Office Fling: A Single Dad Baby Romance

by Amy Brent

  Only now, I’m laughing all the way to the bank.

  The whole thing still seems a bit like a dream. Me, Professor Wynn Driver, a midlevel psychology professor at a small midwestern university, getting filthy rich and filthy famous off a book about pussy, of all things. Well, not pussy, per se, but the psychology of the most unique organ of the female anatomy. It’s hard to explain. Just buy the book. Find me when I’m in your town and I’ll sign it for you. And if you’re in the mood and I have time, maybe we can get to know each other a little better. Maybe.

  Why does it all seem like a dream? Because less than two years ago I was a nobody professor teaching clinical psychology at a middle American university and bouncing around from this one-night-stand to the next. I had a shitty car, no money, and lived off the good humor and generosity of my friends. Now I live in a beach house in Malibu and hobnob with Hollywood elite and make more in one week than I used to make in a month teaching. And it’s all because of a book I wrote with a very silly name.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all about the money. I’m proud of the book. What’s between the front and back covers the damn thing is crammed full of rock solid information and observations, one-hundred-percent backed up by reputable clinical studies and interviews with dozens of women. It’s a damn fine book. The title is just the hook for marketing. Keep reading and you’ll understand.

  Let’s go back in time a bit so you get the full picture.

  First off, I was totally shocked when I sent the finished manuscript—which came in at a thousand pages and took almost two years to write—off to literary super agent, Doreen McCallum, and was immediately contacted by her assistant. A week later, I was sitting in her New York City office signing with her to be my agent.

  Second of all, I was again totally shocked when five or six of the big New York City publishing houses started battling over the rights to the damn thing. I mean, who would have ever thought such a thing? It’s not like I was Dr. Phil or Oprah, for petesake.

  I was shocked again (I know, I shock easily I guess) when Doreen ended up selling the manuscript at auction for nearly half a million bucks. That’s right, I said: A HALF A MILLION BUCKS! Hell, I had never made that much money over the course of my entire life, much less in one chunk. It was just freakin’ surreal.

  And third of all, I was shocked (yet again) when I was called into a meeting with the publisher that had bought the rights to the book, Hadley Press, to find that the team assigned to get my book into print were all smoking hot women. I couldn’t believe my eyes (or good fortune) when I walked into the room. It was like a fucking hot babe smorgasbord. All shapes and sizes and colors and variety of hotness.

  There was a shapely blonde with big tits, a tall brunette with big blue eyes, a skinny redhead with cute freckles across her nose, a goth girl with jet black hair and a pierced tongue, and a gorgeous African-American with lips that I couldn’t keep my eyes off of.

  All smoking hot.

  All looking at me. Checking me out, up and down. Licking their lips. Locking eyes with me. For a moment, I felt a little like a lamb being led to slaughter. A week later, after I had fucked every chick in the room except Doreen (she’s sixty-five and a lesbian) I was the one who felt like I had just worked my way through a pussy buffet.

  But I digress…

  When I suggested the title during the first meeting with the group, it was done so as a joke. The working title had been Psychological Effects of the Vagina on Modern Society. I know. Yawwwwn. When Monica Biggs, the aforementioned tall brunette and editor in charge of the project—and giver of one of the best blowjobs I would ever experience—suggested we take a more creative approach that would help market the book, I blurted out, “How about, What’s Your Pussy Thinking?”

  The title hung in the air for a moment like a bad fart as they all looked at me with a mixture of humor and disbelief, like they thought it was privately funny, but couldn’t believe I said the word pussy in mixed company.

  Doreen gave me a look that made me cringe, but slowly a big smile came to Monica’s face. She held up a skinny finger to indicate that a thought was forming. The other women leaned forward in anticipation. I would go on to learn that when Monica smiled, everybody smiled. And when Monica had a thought, everyone agreed.

