The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (56 page)

Now, I felt so bad about what I’d done to my tiger. Was that how you treated your best friend who listened to all your secrets at night? If only I could put things right, but I didn’t know how.

Having had enough nostalgia for the day, I put the stuffed animals back in the box, and I went downstairs to do a load of laundry where I made a life altering decision in front of the washing machine.

I’ve decided to move out. This was the last time my little pervert of a brother will steal my clothes, whack off on them and leave them in the washing machine. In an effort to curb his activities until I can get my own place, I left him a handful of my old granny panties with a note that said if he touched anything else, I’d break his fingers.

Before I moved out though, I realized I needed to find my tiger tail and restore it to my childhood best friend. Taking a shovel from the back yard, I tried to retrace my devirginized steps from all those years ago, but, finding myself unsuccessful, I just started digging holes in frustration.

Justin showed up. If he didn’t watch out, he was going to get a smack in the face with my shovel because of his self-satisfied smirk.

“What on earth are you doing now?” he asked.

“I’m going to cut up the people who annoy me and bury the pieces in the backyard,” I said.

“You know, if you weren’t pretending to be a bad ass all the time, you might be tolerable to hang around with,” he said.

“Screw you.”

He paused.

“I have,” he said. “Screwed you. And that little note trick did not work with my mom. I already told her you were a psycho.”

“I’m not a psycho. You are.”

“Who is digging holes in her backyard?” he said.

“I’m looking for something.”

“Well, let me know when you find it.”

He flicked his cigarette butt at me and left.

“Arson,” I called out after him.

Once he was gone, I put down my shovel. I felt like crying. This was intolerable. I did have to move out, but the only way I can afford it is to get a raise. To do that, I must move up in the corporate world. I must transform myself from a slacker to a polished, productive and professional employee.

During the next week at work, to improve my standing with the corporation, I volunteered to be a part of the Diversity Committee, offered to type up the last team meeting notes, and let my supervisor know I was up for any special projects. I even changed the type of clothes I wore. Instead of wearing Polo shirts, Dockers and loafers, I chose A-line skirts, twin sets and mules.

Sitting at my desk, feeling very uncomfortable in my panty hose, I got a phone call. I thought it might be my supervisor congratulating me on my new attitude, but it was a man’s voice I didn’t recognize.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“This note,” he said. “What does it mean?”

My heart fluttered. ABM. I glanced around the room. No one was within earshot.

“Figure it out,” I said. “You’re the one with the private office and huge salary. You should be able to figure out a simple note.”

“This doesn’t have to do with the Peeps,” he said. “Because I made restitutions.”

“This is an entirely different issue,” I said.

“Give me a clue.”

“It’s one of your biggest problems,” I said.

He paused. I could hear him drumming his fingers on his desk.

“Why did you give it to me?” he asked.

“A red button told me to,” I said and hung up.

The next day, I was trying to decide on what was the most corporate looking snack in the vending machine, pretzels or chips, when ABM came into in the lunchroom. He was looking very good, I might add.

“I figured out your note,” he said. “And you’re mistaken.”

“What did it say?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve never been properly fucked,” he said. “But you’re wrong.”

I looked him up and down.

“Why are you still so aloof and uptight, then?” I asked.

“To keep the underlings in their place,” he said.

“Do you consider me an underling?”

He bought a package of miniature jawbreakers.

“Of course,” he said. “But a very cute one who likes the same snack foods as me.”

Opening the package, he offered me some. I let him pour the hard little balls in my hand.

“Why the note?” he asked.

“I thought it might help you,” I said.

At home that night, I began my photo shoot of my naked fashion doll collection with an instant camera. Looking at the pictures, I told myself I really had something here, but if only I had a second opinion. Whom could I ask? Not the trinity of horror: Justin, my brother, my mom.

Taking the photos to work with me, I put them in an interoffice envelope with “private” written on the front and left them in ABM’s inbox. The last photograph was a self-portrait of me holding a naked doll. Three cups of coffee, two packages of pretzels and four hours later, I got a phone call at my desk from ABM, summoning me into his office.

