Chapter 2: The Box is Coming, pt. 3

Well here it is, the last part of chapter 2. I must confess, I’ve been a little shy about posting this. Partly because of its content, but more so because of how early in the story I placed it. I mean, I don’t want any reader to get the wrong impression of what I write. I do have several more chapters written and, so far, nothing else as sexually graphic. There is plenty of violence planned though, but nothing yet on the horizon.

 With that being said, I have nothing else to offer for this short intro.

 Thank you for your time

 

 

“What are you laughing at,” I said.

“That is why I took them off,” she said through her laughter. “I tried to tell you but you wanted me to wear the heels so bad. I could not let mon chéri down. You had your little heart so set on it.”

She began to shift her weight in an effort to get off from me.

“No,” I stopped her. “Not yet.”

I laid down on the desk with her still on top of me, prone. I eyed her beauty one more time, taking in every detail. Her hair was a sexy mess. Her emerald eyes glistened, her figure was flawless. The mass of fabric that made up her skirt had slid back down her ass in the back, and laid in a mass across my stomach.

After admiring her for a while, I pulled her down on me. Again we started making out. I reached under her skirt and grabbed her rear-end with both hands, squeezing much firmer than before.

She let out a quiet sigh.

I felt the smoothness of the panty hose, grabbed some nylon in each hand and pulled in opposite directions. It was stronger than I thought, but with some effort, gave way in an audible tear. Aimee paused, when she heard the tear, but only for a second. She quickly resumed, the violence of my action seemed to intensify her arousal.

I let go of the nylon and it snapped back into place. Feeling around, I found where the tear was and the panties underneath. I slid my hand between the two, and traced the hem of the boy-cuts as far as I could. My hand was tucked between her thighs and touching the softness of the flesh trough the lace. I felt the intense heat she was generating and began to caress.

She let out another sign, this one more of an “oh,” and definitely more intense. Her breathing was heavy. Through the fabric of her panties I felt the moisture gather. I inched my hand under and, using my forefinger, hooked the crotch and pulled it to the side. Unhindered by any barriers, I returned to caressing the flesh. Her arousal was obvious. She was so wet that my fingers glided without friction along the flesh.

“Do it now,” she said.

I reached further until I could reach myself and did what came naturally. Simultaneously, she let out a passionate, “oooh!”

Slowly, she moved down a little bit, then back up, over and over, each time getting a little deeper. Once she couldn’t go any deeper, is when she really started to get animated. I felt her excitement build. She put her hands on my chest and lifted herself back up to a prone position. I unbuttoned her blouse and watched it as it fell from her shoulders. She lifted her hands to remove it and tossed it to the ground.

She put her hands back on my chest and continued to increase the speed of her thrusts. She was making a continual series of “oh”’s which were syncopated to her thrusts. My hands explored every inch they could touch, with one of them eventually making its way to the hook of her bra. A quick pinch and twist released the tension. The bra fall loose from her breast but they didn’t move. They stay right in place, just as firm and round as when the bra was on. The rose pink of her areolas was no longer obscured. Any loss of desire was quickly replaced with an abundance. The bra slid down her arms and met her hands, where it laid on my chest, connecting her wrists like erotic lace handcuffs. I pulled her towards me, and sat up so my lips could meet her chest.

“Qui, c’est bon,” she let out. “Fais-moi grimper au rideau!”

“I know babe,” I said. “But we need to be quiet. Someone might hear us.”

With one hand on the small of her back and one cradling the back of her head, I held her close and tight. Her thrusting was wild and still building. I laid down without letting go of her. She came down with me and rested her weight on my chest.

I felt her orgasm begin to build.

“Qui! Qui!,” she said, barely able to keep her breath. “Grave! Grave! Grave, mon Cherie.”

I grabbed her ass and used my arms to enforce her thrusts. After all, I must obey my French goddess, and my help seemed to work. I felt her tightening on the inside, her muscles tensed, and all at once she released.

