Rebecca stared wistfully at the examination chair in her office. It had been more than a chair, more than merely functional office furniture. It had been a portal to carnal pleasure the likes of which she had never known before and feared would never experience again.
She allowed herself the briefest reverie, recalling those magical mornings with Caroline, how Rebecca would sling one long, perfectly tanned leg over the rest of the chair and wrap the other gently around Caroline’s neck and shoulders, using gentle pressure to force the older woman deeply into her most sensitive places as the gasping, drenching, spine-tingling moment of climax approached.
Rebecca felt her hand gently moving southwards. She held the image in her mind, a picture of the last she and Caroline had made sweet, sweet flange-flavoured music. It had been the fourth time that morning, Rebecca straining every sinew as Caroline, who showed no signs of tiring, had lifted her up to a pinnacle of sexual release she had never know existed.
Back in the real world, Rebecca was just about to slip one long, elegant finger beneath the elastic of her tight Bonds – bought at david Jones though – panties when the door of her office burst open.
Flushed, she quickly moved her hand away from her womanhood and up toward her face.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking first? Were you born in a tent?” she demanded, flustered and caught off-guard.
The man who’d entered her office instead began pointing and laughing.
“Oh my God, Ooh my God,” he laughed breathlessly, “You were gunna have a wank weren’t you? You were gunna have a lady toss. You were feeding the gerbil!”
“Excuse me,” said Rebecca, with the haughtiest tone she could summon, “I was merely adjusting and important piece of medical equipment. How may I help you?”
“I’ve got an appointment,” the tall, slightly dubious looking chap replied.
Rebecca looked at her diary. Indeed, there was an appointment, name of Brendan. Suddenly it clicked. This was the one Chris had been yammering on about the other day. She tended to zone out whenever Chris started talking about football.
“Well, come and sit down Brendan, how can I help you?”
Brendan sat gingerly in the examination seat. Rebecca was glad he didn’t immediately bend down and sniff it. He looked he wanted to it.
“I want you to help me get a big set of false tits,” Brendan declared matter of factly.
Rebecca was taken aback by that, but recovered her composure.
This could be interesting. This could be something new.
“Ok,” she replied, “Let’s talk. I’m going to need to take some measurements for a start.”
Brendan stood up with a big boyish grin and dropped his daks.
“Ya gunna need a really long tape measure then!”
Rebecca smiled to herself. This would indeed be fun.
“I meant your chest Brendan, you can pull your trousers up now.”
He did, but not before they shared a giggle. This would be fun indeed.
Showing posts with label Caroline. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Caroline. Show all posts
Thursday, 9 July 2009
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
The bottheth sthtowieth
As Sam was plotting her bloodthirsty revenge, Liam was reading Caro’s story with an equal measure of disgust and disdain.
So THIS was what she’d bumped his Richmond footy department story for. This? This crap? This patently fed from the league agenda-driving crap?
He marched into Caroline’s office without knocking. From beneath hooded eyes, she looked up at him.
“Yeth, Wiam,” she asked in wary tone.
“Are we going to run my Richmond story tomorrow,” he asked, not caring for the niceties of the editor/reporter relationship.
“No,” said Caroline, “I’m doing a fowwow up on this Wetht Wombath thtuff.”
“A follow up,” Liam asked incredulously, “But there wasn’t anything in it to begin with.”
As soon as the words had escaped his lips, he knew he’d made a serious mistake. Caroline’s reptilian eyes narrowed to a killing focus.
“Wiam,” she began slowly, “Tell me about this Wichmond thtory of yourth.”
OK thought Liam, I’ve put my cock in the pencil sharpener on this one, time to produce.
So he told her what his two day investigation of the running of the Richmond footy department had produced. That simple skills drills had been replaced with ‘colouring in hour’. That the club doctor gave players red cordial before the game in the belief it was a performance enhancer. Of the games of kiss chasey played by the midfield group in order to enhance evasive ability.
