by Jessica Ashe
Talking about the heat made me realize that Kristi wasn’t the only one sweating. “Mind if I take off my shirt?” I asked.
“You don’t have anything on underneath.”
“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Fine,” she muttered. “Screw it, I’m getting changed as well.”
“You’re going to take off your shirt?” I asked excitedly.
“Yep. And then I’m going to put on another one.”
Kristi disappeared to the bedroom and came back out in a large, baggy t-shirt that was so big I almost missed the shorts she’d also slipped into. I now had a great view of her legs, but couldn’t see any of her chest. Win some, lose some I guess.
I peeled off my shirt, and sat there casually wearing only a pair of shorts. Other women were usually desperate to get at my dick at this point, but all Kristi wanted to do was keep working. It was like to she was oblivious to the perfect male body.
“I’ve been thinking,” Kristi said, putting her laptop down on the coffee table.
“About what it would like to have my cock inside you?”
“We should do a Q&A session on Twitter for the fans. They can all send in their questions, and we will answer the best ones.”
“Let me guess, the answers will all be boring and safe?”
“Of course. But it’ll be good for your image.”
“Just to be clear, you don’t want to know what it will feel like to have cock inside you?”
“I’ve had cock inside me, thank you very much,” Kristi replied.
“I guarantee you’ve never taken a cock as big as mine before.”
“Clearly you’ve never seen my toy collection.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Definitely not. Now, are we going to work, or are you just going to keep being lewd all evening?”
“Can we do both?”
“No. You log into your Twitter account while I start preparing some canned answers to give to your adoring fans.”
“The only thing they want to know is the size of my dick, and whether I’ll fuck them.”
“Good to know,” Kristi remarked, picking up a pen and paper and making some notes.
“By the way, those toys under your bed, they can’t do what I can do.” I moved over closer to Kristi so that our legs were touching. She didn’t move away even though there was plenty of room on the other side. “A vibrator can’t pull your hair while fucking you from behind.” Kristi gasped, but pretended to ignore me. “It can’t take your nipple between its teeth and bite until the pain mixes with pleasure and has you screaming at the top of your lungs.” Her breaths came short and quick. If I reached between her legs, I’d find her wet and ready for me. One touch and she would be mine. “It can’t finish all over your face, leaving you covered in a sticky mess of excitement.”
Kristi turned her face ever so slightly in my direction. She was holding her breath now, her fingers gripping the pen and threatening to snap it in half.
A loud knock at the door snapped us both out of our trance.
“Maintenance,” a man yelled.
Kristi exhaled a short breath and then took in a deep one. “Just coming.”
Yeah, I bet you were. She put the pen and notebook down on the table and went to answer the door.
I went to log into my Twitter account when I saw the notes she’d made on the page.
“Hey,” I yelled out. “It is not five and a half inches, and I will not fuck anything that moves.”
Chapter Seven
Kristi
Today was a rare day. Today I had a meeting with Leona, and I wasn’t absolutely terrified.
The Twitter Q&A session had gone about as well as could have been expected. Barton tweeted out that he was taking questions, and they soon flooded in. Between all the questions about penis size, and requests for sex—not all from women—he did get some sensible questions that in turn received sensible responses.
Barton even paid attention for some of it. He had the attention span of a small child, but between watching baseball and staring at my thighs, he did provide some constructive responses. I refused to tweet out his penis size though. Nine inches sounded like an exaggeration.
Leona had emailed me that night, and set up a meeting for first thing in the morning. Finally, I’d done something worthy of recognition besides remembering how she liked her coffee.
“You should have run that Q&A session past me first,” Leona said, before I’d even sat down. I should have known a ‘well done’ was too much to hope for. “You might be working with the client, but I’m still in charge.”
“Sorry,” I replied. “I’ll double check next time. I thought it went well, though.”
Leona should look happier. I’d made Barton look good, and that made her look good. Her dad was a founding partner of the firm, so all she had to do was not fuck up and she’d be partner too one day. Having a happy client like Barton Fenner should have brought out her positive side. Maybe she didn’t have one. Maybe this was as good as it got.
“You certainly did a good job crafting those responses for him,” Leona admitted. “Perhaps a little too good. I can’t imagine many people believed he said those things.”
“He did come up with a couple,” I replied. “Are you annoyed that the responses were too fake?”
“No, that’s not it. Look, this isn’t your fault. It’s mine. I never properly explained the situation to you.”
“What situation?”
“The situation with Barton Fenner, and the work we are supposed to do for him.”
“I know I’m inexperienced, but so far things have gone smoothly. Anything has to be better than those pictures that did the rounds after his last party.”
Leona shook her head. “You really don’t get it.”
“Perhaps if you explained it to me….”
I knew I was stepping over the line, but it was damn irritating to be told I was doing it wrong when I’d made it perfectly clear that I shouldn’t have been given the responsibility in the first place. What did she expect from an intern?
