Naughty Nelle

by L'Amour, Nelle

  I kept my eyes on her as the group moderator explained the “rules” of the group. She wanted the women to talk one at a time and to give their true and honest opinions.

  “Who are these women?” I asked Mallory.

  “They’re Donut King customers though some of them also frequent Starbeans and other coffee chains.”

  “Who’s the blonde?”

  “Can’t you read her name tag? Maybe you need glasses.”

  I squinted my eyes. Shit. Maybe I did need glasses. But as I did, her name came into focus. Olive.

  I said her name aloud in my head. AAAH-love. Her name took my breath away. It was almost orgasmic. I let out a loud sigh.

  Clint snickered. “Please be quiet so I can take notes. The moderator is going to show the women the current Donut King commercial.”

  Miss Bossy Pants. Sometimes I thought she was either a dyke or a dominatrix or both. She grated on my nerves and she’d done nothing to turn our sales around. In fact, since she joined the company three years ago, sales had eroded further. But because of her father, I was stuck with her.

  After dimming the lights, the moderator grabbed the remote and our thirty-second spot began to play on the big screen TV. My eyes stayed on Olive as she swiveled her chair to watch it. Her profile was equally gorgeous and I loved the way her butter-blond hair fell over her shoulders. And holy shit. Those tits. Two glorious mounds that could be sweet melons; they strained against the flimsy fabric of her blouse, pulling at the buttons. Her fluttering eyes stayed glued to the TV while she put her hand to her mouth as if she was gasping. The rise and fall of her chest was noticeable. It was like she was having some kind of Pavlovian reaction.

  I’d seen this commercial a zillion times and mock-said the lines as a mom and her son stepped into a Donut King shop.

  “Mommy, look it’s the Donut King!”

  “Welcome to my kingdom!”

  Yup, that big burly guy with the shit-eating grin behind the counter was me, wearing my royal robe and a crown. A thick, cartoony beard was pasted on my face. I looked more like the Dork King. I hated this spot. But Mallory and her team felt we should be positioned as a family-oriented brand. My eyes darted back and forth between the commercial and the beautiful blond respondent, whose eyes never left the screen. The mom and the kid each ordered a donut, and as soon as they bit into them, sparkly crowns magically appeared on their heads. I looked into the camera and said…

  “Donut King. Share the magic.”

  The TV screen went black and the moderator clicked the remote. The lights went back on.

  “So ladies,” began the moderator, “what did you think of the commercial?”

  She went around the table soliciting responses from each of the women. To my dismay, the reaction was lukewarm at best, eliciting monotone words like: “It was okay…Nothing to write home about…I’ve seen better…Meh.” Every muscle in my body clenched. They hated it. And then she got to my Olive. My gorgeous Olive.

  “What about you, Olive? What did you think?”

  She took a deep breath, her magnificent tits quivering as she did. “I thought it was amazing.” Her eyes did that fluttering thing again. “I love the Donut King.”

  Her very first words. Her voice, despite her size, was like a sparrow’s. So sugary sweet. So full of sincerity and innocence. I thought I was going to jump right through the one-way mirror. No woman had ever said they loved me, let alone with such passion and conviction.

  “Could you please elaborate,” responded the group moderator. “Are you talking about the donut shop or the man who plays the part of the Donut King?”

  Mallory grunted. “The moderator shouldn’t be focusing on one respondent. I’m going to go in and give her a note to move on.” She rose from the couch.

  Grabbing her by the elbow, I yanked her back down. “Sit down and shush up,” I gritted. “I want to hear what Olive says.” Oh man, did I love saying her name. I could say it over and over again. I was all ears as her lush mouth parted.

  “Both. I love going to Donut King. I used to stop at one every day on my way to work. They have The. Best. Donuts.”

  “You don’t go there any more?” The moderator, like me, was quick to pick up on her use of the past tense.