“Je jouis! Je Jouis!” she yelled.

In a moment it had past, and though she slowed, she did not stop. Again, she lifted herself to a prone position.

“Enore,” she asked.

“Anything for you my love,” I replied.

With that she started building speed again, much more rapidly this time. Her body started tensing again, the squeezing of her loins much more noticeable.

Again, she started crying out, “Oh, qui! Oh, qui! Baisez-moi! Baisez moi, mon gros loup! Qui! Qui! C’est bon! Je Jouiiiiis!”

The second one was much stronger than her first. Her body trembled. The sweat started to bead on her flesh. She barely slowed this time.

“Encore! Encore,” she demanded.

I complied and so it went. Over a couple more orgasms, I watched the sweat on her chest gather. A few beads let loose and ran down her body. I reached up and cup her tits in my hands. Using my thumbs, I gathered some of the sweat. I rubbed it on her nipples and gently blew. They got hard instantly.

She looked me in the eyes.

“Ça te plait,” I asked her. She loves it when I use French.

“Qui,” she replied. “Je veux ta bite, mais maintenant, c’est à toi.”

When we finished, she laid with me and drifted off to sleep. I too began to drift off to sleep. A new fantasy arose. It played out exactly as this encounter had but instead of it being on my work desk, it was on my new cherry desk. My fantasy came to an abrupt ending when I heard some walking down the hall.

“Get up,” I said. “Someone’s coming.”

Her eyes opened with surprise.

“Merde!” she exclaimed as she leapt to her feet.

I tucked myself back into my pants, zipped up, buttoned, and did up the belt. I was fixing my hair when I notice Aimee still topless, with her blouse in hand, frantically looking around for something.

“What are doing,” I said. “They’re coming!”

“Where is my bra,” she asked.

“Forget it,” I replied. “Just get your shirt on!”

She was just finishing the last button when there was a knock at the door. Whoever it was didn’t wait for a response, they just walked it.

It was Vic.

“Chad,” he said but then paused when he saw Aimee. “Hi Aimee.”

“Bon jour!”

Vic held his stare. I turned to Aimee to see why. She had been able to get her blouse on, but did not have time to fix her hair.

“Pardon moi,” she said. “I have to, how do you say, eh, powder my nose.”

She exited the office with haste

“Chad,” Vic continued. “If you want to do that pre-recorded segment for tomorrow, make sure I get the copy before you record it.”

“Sure, Vic. Not a problem.”

“Good,” he said. “And I’ll get a couple temps in here to help with the screening. We don’t want anoth-”

He paused again when something else caught his attention. He was looking down towards my feet. Aimee’s bra was sitting on the ground a couple inches from me. I pushed it under the desk with my foot. I was very obvious that Vic had seen it and knew what it was. The attempt at hiding was futile.

“We don’t want another situation like we had today,” he finished.

We stood in awkward silence for a moment before he turned and left. As he walked out the door Aimee was returning. She watched as he walked down the hall.

When the coast was clear she said, “zat was close.”

I bent down and fished the bra from under my desk.

“Aaah, Qui,” I said as I handed her the bra.

“Merci beaucoup,” she said as she retrieved it. She gave me a simple kiss on the cheek. “I must finish my work.”

She exited my office only to re-enter a couple seconds later.

“I almost forgot,” she said. “A box arrived for you earlier. Eee-twas too heavy for me to carry. I had to leave it in the mail room.”

Chapter 2: The Box is Coming, pt. 2

The Part 1 of Chapter 2 doesn’t actually contain anything that would be considered prurient. However, these next two definitely do. Rather than justify it, or explain it, I will simply offer it. The only thing I will say about it can best be told through the recount of a brief conversation I had with my best friend regarding the text. She asked me why I chose to make it so graphic. The only thing I could say was that it happened organically.

On a different subject, there is some text in French. It’s been a while since I’ve written in French, so if you happen to be able to read it, and notice any grammatical errors, please comment.