“Do you know why we were hired for this job?” Leona asked.
“To make Barton look good. Or at least to stop him looking like an ass. His football team is strict on that kind of thing.”
“His team didn’t hire us.”
“Barton is paying us directly?” I’d always assumed that the team would end up paying the bill, but I suppose they could make Barton pay. They held all the power in the end. Well, that wasn’t quite right. The team needed Barton almost as much as he needed them, especially with the other quarterback out injured.
“Barton isn’t paying us,” Leona replied. “His agent is.”
“Okay, so what difference does that make?”
“Barton and his agent earn a fortune from sponsors, and they’ll earn even more in the next few years. It will dwarf the salary he gets from the team. In other words, sponsors come first, and the team comes second.”
I struggled to imagine Barton agreeing with that. I’d replied to a few of Barton’s sponsor emails yesterday, and he’d barely shown any interest. So far, his priorities seemed to be football, then women, then fans, then money. Or maybe women, then football, then fans, then money. Either way, he didn’t seem to bothered by the money.
“Does it matter?” I asked. “The sponsors and the team want the same thing anyway.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Leona replied. “Sponsors might occasionally bang on about ethics, and wanting players to appear reputable, but for the most part it’s complete BS. Barton acting like a dick brings in plenty of media attention. That gets the sponsors plenty of airtime. You remember that photo of him with his hand… where it shouldn’t have been?”
I nodded. I could barely forget it.
“He was wearing a watch from his sponsor that has now been seen by millions of people. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
“What do you want me to do?�
�� I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, look busy, and make an effort, but don’t be too successful at it. The team insisted that Barton work with you, but that doesn’t mean it has to go well. Ultimately, he’ll earn more money by carrying on the way he was, and he’ll have a lot more fun in the process.”
That’s why she put me on this job. Leona and the firm didn’t want me to succeed. The worse I do at my job, the better for everyone. Everyone except Barton.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” I asked. “Barton has no clue.”
“His agent’s job is to do what’s best for his client. I believe he determined that it would be best Barton not know. Listen, if you’re not capable of doing this, then I know plenty of people who are.”
Jessie wouldn’t hesitate. She wouldn’t have to do any work and could screw Barton all summer. She’d be in heaven.
Leona was giving me an out. I could walk away and never see Barton again. Except then I’d never get a job after college, and Barton would be screwed, and not in the way he liked. The team would eventually drop him and he might end up on the scrap heap.
“I can do it,” I replied.
Now I just had to make Barton look good, but without anyone realizing I was doing it. And I couldn’t tell Barton what was going on. That might prove a challenge.
“Do you ever work?” I asked Tasha.
I snuck out of the office early on the pretense of needing to see Barton, but really I just had to get out of there. After my meeting with Leona, I felt dirtier with every minute I sat at my computer.
“I had to meet a source today,” Tasha replied. “It finished early, so I decided to work from home.”
“When you say work from home….” I poked my head in her bedroom, expecting to find a new man in there.
“I mean work from home,” Tasha replied. “Although if you want to set me up with a footballer, it wouldn’t go amiss.”
“The only footballer I know is Barton Fenner, and trust me, you wouldn’t want him.”
“I certainly would, but obviously I’m not going to step on your toes.”
“You’re perfectly welcome to him. I’m not interested.”
“Oh come on, how many clients do you bring home? You have a huge office downtown to entertain clients, and you just happened to bring him back here on a day when the air conditioning didn’t work?”
“I wanted to be in for the repairman,” I insisted. A repairman who had arrived not a moment too soon. Barton’s whispered attempts to seduce me got closer and closer to the mark. One more and he would have hit the bullseye.
I’d always hated crude, vulgar men, but Barton managed to get away with it. He didn’t sound like some immature frat boy—he sounded like a man with every intention of carrying out his promises.
“How did it go?” Tasha asked.
“Fine,” I replied. “Hence you’re no longer sweating in here all the time.”
“I meant the date with Barton.”
“It wasn’t a date, it was a client meeting.”
“Funny, because I spoke to John this morning—”
“John?” I asked.
“The repairman. Did I mention I hooked up with the repairman a few months ago?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Oh. I hooked up with the repairman a few months ago. Anyway, he mentioned that when he came in you were dressed like you’d thrown on some clothes after sex, and Barton was barely dressed at all.”
“It was hot,” I pleaded.
“Okay,” Tasha said, holding up her hands. “I’m just saying that I’ve had a lot of client meetings in my time, but I’ve never got changed into casual clothes, and watched the client strip. Not during the meeting anyway.”
“We have rules about dating clients,” I protested. Why did I keep saying that? As excuses went, it was a shitty one. I should have said ‘I’m not interested in him’ and left it at that.
“And I’m not supposed to screw sources or the people I write about. Darling, rules are there to be broken.”
