about to eat a long-delayed snack, a stale sandwich from the vending machine when I got called into Donald’s office. Donald is a small man, with a big ego. He speaks in a weird patois of management theory and profanity that would make a longshoreman blush.
Donald has been spewing some b-school bullshit recently about rewarding risk takers by not punishing failure. Apparently, this didn’t count as a failure, or something, because he spent the next two hours tearing me a new asshole, at which point he dismissed me by curtly informing me that he would be “reviewing the situation.”
I knew I wasn’t likely to get fired. Not right away at least. But I knew I could kiss goodbye the possibility of a promotion or a raise for the foreseeable future, which meant, of course that I’d have to put off Joanie for another year on her plans to have kids. That would surely be a fun conversation.
I texted her that I was coming home.
[Kellen]: ugh, long, long day today.
[Joanie]: Aww, sorry babe, see you soon. Pick up milk on the way home?
Why couldn’t she have picked up the milk? What the fuck was she doing all day? I metaphorically slapped myself on the wrist for even having that dangerous thought. It was my fault she was unemployed, as she often reminded me. We’d moved to Boston for my career, after all. The fact that her prior “job” was a “fellowship” that barely covered commuting was, apparently, beside the point. Fuck it. An unproductive line of thought. I’d pick up the milk.
I stewed through the long metro ride home. By the time I got a seat, it was almost time to get off. Get off . Ha. When was the last time I got off, really got off, gotten fucked to exhaustion until every last drop of jism was drained from my hot, sweaty balls?
No, Joanie and I made love. Always. Under the covers usually. Me on top or her. Lots of kissing, caresses, and cuddles, and the novelty had worn off. Great tits or not. It was nice . But I wasn’t in the mood for nice.
I thought about the last time I’d had a day quite as miserable. Nearly ten years ago. Before I’d married Joanie, or even met her. I was still with Stacy then, applying to graduate business schools. I’d shot too high I guess, and got denied by all of the schools I applied to, which meant I’d have to spend at least another year at a job I hated before I could reapply to a new batch of schools.
I’d texted Stacy the news. She didn’t ask me to bring milk home.
She met me at the door of our apartment with a beer. She sat me in a ratty old armchair that we’d rescued from the curb, dropped to her knees, and she blew me, wet and sloppy, taking me balls-deep even when it made her gag. When I came, she stroked my shaft and swallowed every drop.
And then she kept working on me, sucking my balls, bathing my prick with her tongue, until I was hard again. She stripped naked and climbed into my lap and fucked me like an animal, the whole time gasping and whispering in my ear about how amazing I was, how much she loved my big cock, how I could do anything I wanted to her. I came a second time and she climbed off and brought me a second beer. She ordered pizza, kept me well lubricated with beers, and then took me to bed where we fucked until I passed out.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Joanie. She’s kind and sweet. She’s funny and wicked smart… and gorgeous. Dress her up in a sun dress and she’s that heart-breakingly beautiful Latin princess you once saw drinking an espresso in a Barcelona cafe. Put her in lace bra and panties and she’s a lingerie model. She has a look that invites you to cast in your favorite fantasy – slutty cheerleader, over-sexed school teacher, trampy nurse….
But it’s an illusion. Joanie is a girl who could be a catalogue model – at 5’6” she’s not tall enough for the runway anyway – but who would never consider it. Literally never consider it because it’s not a matter of Joanie being unwilling to trade upon her
Donald has been spewing some b-school bullshit recently about rewarding risk takers by not punishing failure. Apparently, this didn’t count as a failure, or something, because he spent the next two hours tearing me a new asshole, at which point he dismissed me by curtly informing me that he would be “reviewing the situation.”
I knew I wasn’t likely to get fired. Not right away at least. But I knew I could kiss goodbye the possibility of a promotion or a raise for the foreseeable future, which meant, of course that I’d have to put off Joanie for another year on her plans to have kids. That would surely be a fun conversation.
I texted her that I was coming home.
[Kellen]: ugh, long, long day today.
[Joanie]: Aww, sorry babe, see you soon. Pick up milk on the way home?
Why couldn’t she have picked up the milk? What the fuck was she doing all day? I metaphorically slapped myself on the wrist for even having that dangerous thought. It was my fault she was unemployed, as she often reminded me. We’d moved to Boston for my career, after all. The fact that her prior “job” was a “fellowship” that barely covered commuting was, apparently, beside the point. Fuck it. An unproductive line of thought. I’d pick up the milk.
I stewed through the long metro ride home. By the time I got a seat, it was almost time to get off. Get off . Ha. When was the last time I got off, really got off, gotten fucked to exhaustion until every last drop of jism was drained from my hot, sweaty balls?
No, Joanie and I made love. Always. Under the covers usually. Me on top or her. Lots of kissing, caresses, and cuddles, and the novelty had worn off. Great tits or not. It was nice . But I wasn’t in the mood for nice.
I thought about the last time I’d had a day quite as miserable. Nearly ten years ago. Before I’d married Joanie, or even met her. I was still with Stacy then, applying to graduate business schools. I’d shot too high I guess, and got denied by all of the schools I applied to, which meant I’d have to spend at least another year at a job I hated before I could reapply to a new batch of schools.
I’d texted Stacy the news. She didn’t ask me to bring milk home.
She met me at the door of our apartment with a beer. She sat me in a ratty old armchair that we’d rescued from the curb, dropped to her knees, and she blew me, wet and sloppy, taking me balls-deep even when it made her gag. When I came, she stroked my shaft and swallowed every drop.
And then she kept working on me, sucking my balls, bathing my prick with her tongue, until I was hard again. She stripped naked and climbed into my lap and fucked me like an animal, the whole time gasping and whispering in my ear about how amazing I was, how much she loved my big cock, how I could do anything I wanted to her. I came a second time and she climbed off and brought me a second beer. She ordered pizza, kept me well lubricated with beers, and then took me to bed where we fucked until I passed out.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Joanie. She’s kind and sweet. She’s funny and wicked smart… and gorgeous. Dress her up in a sun dress and she’s that heart-breakingly beautiful Latin princess you once saw drinking an espresso in a Barcelona cafe. Put her in lace bra and panties and she’s a lingerie model. She has a look that invites you to cast in your favorite fantasy – slutty cheerleader, over-sexed school teacher, trampy nurse….
But it’s an illusion. Joanie is a girl who could be a catalogue model – at 5’6” she’s not tall enough for the runway anyway – but who would never consider it. Literally never consider it because it’s not a matter of Joanie being unwilling to trade upon her
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