that’s the way you want to play. Fine.”
I grab her around the waist and pull her close. She slaps me, and grabs my shirt again. Great, now my ear is ringing.
“Ouch! We’ll have no more of that, young lady.”
I pull her dress over her head, but it snags on her hair and earrings. Well, at least her arms are tied up. Still, she struggles to slap me, flailing her arms like a gator. I chuckle.
“Yes, baby. That’s it. Wait, are you laughing at me, Silver?”
“Maybe.”
“Take off my panties and get inside me ... now!”
She writhes as I pull off her suck-y hockey team panties. Fuck Guy Lafleur. She’s soaked. I quickly undo my jeans and dive into her lusciousness. I can feel her insides quiver as I bury myself. Suddenly, I hear a voice from her speakerphone.
“One minute remaining; one minute left in the first period.”
I arch up. “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s Eric. You’d better hurry, Silver.”
“God damn it, woman! You can’t give a man time limits like that. It’s too much pressure.”
I look down at her and smirk again about her dress tying up her arms. She reaches up regardless and pinches my sore nipple.
“Ouch!”
“Deeper. Please. I need you—all of you.”
I reach down and pull up her legs. Grabbing her behind the kneecaps, I push her knees toward her shoulders and grind to new depths. She moans.
“Thirty seconds; thirty seconds remaining.”
“Wait a second. Can Eric hear us?”
“Shut up, Silver. Shoot. Hurry.”
“He is gay, right?”
“Time is running out.” She gently touches my nipple, warning me.
“Fine.”
I slam away at her. She’s so wet and lovely. Time stands still. I shoot ... a siren rings out and the office door flies open. Eric runs in and pulls us apart.
Chapter Four
Gettin’ married is a lot like getting into a tub of hot water. After you get used to it, it ain’t so hot. – Minnie Pearl
I’m home, trying to understand what just happened. I went in for an interview with a billionaire babe and left with salty sex residue, a sore nipple, and no story. Eric said he’d reschedule me— often, I hope . Bea’s a strange woman, but she definitely has a mental grip on me. I wonder where her hockey fascination originated. She probably had a fucked up childhood like most of us.
My iPhone rings with an unfamiliar number. I’ve learned not to answer those, not that I have anything against Indians. Less than a minute later, I get a text message from the same number.
How dare you ignore my call, Silver? That’s a major penalty. – B
How did she get my number? I should have known a woman with her resources would be, ahem, resourceful. I tap on my recent calls and plan my approach. She answers after five rings. Clever girl.
“Who is this and how did you get my number?”
“Very funny, Bea. I was just about to ask you the same question.”
“Oh, Mr. Silver, how nice to hear from you. What are you up to, and are you naked by chance?”
“No, my dear, I’m not naked. I’m just trying to make corners meet.”
“Ends.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ends, Silver. The cliché is ‘making ends meet.’ Aren’t you a writer?”
“Yes and actually I’m a writer who is doing laundry—folding my sheets.”
“Ah. So, your ends are meeting just fine, are they?”
“Fine enough.”
“Your home is a bit underwater, is it not?”
“Whose isn’t?”
“You know, I could help you, Silver, if you’d agreed to play with me ... my way.”
“You could get me a loan modification? Put me in, coach.”
“Oh, I will, repeatedly. Bye for now.”
*click*
What a whacky woman! I need to Google her later.
I finish my laundry and go to the gym to clear my head, which is ear-to-ear full of Plastique. She fits me like a glove. Am I just a toy to her? It disturbs me to wonder how many other writers she has “had” in her office.
After a good sweat, I return home. I hear water running. Is that damn toilet stuck again?
I bound up my
I grab her around the waist and pull her close. She slaps me, and grabs my shirt again. Great, now my ear is ringing.
“Ouch! We’ll have no more of that, young lady.”
I pull her dress over her head, but it snags on her hair and earrings. Well, at least her arms are tied up. Still, she struggles to slap me, flailing her arms like a gator. I chuckle.
“Yes, baby. That’s it. Wait, are you laughing at me, Silver?”
“Maybe.”
“Take off my panties and get inside me ... now!”
She writhes as I pull off her suck-y hockey team panties. Fuck Guy Lafleur. She’s soaked. I quickly undo my jeans and dive into her lusciousness. I can feel her insides quiver as I bury myself. Suddenly, I hear a voice from her speakerphone.
“One minute remaining; one minute left in the first period.”
I arch up. “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s Eric. You’d better hurry, Silver.”
“God damn it, woman! You can’t give a man time limits like that. It’s too much pressure.”
I look down at her and smirk again about her dress tying up her arms. She reaches up regardless and pinches my sore nipple.
“Ouch!”
“Deeper. Please. I need you—all of you.”
I reach down and pull up her legs. Grabbing her behind the kneecaps, I push her knees toward her shoulders and grind to new depths. She moans.
“Thirty seconds; thirty seconds remaining.”
“Wait a second. Can Eric hear us?”
“Shut up, Silver. Shoot. Hurry.”
“He is gay, right?”
“Time is running out.” She gently touches my nipple, warning me.
“Fine.”
I slam away at her. She’s so wet and lovely. Time stands still. I shoot ... a siren rings out and the office door flies open. Eric runs in and pulls us apart.
Chapter Four
Gettin’ married is a lot like getting into a tub of hot water. After you get used to it, it ain’t so hot. – Minnie Pearl
I’m home, trying to understand what just happened. I went in for an interview with a billionaire babe and left with salty sex residue, a sore nipple, and no story. Eric said he’d reschedule me— often, I hope . Bea’s a strange woman, but she definitely has a mental grip on me. I wonder where her hockey fascination originated. She probably had a fucked up childhood like most of us.
My iPhone rings with an unfamiliar number. I’ve learned not to answer those, not that I have anything against Indians. Less than a minute later, I get a text message from the same number.
How dare you ignore my call, Silver? That’s a major penalty. – B
How did she get my number? I should have known a woman with her resources would be, ahem, resourceful. I tap on my recent calls and plan my approach. She answers after five rings. Clever girl.
“Who is this and how did you get my number?”
“Very funny, Bea. I was just about to ask you the same question.”
“Oh, Mr. Silver, how nice to hear from you. What are you up to, and are you naked by chance?”
“No, my dear, I’m not naked. I’m just trying to make corners meet.”
“Ends.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ends, Silver. The cliché is ‘making ends meet.’ Aren’t you a writer?”
“Yes and actually I’m a writer who is doing laundry—folding my sheets.”
“Ah. So, your ends are meeting just fine, are they?”
“Fine enough.”
“Your home is a bit underwater, is it not?”
“Whose isn’t?”
“You know, I could help you, Silver, if you’d agreed to play with me ... my way.”
“You could get me a loan modification? Put me in, coach.”
“Oh, I will, repeatedly. Bye for now.”
*click*
What a whacky woman! I need to Google her later.
I finish my laundry and go to the gym to clear my head, which is ear-to-ear full of Plastique. She fits me like a glove. Am I just a toy to her? It disturbs me to wonder how many other writers she has “had” in her office.
After a good sweat, I return home. I hear water running. Is that damn toilet stuck again?
I bound up my
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