professional
catches my attention. I can’t see the color of his eyes but the towel wrapped
around his waist is royal blue.
I stop breathing when the towel hits the floor. I’ve never
seen a more perfect ass, except for its being marred with red welts I’m afraid
I inflicted with my nails. Flexing his nearly perfect ass, he steps into a pair
of boxer briefs that hug his butt like a second skin. Turning, he walks toward
the bed—toward me—the briefs snugly molding his ample package. The bulge in his
briefs is one of the reasons I’ll be sore all day and probably for part of
tomorrow. I’m conflicted about the painfully pleasant reminder of our forgotten
night of passion.
I manage a quick breath while he slips into a pair of 501s,
not bothering to button the fly. Why would he when he has that magnificent cock
holding up his jeans? I can’t see his face on account of keeping my eyelids
purposely at half-mast, feigning sleep.
He places his knee on the mattress, leaning in. I expect him
to tell me to wake up, get dressed and get the fuck out. He’s got things to do,
places to go and other people to bang. Instead he kisses my temple. His fresh
breath washes over my cheek. My pussy pulses like it has a heartbeat all its
own, drumming just for him—his scent, his tattoo, his mole.
Nuzzling my neck, he says, “Start waking up, sweetheart. I’m
making waffles.”
A gasp strangles in my throat. My mind and body fight the
dual impulses to vomit at the thought of eating food and climax in response to
his velvety voice tunneling through my ear canal to the only part of my brain
still functioning. The dirty part. It’s always the last to go.
“Fresh strawberries,” he whispers.
I moan.
His teeth skim my shoulder. “Whipped topping.”
I whimper.
“Hot coffee.” He swats my ass to punctuate his final bribe
and I squeak indignantly but refuse to open my eyes and meet my fate. Mystery
Man pops off the bed and walks across the room. “Don’t make me come back here,
Jane.”
I wait until I hear clatter from the kitchen before I force
my eyes wide open, blinking a few times, adjusting to my holiday hangover
limitations. Pushing myself up to sit, I look around the dimly lit room. To my
relief I’m still at The Cliff. All the units look alike. Lifting the red satin
sheet, I glance at my naked body and groan.
“Oh no,” I say, spotting the pillaged and plundered gift
basket on the nightstand adjacent the bed. “What have I done?”
Chunks of memory hit me like a bag of rocks. Dizzying
humiliation sets in and a wave of nausea washes over me. Sometimes memory loss
serves a purpose—like saving my peace of mind, making it possible for me to
sleep at night. What I previously struggled to remember, I now want to forget.
But I can’t.
“Time for Secret Santa!” the buxom blonde from 202A
squealed, blocking my escape from the party with help from Santa, standing tall
and immovable like a sentry.
Entertainment had been the squealer’s contribution to the
party. I’d protested a gift exchange in any form, but like any figurehead, I’d
been vetoed. My party committee minions had insisted on either Secret Santa or
a white-elephant gift exchange. Secret Santa won due to less potential for
bloodshed. Or so I’d thought.
Santa called out Mr. Lowenstein’s name. He eagerly claimed
his Secret Santa offering of a pooper-scooper, plastic trash bags for dog poo,
a leash and a muzzle for his tyrannical crapping canine, aka Byron, often found
wandering loose throughout the complex. Not so much a thoughtful gift as a last-ditch
effort to get Mr. L. to wrangle his mutt.
Being a victim of Byron’s poop bombs, I snickered good
naturedly along with the other residents’ laughter. The coffee-flavored whiskey
was making me break my usual professional demeanor. More gifts were passed
around. More laughter shared.
Trisha crossed the room and handed me a mug of eggnog. More
accurately, she handed me someone’s
catches my attention. I can’t see the color of his eyes but the towel wrapped
around his waist is royal blue.
I stop breathing when the towel hits the floor. I’ve never
seen a more perfect ass, except for its being marred with red welts I’m afraid
I inflicted with my nails. Flexing his nearly perfect ass, he steps into a pair
of boxer briefs that hug his butt like a second skin. Turning, he walks toward
the bed—toward me—the briefs snugly molding his ample package. The bulge in his
briefs is one of the reasons I’ll be sore all day and probably for part of
tomorrow. I’m conflicted about the painfully pleasant reminder of our forgotten
night of passion.
I manage a quick breath while he slips into a pair of 501s,
not bothering to button the fly. Why would he when he has that magnificent cock
holding up his jeans? I can’t see his face on account of keeping my eyelids
purposely at half-mast, feigning sleep.
He places his knee on the mattress, leaning in. I expect him
to tell me to wake up, get dressed and get the fuck out. He’s got things to do,
places to go and other people to bang. Instead he kisses my temple. His fresh
breath washes over my cheek. My pussy pulses like it has a heartbeat all its
own, drumming just for him—his scent, his tattoo, his mole.
Nuzzling my neck, he says, “Start waking up, sweetheart. I’m
making waffles.”
A gasp strangles in my throat. My mind and body fight the
dual impulses to vomit at the thought of eating food and climax in response to
his velvety voice tunneling through my ear canal to the only part of my brain
still functioning. The dirty part. It’s always the last to go.
“Fresh strawberries,” he whispers.
I moan.
His teeth skim my shoulder. “Whipped topping.”
I whimper.
“Hot coffee.” He swats my ass to punctuate his final bribe
and I squeak indignantly but refuse to open my eyes and meet my fate. Mystery
Man pops off the bed and walks across the room. “Don’t make me come back here,
Jane.”
I wait until I hear clatter from the kitchen before I force
my eyes wide open, blinking a few times, adjusting to my holiday hangover
limitations. Pushing myself up to sit, I look around the dimly lit room. To my
relief I’m still at The Cliff. All the units look alike. Lifting the red satin
sheet, I glance at my naked body and groan.
“Oh no,” I say, spotting the pillaged and plundered gift
basket on the nightstand adjacent the bed. “What have I done?”
Chunks of memory hit me like a bag of rocks. Dizzying
humiliation sets in and a wave of nausea washes over me. Sometimes memory loss
serves a purpose—like saving my peace of mind, making it possible for me to
sleep at night. What I previously struggled to remember, I now want to forget.
But I can’t.
“Time for Secret Santa!” the buxom blonde from 202A
squealed, blocking my escape from the party with help from Santa, standing tall
and immovable like a sentry.
Entertainment had been the squealer’s contribution to the
party. I’d protested a gift exchange in any form, but like any figurehead, I’d
been vetoed. My party committee minions had insisted on either Secret Santa or
a white-elephant gift exchange. Secret Santa won due to less potential for
bloodshed. Or so I’d thought.
Santa called out Mr. Lowenstein’s name. He eagerly claimed
his Secret Santa offering of a pooper-scooper, plastic trash bags for dog poo,
a leash and a muzzle for his tyrannical crapping canine, aka Byron, often found
wandering loose throughout the complex. Not so much a thoughtful gift as a last-ditch
effort to get Mr. L. to wrangle his mutt.
Being a victim of Byron’s poop bombs, I snickered good
naturedly along with the other residents’ laughter. The coffee-flavored whiskey
was making me break my usual professional demeanor. More gifts were passed
around. More laughter shared.
Trisha crossed the room and handed me a mug of eggnog. More
accurately, she handed me someone’s
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