added the usual: her name, number, and profession. There were no leading questions. She expected a ream of paper that grilled her on egg preference and her favorite bands, but instead, Booty Camp got right to the good part—writing out a check. She could have swiped her card on the payment square each Booty Camp employee had on their phones, but Hazel’s father’s distrust of all cellular devices and scams made her decide to go the paper route.
One thousand dollars. She gave Claire the evil eye that the woman missed. Hazel made out her check grandma style and clipped it to the board before passing it back to the smiley Booty Camp girl who introduced herself as Alison. The staff member had a fancy camera that printed out an instant candid snap of Hazel, and she clipped that to the board before it had even developed.
At this point, Claire was flat-out canoodling. Hazel had never seen anything that would fit the definition before in person, but Claire had her boobs propped up like two parrots on the guy’s forearm while fluttering her eyelashes.
Said guy was built—tall and looked a lot like Gaston from “Beauty and the Beast.” He was the exact opposite of Claire’s type. She was always looking for waiflike, pained blond dudes. This guy was masculine with a capital Balls.
Hazel felt her jaw drop when Gaston waved away the Booty Camp girl as she tried to give Claire a clipboard.
“This one is comped.” He smoldered at Claire like they were both wearing matching satin jock shorts.
Her assistant principal best friend, who handled just about any human with an efficient business tone, giggled like she was getting her armpits tickled. When Gaston sidled closer to swing his giant arm around Claire’s shoulders, Hazel saw he had the company logo on the back of his shirt, as well.
Claire’s happy gaze fell on Hazel’s face. Her friend mimicked grabbing Gaston’s ass but stopped just short of doing so to show Hazel how interested she was in the man.
Hazel raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment. Claire always excelled. She was a driven lady. And if the goal was to get a man, well, it shouldn’t surprise Hazel that Claire had completed the goal before she was even officially registered—and with an employee, no less.
Hazel looked around the room. All the people were fairly typical of those she would meet out on a Friday night. They were stylish and corporate-looking.
On the perimeter of the lobby, she spotted a guy who made her feel something other than awkward embarrassment. Now he was mouth-wateringly hot. Clearly he didn’t belong—with his longish hair and high cheekbones. Even all the way across the room, she could tell his eyes were a piercing, hot blue. He was either wearing guyliner and mascara or he had the kind of eyelashes that made every lady grit her teeth in jealously. When he turned a little, she saw that he was wearing a shirt that matched Gaston’s.
Hazel wanted to roll her eyes, but instead Claire caught her by her upper arms and shook her.
“I bet his man salami is like a fist!” Claire was flushed and her eyes were sparkling.
“If you tell me you’re in love, I’m going to punch you in the vagina.”
“I’m in love.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Claire started filling Hazel in on all the details she'd been able to glean from Gaston during their four-minute relationship, but Hazel tuned her out and peered over her shoulder.
Guyliner was making his way over to Gaston. She wanted to hear his voice. Not that she was checking him out—because she certainly wasn’t.
His dark jeans and motorcycle boots were not similar to the other employees' attire. He was having some strong words with Gaston. Hazel tuned in and overheard:
“No dating clients. You know that.”
The guyliner voice was sexy and low. However, the thick, dark smudges weren’t guyliner, They were totally just the lashes that were brimming this guy’s peepers.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Claire waved her hands in front of Hazel’s face.
Hazel grabbed them and held them. “No. I was eavesdropping.”
Claire followed Hazel’s gesture and saw Gaston and Dark Lashes having heated words. “I might have to write that up as some fanfiction with me in the middle.”
Hazel laughed. “I think I'd read the hell out of that.”
Dark Lashes stalked away, and Hazel got a glimpse of his tight ass. He even had a tattoo trailing up his forearm.
“You’re checking him out, aren’t ya?” Claire slipped her arm around Hazel’s waist.
“I’m scoping this joint out so when they start swearing us in to the cult, I know how to get us out.” Hazel wrapped her arm around Claire as well and felt the tips of her friend’s long red hair brush her skin.
“So cynical. Seriously, we’ve watched the ads a million times. A hundred and ten percent guaranteed to find your soul mate. I mean, how can we not take the chance? Did I tell you that’s his name, too? Chance.” Claire wiggled the tips of her fingertips in Gaston’s direction. He would be named Chance.
“I’m going to take a Chance right in the back of my throat if he gives a girl a shot. Damn. Have we ever met someone so incredibly big? He’s like a house. Do you see the way his T-shirt looks like it’s going to tear right off his goddamned body?”
Hazel tried to find Dark Lashes, but he was gone. Instead, she was meeting all kinds of inquisitive eyes from the other men in the lobby. It was a meat market.
“He should have gotten the next size up. One sneeze and he’ll tear right out of his clothes.”
“A girl can hope. Do you have pepper in your purse?” Claire seemed serious as she pawed at Hazel’s bag.
“No. Stop. We have to listen.” The teacher in Hazel insisted on paying attention when someone was trying to speak to a group.
When Claire saw that it was Chance clapping, she was instantly riveted and stopped trying to mug Hazel.
It took a few claps and a whistle or two, but eventually the singles were eyes forward.
“Welcome to Booty Camp Dating Service!” Chance totally defea
Booty Camp Dating Service was so aggressively advertised on TV, on social media, and on billboards it almost seemed like they were meeting a celebrity. Well, if the celebrity was a dating app. It toured the United States, and there had been a marked increase in births roughly nine months after they'd embarked on the first leg.
Despite the cheeky name, Booty Camp Dating Service had a stupidly fabulous reputation for matching singles with their forever person. It had reached epic proportions, especially with late-night TV doing skits about Booty Camp.
The classically opulent theater was a study in deep red velvets and gold trimmings. Booty Camp was in town for two months. And Booty Camp was expensive. After winning the ticket lotto —thanks to Claire for babysitting that process without saying a word—Hazel was rewarded with having to lay out a thousand dollars for the honor of becoming a coveted Booty Camp success story. A hundred and ten percent happy. That’s what the ads all said, anyway.
Chance managed to get the crowd settled again.
“Congrats on your admission to the program! We’re so successful because you will be successful. After you’ve been processed by one of our Booty professionals, please make your way into the screening room.”
Quite a few girls around them were fanning their faces and sneaking snapshots on their phone of Chance beefcaking around. The doors were opened by Booty Camp counselors.
Dark Lashes was hanging back, and Hazel pretended to sweep her hair up to a ponytail and peeked over her shoulder at him at the same time.
He caught her eye and gave her a very fatherly wink. She bit her lip so she wouldn’t frown.
Claire nudged her. “Let’s go. I want to get a good seat. Why are you blushing?”
“No reason. This whole thing makes me self-conscious.”
The theater was well-lit and had deep, velvet seats. The pushier among the group made their way to the front, closest to the stage and, therefore, the screen. It was as if these people thought getting the best seats would help them find their soul mates quicker. Hazel pulled on Claire’s arm until they were in the center of the back row.