Office Fling

by Amy Brent

  Sunday morning, we all slept in late, me and Holden in our bed, Wynn in the guest room. We then got up one by one and made our way to the kitchen for coffee and bagels. We sat around the table giggling and snickering like kids on a camp out, only this boy’s club allowed girls, or at least one very special girl. Me!

  After breakfast, we were lounging on the sofa letting our bodies recover and our brains rest. Wynn was on one end of the couch with his long legs stretched out and his feet on the coffee table, reading the morning paper. Holden was on the other end of the couch in a similar position watching football on TV. I was lying between then with my head in Holden’s lap and my feet in Wynn’s, wearing the short robe and nothing else. Every now and then I’d grind my heel into Wynn’s cock to tease him. Finally, he put the paper aside and gave me a sideways smile.

  “Are you ready for more?” he asked, sliding his hand up my leg to tease my bare pussy, which was tired but ready for more. He rolled his thumb over my clit and slid his fingers between my moist lips. “Parts of you certainly are.”

  “They certainly are,” I said, my heel grinding. I felt his cock getting chubbed inside his boxers. I looked up at Holden. “How about you, Professor Moss? Ready for round three?”

  “Actually, it would be more like round ten,” Holden said, reaching inside my robe to cup my breast. My nipple popped against his fingers.

  “Well then, why don’t we—” Before I could finish my sentence, the doorbell rang. I noticed Wynn and Holden glance at each other, little sly smiles on their handsome faces, like two little boys sharing a funny secret.

  Holden let go of my breast and said, “Jude, do you mind getting the door.”

  “You want me to answer the door?” I asked, frowning.

  “Well, we’re both are a little…” Holden gestured toward his crotch, then to Wynn’s. Their erections were poking through their boxer shorts like turtles sticking their heads out of their shells.

  “Fine,” I said, huffing as if I’d been asked to push a boulder up a hill. I rolled off the couch and cinched the robe around my waist as I padded barefoot to the door. When I opened the door, there stood a mountain of a man so good looking that he made my jaw drop. He looked like a football player, tall, broad shouldered, muscles on top of muscles beneath the tight shirt he wore. His dark hair was cut short. His eyes were the color of blue ice. He had a Kennedy jawline and a Clooney smile. He stuck out his hand and gave me a look that made my knees wobble.

  “Hey, I’m Lane Curtis,” he said, his hand the size of a catcher’s mitt compared to mine. The moment his fingers closed around my hand I felt a little chill run up my arm that made my nipples hard. “And you, you must be Jude.”

  PART 3

  Description

  Call me a nympho or call me a slut, but I love having more than one man in my bed at a time. My name is Jude… and I am addicted to men…

  It all started with just me and Professor Holden Moss, the grad school professor I seduced by flashing him my pink goodies the first day of class. I love being the Teacher’s Pet. And Holden loved playing my games.

  Then Holden invited his best friend, Dr. Wynn Driver, to join our little party. Wynn was the epitome of hotness: tall, handsome, with surfer boy good looks and a foot long of pleasure inside his linen slacks. The three of us were having the time of our lives, then along came Wynn’s buddy, Lane.

  Dr. Lane Curtis, the former football star turned psychologist and bestselling author who held orgies at his exclusive spa and became the forth player in our little game.

  Now, I have three lovers and experience something new and fantastic every day.

  Someone should write a book about the things we do to each other.

  Oh, that’s right… someone has… Enjoy.

  Chapter One: Dr. Lane Curtis

  When I asked the young, attractive red head who was sitting on the other end of the sofa in my luxury hotel suite how she liked being a magazine columnist, she gave me a confident smile and said what most people say when you question their choice of career.

  “Oh, yes, I just love my job.”

  I gave her a wary look. “Do you? Really?”

  I said the words playfully, as if I didn’t really believe her.

  Her confident smile faltered for a moment, but her blue eyes held their sparkle. Her lips were full, painted deep crimson to contrast the light tone of her ginger skin. Tiny freckles danced across her nose, across the top of her chest. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, I just loved red heads.

  She cocked her head and gave me the eye. “Do I really what?”

  “Do you really love your job?”

  She blinked as if I’d just asked if she was sure her name was… what was her name… Meredith… something… I think. Her business card was on the glass coffee table. I didn’t bother to glance at it. A look of confusion washed over her pretty face. When she frowned, a line went across her forehead that Botox would have to address a few years down the road.

  “Well, yes, I really do love my job,” she said, a little defensively now. “I mean… Don’t you?”

  “Don’t I what?” I asked with a mock frown.

  “Don’t you love your job?”

  “Well, yes, now that you mention it, I do.” I said it with a grin that should have let her know that I was just messing with her, but she still looked unsure. Just to be clear, I added, “I do love my job.”

  “Oh, that’s great!” The words tumbled out over a long breath that she’d been holding. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave me a demure smile. “It’s always nice when you love what you do.”