“I really need to stop introducing you to people as my sister. People might think I’m like you.”
“Don’t worry, no one will think that. You’re too boring.”
“Just because I’m not screwing Barton doesn’t make me boring. He’s just not my type.”
“He’s everyone’s type,” Tasha insisted. “He wants you, I can tell.”
“You’ve only seen him for a few minutes. You can’t possibly know that.”
Damn it, Kristi. Again with the silly responses. How hard is it to just say “I don’t care?”
“How often do you think someone like Barton spends the evening working?” Tasha asked. “Be in denial if you like, but please Kristi, if he offers it to you on a plate, promise me you’ll consider it.”
Barton wasn’t going to offer sex on a plate; he was going to make me beg for it instead.
“Fine,” I replied. “If Barton makes a move, I’ll think about it.”
Tasha raised her eyebrows in pleasant surprise and then narrowed them in suspicion. She knew it couldn’t be as simple as that, but I stared back at her, confident in my ability to slip this one past her. She didn’t need to know Barton had promised not to ask for sex.
“Alright,” Tasha said. “That’s good. I’m going to crack on with some of the work I missed this afternoon. Remember, if you happen to bump into any of his hot footballer friends, put in a good word for me.”
“Like how you’re an uber-intelligent and successful journalist, funny, witty, et cetera?”
“God, no. Tell them I’m a slut, and will try anything once. Twice if they buy me a nice dinner.”
Not for the first time, I wondered how the hell Tasha got away with being such a sl— free spirit, while managing to write great stories that got her paid big bucks. If she worked full-time, she would earn more than enough to buy a nice place instead of renting this crappy apartment.
I often wondered how many of her colleagues knew what she was like outside of work. Only me and our parents knew what she was really like, and none of us gave her a hard time, so long as she was safe. Even Dad was cool with it. He was one of those new-age feminist types, and Mom had more in common with Tasha than me.
I couldn’t bring myself to let go and have fun. I’d never talked about sex with any of my friends; I kept it behind closed doors at all times. Sure, I didn’t have a lot to talk about anyway, but I could have. It’s not like I’d never been hit on before. I’d even been tempted a few times, but I didn’t want to end up as another notch on the bedpost who got talked about in the locker room.
That’s why nothing could happen with Barton, even if I wanted it to. That man had so many notches on his bedpost, it looked like it had a woodworm infestation.
One day I’d meet the right man, and then we’d settle down and do the whole family thing. Tasha insisted I’d regret not having fun in my twenties, but I couldn’t have fun if it meant jeopardizing my career or getting my heart broken.
I would settle for a functional man, who could provide the three kids I’d always craved. That would be enough. I didn’t need a man like Barton in my life, no matter what talents he might possess on and off the field.
Chapter Eight
Barton
“You’re underestimating your receivers,” Milton explained.
He still had a plaster cast on his leg, but he’d hobbled onto the pitch with the aid of crutches to give some words of wisdom.
I didn’t need them. He might technically be the team’s first choice quarterback, but by the time he’d recovered from that injury, I would have cemented my place in the team.
Still, for now, he was the pro, and I had to at least pretend to listen to him. He did know the first team players better than me, so I might be able to learn something.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You’re used to training with the second string, but let me tell you, these gu
ys are on another level entirely. Take that last throw where you threw it out of bounds. Why did you do that?”
“No one was open. They ran their routes well, but the defense picked them up. If I’d thrown the ball it would have been intercepted.”
“That’s the difference with the first-teamers,” Milton said. “They can adapt. They know when they’re not open, so they’ll look for space. If you throw it into a space near them, more often than not, they will be in that space by the time the ball reaches it.”
“Sounds risky,” I replied. “Couldn’t the defense use the same logic?”
“Sure. But with experience, you’ll get the hang of when you can and cannot make the throw.”
“Thanks, Milton.”
“No problem, Barton. You need to get this team to the playoffs, or there won’t be much for me to come back to.”
Milton slapped the palm of his hand against my back and went off to catch up with some of the other players. He seemed surprisingly chirpy for a man who wouldn’t be able to play again this season and would be looking for a new team next year.
The offensive coach called us all together to practice two of the plays that had been giving us problems. There were few harder circumstances in football than to run a play against a defense that knew exactly what play you were making. Sure enough, all the receivers ended up closely tracked on their runs.
Let’s see how good that advice was, Milton.
I looked for Doug who was the furthest down the field on the left hand side, with no chance of catching the ball if I threw it directly into his path. Instead, I passed it nearer the middle which was wide open. Doug saw the trajectory early, and adjusted his run. He caught the ball with ease, and ran through for a token touchdown.
Not bad, Milton. Not bad at all.
“Nice throw back there, Barton,” Doug said, as we dressed after showering. “That won’t always work, but it damn well did that time.”