Thank you for your time

 

By this point, I was shamelessly gawking, or so it would’ve appeared. In my shoes though, it felt more like being in a trance.

The gust was long gone and replaced by quiet calm. We stood there in silence, motionless, while I lost myself to lustful fantasy. The silence was broken and I snapped out of my trance when she spoke.

“Mon chéri,” she said in that sexy French accent of hers. “I do not mind you giving me zat look.” She lifted one foot and then the next, each time, with gentle fingers and zero effort, undoing the little silver buckles, releasing the straps. “But if you do, I will expect you to follow srew wis zeet.”

She began to walk towards me slowly to build the anticipation. In each hand she pinched a modest amount of the skirt’s fabric, about hip level on each side and raised the hem just enough to slip her heels off without altering her stride.

Disappointment followed as I watched the heels being left behind. At that point, I still wasn’t positive about what was going to happen next, but whatever it was, her heels weren’t going to be on. The disappointment was manageable as her approach brought more powerful desires.

As she got closer, my perspective was forced up her body.

The red of her blouse flushed my field of vision. Each step forward made the plunging neck line seem lower and lower. Her cleavage was flawless and classically ideal. Her breasts appeared to be casted in the bra, like a malleable, flesh-colored metal.

In the truest of definitions, I appreciated Aimee’s body. She has been the bar to which I have measured all others. I must confess I revere all of her endowments with the deepest respect and ethical sincerity, but she also stirs emotions that are far more carnal.

Soon, she was close enough that from her bust up consumed the majority of my view. Aimee is only 4 inches shorter than me. When she’s that close, I hardly have to look down at all for our eyes the meet.

When she was within reaching distance, I put my hands on her hips, letting my thumbs rest on the top of the familiar panty line. I traced it back and around until I had a tight, firm, cheek in each hand and gave her a little squeeze.

It felt good and a slight smile came across my face. I’m not much of a smiler, so when I do, Aimee revels in it.

“That was not bad,” she said. “But I think can put a much, much bigger smile on your lips.”

She raised her arms and rested them on my shoulders. The fabric in the front of her blouse loosened and rose along with her arms. Still helpless to my instincts, I looked down the blouse at the space that formed. I absorbed the pleasure of staring at the one female chest I can stare at in that manner, and not get slapped.

There was a compulsion to indulge. I wanted to start at the top of neck, below her ear, and kiss the nape of her, slowly, over a life time, working my way down, perfectly time so when I make it to the spot between her breasts, I would die.

I could see that her bra, like her panties, was lace, and was not padded. In fact, it was see-through, allowing me to glimpse just the top of her areolas.

The only thing was, the bra was black, and black was rather disappointing after fantasizing about royal purple. Without any other colors than red, her ensemble was simply monochromatic. This disappointment combined with the earlier one, caused my desire to wane.

“Are you going to kiss me,” she said. “Or just stare?”

I pulled her in closer and leaned in. She met me half way and we kissed. The kiss was heavy and intense, the type of intensity that can only be felt by two people who love and trust each other, and at the same time want to fuck the unholy living hell out of each other. I felt the rhythm of her animalism, the rhythm of humankind’s oldest song. I know it well and iy made my impulses dance, and like a dance, I lead and she followed, but it was her rhythm that guided me.

Alas, all my intensions and desire were for not. The earlier disappointments had dampened my fire. I did my best not let on though. Instead, I listened more closely to her body, more intently to its rhythm. She deserved selflessness. She deserved to be cared for, and thats what I intended to do. Regardless of the varying of my libido, and despite it, I still wanted to make her feel like the sexiest woman on earth. That was my goal every time we were together. She deserved nothing less than complete fulfillment.