  “I like the way you’re thinking, Wynn,” she said, eyeing me as she brought the finger to her bottom lip. “But… how about… What’s Your Vagina Thinking?” She held out her hands and glanced around the table. “Just a tad more… politically correct. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Candy, the blonde with the big tits, clapped her hands and bounced excitedly in her chair like a kid about to have birthday cake. She oozed praise with her nose firmly up her boss’ tight butt hole. “Oh, Monica, that’s awesome! Yes! Perfect!”

  “I love it!” Rhonda, the red-haired marketing exec whose carpet indeed matched the drapes, said exuberantly.

  “So, do I!” That was Allison chiming in, the girl with the blue hair and silver rings in here clit and nipples.

  “That’s… awesome,” Doreen echoed, giving me a look of relief. She would tell me later that she thought I’d screwed the pooch by tossing out that title. But as it turned out, she got a great story to tell at publishing conferences and cocktail parties. The day her cocky client suggested What’s Your Pussy Thinking for a book that turned out to be a runaway bestseller and made all of us bloody fucking rich.

  But it does make sense when you stop and think about it. A vagina thinking is no more farfetched than what we men have done since the day we first evolved to the point of having this thing dangling from between our legs. We have a brain, but more often than not, we think with our cocks.

  Think about it. It’s common knowledge that we men think with our cocks—or rather let our cocks block our brainwaves and thereby seem to be thinking for us.

  Since the dawn of man and his discovery of pussy, wars have been fought because men could not control their cocks. Empires toppled. Civilizations wiped off the map. Millions have died over pussy. All because some man with a little bit of power and an out of control sex drive could not keep his cock from taking over his brain.

  Personally, from a psychological point of view, I think men focus on pussy so much because it is the one thing they do not naturally have, the one thing they cannot buy (although surgeons keep trying), and the one thing that moment lord over them to keep them in line. Don’t believe me? Have you ever withheld pussy from a guy? Remember how fucking crazy it made him? There you go. Game, set, match.

  So, that’s how my book became a publishing phenomenon. Slap the word vagina on a book cover, a picture of a good-looking guy on the back, and get ready for the cash registers to ring.

  Monica didn’t have to, but she asked for a vote and every hand went up. “Then it’s decided,” she said, giving me the same look she’d give me later that night with my cock between her lips. “What’s Your Vagina Thinking is the title. Next, let’s move on to your thoughts on cover design.” She smiled at me with her eyes. “And before you can suggest it, we cannot put a picture of a vagina on the cover.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Monica stared at me and slid her tongue across her lips.

  My cock twitched with delight.

  I was going to enjoy this ride immensely.

  And that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  That’s how I became the bestselling author of a book—and authority on— the psychology of female reproductive anatomy and its effect on the human brain.

  The book was published four months later, landing at number one on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists.

  I was profiled in Psychology Today Magazine and interviewed by the Journal of Psychiatry.

  I made the rounds of every TV show from Good Morning America to Ellen to 60 Minutes and become a national celebrity.

  Women lined up to hear me speak at conferences, and I got a couple dozen marriage proposals a day.

  All because
I wrote a book on how pussy affects the brain.

  What do I have in common with Hugh Hefner, Larry Flynt, and the dude who owns The Bunny Ranch Whorehouse in Vegas? We all have big houses and fancy cars that were bought and paid for by pussy.

  Again, is this a great country or what?

  CHAPTER TWO: Wynn

  “Tell us, Wynn,” Monica said, smiling at me from over the top of her tea cup as our meeting came to a close. “How ever did you come up with the idea for this book?”

  “That’s a great question, Monica,” I said with a smile. “I was teaching a class on psychology at Midwestern University and…”

  I let my eyes go around the table as I told them the lie. They were all watching me, animated, leaning in. Like fish in a barrel. I wondered which one I should fuck first. Monica. Sure. Start at the top and work my way down.

