Chapter 1: The Interview is On [Revision]

To my few visitors and even fewer followers, along with anyone else that may be reading this entry let my offer a quick explanation of the text that follows. Recently, in an effort to improve my skills as a fiction writer, I consulted some references on the craft of fiction writing. How that endeavor lead to this entry can be, in more detail, explored here. Relevant to this blog is that this post is a revision of a previous version of Chapter 1. In short, if you have followed the story so far, this post will not impact the plot. However, it will be a better telling of the first chapter. If you haven’t followed the story, then this will be an excellent opportunity to begin. With nothing else to add, I’ll end this intro and let you read on.

            Thank you for your time

On September 4^th, 2013, life changed for me. Early in the morning a new desk arrived. Its arrival, alone, changed my life. Though it wasn’t the catalyst that brought forth life-altering change, it was merely a very appropriate omen. The arrival of the desk would become an allegory for the last 20 years of my life. But, I wouldn’t find that out until I was just about ready to leave for work…

I stood in my kitchen gazing across into the den and sipped my morning coffee. In the den sat my new desk. In that moment I was awestruck. That desk means more to me than anyone could know. And seeing it for the first time, light coming in through window, in the distance across my kitchen and in my den, was one of those few moments in life where one truly feels complete satisfaction.

The light illuminated the glassy finish. It was constructed out of antique cherry wood that had been salvaged from an old building down town. The tones of the reflecting light gave the desk the appearance of being a burning ember. I needed to put all the stuff from my old desk into it, and wanted to do so before work. Instead, an unknown about of minutes ticked away as focused on my dream come true.

Over the years, the building had been called many names but was locally known as the Pershing Hotel. In its heyday, it was DuBois’ grandest theatre as well as the area’s highest classed brothel. After the brothel closed, the theatre stayed somewhat popular while the rest of the building held various businesses and apartment, none of the businesses lasted and seemed to close as fast as they open. Over the years ownership changed hands many times. The varying owners did not take care of The Pershing. Toward the end, the theatre only showed porn and then closed all together. The building cultivated a sense of failure and its worn exterior made it look run down and trashy. Business didn’t want a front in the building and only the dregs lived in the apartments. Eventually, it fell in disarray and was slated for demolition.

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

The Pershing’s last owner advertised the sale of the material. I had no intensions on buying anything, I only wanted to see the inside one last time before they tore it down. Once inside, old memories flooded back. The sensation amplified when I saw some solid cherry molding with matching, inch-thick, solid cherry paneling. It used to line the walls of the main lobby and when I saw it for sale the compulsion to buy it was too strong. Aside from the memories, there were more mundane rationalizations behind my purchase. Simply stated, it was beautiful. There was something about the quality of the old-world craftsmanship and as I admired the cherry, a vision came to me where I use the wood to build an exquisite desk. That vision became a dream, and that dream became a project that never came to fruition.

The owner was asking way too much for the wood, and when I inquired about purchasing just the amount needed to build a desk, she insisted that it all went as one lot. It ended up costing me $700 and nearly lost the purchase because I couldn’t find anyway to pick it up. Two days before demolition I found a truck to barrow. After loading the last piece, I went back inside to make sure I didn’t miss any. The smell of mildew and dirt, stripped walls, busted glass, a feeling of loss and mourning, like a body deteriorating with age, inevitable colapsethese are the last memories I have of the Pershing Hotel.

For almost 20 years I lugged that wood around. At times, what was supposed to be a dream, became a burden. I never had a place of my own that had space to store. It royally pissed my dad offbeing that his place was where it was stored most of the time.

As moderate success enriched me financially and age matured me, I faced the inevitable conclusion that I would never get to the project. I commissioned the best carpenter in Pennsylvania, and gave him the drawings and doodles I had compiled over the years as a blueprint. There was more than enough wood for a desk, so an arrangement was made with the carpenter. Whatever wood was left over from the construction, he could keep in exchange for a discount. Even still, it cost $2,100 but was well worth it. The desk was a masterpiece and a 20-year-old dream come true.

I shook myself from the engaging thoughts. The Pershing and my history with it are an integral part of my life’s journey. In truth, if it wasn’t for that building I wouldn’t be who or where I am now. Many years ago the Pershing led me to success. But it was also there and then, at the Pershing, the seed of change was planted, and for the past [NUMBER OF YEARS SINCE FIELD TRIP]it grew. The growth was about to give forth fruit and right before it did, I began to move the stuff from my old desk to its new home.