Best intentions aside, all my desires, wants, and wishes, were too idealized. In my fantasies, the legs straddling me had on open-toed heels and the woman was wearing matching royal purple bra and panties. The fantasies that were conjured distracted me from the real thing. I don’t know how she noticed, that is to say, I tried with all my soul to make sure she wouldn’t by remaining singularly focused on doing everything right to arouse her, but with a quick decline, I lost the rhythm. None of my actions from that point seemed to work. Our pace slowed to a crawl, and eventually stopped all together. We found ourselves staring into each other’s eyes again.

“C’est quoi le problem,” she asked.

“Honestly?”

“Always.”

“Aah, it’s nothing,” I said. “My mind’s wandering. I promise, it’s not you my love, my little cabbage.”

“Ma petite chou, eh? I think it loses something in translation, qui?”

“Yeah, I think so too. You are way sexier than any cabbage,” I said.

“I certainly hope so,” she said with feigned shock. “And I know not a single cabbage that can do for you what I can. Ma chéri, s’il tu plait. I want to make you feel as good as you have always made me.” She brushed my cheek with hers and put her lips next to my ear. In a sultry whisper she said, “Que veux-tu que je fasse?”

I felt the tip of her tongue touch my earlobe. She softly  bit right before she gave it the sweetest kiss and returned to lock eyes with me once again.

The delicate nature, with which she had touched me, tickled and sent goose bumps all over my body. The smile that at most been a crack, spread like an infection and I couldn’t help but smile as wide as my face allowed.

“I wanted you to leave the heels on,” I said.

Her smile grew too. “I took sem off be-…”

“You know what, babe,” I interrupted. “Don’t worry about it. You’re beautiful, and sexy, and my wildest dreams, and frankly, I shouldn’t be so demanding or picky. I should be happy just to have your attention.”

“Is zat so?”

She lowered her arms, turned around, and started to walk away. It was my guess that I had blown an opportunity, but when she made it to the heels, she stopped. In a slow and teasing manner, she bent at the waist to get the heels, the whole time keeping her legs perfectly straight. The fabric tightened around her back side and once again I could see the pattern of the lace. She lifted one foot, and in an exaggerated fashion, tilted her ass as she shifted her weight to the other leg. She put on the heel, fastened the little buckle, and then shifted her weight to the other leg and did the same exact thing for the other foot. With an arch in her back, she slowly stood up, shifting her weight a couple more times for added effect. She stopped half way up to fake a stretch before she finished.

She walked back to me and continued, “Well lover, that may be, but right now, I have no desire to make love to you.”

“Really,” I said. “so that little thing you just did over there, bending at the waist, arching your back, the little wiggle, that wasn’t for me?”

“Mon Chéri,” she said. “Zis is all for you.”

She put her arms back on my shoulders, and I returned my hands to their previous position. The rhythm of her body was no longer like a song and I was definitely not leading anymore. Now, it was more like a torrent whose intensity was quickly growing.

She felt me getting hard and lowered her arms to undo my belt, then the button, and then the zipper. She reached through the front and pulled out my cock. She lifted one leg up to wrap around mine and by flexing she drew us together closer but slightly off-center. The muscles in her leg stiffened as she met her crotch to my erection. Through the thin fabric of her skirt, the lace of the boy-cut panties and with slow and purposeful motions, she rubbed her clit up and down, building speed as her desire rose.

By now I was no longer leaning back on my desk, but had actually moved to a sitting position on it. She had stayed close and was on top of me, straddling and rubbing, with the heels still on.

I started pulling the thin fabric of the skirt up her legs. Once I had gathered all of it, I pulled it up from between us and over her ass. I reached down to her ankles and touched the top of the leather straps. I gently ran my fingers up the length of her legs until I had a cheek in each hand once more. I was planning on pulling her undies off, but something stopped me.

Aimee had stopped too. I was stopped by the realization that Aimee wasn’t wearing stocking but panty hose. So, if I wanted the undies off, I needed to get the pantyhose off, and if I wanted to take the panty hose off, the heels needed to come off. Aimee had stopped however, because she had realized that I had just realized the dilemma. I can only imagine the expression of puzzlement on my face as I attempted cope with the irony. Hers was an impish grin that erupted into laughter.

