Daphne Vs. Daddy

I snap back to reality. He asked me that already. Guess I should respond instead of dozing off into la la land thinking about his magic cock and the never-ending orgasms.

"Oh, yeah," I say. My eyes go wide. "That was incredible," I say with a small laugh.

"Yeah, I've never fucked like this in my life. You do something to me, Gisele. Something you are welcome to do any time." Stone flashes that wide grin that makes me feel like I have legs made of jelly all over again. I straighten out my dress as best as I can. My thighs are sticky, my pussy is aching so good from use, and my ass is so full of Stone's cum I may weigh an extra pound with it inside of me.

101

Stone

I’m laying on something cold. I feel around, opening my eyes slowly as I do so. Cold tile. Tiny little squares of cold tile. Why am I laying on a cold tile floor?

I roll over, realizing that I’m in a public bathroom just as …

“Gisele?” I say, jackknifing up into a sitting position. “Why are you…?” She’s pulling down her dress, like we’d just had sex. I look down at my crotch, and yeah, my cock seems like he was recently very, very, very happy. “Did we just have sex?” I ask.

“Do you remember having sex?” she asks with a naughty grin.

“No?” I say, questioningly. Because I don’t.

“Well then, who can say?” She shrugs nonchalantly.

I stare at her for a minute, trying to decide if she’s being serious or not. She just sends me a Cheshire cat grin as she pats her hair back into place in the bathroom mirror. I look up and down her smokin’ hot body, willing my brain to remember. Why can't I remember? I feel like I'm slowly going insane. I want to remember running my tongue up and down her body, over her clit, watch her as she arches her back in orgasm…

My eyebrows shoot up as she hitches up her skirt and shimmies off her thong underwear. They’re positively dripping with pussy juice, so either we just fucked or she had a real good jerkoff session. One or the other…

Pulling red lipstick out of her purse, she bends the frilly white thong with pink hearts over the bathroom sink and scrawls something on them. “Here you go, rock star,” she says, tossing the panties to me. “Give me a call sometime … when you want to have a damn good time t

hat you’ll remember.”

I catch the white and pink concoction automatically, staring after her as she sashays out of the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind her. My eyes drop to her undies, balled up in my hands, and I smooth them out over my knee carefully, not wanting to smudge the lipstick.

There, in bold but small numbers, is a phone number.

I pull out my cell and quickly enter the number, before it can accidentally get smudged, and then carefully fold the damp panties up into a ball, shoving it into my pocket.

This isn’t the first time a woman has thrown underwear at me (although usually I get bras, not panties), but I'll admit—this is the first time that I’ve wanted to keep the underwear in question. I’m already planning on getting myself off to them tomorrow. I may not be able to remember fucking Ms. Gisele Taylor, but I'll remember jacking off to her thong.

And for now, that cold second is what I have to settle for.

102

Gisele

It’s Friday night, and I’m binge watching “Orange is the New Black” on Netflix, but let’s be honest, I’m really just throwing a one-woman pity party for myself.

#1 – I slept with Stone Slayer again, and he doesn’t remember it again (am I really that forgettable?);

#2 – Work sucks even more than normal right now;

#3 – Despite literally throwing my panties at Stone, he hasn’t called me. Or texted me. Or even, you know, sent me flowers. Or something. Something to let me know that he’s thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about him.

Which, I’ll admit, is ridiculous. I really shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. Here is a man who quite literally cannot keep his cock in his pants, who's probably under criminal investigation—I make a mental note to look that up for my article—and, when he's awake, doesn’t seem to find me even slightly attractive. That, or he’s so used to having women throwing themselves at him that me tossing my panties at him, number scribbled in a brilliant red, doesn’t even register on his radar.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t know which of those realities is the most depressing to me. I’m not exactly used to being forgettable.

I run through my list of friends, trying to come up with someone who I a) want to hang out with enough to get off the couch and get dressed in order to go hang out with them, and b) isn’t snuggled up to some hot guy already. Even Kathy, one of my few remaining single friends—it really isn’t fair how many of my friends have been hooking up with some new guys recently—already has a date for tonight. Of course she has a date. She’s hot and she’s fun to be around, and all the guys drool whenever they get within five feet of her.

I guess I could’ve gone on a date tonight. Greg from the legal department has been asking me out for ages, but I just can’t fathom wanting to go on a date with him enough to get my sorry ass off the couch and out of this tub of ice cream that I’ve practically emerged myself in.