Hey, I can hear you fucking snickering right now.
You’re probably thinking that I’m too full of myself, aren’t you?
Well, you’re welcome to pay me a visit, and then we’ll see who’s too full of himself.
Hint: it’s going to be you.
Oh, don’t make that face; you’d love it, you just don’t know it yet.
“It’s 9:30, Magnus!” I hear a woman’s voice yell at me from the living room, and I almost have a heart attack as I see the two women in there. Joyce Walker is standing right by the couch where her assistant, a young hot brunette, is sitting.
“Jesus fuck, what the hell are you doing in here?” I groan, making my way into the kitchen still half-asleep. The living room opens into the kitchen, and the two women stare at me as I pull a bottle of thick green juice out of the fridge and take long deep gulps out of it. Yeah, these rock-hard abs don’t come easy, and a healthy diet and all that shit is a necessity. Sure, there’s nothing I’d love more than to down two glasses of whisky for breakfast, but let’s face it: I’m not a fucking 18 year old anymore. I’m a respectable businessman (well, I try) and I need a clear head to slay down the long line of assholes that want a piece of my company.
“You were late,” Joyce states matter-of-factly, her arms crossed as she taps her foot against the floor.
“I’m never late, babe,” I turn to her and show her my multi-million dollar smile, but she just rubs her left temple.
“I told you not to call me that. I’m your lawyer, Magnus, for God’s sake!” she breathes out, but I can tell by the slight red coloration on her cheeks that she wouldn’t mind being more than just my lawyer. I wouldn’t mind either: Joyce looks fine as fuck, her red hair and tight body making her look fierce and untamable … two qualities I love when it comes to the bedroom. But, whatever you may think of me, I have my limits. And I don’t mix business with pleasure: nothing good ever comes of that.
“Anyway, what are you doing here? I gave you a spare key so that you could come here in case there was an emergency, not for you to wake me up whenever I’m late. You’re too expensive for that, you know?”
“Emergency, uh?” she asks, a frown making a few creases show on her forehead. She takes two steps toward the kitchen counter and slams her briefcase on top of it; she opens it and then fishes out a newspaper from the inside. “And what do you call this?” she hisses, opening the newspaper and heavily stabbing her finger over the gossip column.
“Harmless fun?” I shrug, looking away from the blurred picture of the Jumbotron, my naked body glued to the cheerleader. Ah, the memories.
“Harmless fun? Harmless fun?!” she repeats, completely exasperated, her high-pitched voice making my head hurt.
“I’m not deaf, Joyce,” I groan, and then she narrows her eyes at me, leaning over the counter.
“Are you hung over?” she asks me, making me feel as if I’m being cross examined on the stand. Thankfully, the bell saves me, or rather, I’m saved by the three half-naked strippers coming out of my bedroom.
“We left our number in the bedroom,” one of them giggles, still pulling down on the hemline of her tight-fitting dress.
“We wrote it down on my panties,” another one says, her disheveled dark hair making me smile; it felt glorious to pull on that hair as I rammed her from behind, her screams of harder, harder filling the whole room. Oh, man, that was so much fucking fun.
“Call us!” the last one laughs, and then takes her hand to her mouth and sends me a kiss. The three of them stumble to the door, laughing and giggling, and I realize they’re still half-drunk from last night. No wonder: you could probably float the Titanic on the amount of alcohol the four of us downed.
“Be safe, girls,” I wave as I watch them leave, and they slam the door behind them. I offer Joyce a smile as the strippers’ giggles start fading away as they enter the elevator.
“Homeless girls, I took them in. They were starving. It was charity, really,” I grin, a vein in Joyce’s temple pulsing angrily. Behind her, the young brunette’s face has turned into a violent red. I guess she isn’t used to a conga-line of half-drunk strippers in the morning. Well, her loss.
“You’re incorrigible,” Joyce says, and all that’s left is for her to throw her hands up in the air in complete exasperation. I almost insist that I’m telling the truth, which is that these girls were really starving for my cock, but I decide against it. Lawyers are like bears: you shouldn’t poke them when they’re angry.