 

Chapter 2: The Box is Coming, pt. 1

It’s been a while since I posted. I would like to say it’s due to being busy. I would also like to say, as self-defeating as it may be, that it was due to being lazy. Though both are true in their own way, the real reason I haven’t posted is because I’ve been afraid. This part of my wanna-be novel, “Chapter 2: The Box is Coming,” is almost entirely a sex scene. Though I’ve written some fiction over the years, this project has been my only real serious attempt at the craft. So, I’m shy when it comes to offering anything let alone something as personal as sex.

As a warning, or better yet, warnings, I should say, that this scene gets graphic. My novel is not erotica, though this chapter definitely is. My justification is, that when writing fiction, I feel it my duty to present my imagination in the most honest way possible. Not just and honesty to what I see in my mind, but an honest description of how my imagination would manifest if it was real. Therefore, I must present sex as it really is, and, if you’ve ever had sex, you know it is very graphic.

This chapter, as well as the struggles I’ve had producing it and presenting it, has inspired me to start another blog where I can address the craft of fiction. I hope if you’re reading this you’ll take some time to check it out too. I’ll link it in as soon as it’s ready.

All of that being said, submitted for the approval of my modest number of readers, I offer “Chapter 2: The Box is Coming.”

Thank you for your time…

D. C. Major 

As soon as I enter my outer office I could see that there was no box waiting for me. Aimee was focused on juggling a phone call and typing something. I wanted to ask her if she had seen or heard any news about the box, but she was too busy to be bothered and, besides, she would tell me as soon as she knew anything. There was also the possibility that it was inside my private office.

Once inside though, I saw there was no box. I was going to call Ronny and have him contact his courier when I heard Aimee getting off the phone and the squeak of her chair as she stood up. I was standing in front of my desk, leaning against it with folded arms, going over all the recent developments, when she came to the door way.

I keep the inner office somewhat dark and the lights in the outer office are bright florescent white. The opposing tones shadowed Aimee’s visage but accentuated and drew attention to her figure. There were no features, only a silhouette.

My eyes started to adjust to the lighting as she stepped in. For the first time that day, I saw my love and how amazingly beautiful she is. The settlement, the radio station, the box, all meant nothing at that moment. For that one instant I only wanted to enjoy the view and methodically look her over, for toes to top.

There is only one thing in this world that weakens me, and at that moment it was very sensually walking towards me in a red low-cut blouse, black skirt, and high heels. My eyes hadn’t made it very far up her figure, just the hem of the skirt, when I realized I wasn’t only weakened, I was completely powerless.

Her heels weren’t too high, just high enough to balance the allure with the sensible. They were open-toed with straps that criss-crossed and wrapped up her ankle. Like the skirt, the shoes were black, but glossy leather with a little silver buckle that held the straps in place. If black, open-toed heels have ever looked hot, they were on her feet at that moment. The primitive man inside me imagined a very erotic scenario involving the two of us, and in that fantasy, the heels stayed on.

Her black skirt and black heels with the straps and little, silver buckle, accentuated the flesh of her feet and ankles. The frosting on this delicious cake was the nude stockings underneath it all. Together they framed a perfect picture of beauty. The tone of her skin, the simple elegance, complete and perfect beauty.

The heat swept over me. My heartbeat increased. I could feel the blood rushing through my body, and the testosterone flooding my purpose. My God, I could have pounced on her if all she did was wink at me. She deserved nothing less to be raised her to her climax, and more. She deserved someone to show her that ecstasy does not have to be a peak like the top of a mountain, one that only signifies the downward momentum of an inevitable end. She deserved more than just one mountain top.

Her physical appearance had not one hint of needing a man. Quite the contrary, it had every indication of being a temple that deserved the worship of men. I wanted nothing more than to be the one to worship at her temple, nothing more than to be that servant. I would have given it all to be that one, and all of this desire was aroused by just the space between the hem of her skirt and the tips of her toes.