There was room for everything and then some. Many of the drawers and shelves were empty. All the vacant space had me re-evaluating my life. It was like after all my success there was little to occupy my reward. These thoughts were aggravatingand had me fishing for an escape. The warm smell of the coffee assuaged my dynamic mood and I took solace in pouring another cup.

Aimmee entered the kitchen.

“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. We met 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, neitherone of us were interested in getting married just for 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 either of us the nature of our relationship, we would 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 between us.

It was the Pershing that led to my success. It was my successes that lead to Paris. In all fairness, it’s the Pershing that led to Aimee. That thought had me fixated again on the glowing ember in the den. My concentration was interrupted when Aimee spoke.

“I must go,” she said in her thick accent. “Or I’ll be late. And you better get that cute littledoopah 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 there. Je t’aime mon petit chou.”

“I love you too, babe.”

She left.

When I signed my employment contract at the radio station, I made it contingent that Aimee would be brought on 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 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.

At noon I had to be on-air, but there can be 1 to 2 hours of preproduction before air time. The work load from the day before was light and I assumed the day ahead would be the same. An hour of prep was all I planned on.At 10:55, I knew I should be leaving, but again the desk held me.

With my cup of coffee in hand Imade my way to the desk.The ambiance of the desk roused an urge to be productive. It wasn’t my job that inspired me though, instead, it was there at that desk I wanted to work. My job was just a distraction.

Unfortunately there was nothing to do. It was necessary to conjure work in the form of checking my voice messages. There were only two. With the phone on speaker I placed it on the desk and leaned back in my chair. The sipping of the coffee, conjured work, and the feel of the desk induced immediate gratification.

The first message played…

“Hi. This is Chris and I’m the… um…I mean, and I’m with the Essex Group, and ah… today I’d like to talk to you about the best deal around… um… today,… I guess. It’s a good opportunity for me… No. Wait.  I mean, it’s for you and will, um… benefit me. Er, you. Well… actually, it’ll benefit us both… and will be lucrative too… for us both… Also… and, um, the Chris Group and I-er, The Essex Group and I can manage it all for you… … … … Gawd! I hate doing this part! I never know what to say. So, um, yeaaah, if you wouldn’t mind calling me back I would really appreciate it. Have a great day… Oh! And I thank your time. For time, I mean. I thank you for time… er… your time, for your time. Um… Have a nice day and re-wait… I meant great day. Have a great day and remember… … … … I forgot what I was going to say. … … … Bye.”

You could hear him say “shit” in the background as he hung up. Experiencing his inexperience was excruciating. This was probably his first attempt at a cold-call acquisition. He didn’t even leave his number, the poor bastard.

I deleted the message. 2nd one was from a pro.

“Mr. Baxter. This is Abram Edelstein with Creed Productions. I believe we have a mutual friend, Pamela Kelly. She mentioned that you were finally considering making a movie and, I must say, that got us all rather excited over here at Creed. All the board members, myself included, would be honored to put your story on the big screen. Our company’s history and past successes ensure that the film will be as beautiful as it is profitable. You’ll have a top-shelf director, top shelf actors, a very generous budget, and most importantly, only our reputation can ensure that the integrity of you story will be maintained. We are willing to offer you complete creative control as well as production credit if you want it. I’ve sent a couple proposals to your attorney. Of course, they are just proposals. We’re willing to negotiate any detail and are receptive to any proposals you may have to offer. Your attorney has all the contact information. I look forward to hearing from you.”

I deleted that message too.

The messages were an omen, a red flag indicating that the day was going to unusual I just didn’t realize it. Whoever Pamela Kelly was, she wasn’t a friend of mine and it had been a long while since I had gotten any offers let alone two. And what was really weird was the one from Creed Productions. Weird not just because of the timing but also because it was the best offer I had ever gotten. Unfortunately, my story wasn’t for sale. Even if I was willing to sell it, whether or not I could do sowithout implementing myselfwas a risk my attorney warned me not to take. Anyone interested in buying my story knew that. I could understand why a rookie like Chris from the Essex Group would make a futile attempt, but I couldn’t understand why a pro like Mr. Edelstein would.

