Working Girl

“Stop,” says The Boy. “I’ve got to work.”

I (teddy)bear hug him, struggling to pull him back into bed, and even though I work out 13 girly push-ups a day, he gets an edge on my fed-on-salads frame. “Just five minutes!”

“Are you trying to rape me?” He rolls out of my grasp, and hits his floor on all fours, and starts sorting his private landfill of Wall Street Journals and bills and unopened envelops.

“You’re begging for it, in that tight little shirt, you pussy-tease. So come back to bed,” I beg, barely audible. “Only for a few minutes.”

“No, you temptress. I’ve got too much to do today.”

I eye him from his elevated bed, a wood-carved clam shell headboard opening above me; I’m a siren in a sea of billion-thread-count bedding. I slip off my dark businessman’s blue nightie I was wearing as a day dress and toss it on him, like a net–

That he shakes off, without looking up from his work. “What did you throw on me? Panties?”

“Those are next, Baron’s cover boy,” I say, but I hold on my lacy nude undies–they’re my last bartering chip. I crawl to the ledge of his bed, and after sweet whispered demands that he fuck me for five seconds, though I’m a wordsmith I realize less language and more movement will sell my self better. So I lean over, looking heavenward while I dig my hands down his pants.

Moments and moans later, he bounces back in bed and we seal the deal.

I stretch out my skin against his, my body a sweaty yawn against him, and my head pillows on his chest like a period punctuating our agreement our bodies wrote together.

Then I slide to the floor and dress, slipping back on my slip, tugging into T-strapped, flapper heels.

“Where are you going, Little Satan?” The Boy asks. He’s all nicknames and sweet sweat now, wonderfully wasted, without remembering his work.

“I’ve got a lot of writing to do.” I check my face in the mirror, watching his body melt into his bed out the corner of my eyes as I fluff my bobbed hair, styled curlier with body heat. “Will you escort me out?”

“Yeah,” The Boy says, pulling on pants. “But I’m still calling the cops for you violating me.”

“Good.” I slick on lip gloss. “I need all the press I can get.”

» Oh Deer! “Jamocha” shoes $120, Jildor Shoes

Related to "Working Girl":

  »  Soy Lattes: A Healthy Alternative to Cocaine

  »  Alex and Lorenzo, Trunkt

  »  Michael Kors Sequined Dress

"Working Girl" keywords: Cover Story, SEX .
You can follow responses to "Working Girl" through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site.