“They’ve even got a talking horse as the forward line coach. And I’m pretty sure it’s a real horse. That can talk. I had a good look at it and there’s no seams or stiching or anything,” he said.
Caroline let a beat pass.
“Wiam. I have thome advithe for you. If you want to make it at this newsthpaper, there are two thingth you need to rewemember. One, never cwiticise the bottheth sthtowieth, and two, there’th never anything wong with Wichmond. Do I make mythelf clear?”
"Ummm, didn't we just run all this stuff about Sheedy trying to rape a dingo that was proven to be bullshit just a few weeks ago?" asked Liam.
"THTHTHTAT! WATH! DIFFEWENT!," screeched Caro, "THTHTHTHTAT! WATH! SAM'TH STHTOWY!"
Liam nodded. And decided to leave it there.
He went back to his desk to chase up a lead Caroline had given him about a report that Mark LeCras was spending too much time ‘getting close to quokkas’ on Rottnest Island.
But he wouldn’t be put off so easily. No, he’d see real journalism return to The Era. Even if it meant taking down the boss to get it.
So THIS was what she’d bumped his Richmond footy department story for. This? This crap? This patently fed from the league agenda-driving crap?
He marched into Caroline’s office without knocking. From beneath hooded eyes, she looked up at him.
“Yeth, Wiam,” she asked in wary tone.
“Are we going to run my Richmond story tomorrow,” he asked, not caring for the niceties of the editor/reporter relationship.
“No,” said Caroline, “I’m doing a fowwow up on this Wetht Wombath thtuff.”
“A follow up,” Liam asked incredulously, “But there wasn’t anything in it to begin with.”
As soon as the words had escaped his lips, he knew he’d made a serious mistake. Caroline’s reptilian eyes narrowed to a killing focus.
“Wiam,” she began slowly, “Tell me about this Wichmond thtory of yourth.”
OK thought Liam, I’ve put my cock in the pencil sharpener on this one, time to produce.
So he told her what his two day investigation of the running of the Richmond footy department had produced. That simple skills drills had been replaced with ‘colouring in hour’. That the club doctor gave players red cordial before the game in the belief it was a performance enhancer. Of the games of kiss chasey played by the midfield group in order to enhance evasive ability.
“They’ve even got a talking horse as the forward line coach. And I’m pretty sure it’s a real horse. That can talk. I had a good look at it and there’s no seams or stiching or anything,” he said.
Caroline let a beat pass.
“Wiam. I have thome advithe for you. If you want to make it at this newsthpaper, there are two thingth you need to rewemember. One, never cwiticise the bottheth sthtowieth, and two, there’th never anything wong with Wichmond. Do I make mythelf clear?”
"Ummm, didn't we just run all this stuff about Sheedy trying to rape a dingo that was proven to be bullshit just a few weeks ago?" asked Liam.
"THTHTHTAT! WATH! DIFFEWENT!," screeched Caro, "THTHTHTHTAT! WATH! SAM'TH STHTOWY!"
Liam nodded. And decided to leave it there.
He went back to his desk to chase up a lead Caroline had given him about a report that Mark LeCras was spending too much time ‘getting close to quokkas’ on Rottnest Island.
But he wouldn’t be put off so easily. No, he’d see real journalism return to The Era. Even if it meant taking down the boss to get it.
Friday, 26 June 2009
Project Sauvignon Blanc Begins
Deal Done? Done Deal
26 June 2009
The Era
By C. Roline
The West Melbourne Wombats will probably almost certainly definitely likely be playing in the Hunter Valley from next season, The Era understands upon learning from sources.
The cash-strapped club has no option but to go to the lucrative, fast-growing, virile region where the grass is greener than in any other part of the world, according to well-informed sources. The Era understands that the league is willing is offer the Wombats twice all the money in the world to make the move.
Local Hunter Valley side, the Corkscrews, who have an oval capable of hosting crowds of dozens when it is not flooded, are encouraged by the suggestion.