God help me, I could’ve resisted her siren song of the skinny leather straps, little silver buckles, nude covered flesh, or even the open-toed heels. A little private time, just me and my fantasy, and I could have released that beast and focused on my work. I could’ve, but she painted her toenails red, the same deep red that matched her blouse and lips. There was no need to offer myself to her temple. Her temple already had me, and there was no getting away. My actions were the whims of her will with my manhood in shackles. I was trapped, and had looked no higher than the hem of her skirt.

I gave up resistance and reasoned there was nothing more hindering my eyes from continuing their journey up her body. Oh, and sweet Jesus, what a trip it was.

From the hem of the skirt I continued my indulgence. Its fabric was so thin it defied physics by not being shear. Softly, it draped on her skin like a sheen of water flowing across a chiseled Venus figure. Gently, it laid on her like smoke, which in the slightest of breezes, would fade away, leaving me praying for a windy day.

When she had fully entered my office, she turned to shut the door behind her. Her forward momentum, the turning of her body, and the draft caused by the closing of the door culminated in a small gust. Though it was small, it was just enough to pull the fabric towards the door. He had heard my prayers and granted me my windy day.

The skirt clung to her legs and ass without discrimination. I traced every line and every curve. When she turned back around, the gust continued to pull on the skirt. I studied 180 degrees of her in exquisite detail and, in my mind, it was all in slow motion.

I saw her panty line as clear as crystal. The pulled fabric allowed amazing detail. She was wearing boy-cuts, lace of some sort. The outline was so vivid, that if I close my eyes to this day, I can still see it. And as she turned in slow motion, I followed the outline of those boy cuts as if my life depended on it. From between her thighs, sharply up the curve of her perfectly shaped bottom, crossing just below her hips as she turned, around to the front, then down and in, where it would’ve met the top of her inner thigh, and that sacred source of my carnal weakness.

I say, “would’ve” because she now stood there motionless. The gust faded and gravity over-powered the rarity of the skirt. However, the absence of my windy day had no effect on the revelations of her outline. Her figure was still well-defined, as were the panty lines. I couldn’t make out the lace anymore, which was a little dissuading, so I made up for it by imagining what color they were. I was hoping for a color that complimented the red of her toes, lips, and blouse. In this fantasy, royal purple was the perfect compliment. I imagined the red blouse falling from her shoulders, exposing a royal purple bra, and royal purple panties dropping from her hips and landing on red toe nails.

Chapter 1: The Interview is On, pt. 4

Well, here you have it. This is the final installment of Chapter 1  So far, my little story has been pretty mild. Stick with it though because that’s about to change. Next chapter gets pretty racy; in fact, I had to flag my own blog as “mature content” to publish it. For this reason, I’m actually considering making a duplicate blog that would mimic this one, minus the adult content, but we’ll see.

I also noticed that regardless of how many times I proof read my text, the second I submit it, or publish it, I find an excessive amount of errors. On the horizon, I’ll revise the currently published material with corrections.

Briefly mentioned above, is the direction of this story. Currently, one could get the wrong impression of where it’s going. I let my mother read the first chapter and she said she really like it, with the antique wood, and the radio station, and the main character’s French girlfriend and all, but I can guarantee I won’t be letting mom read Chapter 2.

Like me, this story appears to be basic, dull even. However, once you get into it, you’ll find it’s actually quite twisted and deviant. Still to come: explicit sex, drugs, violence, and visions of insanity.

 

The show was a disaster and even though we have always maintained the highest quality in our broadcast, and even though a show that bad would have normally had me concerned, my thoughts we’re preoccupied with the box. I was leaving the booth when Aimee met me. She said Vic wanted to see me right away. I was pretty certain his mood hadn’t improved since earlier. When I entered his office he was already staring at me with daggers.