  The dazzling dimpled smile on Olive’s face fell off. “I lost my job about a month ago, so I can’t afford to go there anymore. I can’t even pay my rent.” She paused, her eyes watering. “I may get evicted from my apartment any day now.”

  “Honey, that’s too bad,” chimed in one of the women.

  “Hope you find a new job,” said another.

  The rest concurred, a testament to the sisterhood of women.

  “Thanks,” muttered Olive, quirking a small smile. Hot damn, she was cute. And I felt bad about her job loss.

  The moderator brought the discussion back on topic. “So ladies, what do you think of the actor who plays the Donut King?”

  I hated to think about myself as an actor. I was a salesman. A pitch person. So good I could sell ice to an Eskimo. So I thought. The fact that sales were down—way down—made me question my abilities.

  The woman who was sitting closest to the moderator chimed in again. “My five-year-old is frightened by him.”

  “Same here,” commented another. “He looks like a fairy-tale villain who gobbles up children.”

  Yet another: “He’s more like a bad-looking cartoon character with that stupid beard.”

  The rest of the group laughed except my Olive whose mouth fell open in a big O. And then her face hardened, her eyes narrowing with fury.

  “How could you say those things? I totally disagree. He’s beautiful. I mean, just look at those dreamy blue eyes. Those spectacular big hands. His dazzling smile and that deep, sexy voice. I love everything about him. I’d be his princess any day.”

  I was melting like milk chocolate. She was attracted to me. Insanely attracted to me. I couldn’t believe my ears. She saw in me what none of these judgmental women did. If only she could see me now in my custom-made Italian suit, perfectly groomed, and all buff. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I thought it would leap out and crash right through the one-way mirror. I wanted Olive to be my princess. I wanted to rule her body, her heart, and her soul. No woman had ever had such an affect on me. Not one. Not ever.

  A heated argument broke out among the women, but my Olive, God bless her, held her own.

  “I can’t believe you don’t see what I see in him,” she said convincingly, fending off the naysayers.

  Truthfully, I wanted no woman to see what she saw. I could afford no obstacles. I wanted her to be mine. And mine alone. I was thankful when the group moderator intervened.

  “Okay, ladies, let’s calm down. We’re going to move on to the fun part of our session. The taste test.”

  While Olive’s eyes lit up, the reaction of the other respondents was lackluster. I watched as the moderator rose from her chair and retrieved a large box of donuts from the credenza behind her. She set it in the middle of the table.

  “Okay, ladies, dig in.”

  Not one woman moved.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Clint.

  “I don’t know.” Edginess peppered her voice.

  “I thought these women were supposed to be donut lovers,” I grumbled.

  “I thought so too.”

  “Where the hell did you find them?”

  “The recruiter ran an ad on Craigslist. I guess they lied.”

  “Jesus.” Anything to make a buck. Each of these respondents was being paid one hundred dollars to be here and share their opinions. What good were they if they didn’t eat donuts? Adding in the cost of the recruiter and the report, my calculation for this qualitative research, as Clint referred to it, came close to ten thousand dollars out of my pocket. My blood curdled. I was so simmering mad I could see smoke coming out of my nostrils.

  “Goddamn it, Mallory. This is a total waste of time and money.”

  “No, th
is is very valuable. Obviously, the donut business is dead. My father should have never invested in your company.”

  I was now breathing fire like an angry dragon. “It’s not dead. Everyone loves donuts. We’re just doing something wrong.”

  And then as I was about to send her in to end the group, a sweet voice filtered into the observation room. My Olive!

  “Would someone please pass me the box of donuts?”

  “Be my guest,” said the woman closest to them, handing it down the line of respondents as if it was filled with dog shit. My gaze stayed focused on Olive as the box landed in front of her. She lifted the lid and peeked in. Her eyes sparkled and her lush mouth watered.

  “Wow! These look so good! I haven’t had one in ages.” She studied the donuts. “Eenie, meenie, miney, moe…”

  I held my breath while my cock twitched.

  “I’m going to help myself to my favorite…a cream-filled one.”