“We’ve been wanting an AFL license for a while now,” said club president, Shifty O’Toole. “We’ve got 156,000 members, which is like, I dunno, shitloads more than those Wombats losers,” he continued.
Suggestions that the vast majority of the Corkscrews members are old dears who only signed up for access to the pokies and a cheap parma on a Wednesday are “ludicrous” according to league bosses.
“The Hunter Valley region is Australian football’s biggest possible target market. We must expand to keep growing. We can’t be stuck in the past. Think if it this way, if you were married, and the Wombats were your old whinging wife and then some hot chick who waxes her fanny and wanted to do a line of coke off your knob started hitting on you in a totally banging house club, what would you do? I know what I’d do,” said league supremo Andrew The Terrible.
“It’s ludicrous to suggest that the Corkscrews are not one of the biggest footy clubs in Australia. Have you seen the size of the carpark out the front of their pokie joint? It’s bloody visible from space,” he added.
The Wombats are currently run by a bunch of retards who will almost certainly fall for the league’s slick and in no way hollow sales pitch. Reputable media outlets are understood to be supportive of the deal.
Only one potential obstacle remains to the deal going through. Hated no-talent big mouth former Davis Cup star Shaun Jones, a lifelong Wombats supporter, has announced his intention to lead a campaign to keep the cash-strapped povvo, no-money, ha ha it must suck to be, you’re on the welfare, I got an ice cream, Wombats in West Melbourne.
But The Era understands that the fool has no chance at all in succeeding with his plan, which he probably dreamed up while he was cracked out in a seedy hotel room with underage hookers.
The smart money remains on Andrew The Terrible overseeing a relocation.
26 June 2009
The Era
By C. Roline
The West Melbourne Wombats will probably almost certainly definitely likely be playing in the Hunter Valley from next season, The Era understands upon learning from sources.
The cash-strapped club has no option but to go to the lucrative, fast-growing, virile region where the grass is greener than in any other part of the world, according to well-informed sources. The Era understands that the league is willing is offer the Wombats twice all the money in the world to make the move.
Local Hunter Valley side, the Corkscrews, who have an oval capable of hosting crowds of dozens when it is not flooded, are encouraged by the suggestion.
“We’ve been wanting an AFL license for a while now,” said club president, Shifty O’Toole. “We’ve got 156,000 members, which is like, I dunno, shitloads more than those Wombats losers,” he continued.
Suggestions that the vast majority of the Corkscrews members are old dears who only signed up for access to the pokies and a cheap parma on a Wednesday are “ludicrous” according to league bosses.
“The Hunter Valley region is Australian football’s biggest possible target market. We must expand to keep growing. We can’t be stuck in the past. Think if it this way, if you were married, and the Wombats were your old whinging wife and then some hot chick who waxes her fanny and wanted to do a line of coke off your knob started hitting on you in a totally banging house club, what would you do? I know what I’d do,” said league supremo Andrew The Terrible.
“It’s ludicrous to suggest that the Corkscrews are not one of the biggest footy clubs in Australia. Have you seen the size of the carpark out the front of their pokie joint? It’s bloody visible from space,” he added.
The Wombats are currently run by a bunch of retards who will almost certainly fall for the league’s slick and in no way hollow sales pitch. Reputable media outlets are understood to be supportive of the deal.
Only one potential obstacle remains to the deal going through. Hated no-talent big mouth former Davis Cup star Shaun Jones, a lifelong Wombats supporter, has announced his intention to lead a campaign to keep the cash-strapped povvo, no-money, ha ha it must suck to be, you’re on the welfare, I got an ice cream, Wombats in West Melbourne.
But The Era understands that the fool has no chance at all in succeeding with his plan, which he probably dreamed up while he was cracked out in a seedy hotel room with underage hookers.
The smart money remains on Andrew The Terrible overseeing a relocation.
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Watching My Waithtwine
Andrew eyed his guest as mongoose does a snake while Gillon laboured under the weight of an enormous tray of pastries.
“I’m sorry about … this,” he hissed, impatient at his underling’s slow service of the executive éclair ensemble.
