At home that night, I began my photo shoot of my naked fashion doll collection with an instant camera. Looking at the pictures, I told myself I really had something here, but if only I had a second opinion. Whom could I ask? Not the trinity of horror: Justin, my brother, my mom.
Taking the photos to work with me, I put them in an interoffice envelope with “private” written on the front and left them in ABM’s inbox. The last photograph was a self-portrait of me holding a naked doll. Three cups of coffee, two packages of pretzels and four hours later, I got a phone call at my desk from ABM, summoning me into his office.
“Close the door,” he said.
I closed the door behind me. With a great air of disbelief, he held up the photos.
“What is this?” he asked.
“I’m creating a coffee table book and I wanted your opinion,” I said.
He sighed and looked relieved.
“What makes you think I’m qualified?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“I needed a male perspective,” I said.
“Ah,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Do you do think they are interesting?” I asked.
There was a pause. He cleared his throat. “What is?” he asked.
The way he was looking at me was telling me he was thinking something else. Suddenly, I felt warm.
“The photographs,” I said.
“Well, I’m not interested in the dolls themselves,” he said.
“In the positions?” I asked.
He looked through the photos again as if he was considering a business proposition. I stepped in closer. I noticed my note on his desk. Alongside it was a note pad with a million scribbles on it. He must have worked for hours trying to decipher it. I tried not to smile.
He held up a photo. The girl doll was straddling the boy doll in his lap.
“I like this one,” he said.
“My personal favorite,” I said.
He looked long and hard at me.
“I probably shouldn’t be entertaining this idea, but I’m not getting any younger,” he said.
Leaning over his desk, he kissed me. The way he mashed his mouth against mine was pretty exciting, and I was so taken aback by the suddenness that I stood like there a dummy letting him shove his tongue down my throat. I hadn’t realized his hands were so massive but alongside my head, they seemed to engulf me.
The next thing he did really blew my mind. He hauled me over this desk to him, my body contacting his papers and his half-eaten club sandwich. It was sort of like in the movies where two characters knock everything off a desk to get it on, only we didn’t flop on the desk in a mad passionate embrace. He pulled me onto his lap, much like his favorite fashion doll photo.
As his hands roamed for access to my bare skin, I bit his ear lobe.
“Oh, God,” he moaned, which was a nice response, although a little bit too loud for this point in the getting it on with your boss stage.
Wanting to up the stakes, I pinched his nipples through his nicely pressed shirt.
“Holy shit,” he cried.
I smiled. He was such the liar. He had so not been fucked properly before.
Hopping off his lap for a second, I yanked up my skirt to give him better access. I expected him to pull down my thong, but he ripped it off. My favorite thong. Justin had touched it at the garage sale and by the tree. I felt a pang as I stood there, looking at it on the floor. I decided if he got his dick out in the next three seconds, I would forgive him.
“Come on,” I ordered, motioning at his crotch.
He got the clue and, with some major fumbling, got it out. Not bad. I’d seen better, but it would do.
I climbed on board, commandeering this love ship. The pace was mine. As I thumped my pelvis against him, he seemed so overcome by the power of my pussy; he could barely hold his hands on my hips.
The guy was going to come before I even broke a sweat so I grabbed one of my breasts with one hand. The other hand found my crotch, my fingers manipulating my clit like the expert it was. He went right over the edge like a twelve year old finding his first porn magazine.
It was a race against the clock.
“Don’t come,” I cried.
Suddenly, the office door opened. I found myself propelled through the air and hitting the floor with a resounding thud. Stunned, I looked up to see his dick squirting come all over his desk drawer as he stood to face whoever it was. I barely dodged out of the way.
I heard his secretary say he had a meeting in five minutes and she left. I stared up at him in shock, watching him stuff his business back in his pants. He didn’t even glance down at me on the floor.
“That was close,” he said.
Picking myself up off the floor, I tugged down my skirt. Never in my life had I been treated like this. A gentleman would have protected me to the bitter end. Not cast me aside like a piece of garbage.
Too angry for words, I gave him a look that said go to hell, picked up my poor ripped thong, my photos and my note. That was when I noticed the huge smear of mustard right across the front of my cream-colored skirt.
In a huff, I left his office. Everyone stared at me, including the cleaning lady. Everybody knew. No one was fooled. Of course, I looked like I had just been fucked, with my disheveled hair and my flushed face, because I had. Now for the rest of my professional career I would be known as the girl who had fucked Alan Brandon Michaels.
I hated them all. I hated this place. What was I even doing here? Then it hit me. I was here because I wanted my mother to approve. I didn’t want to work here. I didn’t want to live at my mother’s. Suddenly, the muddled cloud of childhood confusion broke away, and why, because I’d had my boss’s dick in me.
At my desk, I plunked down my stuff on my desk and stopped cold. There in front of my keyboard was the red button. Who had put it there? I flipped it over, and with a groan recognized the florid gold design on the front. It was my button. My mother had given me this horribly, ugly red sweater for Christmas, and I’d worn it once to work to make her happy. Meanwhile her coops had gotten fifty-dollar gift certificates to their favorite stores.
Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw ABM striding purposefully over to my desk. I reached for my purse, convinced I was going to be fired right this minute, not that I really cared. I would sue his ass for harassment. I just wasn’t in the mood for any more drama right this minute, but he merely stopped behind me and whispered something in my ear.
“I may have to work on being an asshole, but I do care about you, sweetheart.”
I met his gaze. He was serious. Nervously, I flipped my button back over on my desk. Suddenly, it felt so warm in my hands.
“Is that the button that told you to give me the note?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good button,” he said.
Beverly’s Pastime
Sage Vivant
Everybody needs a hobby. Mine is destroying marriages.
Like any lifelong pursuit, some practice is required to achieve any kind of commendable performance level. I did my practicing as a teenager, using babysitting as my vehicle into couples’ lives. I couldn’t help but notice at the tender age of 16 that my redheaded milky white skin and burgeoning breasts were a powerful lure – I got babysitting gigs much more often than my plainer-looking friends did. I didn’t realize the extent of my power, though, until I was eighteen, when Mr Rosenblum shot a sack full of come onto his wife’s face at my bidding. Since then, I’ve known no greater power than that of eroding the very foundations of people’s precious little holy matrimonies,
Fact: men want to bury their faces in my ass so badly that they’ll forget years of marital commitments to get there. Exploiting this state of affairs, reader, is just plain fun. Millions of women do it every day. I am no different from them; merely more honest and certainly more memorable.
My distinction comes into play on a much deeper psychological level. Women, you see, have an instinctive urge
to lay claim to men. Most of them believe marriage is the ultimate capture.
Women are fools. My goal is to drive this point home to them at every opportunity. Rarely, however, do they take my message well.
I own my own advertising agency in midtown Manhattan. Consequently, I meet hundreds of married couples every year. At 46, I’ve met all kinds, but few have cried out for abuse and ultimate destruction more loudly than Melissa and Christopher.
These two walked into the corporate cocktail party like they were at Disneyland. Certainly, Melissa could have worn that forgettably shapeless frock at any amusement park and been quite comfortable. Her husband, on the other hand, cut a more dashing figure. Well-groomed, handsome, dark hair graying gradually at the temples – his posture and grace told me he devoted time to his body.
Both of them seemed a bit shy, but she was downright clueless while he was simply reserved. I decided they were perfect.
I paused at the full-length mirror to smooth my navy blue Armani suit. I’d bought it just yesterday, specially for the party. Elegant yet blatantly sexy, the jacket sported lapels that parted at my chest to reveal enough cleavage to distract anyone, male or female. It was sometimes difficult to find prêt à porter to accommodate my 36DDs, but this little number clung to me everywhere as if I’d been the model for its design. The short skirt hugged my round backside with such fetching aplomb, I wished I could kiss my own ass.
Heat permeated my space between my legs as moisture collected in my crotchless pantyhose. I smelled my own arousal at the thought of my impending conquest. As I sauntered over to the hapless couple, the lips of my labia were slick with anticipation.
I don’t know if the shimmering waves of my flowing red hair or the jiggle of my corseted breasts caught his eye first, but I knew he was mine from halfway across the room. The frumpy wife turned her head to follow his enraptured gaze. Oh, the fear that galvanized that pudgy face.
“Hi,” I said decisively, extending my hand to him. “I’m Beverly Channing.” I put my other hand over his when he clasped mine. “I’m certain I’ve met you before but I’m at a loss to remember where,” I continued. I fixed my green-eyed gaze on him while I parted my lips in a hungry smile. I held his hand too long for wifey’s liking – in my peripheral vision, I saw her stiffen.
“Christopher Van Dyke,” he smiled. His hands were warm. He even smelled nice. Bulgari pour homme, I believe. “I’m afraid I’ve never met you before,” he added, stealing a darting glance at his wife to gauge her reaction.
We were off to a smashing start.
“No, I’m sure you’re wrong. I never forget a good-looking man,” I teased and pressed my right breast into his arm. His color deepened.
He was taller than I but not by much. His wife, at a paltry five feet four inches or so, had the dimensions of a shopping bag. I still hadn’t acknowledged her existence.
“Wasn’t it Barry Goldman’s party last spring?” I persisted. Everybody who was anybody attended Barry’s parties. Odds were good that Dudley Dooright here had been on the guest list.
“Well, yes, I was there, but I don’t remember meeting you,” he replied. His deep voice slid over my skin like a thousand little tongues.
“I was there, too. We never met you,” the little woman piped up.
I turned my head slowly and but never quite made eye contact from beneath haughty eyelids. “I have no recollection of meeting you. I was speaking to your husband.” I turned back to Christopher, who predictably then felt compelled to introduce his prickly little spouse.
“I’m sorry. This is my wife, Melissa.”
I nodded in her general direction, ignoring her chubby hand tentatively extended toward me. She retracted it quickly and immediately reached for a passing canapé.
“Why don’t you get us some drinks, Melissa?” I commanded as I continued staring into her husband’s face. Christopher, confounded by my impertinence, met his wife’s gaze imploringly: Please do as this woman says. I’m sure this will be over soon.