  Oh yes, my favorite too. It had always been our top seller.

  Like in a slo-mo scene ripped out of a movie, she reached into the box and put the donut to her lips. Her eyes closed as she slowly wrapped her mouth around the circle of dough. And then she did it. Bit into it, ripping off a large chunk with her teeth. My cock boinged as the creamy filling seeped out. Holy shit! It was like the donut was having its own epic orgasm. “Mmmm.” A soft moan drifted into the room. I felt like I was going to cream my pants.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” she screamed out, arching her back and squeezing her eyes shut as she savored the biteful.

  A look of ecstasy swept over her face. Every eye in the room stayed on her as she swallowed and cried out “Oh God” before going for another bite.

  “I want whatever she’s having,” shouted one of the respondents.

  “Me too!” echoed another woman. And then another and another. “Someone pass the box.”

  While Olive finished consuming her donut, the box got passed around, and within seconds, moans and groans filled the room. It was like an orgasmic choir led by my beautiful Olive. Even the group moderator joined the chorus and I could hear her moan.

  As I watched my Olive lick a little of the cream off her upper lip, I was having my own mental orgasm. My ready-to-burst cock strained against my pants. My know-it-all marketing director was wrong; she’d jumped the gun. There was nothing wrong with our donuts. Fucking nothing. Olive’s “ohs” whirled around in my head. Ideas were spinning too.

  An infuriated Mallory broke into my delicious thoughts. “This is ridiculous. It’s like an orgy in there. I am going to put an end to this group.”

  “Be my guest.” I had all the research—and answers—I needed. A satisfied smile stretched across my face. Orgy coincidentally began with a big “O” too.

  “These women shouldn’t even be compensated,” Mallory hissed. “Especially that big fat ball of trouble.”

  Rage pulsed through me; I wanted to smack her.

  “Don’t talk about her like that,” I growled. But then a bright idea hit me. “Actually, Clint, I don’t want her compensated. Please have her stay behind and bring her to my office. I will handle her personally.”

  Mallory smirked as she headed out of the observation room. “You should give her what she deserves for disrupting the group.”

  That’s exactly what I had in mind. And a lot more.

  “And Clint, one more thing. Please fire our advertising agency and hire the hottest one in town to do a new campaign. I want a meeting set for this afternoon.”

  Mallory fired me a puzzled what-the-fuck look. Before she could utter a word, I shut her up. “Do it.”

  As a miffed Mallory disappeared, my eyes drifted back to my beautiful Olive.

  She had single-handedly put the O back in our donuts. I broke into another big smile. Donut King was going to re-conquer the world. And I was going to conquer her.

  CHAPTER 2

  Olive

  Why didn’t I get paid? All the other respondents got an envelope with a crisp hundred-dollar bill inside it. I must have messed up. Done something wrong. But all I did was follow instructions, giving my true and honest opinions. And reactions. Tears spilled from my eyes as I sat on a black leather couch in the big corner office belonging to the man who owned this company. I needed the money so badly. I was about to be evicted. Tomorrow I could be homeless. On the street. At the thought of being one of those many desperate people in LA, who held up a sign on a street corner begging for money and food, soft sobs wracked my body. I was a basket case. What did I do to deserve this fate? I was a good girl, so I thought. Taken care of my poor mama until she passed away…gone to church every Sunday…and had vowed to stay a virgin until I found someone to love. The latter—finding the right man—was unlikely. Men didn’t want a big girl like me. Maybe it was time to check into a nunnery.

  “Why are you crying, Olive?”