Pondering all of this, I was about to call my attorney to have him disregard and dispose of any communiqués from Abram Edelstein and Creed Productions when the phone began to ring in my hand, the vibration slightly startling me.

“C. H. Baxter,” I answered.

“So how’s my favorite client?”

“Ronny. What’s the word? Did they file an appeal yet?”

“They’ve settled, Chad.”

In a split second, the out-of-the-blue offers made sense. Word of a settlement had reached some before it had made its way to me. The case Ronny spoke of was the only thing preventing me from telling my story.

The news was as exciting as it was stunning. The night before, I had heard an expert on NPR say it could be as long as five more years before a settlement. Even my own attorney warned me not to hold my breath. The plan had been to finish my contract with the radio station before the settlement and, hopefully, have an additional year or two to prepare before going public.

“I can’t believe you haven’t heard yet,” Ronny continued. “It came across the AP over an hour ago. TMZ already has it on their home page. The only reason I didn’t call you sooner is because I’m dealing with a cluster fuck right now. How could you not have heard? Aren’t you supposed to be a legitimate news broadcaster these days?”

Overwhelming emotions were keeping me from thinking clearly. I started to ramble. “We need to get ahold of [P],” I exclaimed. “We need to contact the publisher. Jesus Christ! The Box! We need to get the box! I need those notes, Ronny. You gotta call…”

“Relax, Chad,” Ronny said. “I don’t need to contact the publisher because they already contacted me. Along with three others so far, all claiming they’re willing to out-bid the others. Same for [P]. His attorney already got ahold of me. The interview is on”

“The interview is on,” I repeated, half reaffirming what he had just said, half coming to terms with the reality of it.

“When,” I asked.

“In 2 days at 10 AM.At his house.”

“What about the box? Where’s it at?”

“The box is coming. It should be there before the end of your show. Despite being caught with our pants down I was ableto arrange it being sent to the station. I assumed you’d want to see it as soon as possible. Now, take a few breaths and relax. I’m taking care of everything.”

“You’re right. I can’t lose my head, at least not now. The box though, it is coming? You’re sure of it?”

“Ab-so-lootly,” he assured. “I’ve got a private carrier making the delivery. One of the best.I promise.”

“Thanks Ronny. You know, two days isn’t a lot of time before an interview. It’s going to be a little sloppy.”

“Don’t worry about, Chad,” he said. “I heard you like it sloppy! HA!”

“Funny, yadick.”

“Seriously though, I’m sure [P] was aware of the time frame. It’s my guess he doesn’t want you having too much prep time going into this. He’s probally worried you’ll see dollar signs and go rogue. Personally, I don’t think the two of you will have any shortage of things to talk about, and as long as it’s coming directly from him, nothing else matters, right?”

*   *   *   *   *

Aimee was right. I was late. When I finally made it to the station, there was only 35 minutes to prepare before air time. I needed to get to my office and needed to get there quickly. It’s the last office at the end of a long hall on the third floor of the station. But to get to the stairs required walking past VicAiello’s office.

Vic’s the station manager at WDUB. He, along with the pissed-off look on his face, was waiting for me as soon as I entered the building. He started to jump my ass for being late but I interrupted him and told him about the settlement. He quieted but it was evident he was still pissed. The gears were noticeable grinding in his head. The only impact on him and the station would be related to contract. Or so we thought.

After my quick run-in with Vic, I rushed my way to my office. It’s the largest in the building, even bigger than Vic’s, and is actually made up of two offices; an outer office that serves as a small reception-like area, and the private office where I do my work.In the outer office there is a desk were Aimee’s sits. Out of everybody, she was the only one I was excited to tell the news to. However, as soon as I saw her, I forgot all that was going on.

I hadn’t paying attention when she left the house earlier and I didn’t notice how pretty she looked.Never have I, nor ever will, find someone as beautiful. Jet black hair done up like a retro, 50’s secretary, only sexier. A cross between one of those women on Mad Men and Dita Von Tesse. Her foundation was light, her eyes bright green with dark lining. Lips, matching thedeep red blouse whose buttons were pulled taught across her chest. I had a plunging neck line that would’ve been completely inappropriate for an office environment. Fortunately, I’m her boss and don’t mind how risqué her attire is. In fact I encourage it. When your secretary is also you’re live-in, the risk of a sexual harassment suit is minimal.