“You wanted to see me, boss,” I said.

“WHAT THE FUCK CHAD,” he yelled. “How in the hell am I supposed to run a God damn radio station with all of this attention on you? There’s no way we can do call-ins. You said the case wasn’t gonna be settle for a while. Its only been three fucking years! What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“I’m not sure, Vic,” I said. “I haven’t even had a chance to maul it over myself.”

“Well,” he said as he stood up, his face getting red. “You better figure it the fuck out because I’ll be God Damned if that shit that just went out of my station ever happens again.”

“I agree. If it comes to it, I’d understand if you terminated my contract.”

“Ha,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “If fireing your ass was an option, I would have pulled you the second Jim brought it up. But you know, just as well as me, if you’re gone, so are our sponsors.”

He stared at me for a while. The look was something similar anger but more like the look of a predator preparing for a kill. I wasn’t sure if I should wait for him to say something, or start running.

His expression relaxed and he sat back down.

“Alright,” he began. “This is what we’re gonna do. Tomorrow you going to do the show but with limited call-ins. We’ll have to ramp up the screening process somehow. Tell that secretary of yours that she’s going to be helping with screening the calls.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I said. “But if we cut call-ins what will we do to fill the space.”

He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and looked at the ceiling. This was his common deep-thinking pose. After a minute or two, he leaned forward and gave me a look of self-satisfaction.

“The listening area has increased since The DuBois Incident,” he said. “And the population has too. There are plenty of listeners who haven’t heard the story in its entirety. I want you to write three or four narratives telling the story. I know you won’t want to say anything about your involvement in it and that’s fine. Come in early tomorrow and we’ll recorded the narrative and air them in place of the call-ins. We’ll frame it as a special in honor of the [nn] vs. [nn] settlement. At some point during the show, you’ll announce you’re taking a temporary leave of absence. Once this has all died down, you’ll come back. I’ll suspend your contract until then and adjust the end date to reflect your hiatus, which, by the way, will be without pay. Hopefully, this’ll to keep the sponsors happy enough to prevent us from going bankrupt.”

“Tell ya what, Vic,” I said. “I’ll do ya one better. When I return from my hiatus, I’ll do a second special. During the second special, I’ll offer full disclosure. I’ll tell all the details of my involvement, every last one. I’ll also sign an agreement stating that I won’t share my side of the story with anyone other than this station. I’ll announce it when I announce my leave of absence. That should be enough to hold the sponsors and keep them happy. Marketing, might even be able to dig a couple new sponsors. How’s that sound?”

His stare turned to and expression of paternal affection.

“You know Chad,” he said. “I always considered you an arrogant prick who thought he was entitled to more than he’s worth. But you proved me wrong, kid. Thanks.”

He put out his hand and we shook on it.

“Don’t mention it, Vic,” I said. “You’ve always tolerated me and have always been there when needed. It’s the least I can do.”

I left his office but no sooner had I went through the door, went back and popped my head into his office again.

“Vic,” I said. “One more thing.”

“What’s that Buddy,” he said with the same paternal expression.

“My hiatus,” I said. “I would like that with pay.”

His expression melted back into his previous grimace. He made no response. I felt it best to make my exit, but just as I started to leave I heard him call.”

“Chad!”

“Yeah boss,” I said.

“I take it back,” he said. “You are an arrogant prick who thinks he’s entitled to more than he’s worth.”

“Thanks, Vic,” I said in my most sarcastic tone. “I’ve always thought highly of you too.”

Chapter 1: The Interview is On, pt.1 (Revised Jan. 10, 2013)

For this, my first entry, I submit a segment from a much larger piece. This segment, with several others, will make up the first chapter in what I hope will be a novel. For now, the novel has the working title of, The Big Story of a Small City. Particularly, I don’t like the title, but I’ve learned over the years titles aren’t that important. I won’t offer any other introduction since this would be the very beginning of the novel. Any lack of context or back story, at this point, is purposeful and intended to be explained later. I welcome any and all criticisms, especially grammatical and/or typing, and hope you enjoy. Thank you for your time.