  The truth was, I was a professor at Midwestern University when the idea for the book came to me, but it was not during a class. It was around nine o’clock on a Saturday night, while I was in a guest bathroom fucking the shit out of the wife of my boss, Jefferson Milton, the head of the psychology department.

  Jefferson’s wife Jean was a buxom forty-something with strawberry blonde hair and milky white skin who had a thing for younger men with large cocks who were willing to fuck her on command. Like within the first thirty minutes of meeting her while her husband and other guests were having drinks and hors’deuvres downstairs.

  Jean and I met the night Jefferson invited all the psyche professors over for a new semester meet and greet at his home. At the time, I was sleeping on my best pal Professor Holden Moss’ couch and screwing my way through the various sororities on campus. We professors were not supposed to screw our students, but we all did it. Even old Jefferson Milton himself was known to tap a piece of hot young ass every now and then, though I never ratted him out to his wife. There is a Bro Code we men must abide by or we have to turn in our testicles and our Man Card.

  Holden was also a psyche professor at Midwestern U and had been my best friend for years. We shared everything. A house. Car. Food. Booze. Pussy. Holden and I weren’t shy around each other. If one of us had a woman who we thought would enjoy a good threesome, we’d go all in. And we went all in a lot in those days. We ended up double-teaming Jean several times while Jefferson was out of town at various conferences and speaking events. I had never personally met a woman who could take two very large dicks inside her cunt at once. Talk about talent. Jean was dripping with it. And Holden kept cracking me up, telling me to give him ball room. That asshole.

  Jefferson had just welcomed everyone to his home, a beautiful old Victorian on the edge of campus, and introduced us to his wife, Jean, who was stunning in a black cocktail dress that showed off her big tits and curves. She caught me looking at her tits a few times, but she just smiled and kept talking to whomever she was talking to at that moment. That’s when we really started eyeing one another from across the room.

  While the other guests ate and mingled, I went upstairs in search of the bathroom. I was just zipping up and about to wash my hands when I heard the tap at the door.

  “It’s occupied!” I said, turning on the water and looking at myself in the mirror. I was holding up pretty well for an old surfer slash academic. That was one of the reasons I went into teaching in the first place, so I would have time to surf. I was raised in California and was surfing before I could even walk. Then I moved from California to the freakin’ Midwest, where surfing didn’t exist. The only reason I even had a tan was because Holden had a pal who owned a boat and we spent weekends on it. Now, I’m back living on the beach in Malibu. I guess what goes around does come around if you just give it enough time.

  I was just thirty-nine, tall, shaggy blond hair, kept in good shape playing on a campus rugby team and swimming at the natatorium every day. I was wearing one of Holden’s sport coats over a black Polo and ratty jeans. I knew I’d never get rich being a psyche professor, but I made enough to keep myself in fast food, booze and pussy, the three staples of most professors’ lives. And at that moment, pussy was knocking at the door.

  “It’s Jean,” she said quietly. “Open the door.’

  I smiled at myself in the mirror, wondering what took her so long, and dried my hands on the fluffy towel hanging on the rack. I opened the door to see her standing there with a wine glass in each hand and a devious grin on her face.

  “Can I come in?” she asked, coming through the door without waiting for permission, then bumping her ass into the door to close it. She held out one of the wine glasses and nodded at me. “Take it while I lock the door.”

  “Uh… okay…” I said, acting all innocent, taking the wine glass and a step back. I gave her a blank look as my eyebrows went up. “Did you need to use the bathroom or…”

  “Or what?” she asked. She brought the wine glass to her red lips and smiled at me from over the top of it. She had beautiful, dangerous eyes. My granny would have said she had the devil dancing in her eyes as she took a step closer, forcing me back against the sink.

  “Or…” I held out my hands and let her step into me. She mashed her body to mine and my cock immediately sprang to life. “Uh… Mrs. Milton, I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

  “You can call me Jean,” she said, straddling my legs, grinding her pussy into my cock. She mashed her big melon tits against my chest. Her tits spilled out of the top of the black cocktail dress. I had to resist rubbing my nose in her cleavage. “And I’ll call you Wynn.”