“Don’t wowwy about it,” his guest replied, “I won’t be having any anywayth. I’m watching my waithtwine.”
Andrew looked at Caroline coldy.
“Yes, I heard you’d gone onto fish of late.”
A silence hung between them. The mood was like during the Molotov-Ribbentrop negotiations, two vile entities united in mutual distrust and a suspicion one could gain an advantage over the other.
“Tho why have you invited me here anyway, Andwew?” Caroline finally asked.
Andrew swallowed the last of the éclair he’d jammed into his mouth as soon as Gillon had put them down. He felt is work its way into his bloodstream, the shakes gently easing, the cold sweat on the back of his neck drying off. Once this metal-mouthed bitch was gone, he’d have three or four at once, get a decent glow on that would last him through until lunchtime at least.
“Would you be willing to abandon all your journalistic principles if you had a good story? A lot of good stories?” Andrew asked.
Caroline paused for breath.
“How good? How many?”
Andrew rose from the his dragon shaped throne made of human thigh bones and leant closer in to her. Hmmm, he thought, maybe that Rebecca had the right idea after all.
“At least a month’s worth of front pages, maybe more. And guaranteed inside running. Nothing for anyone else. Yours alone.”
With great theatre, Caroline drew her reporter’s notebook from her koala-skin handbag.
She opened it and wrote on the first page in large letters the words JOURNALISTIC PRINCIPLES.
Then, with a flourish, she rose and strode over to a window, her heels clacking on the marble floor.
As Andrew watched in awe, a spine tingling awe, she tore the piece of paper up and threw the scraps out into the fluttering breeze.
“Doeth that ansthwer your questhtion?”
Andrew smiled. This one, he could work with her. They could get stuff done. They could be a beautiful team.
“Caroline my dear, let me tell you about where the West Melbourne Wombats will be playing next year,” he began, his voice slicker than the Persian Gulf after a particularly bad oil spill.
“I’m sorry about … this,” he hissed, impatient at his underling’s slow service of the executive éclair ensemble.
“Don’t wowwy about it,” his guest replied, “I won’t be having any anywayth. I’m watching my waithtwine.”
Andrew looked at Caroline coldy.
“Yes, I heard you’d gone onto fish of late.”
A silence hung between them. The mood was like during the Molotov-Ribbentrop negotiations, two vile entities united in mutual distrust and a suspicion one could gain an advantage over the other.
“Tho why have you invited me here anyway, Andwew?” Caroline finally asked.
Andrew swallowed the last of the éclair he’d jammed into his mouth as soon as Gillon had put them down. He felt is work its way into his bloodstream, the shakes gently easing, the cold sweat on the back of his neck drying off. Once this metal-mouthed bitch was gone, he’d have three or four at once, get a decent glow on that would last him through until lunchtime at least.
“Would you be willing to abandon all your journalistic principles if you had a good story? A lot of good stories?” Andrew asked.
Caroline paused for breath.
“How good? How many?”
Andrew rose from the his dragon shaped throne made of human thigh bones and leant closer in to her. Hmmm, he thought, maybe that Rebecca had the right idea after all.
“At least a month’s worth of front pages, maybe more. And guaranteed inside running. Nothing for anyone else. Yours alone.”
With great theatre, Caroline drew her reporter’s notebook from her koala-skin handbag.
She opened it and wrote on the first page in large letters the words JOURNALISTIC PRINCIPLES.
Then, with a flourish, she rose and strode over to a window, her heels clacking on the marble floor.
As Andrew watched in awe, a spine tingling awe, she tore the piece of paper up and threw the scraps out into the fluttering breeze.
“Doeth that ansthwer your questhtion?”
Andrew smiled. This one, he could work with her. They could get stuff done. They could be a beautiful team.
“Caroline my dear, let me tell you about where the West Melbourne Wombats will be playing next year,” he began, his voice slicker than the Persian Gulf after a particularly bad oil spill.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