“Well, what would you like?” Melissa asked me, appropriately irritated to be serving me.
“Anything. Use your imagination. Surprise me,” I purred, still holding Christopher’s hand. I had yet to look at her.
She stormed off, waddling toward the bar, unaware that drinks circulated through the party just like hors-d’oeuvres.
He tugged his hand away from mine very gently. I found this clear yet lame attempt to assert his manhood rather charming. He was visibly disquieted by my presence but once Melissa had disappeared, his eyes traveled down the length of my overheated body and back up again. He took this inventory surreptitiously, mind you, but he took it nonetheless.
“I didn’t want to say so in front of your wife,” I lied, “but I tried desperately to get your attention at Barry’s party. I find you devastatingly attractive.”
Again, he blushed but recovered admirably. “I wish I’d known.”
“Why?”
He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Maybe I could have given you a ride home.”
“Oh, that’s not all I would have expected of you, Christopher.”
Have you ever had the satisfaction of watching a face work through an internal dilemma? The man parted his lips in involuntary protest and seemed to surprise himself when no words found their way past them.
“In fact,” I continued, “why not let me take you home?”
He grinned and tilted his head to hide his sheepishness. “But we just got here.”
“I know of a better party. The three of us could go together.”
“Three of us?”
“I assume you’ve got some kind of code against ditching your wife?”
He chuckled. “Of course. I’m just not sure that she’d, you know, feel comfortable at another party.”
“Sweetheart, she doesn’t look terribly at ease at this one,” I assured him, curious whether he actually was ready to leave his plodding dumpling at the party. Regardless of his desires, I wanted her along with us. Otherwise, what was the point?
I watched said dumpling make her way through the chic and chatty crowd as she tried to squeeze between bodies while balancing two champagne flutes. Horribly unsure of herself and eager not to offend, she disgusted me.
“Here she comes now,” I commented in my best monotone.
Christopher turned and satisfaction welled up inside me as I saw his face fall at the bumbling sight of her. He forced a smile to welcome her back.
“Champagne! Thank you, sweetheart.” He spoke to her in a fatherly way as he took a glass from her. He leaned forward to give her an appreciative peck on her doughy cheek. As he did so, elbows jostled and the champagne in what was soon to be my glass poured onto my Walter Steiger pumps.
The bitch was starting to incense me.
“Oh! Honey! I think you spilled some champagne on your friend!” she exclaimed, mastering the obvious.
“He didn’t spill it. You did.” I remarked coolly, surveying my soiled shoe as if it belonged to some street person.
She blushed furiously and looked from her husband to me and back to her husband, undoubtedly waiting for him to come to her defense.
“I saw it all quite clearly. You spilled champagne on my shoe. What I really can’t fathom is why you’re just standing there when you should be cleaning it up.”
Christopher froze, mute with disbelief. Tears welled up in Mrs Van Dyke during the pregnant pause before she crouched at my feet with a napkin. While she dabbed, I attempted to resume my conversation with her husband by taking yet another step closer to him. This movement caused me to squash Melissa’s pinky. I heard her yelp and responded by discreetly placing my hand on the top of her head, to keep her crouching.
“Don’t even think about getting up until that shoe is spotless,” I spat at her. At this moment, I also spread my legs so that if she were to look up, she would be treated to my glistening wet pooch.
“Now, then, Christopher.
Where were we? I was telling you about this other party I’d like to take you to. Who do you work for, by the way?”
“I’m with Bozell. I handle Bank of America.”
I flicked on my suitably impressed face, to which he responded like the egotist that most account executives are. He no longer seemed to care that his wife was on all fours at a posh cocktail party just to clean up a spill that he himself had made. He still didn’t even know who I was or appeared to be interested in finding out.
“Well, then. You need to go to this party more than you need to be here. All you’ll find here are people moving up. I’ll take you where the people have already made it and are enjoying the spoils.”
His face shone with excitement. When I cupped his basket in the hand I’d just removed from his wife’s head, his eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets.
“Does that sound good to you?” I squeezed his ballsack ever so slightly.
He nodded, furtively trying to determine whether Melissa could see what I was doing. On her unbalanced way up, she did indeed catch the action and gasped in horror.
“Christopher!”
“Are my shoes clean?” I asked her, boldly staring her down.
She blurted something that has no English equivalent and I ignored it. Christopher’s cock inflated in my hand. He blinked and blurted something equally unintelligible.
“Oh, the hell with the shoes. Are we ready to get to that party?” My face was close enough to his ear for him to feel my hot breath. My breast pressed into his arm and the memory of my hand at his crotch robbed him of the power of speech.
“Sure,” he finally uttered.
“What? Christopher! What’s going on here?” She was a teapot ready to boil, a smokestack about to blow. Her phony suburban manners disintegrated and all of a sudden I noticed where I’d flattened her mousy, outdated coiffure with my hand.
“Nothing’s going on, honey. What’s the matter?” he cooed to his wife. Unctuous bastard – how solicitous men could be when new pussy was at stake.
“Nothing’s the matter,” I interrupted. “Maybe you should just keep quiet while I’m trying to seduce your husband.”
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