“Close the door,” he said.

I closed the door behind me. With a great air of disbelief, he held up the photos.

“What is this?” he asked.

“I’m creating a coffee table book and I wanted your opinion,” I said.

He sighed and looked relieved.

“What makes you think I’m qualified?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“I needed a male perspective,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you do think they are interesting?” I asked.

There was a pause. He cleared his throat. “What is?” he asked.

The way he was looking at me was telling me he was thinking something else. Suddenly, I felt warm.

“The photographs,” I said.

“Well, I’m not interested in the dolls themselves,” he said.

“In the positions?” I asked.

He looked through the photos again as if he was considering a business proposition. I stepped in closer. I noticed my note on his desk. Alongside it was a note pad with a million scribbles on it. He must have worked for hours trying to decipher it. I tried not to smile.

He held up a photo. The girl doll was straddling the boy doll in his lap.

“I like this one,” he said.

“My personal favorite,” I said.

He looked long and hard at me.

“I probably shouldn’t be entertaining this idea, but I’m not getting any younger,” he said.

Leaning over his desk, he kissed me. The way he mashed his mouth against mine was pretty exciting, and I was so taken aback by the suddenness that I stood like there a dummy letting him shove his tongue down my throat. I hadn’t realized his hands were so massive but alongside my head, they seemed to engulf me.

The next thing he did really blew my mind. He hauled me over this desk to him, my body contacting his papers and his half-eaten club sandwich. It was sort of like in the movies where two characters knock everything off a desk to get it on, only we didn’t flop on the desk in a mad passionate embrace. He pulled me onto his lap, much like his favorite fashion doll photo.

As his hands roamed for access to my bare skin, I bit his ear lobe.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, which was a nice response, although a little bit too loud for this point in the getting it on with your boss stage.

Wanting to up the stakes, I pinched his nipples through his nicely pressed shirt.

“Holy shit,” he cried.

I smiled. He was such the liar. He had so not been fucked properly before.

Hopping off his lap for a second, I yanked up my skirt to give him better access. I expected him to pull down my thong, but he ripped it off. My favorite thong. Justin had touched it at the garage sale and by the tree. I felt a pang as I stood there, looking at it on the floor. I decided if he got his dick out in the next three seconds, I would forgive him.

“Come on,” I ordered, motioning at his crotch.

He got the clue and, with some major fumbling, got it out. Not bad. I’d seen better, but it would do.

I climbed on board, commandeering this love ship. The pace was mine. As I thumped my pelvis against him, he seemed so overcome by the power of my pussy; he could barely hold his hands on my hips.

The guy was going to come before I even broke a sweat so I grabbed one of my breasts with one hand. The other hand found my crotch, my fingers manipulating my clit like the expert it was. He went right over the edge like a twelve year old finding his first porn magazine.

It was a race against the clock.

“Don’t come,” I cried.

Suddenly, the office door opened. I found myself propelled through the air and hitting the floor with a resounding thud. Stunned, I looked up to see his dick squirting come all over his desk drawer as he stood to face whoever it was. I barely dodged out of the way.

I heard his secretary say he had a meeting in five minutes and she left. I stared up at him in shock, watching him stuff his business back in his pants. He didn’t even glance down at me on the floor.

“That was close,” he said.

Picking myself up off the floor, I tugged down my skirt. Never in my life had I been treated like this. A gentleman would have protected me to the bitter end. Not cast me aside like a piece of garbage.

Too angry for words, I gave him a look that said go to hell, picked up my poor ripped thong, my photos and my note. That was when I noticed the huge smear of mustard right across the front of my cream-colored skirt.

In a huff, I left his office. Everyone stared at me, including the cleaning lady. Everybody knew. No one was fooled. Of course, I looked like I had just been fucked, with my disheveled hair and my flushed face, because I had. Now for the rest of my professional career I would be known as the girl who had fucked Alan Brandon Michaels.

