First of all, my apologies. Second of all, my apologies.
According to the very lovely Jane Gilbert (Behind the Chintz Curtain), this second round of the Euphoff is my fault. *snickers in an evil fashion*
Moi? Instigate shenanigans? Yeah, okay, sounds like me. Any who, I was compelled, (No driven!) to create another horrible, terrible and downright tasteless bit of erotica. Please don’t hate me.
“Penny for your thoughts, Devon.”
If Rodney knew what I was thinking, he’d be sans serif and begging for my dagger. Normally, I’d be all over that puff piece, but we have a deadline that’s tighter than a flea’s ass over a rain barrel.
“Keep your eyes peeled for widows and orphans, Rod.” I’m scanning copy faster than green grass through a goose, while that clock ticks toward midnight. Tick-tick-tick. My eyelids are wearing lead weights. “Damn, but I could go for a cup o’ joe.”
“On it like rust on a Pinto, Devon.”
I watch his backslash wiggle to the coffeemaker and my dick gets stiffer than Aunt Sally’s mashed potatoes. The man has a layout you could take a bullet for.
“Cream and sugar?” Rodney asks
“I wouldn’t mind creaming your sugar,” I mutter to myself but Rod has ears that rival a Peruvian fruit bat.
“I’ve been waiting a crow’s age to hear you say that!”
Fuck that deadline. Fuck it like a speed-dating jackrabbit. I’ve got better things to scan, Rodney’s hot front matter, for example. His clothes melt off like butter on the Fourth of July and I almost drop the marmalade. I’m hung, but Rodney’s no dead donkey, either.
“Get over here and let me suck that masthead!” Rodney splays across my desk, legs up in a V, mouth in an O. “Damn baby, your nut graf is bald as an egg!”
“I don’t care for a rough gutter, so I wax,” he says. I lick his silky sack before moving above the fold to inhale his dingbat. “Suck my font, Devon, suck it!”
I let Rodney’s deckhed tickle my tonsils until he begs for insertion. “Yeah, baby, I’m going to verb your noun until you scream adjectives.”
Quick as a wink, he’s bent over my desk. I part his brackets and lick his at sign like an all-day sucker.
“Stop teasing! Point your cursor at my asterisk and shove!”
“Patience, let me ink my quill first.”
I grease my dick until its slicker than a convenience store parking lot. “Is your colon ready to meet my exclamation point?”
“Do it, already! Don’t just leave me here to flush and hang!”
I reach around and stroke his dangling participle while I dig into his back matter. No other throbbing love tunnel has ever felt this tight.
“You’re in my alley so deep, my backspace key is singing!” Rodney’s wailing like a lovesick tomcat and I’m about to fill his inkwell when the office door slams open.
“Stop the presses!” Jack the head editor bellows.
I stop pumping and give Jack the stink eye. “We’re still writing our own warm-and-wonder, you’ll have to wait.”
“Fine.” Jack unzips and jerks his squib. The sight of that manly pen gives me ideas.
I nod to my backside. “Care for a double truck?”
“I’ve been waiting a crow’s age to hear you say that,” Jack says.
Pin Me, baby:
Flick the bean to read more bad erotica. (Did I really just say ‘flick the bean’? Jane, you are a BAD influence.)