  “It is,” I said with a nod, thinking that it was also nice when you loved who you were doing it to. She glanced into my eyes and looked quickly away. Score one for Team Curtis.

  I should have been focusing on the interview the poor girl was trying to conduct, but it was hard to concentrate given her look and her smell and the way she kept looking at me and the movie that kept playing in my head. Being on the cover of a national magazine would definitely make the cash registers ring—sales of my books, DVDs, seminars, retreats, private sessions with big stars—but sometimes a guy had to do what a guy had to do. And I was all guy. And despite all my advanced degrees in psychology and understanding of how the human brain works, sometimes my cock just seemed to have a mind all its own.

  This was my subtle way of innocently flirting with a girl almost half my age and getting away with it without being branded a lech. I had learned early on in my career that when a rich and famous, forty-year-old guy like me, hits on a hot and “seemingly vulnerable” twenty-something girl like her, there were protocols that had to be followed to make sure everything that happened between us—or didn’t happen—was consensual and without coercion. You’ve seen the news lately. Every day it seems there’s a new story about these guys in my position who force themselves on women. They use their power and their influence and their money and outright fear to “persuade” girls to do things they otherwise would not do. Cosby. Weinstein. Spacey. They should have known better, and I hope they get what’s coming to them. End of sermon.

  Times have changed, and protocols must be followed so there can be no doubt. Meeting up in a bar was one thing, but if I hit on this girl directly while she was interviewing me for her employer, Psychology whatever magazine, if I made overt suggestions that maybe we should move this conversation to the king-sized bed in the master suite, there would always be that shadow of doubt in her mind that maybe she was coerced or forced into doing something she didn’t really want to do. And shadows of doubt lead to tawdry tabloid headlines and ugly public relations scandals and expensive law suits.

  Besides, I was not that guy. I didn’t have to force myself on anyone. I’m Dr. Lane Curtis. I could have women lining up outside my door if I wanted. I’m not being cocky. It’s just the truth. It’s one of the things I love about my job. Fame and wealth have benefits. You’ll hear no apologies from me.

  And unless my “horny meter” was fail
ing me big time, Meredith and I were both thinking the same thing. I leaned in and gave her a salacious grin. “In fact, I love all sorts of jobs.”

  Her cheeks flushed red and she directed her eyes back to the list of questions on the iPad resting on her crossed legs. She ran her finger down the pad to figure out what her next question would be. I had flustered her, but in a good way.

  Flirtation aside, I have always been genuinely curious about what makes people tick. What makes them happy. What makes them miserable. What turns them on and what turns them off. I also wonder why so many people lie about such things. They lie to themselves and they lie to others.

  You hear people say that sort of thing all the time. I love my job. I just love my job. I love my spouse. I do. I really do. And I love my life. I’m calling bullshit. Usually, the people who say such things are trying to convince themselves of the fact more than anyone else. They think if they tell themselves something enough times, maybe it will really come true.

  So, they chant it like a mantra.

  I love my job.

  I love my mate.

  I love my life.

  No, really…

  Honestly…

  I just looooove my job.

  I love getting up every morning at the crack of dawn to deal with my asshole clients and dick head customers.

  And I love my employees. They’re like family to me. I love them, one and all.

  What bullshit.

  They’re not fooling anyone but themselves.

  Trust me, I know how the human brain works and I’m well aware of the lies we humans tell ourselves, often in a vain attempt to be happy. Or be somewhat happy. Or to just not be miserable.

  You see, I’m a psychologist. A really, really good one, mainly because I don’t have a bunch of baggage of my own. I’ll be the first to admit it. Most people who go to college to study psychology, then go on to make a career out of, do so to try to figure out their own shit. Ask one hundred psychologists why they went into the field and they’ll give you some bullshit answer about being interested in the human psyche and wanting to help their fellow man. Again; bullshit. They just wanted to figure out their own fucked up shit. Some do figure it out, some don’t, most never stop trying. People in the psychiatric field are some of the most fucked up people I know. They just can’t help themselves.

  I never really had my own shit to figure out. I have just always been fascinated by how the human brain does and does not work. I hold multiple degrees in the field of psychology and have written multiple bestselling books. I have studied the human brain for most of my life. I know how the average Jack and Jill’s mind works (or more often does not work).

  People buy into the bullshit that “whatever the imagination can conceive, the mind can achieve”. Want to be rich? Just imagine yourself rich. Want to be happy in your shitty marriage? Just imagine yourself happy. Want a new Corvette? Just put out your desires to the universe and hang on, my friend, because the universe shall deliver whatever you desire.

  I know.

  It is amazing how many people believe this bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

  Want to solve all your problems in one very expensive afternoon? Go stand in a big arena full of other idiots at a Tony Robbins event and chant along with everyone else.

