Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [2]
“You’re mixed, aren’t you?” she asked. “With that curly hair and those blue eyes, you’ve got to be.”
“Yeah, my father was white and my mother was a Southern girl.”
“So, who did you inherit that six-foot slender frame from? Your mother or father?”
“I don’t know.” I was being honest. Since nobody had wanted to set up DNA tests for three white men, his identity had remained a mystery.
Donna stood and walked to the front of the desk. “Come over here. Let me see how much taller you are than me.”
It was a bullshit line, but the games had begun. I would not have been there unless I was willing to play.
I stood in front of her, with her hard nipples pushing against my shirt. Her skin smelled like fresh-picked apricots. She looked up at me, her luscious red lips glistening against the dark pigmentation of her face.
“I…”
It was all she got out of her mouth as my lips joined hers. She should have slapped me then. Maybe I should have slapped myself for making such assumptions, but neither of us did. Instead, her mouth feasted on mine as my hand went to the front of her blouse. The snaps came apart, like dryrotted steel wool, the kind my grandmother used to give me to scrub the burnt pots. I pulled her blouse off her shoulders and it cascaded onto her desk. She pulled me toward her, her breasts rubbing against my white Guess T-shirt. Her hand traveled down my chest toward my dick and she started to rub it through my pants.
“I had a feeling you were packing. Looks and a big dick. What more can a girl ask for?”
I helped her pull my T-shirt over my head. She started to make her way down my chest, leaving a trail of red lip marks. She unbuckled my pants and slid them down. She gently brushed the outsides of my legs with her fingertips as she reached up to pull off my Calvin Klein boxers. I stepped to the side as she gathered my clothes and put them on the couch. I stood naked on the 25th floor of an office building in the heart of Manhattan.
“You have what I want in a husband,” she said as I started to remove her clothes.
I started playing with her breasts and slowly made my way down to her skirt. I lifted it up and worked my way between her legs. My right hand moved over the front of her panties. They were moist. I moved them to the side and slipped my finger inside of her. I guess my friend Brian had been right. Girlfriend was “dripping wet.” I played with her for a few seconds more before I moved my hand to her butt. No disappointments there! It was perfectly rounded as advertised. She was wearing a thong. An old song played in my head, but it quickly faded, like the career of the artist who had performed it.
We continued to kiss until I flipped her around. In doing so, her hands pushed aside the things she had on her desk. I took her hand away from my dick and slid on one of the condoms that I had bought from Duane Reade earlier. I grabbed her by the hair, her weave feeling like that same steel wool, but it shredded much more. I pushed her head down in front of the desk. Her two hands held onto the desk for support. I entered her with the force and the vengeance of a man lost to both himself and the world. She screamed and rocked the desk as she spread her legs even wider for more support; pushing her butt back to meet my thrusts. As she did that, a picture fell off the desk and shattered. She was in the picture with a man and two young boys. I glanced at it and then at her butt. I slammed into her a few more times until I sent a million of my kids to their death against the walls of the rubber. She fell to the floor as I gave one last push.
“I needed that. You have a cell phone?” she asked, putting her clothes on.
Donna realized how the game was to be played. I admired that. This was not reality TV; it was the script of life.
“It’s 917-777-7777.”
“All those sevens?”
“It’s better than three sixes.”
I followed her cue and started to get dressed. She quickly put my phone number in her Palm organizer. She didn’t offer hers nor did I ask for it. If any communication was going to