  A quasi-familiar deep baritone voice rung in my ears. But how did he know my name? And don’t even get me started on the way he said it. All breathy like a prayer. Startled, I looked up. A gorgeous monumental man loomed over me. My stomach flip-flopped as my heart skipped a beat. While he wasn’t wearing a crown and his royal blue cape or sporting a long beard, I recognized him in an instant. It was the Donut King! Maybe he was meeting with the owner of this company too.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I spluttered, looking into his piercing sapphire eyes, which looked even bluer with his jet-black hair, dense eyebrows, and layer of dark stubble along his strong jaw. Holy cow. He was even more gorgeous in person. And so much bigger. At least six-foot-four, maybe even six-foot-six with endless long legs and broad shoulders that belonged on a movie star. In a word, he was dazzling. The most beautiful man I’d ever set eyes on. I tried to collect myself, but it was impossible. My tumultuous emotions mixed with a rush of hot tingles. My breath hitched in my throat, but I miraculously found my voice.

  “I’m waiting for the owner of this company. I think he wants to yell at me and tell me how badly I messed up his focus group.”

  A warm smile lit up his face, making the fine lines around his eyes and sexy dimple in his chin more prominent. Then to my shock, he brushed away my tears with the back of his large hand. Oh so tenderly.

  “I am the owner of this company. Owen King.”

  A loud gasp escaped my lungs. Flushing with embarrassment, I stuttered, “Y-you’re the Donut King? I-I thought he was an actor.”

  He let out a husky laugh that came from deep down inside him. “Yeah. I’m the one and only Donut King. My acting sucks.”

  “No it doesn’t,” I countered, gaining the tiniest bit of confidence and composure. “You’re an amazing actor.” Everything about him was amazing. My heart pitter-pattered as the tingles coursing through my body clustered between my legs. My temperature was rising as fast as bread in an oven and my panties were melting like a stick of butter. Even my breathing labored. Dear God. Was this love? Get a grip, Olive. This man was so out of my league, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of him as he spoke.

  “Thanks, but I find it hard to believe. The women in that group certainly didn’t seem to think so.”

  I was about to giggle when the reality of messing up the focus group hit me again. More tears poured from my eyes. “I’m so sorry I screwed up the focus group.”

  “Stop crying, Miss—”

  “Cumming. Olive Cumming.”

  “Olive Cumming.” He repeated my name, his rich virile voice making it sound so dreamy. “Mmmm…I like the sound of that,” he added, raking his eyes over me. “How did you get the name Olive?”

  I sniffed. “My mother named me after her favorite cartoon character—Olive Oyl.”

  He reacted with a belly laugh. It unnerved me. I was a fattie. Plain and simple.

  “I know. I’m the furthest thing from Olive Oyl.”

  He laughed again. Was he mocking me? While I’d come to grips with my size, the pain I’d endured from kids taunting me about my weight when I was younger came back to haunt me
with a vengeance. The tears that were falling multiplied. The gorgeous scumbag. He was no different. I had to get out of here. And besides, I desperately needed to find a job so I could pay my rent to my landlord, mean old Mrs. Murphy. I attempted to stand up, but he gripped my shoulders with his large hands, holding me back. My size was no match for his formidable strength. His eyes burned a hole into mine while a cocky smile swept across his face.

  “That skinny bitch wishes she had your beautiful curves. She would have done a lot better than that dickhead sailor.”

  I let out a giggle while his hands roamed down my arms and his gaze fixed on my double D-boobs. Goosebumps popped beneath the warmth of his palms. Holding my hands, his eyes met mine again.

  “Now, please stop crying and listen up.”

  His voice was commanding and authoritative like the chief executive he was. It both intimidated and excited me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to jump away from him or jump him. The latter was winning by a landslide.

  “Contrary to what you might be thinking, I actually asked you to be brought to my office so I could personally thank you for your focus group input. I loved everything you said.”

  “You did?” I squeaked. He must have been sitting behind that mirrored window.

  He nodded. “Yes, you’ve given me an exciting, brand new marketing direction. Something I never thought of. Nor did my brainiac marketing gal.” He bracketed the word “brainiac” with air quotes.

  Before he got into more details, my cell phone rang. I dug it out of my bag and instantly recognized the number. My tingles instantly morphed into trembles. Anxiety filled every nook and cranny of my body. It was my landlord, Mrs. Murphy.