  Me? I know better.

  Most people don’t love their job.

  Most people don’t love their mate, their kids, or their life.

  But they say they do because they think that will make it come true.

  Or they think it’s what everyone wants to hear.

  I love my job.

  I love my mate.

  I love my life.

  Yeah, sure, just keep telling yourself that, pal. Maybe someday it will come true. Probably not, but maybe. And maybe makes the world go around.

  But I really do love my job (I know, you’re probably calling bullshit given everything that I just said). I love it because it’s not a job. It’s a calling, a vocation. I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing. It helps that my job has made me wealthy beyond my wildest dreams and famous beyond my wildest imagination. My name is often mentioned right up there with Dr. Phil and Dr. Oz and even Masters & Johnson. I know Oprah and Gail and Gwyneth and Deepak and Tom, and I hang out with the beautiful people all over the world. Granted, most of them were made beautiful by their back accounts rather than their looks and personality, but that’s okay. Not everyone can look like… well… me (insert that smiling emoji here).

  So, back to my point. I really do love my job, my clients, and my life. I also love unicorns and rainbows and cute kittens and women with big tits and tight pussies. Okay, I threw in that last part because in all honestly, that’s the part of my job that I love the most.

  The women.

  The groupies.

  The fame fuckers.

  The star suckers.

  Even the stalkers, to a degree, so long as they aren’t coming at me with butcher knives or paternity tests.

  Yes, my friend, I am Dr. Lane Curtis, Ph.D.; one of the world’s foremost authorities on sex and psychology. I lecture to sold-out crowds around the globe. I write bestselling books. I conduct high-dollar weekend retreats and seminars. And I am a top guest on any talk show you can name, mostly because I talk about how we torpedo ourselves with our fucked up thinking and misconceptions about sex.

  Yes, my friends, our brains screw us, often making us un-screwable by those we’d like to screw. I mean seriously, ladies, do you want a well-hung guy who is great in the sack but a total fucking psycho otherwise? Lots of women have just that. Or would you prefer a guy with a small penis but your best interests at heart?

  Are you seriously having to think that over?

  The answer should be much easier, wouldn’t you agree?

  Thanks for proving my point.

  And it’s not just you, ladies.

  We guys are even more fucked up than you are.

  Guys, would you rather have a smoking hot nympho with amazing tits and a tight pussy who drives you fucking batshit crazy 99.999% of the time? Or a simple, decent-looking girl with a not-so-hot body who’ll let you fuck her and then make you pancakes?

  Don’t bother answering, guys.

  We all know what you’re going to say.

  Chapter Two: Lane

  So, there we were. Meredith, the aforementioned young journalist from Psychology Monthly Magazine sitting with her legs crossed on the other end of the sofa, as if she thought she had to keep her thighs pressed tightly together to keep me from crawling up them to find the treasures that awaited between her legs. I wanted to tell her to relax. I had been interviewed by dozens of pretty young things over the years and had never forced myself on one.

  That’s not to say that I didn’t fuck a considerable number of them, just that I never made the first move. Ever. Legal repercussions aside, it was a thing with me. I could fuck a different woman every day simply because of who I was, but I would never force my fame—or my sizable cock—on a woman without some clear indication that she wanted it thrust upon her. Like I said, I was no Bill Cosby or Harvey Weinstein. To the contrary, in my practice, which I gave up a few years ago when my first book hit it big, I counseled a lot of women who were used and abused by powerful men. I would never do that to a woman. Ever. I only wanted to please, never to inflict harm.

  Meredith’s voice jarred me back to reality.

  “So, Dr. Curtis, in your latest book, Trade Offs: How Men and Women Use Sex and Love To Get What They Want, you write about how women exchange sex for affection while men exchange affection for sex.”

  “That’s right… Meredith…was it?”

  She tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and smiled even though she was trying not to. To her credit, she was trying to keep things professional. At least for now. She had a job to do. If we ended up in bed together or naked on the couch, it would be after she got what she needed for her interview, not before. Smart girl. My brain didn’t work that well
after my cock took over.

  She said, “Yes. Meredith Wilson.”

  “Well, Meredith Wilson,” I said with a warm smile. “Yes, I do believe women give men sex in exchange for affection, and men give women affection in exchange for sex. And it’s that exchange that is the focus of the new book.”

  “What about love?” she asked.

  “Love?”

  “Yes. Love.” She narrowed her blue eyes to give me a suspicious look. “Where does love fit into your equation?”

  I gave her my best “that’s a great question” face and held up a finger to accentuate the point. “Don’t get them confused. Love and affection are two entirely different things. Affection may grow into love, and you can love someone without being affectionate, but true love is not an exchange for sex. When two people truly love one another, there is no exchange. They are one. There is simply them.”

  She frowned at me. “Them?”

  “Them.”

  “Uh, exactly what does that mean?”