The power has gone out again; the office is black and silent. Mieczyslaw “Mitch” Motyka removes his wet lips from the back of his paralegal Stacy’s neck and releases the hem of her wool pencil skirt. He doesn’t bother to pull up his slacks or drape his shirt over his exposed erection; rather, he simply reaches around Stacy and paws blindly at the surface of his desk, in search of his cell. When he locates the phone and slides it open, the soft glow of its LCD is the only light in the room.
Mitch searches for Com Ed under Contacts and presses Send. Without listening to the automated prompts, he chooses Option Two and Zero for Operator in rapid succession. He waits and waits. Then he speaks.
–Yeah, hi. Power’s out. Third time this week. People are tryin’ to fuckin’ work around here.
Mitch hits End Call and slides the cell across his desk like an air hockey puck. Stacy’s torso remains at a forty-five degree angle, her breasts hovering over a short-stack of file folders. Her sweaty palms are still pressed flat on her boss’ desk and her patience is running out.
–You just had to call this second?
Mitch snorts as he hikes Stacy’s skirt up her alabaster thighs and over her pronounced hip bones. He then hooks his thumbs into the elastic of her thong and drops it to her ankles. Stacy takes a deep breath.
–Last time, Mitch. I swear.
–Whatever you say, love.
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Thomas Mundt lives in Chicago. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Wigleaf, NANO Fiction, and Dogzplot. Pop-ins are always welcome at www.dontdissthewizard.blogspot.com.
One Comment
great post as usual!