  “Okay… Jean…” I said, swallowing the big lump that had formed in my throat. My cock kept growing in response to her cunt rubbing against it. Her tits mashed against my chest. I licked my lips and stared into her eyes. “What can I do for you, Jean?”

  “You can show me your big, hard cock,” she said, rubbing the tip of her nose to mine. She pressed her cheek to mine, then trailed her tongue around the rim of my ear. “Better still, you can just take it out and fuck me with it.”

  I took a nervous glance toward the door. “What about your husband? The others?”

  “My husband is a pompous windbag who now has a captive audience,” she said, reaching around to set her drink on the sink behind me. Her hands came back around to the front of my jeans. She rubbed her palm against my erection and cooed into my mouth. “And now, apparently, I have a captive audience of my own.”

  “Apparently, you do,” I said with a smile.

  She stepped back, got to her knees on the shaggy rug in front of me, and quickly ripped open my belt and pants. She hooked her fingers in the waistband and shoved my jeans and boxers down my legs. My twelve-inch cock sprang up and bounced in the air for a moment. When she saw it, her eyes grew wide and she licked her lips.

  “Oh my, Wynn, what a lovely cock you have,” she said as the fingers of her right hand went around the veiny shaft and the fingers of her left hand went for my balls. Her hand started moving back and forth, back and forth. I sucked in a quick breath and braced my palms against the counter to keep my knees from buckling.

  “The better to fuck you with, my dear,” I said, arching my back so my cock stuck out even more. She hummed as her hand started sliding slowly up and down the shaft, then pressed her lips to the head, which looked like a crimson balloon about to pop. When little drops of precum oozed from the slit, she hummed again and licked them away.

  “God, your cock is so fucking big,” she said, hands working in tandem, her lips leaving lipstick on the head, tongue teasing the slit. “Jefferson has a cock like… an old man… not you… mmm… yours is… this is… fucking…mmm… magnificent...”

  “Uh… thanks…” I said, closing my eyes and trying to keep my breathing steady. The last thing I needed was to prematurely shoot my load all over her face and tits, though that would be something I did many times in the coming months. “Fuck… Mrs. Milton… I mean… Jean… that’s… wow… amazing…”

  She held the shaft steady as her lips closed around the head. S
he pumped the shaft and sucked the head like a piece of hard candy, slurping it noisily. I just watched in awe as she opened her mouth and took my cock in until the tip hit the back of her throat. The six inches of shaft left outside her mouth was being serviced by her hand milking slowly back and forth. I watched her slowly draw her lips back over the shaft, then use her spit to lube the entire thing. After a minute of this, I knew that I was getting damn near close to exploding in her mouth.

  “Let me… fuck you... Jean,” I said, reaching for her. She smiled up at me with my cock resting between her lips, then let me help her to her feet. She reached around behind and unzipped the cocktail dress. When it fell to the floor, I felt the breath catch in my throat. She was totally naked, with a freakin’ rockin’ body right out of Penthouse magazine. How the hell did old professor Milton get this gorgeous woman to even notice him was behind me. She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.

  She took a step back so I could take in her body. She was full figured, shapely, not a flaw that I could see, sexy as hell. She cupped her bulbous breasts in her palms and rolled her thick nipples under her thumbs. She had a dark bush, neatly trimmed. I could see her plump clit hood and pussy lips glistening already with her juices.

  “Fuck me from behind,” she said. “So, I can watch you in the mirror.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, sidestepping her with my jeans and boxers still around my ankles and my cock sticking out like a tree limb. She pressed her palms on the counter, got onto her tiptoes, and stuck out her gorgeous ass. I looked toward the ceiling and gave a silent thank you. I took my cock in my hand and stroked it as I guided the head to her pussy hole, which was pink and dripping with anticipation.