September 4, 2012, had started off like most other days. The only exceptional difference was the arrival of the new desk I had commissioned to be built by one of the state’s best carpenters. It cost me more money than it would ever be worth. Nearly 20 years ago, I purchased some antique cherry wood that had been removed from a building that was set for demolition.

Over the years, the building had been called by many names but was locally known as the Pershing Hotel. In its heyday, it was DuBois’ greatest theatre and the highest classed brothel in the area. Since then, it had housed an assortment of businesses and purposes but had never been taken care of by any of its owners. Eventually, it fell in disarray and was slated for demolition.

Before it was tore down, the last owner stripped the building of whatever was left of value and sold it. There wasn’t much. Over the years it had been the refuge of street kids and vandals as well as looters. All that was left to sale was the antique building materials that made up the interior, things like banisters, cast iron tubs, old tile, stuff like that.

I was there the day the owner sold the materials. Some cherry molding and inch thick paneling had been stripped from the walls of the main lobby. When I saw it, I fell in love with it. There was something about the quality of the old-world craftsmanship and I thought it would make a beautiful desk. The owner’s price was much higher than what it was worth, and when I inquired about purchasing just the amount of cherry I needed, she insisted that it all went as one lot. It ended up costing me $700.

For almost 20 years I lugged the wood around or stored it in hopes of one day building my desk. It royally pissed my dad of because when it was being stored, I had to store it at his place. Eventually, I concluded I would never build it and commissioned a carpenter to do it for me. There was more than enough wood for a desk, so I made an arrangement with him. Whatever wood was left, he could keep for his inventory in exchange for a discount on the desk’s construction. Even still, it cost $2,100 to make, but in the end was so worth it. The desk was more than adequate; it was a masterpiece of construction and 20-year-old dream come true.

It wasn’t just the quality of the cherry wood, or the construction that made it special to me. The Pershing Hotel itself had played a major role in my life, and in many ways, if it wasn’t for that building, I wouldn’t be the success I am today.

I had just finished moving my stuff from my old desk to the new one, and was pouring a cup of coffee, when Aimmee entered the room.

“Bonjour mon amour,” she said.

“Good morning,” I replied without looking up.

Our relationship is unique. For all intent and purpose, we are boyfriend/girlfriend. I met her in France a few years earlier where we fell in love. When it was time for me to go home, she wanted to stay with me, and I with her. However, neither one of us were interested in getting married only for the sake of her getting her citizenship but, if she was my employee, she would be able to get her work visa. So I put her on payroll as my secretary and, ever since, we’ve been together. If you asked of either of us what the nature of our relationship is, we would both say we were in love, but are not boyfriend/girlfriend; she’s just my secretary. This has always given our relationship the sense of being forbidden and has kept things exciting for us. It’s like a pretend affair, if you will.

“I must go,” she said in her thick accent. “Or I’ll be late. And you better get zat coot little doopah of yours in gear or you will be late too.”

“I know. I know,” I said. “I’m gonna finish this cup and I’ll get going.”

“D’accord,” she said. “I will see you zair. Je t’aime mon petit chou.”

“I love you too, babe.”

She left.

I had to be on-air by 12:00 PM, but there can be a good 1 to 2 hours of preproduction before air time. I was expecting an easy day, so I planned on just an hour of prep time.

When I signed my contract with the station, I made it contingent that Aimee would be brought on too as my personal assistant and secretary. It was her job to get there before me to transcribe the days dialog and manage my phone and email messages. In truth, her job wasn’t that involved. She was pretty much there just as eye candy for me.

All-in-all, it was one of the cushiest of jobs either of us have had. Typically I’m eager to get to work and get started, but on that day all I wanted to do was spend a little time at my desk. After all, it had been nearly 20 years in the making and I wanted to bask in my dream come true.