I hated them all. I hated this place. What was I even doing here? Then it hit me. I was here because I wanted my mother to approve. I didn’t want to work here. I didn’t want to live at my mother’s. Suddenly, the muddled cloud of childhood confusion broke away, and why, because I’d had my boss’s dick in me.

At my desk, I plunked down my stuff on my desk and stopped cold. There in front of my keyboard was the red button. Who had put it there? I flipped it over, and with a groan recognized the florid gold design on the front. It was my button. My mother had given me this horribly, ugly red sweater for Christmas, and I’d worn it once to work to make her happy. Meanwhile her coops had gotten fifty-dollar gift certificates to their favorite stores.

Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw ABM striding purposefully over to my desk. I reached for my purse, convinced I was going to be fired right this minute, not that I really cared. I would sue his ass for harassment. I just wasn’t in the mood for any more drama right this minute, but he merely stopped behind me and whispered something in my ear.

“I may have to work on being an asshole, but I do care about you, sweetheart.”

I met his gaze. He was serious. Nervously, I flipped my button back over on my desk. Suddenly, it felt so warm in my hands.

“Is that the button that told you to give me the note?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good button,” he said.

Everybody needs a hobby. Mine is destroying marriages.

Like any lifelong pursuit, some practice is required to achieve any kind of commendable performance level. I did my practicing as a teenager, using babysitting as my vehicle into couples’ lives. I couldn’t help but notice at the tender age of 16 that my redheaded milky white skin and burgeoning breasts were a powerful lure – I got babysitting gigs much more often than my plainer-looking friends did. I didn’t realize the extent of my power, though, until I was eighteen, when Mr Rosenblum shot a sack full of come onto his wife’s face at my bidding. Since then, I’ve known no greater power than that of eroding the very foundations of people’s precious little holy matrimonies,

Fact: men want to bury their faces in my ass so badly that they’ll forget years of marital commitments to get there. Exploiting this state of affairs, reader, is just plain fun. Millions of women do it every day. I am no different from them; merely more honest and certainly more memorable.

My distinction comes into play on a much deeper psychological level. Women, you see, have an instinctive urge to lay claim to men. Most of them believe marriage is the ultimate capture.

Women are fools. My goal is to drive this point home to them at every opportunity. Rarely, however, do they take my message well.

I own my own advertising agency in midtown Manhattan. Consequently, I meet hundreds of married couples every year. At 46, I’ve met all kinds, but few have cried out for abuse and ultimate destruction more loudly than Melissa and Christopher.

These two walked into the corporate cocktail party like they were at Disneyland. Certainly, Melissa could have worn that forgettably shapeless frock at any amusement park and been quite comfortable. Her husband, on the other hand, cut a more dashing figure. Well-groomed, handsome, dark hair graying gradually at the temples – his posture and grace told me he devoted time to his body.

Both of them seemed a bit shy, but she was downright clueless while he was simply reserved. I decided they were perfect.

I paused at the full-length mirror to smooth my navy blue Armani suit. I’d bought it just yesterday, specially for the party. Elegant yet blatantly sexy, the jacket sported lapels that parted at my chest to reveal enough cleavage to distract anyone, male or female. It was sometimes difficult to find
prêt à porter
to accommodate my 36DDs, but this little number clung to me everywhere as if I’d been the model for its design. The short skirt hugged my round backside with such fetching aplomb, I wished I could kiss my own ass.

Heat permeated my space between my legs as moisture collected in my crotchless pantyhose. I smelled my own arousal at the thought of my impending conquest. As I sauntered over to the hapless couple, the lips of my labia were slick with anticipation.

I don’t know if the shimmering waves of my flowing red hair or the jiggle of my corseted breasts caught his eye first, but I knew he was mine from halfway across the room. The frumpy wife turned her head to follow his enraptured gaze. Oh, the fear that galvanized that pudgy face.