Executive Engagement

“Yeah, you’re so fucking good at licking up that fucking gel.”

That’s my voice, but…yeah, that’s me saying that. There’s no fucking script anymore, though. This shit is coming from the pure, ferocious nature of the moment.

“My fucking cock is so fucking ready for you.”

“Okay, Thomas,” she’s doing that French thing again, “plenty of gel left in the tube.”

“Holy fucking shit! How did we just let that bag sit in the closet for so looooonngggggg…”

The word turns into a deep earthquake of a moan as Margarita reaches right into the waistline of my trousers and grabs my stiff, throbbing shaft with a firm fucking grip.

Really fucking firm.

“Fuck, fucking squeeze that shit.”

“Oh, you fucking like that, huh? You sure you can handle what I can do with some concord fucking grape flavored gel down there?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care if I lose my mind, or I just fucking die from the intensity. It’s all I fucking want in life right now or maybe ever fucking again.”

“You fucking asked for it, then.”

Margarita tears my belt from its loops faster than I ever thought it could be fucking done. And she doesn’t just tear my trousers off…

She fucking tears them in half.

And, at some point, she got a massive glob of the massage gel in her hand—which she proceeds to slather roughly over every part of my fucking cock.

“Arghhh!”

It’s so fucking intense—it feels like my brain’s about to short fucking circuit.

“I fucking told you,” hisses Margarita.

When her tongue starts gliding unevenly around my shaft, I can hear myself yelling again, but all I can feel is the tremendous fucking intensity of pleasure flowing around my lower half, around all of me.

My mind goes in and out of blankness, but during my more lucid moments, all I can think about is how I’m going to return this pleasure—and then some.

Margarita

Breathless, flushed with that new, feverish feeling running through me like the Bethesda goddamn Fountain—this feels like the end of one story and the beginning of another.

Part of me wants to think the story that ends now began at a little store—an ‘adult entertainment store’ as they call it—on Second Avenue.

I can’t remember what drove me there that day, although I do remember I was wearing a silk scarf around my head and big Oliver Goldsmith sunglasses in case any nosyparkers—like that goddamn Patricia Sherman upstairs—were snooping around the block for whatever goddamn reason.

Woman behind the counter assured me that there was no expiration date.

Trying to catch my breath on the lip of our bed, a couple years later at this point, I’m optimistic about the way that story is about to end.

I’m not going to say I’m satisfied—not yet—but that’s what I’m optimistic about.

“What else is in the bag?”

Thomas’s voice is still slightly weak, but it’s regaining strength.

His cock is as purple, rigid, and engorged with excitement as ever.

“Why don’t you go take a look? Feet don’t work?”