Executive Engagement

“Too many orgasms?”

She laughs, dazed. “Yeah. This…I mean, this never happens, I’m really sorry, but like…OMG. I’m just—wow. I’m totally spent.”

“Not yet, you’re not,” I growl.

Then I pick her up off my fucking dresser and toss her onto my fucking bed.

This is just same shit on a different day for me. My friends all ask me how I do it, and I don’t even fucking know. One minute, I’m shooting sexy new photos for the latest Lacy Desirables catalog, and the next, I’ve got a lingerie model’s thighs wrapped around my neck while the flash on my camera goes wild in the background.

The whole fucking roll of film is probably useless now. At best, it’s a photographic trophy of the latest notch in my bedpost. At worst, I’ve gotta burn the damn thing or else I’ll have perverts and paparazzi digging through my trash again.

I guess that’s what I get for shooting in burst mode.

If I were a better photographer, I’d find a way to stop myself. But when getting laid is this easy, why deny myself the pleasure?

Besides…there are other benefits to turning this photo shoot into a noisy off-the-walls fuck session. Benefits like what happens when I stick all twelve inches of my cock so deep in this ditzy-ass lingerie model that her next orgasm comes with a scream.

At that point, I go balls-deep and just fucking wait for it.

Hell, I’m looking forward to it so much that I’m actually holding my breath.

And then, right on cue…

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

At the noise, a brief look of confusion crosses the face of the lingerie model.

I just thumb her clit and make her come again as a smug fucking grin spreads across my own face. The next round of thumps shakes the floor beneath the bed so hard that it makes the mattress shake.

But it’s not nearly as satisfying as the next sound that rises up through the floorboards.

“Goddammit, 33D! We get it! Christ! You’ve got a big dick—give it up already!”

Ahh. Like a workweek alarm going off on a Saturday morning. It’s the dulcet tone of my very favorite voice.

32D—the gorgeous, hateful little bitch who lives beneath me.

Shit, I wouldn’t mind having her beneath me in a few other ways, if you know what I mean. Long, dark hair. Ruby red lips. Eyes the color of black rum.

And her apartment number is the same as her bra size.

Other than that, all I know about her is that she hates me—and that she’s fucking tired of me fucking so loudly over her apartment. Not that I’m about to stop or anything.

Nah. If anything, I just start fucking the model in my bed even harder.

She starts moaning even louder, too. Too many orgasms, my ass.

She’s fucking loving this.

Shame that 32D doesn’t share the sentiment.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! goes the broom that I know 32D must be using to pound away at her ceiling while I pound away at this broad. Her rhythm is fucking excellent, too.

In fact, I make a point of matching my own rhythm to hers. It makes the bed shake in time—and makes the lingerie model come louder than ever.

“GET. A. FUCKING. ROOM!” I hear 32D yell up through the floorboards.

“I’ve already got one, sweetheart!” I yell back down at her. “Maybe you’d like to come up and see it sometime?”