“Good morning Monsieur Baxter,” she said with a smile.

“Good morning Miss Martineau,” I said. “Any messages?”

“Qui! Beaucoup,” she said. “I have not even finished going through your emails. There’re so many today!”

“I bet, and there’s going to be a lot more, so I hope you are prepared for a grueling day with your wicked boss.”

“Mmmmm,” she said with sultry eyes.“You know I like it when you get wicked.”

“Indeed. And as inviting as that enticement sounds, I’m afraid we won’t have time today. Ronny called after you left with news. [nn] vs. [nn] was settled this morning so it’s only gonna get busier.”

“Oh, mon Cheri! I am so happy for you,” she said.

“Thanks babe,” I said. “We’ll talk more later. If I don’t get a fire under my ass, I’m gonna miss air time.”

I entered my office, grabbed the day’s material, and exited with haste it to make it to the broadcast booth. Preproduction was hurried through and air time was just made.

News travels fast. The fans may be few, but what amazes me about technology nowadays is they can receive information and congregate ideas at the speed of light. At 1:00 PM,after we return from commercial break, we do our call-in segment:What’s On Your Mind, DuBois. It’s a chance for the listeners to call in and voice issues or concerns regarding the community. If a caller is chosen to be on-air, they get a prize. Callers are screened by the receptionists to ensure FCA guidelines and interests. The first caller, a regular, lied to get past the screening…

Chad:              And weare back. I’m Chad Baxter and this is The Chad Baxter Show. I want to say a big thank you to all our sponsors who make this program possible. And remember, if you want tickets to the Reitz Community Theatre’s production of Comedy of Errors, contact the box office directly. But if you want two tickets for free, all you got to do is call in and be one of the lucky listeners chosen to speak on-air. We got 10 tickets to give away and the first two are going to caller number 1. Tell me DuBois, what’s on your mind?

Jim:                  Hi, C. H. It’s Jim.

Chad:              Well hi back at ya Jim. listen up, DuBois. It’s our old friend Jim Elias. What’s on your mind today, Jim?

Jim:                  Oh, I think you know why I’m calling today.

Chad:              I’d guess you’re talking about last night’s city meeting. You got rather worked up there, Jim. They had to ask you to leave, didn’t they? What was that all about?

Jim:                  Ha! Yeah, that was fun but that’s not what I’m talking about. I heard they settled [nn] vs. [nn.] Your fans have some questions for you. Like what exactly happened that night when…

Jim:                  (I disconnected the caller in a panic) Thanks for your interest Jim, but I just found out a couple of hours ago myself. Enjoy your Tickets and we look forward to hearing from you again. Next caller, what’s on your mind?

The next caller did the same, as did three more before we cut to a commercial break. We had to end the segment early and eliminated all others that involved listener call-ins. It was the first time in the program’s 3 years that there was no audience participation.

The show was a complete 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.

No sooner had I exited the booth Aimee stopped me. She said Vic wanted to see me right away. I was pretty certain his mood hadn’t improved since earlier. My hunch was comfirmed when I entered his office. He had daggers for me.

“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 settled. You told me not worry about.It’s 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 firing 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. I was the proverbial deer in the headlights. His look was something similar to 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 in a somewhat calmer tone. “This is what we’re gonna do. Tomorrow you’re 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 that.”

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

He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and looked at the ceiling. This was his typical 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 TheIncident,” he said. “And the population has too. There are plenty of listeners who haven’t heard the story in its entirety. Instead of avoiding the subject we’ll address it. You’ll 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 but come in early tomorrow and we’ll pre-record what you come up with. We’ll air them in place of the call-ins. We’ll present 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 keep the sponsors happy enough to prevent the station 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. I’ll also sign an agreement stating that I won’t share 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 listeners and keep the sponsors happy. Marketing, might even be able to dig-up a couple new sponsors. How’s that sound?”

His stare turned to an 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.”

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 one step out I turned around and popped my head back into his office.

“Vic,” I said. “One more thing.”

“What’s that buddy,” he said still glowing in paternal pride.

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

His expression melted back into its previous grimace. He made offered no response and 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 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.