Monday, October 14, 2024

Deadly Drafts - CH 47

CLARK F&$#ING KENT


The lights in Greg Fischman's office blared. For one glorious moment, the world went watery and bright. His face burned. He relished each heartbeat, trying to slow time, to clutch the invincibility still coursing through his veins. Sheila Talbot rocked her hips against him in the afterglow. Her every movement shot wave after wave of electricity through Greg's body.

He let out a small moan as she rocked to the side and rose. She stood in total eclipse, the overhead fluorescents a purple aura around her curves. Greg blinked, despereate to take a full terrabyte of mental pictures. Sheila pulling a handfull of tissues from the box on his desk. Sheila wiping herself. Sheila hucking a packet of pages onto his chest.

"What," he panted, "is this? No afterglow?" He looked up from the pages to see Sheila already dressed, black slacks hugging her hips and that damn camisole sliding down the small of her back. She disentangled the curls from her collar and turned.

"That," she nodded to the pages as she clipped back her sex-hair, "is A1 on tomorrow's paper."

Greg propped to his elbows, nearly smashing his skull on the side of his aluminum desk. He looked to the splay of pages as they slid down over his stomach. "Are you're plying me with sex to push a story?"

Sheila frowned at her reflection in Greg's computer monitor and daubed at the smear of lipstick on her cheek. "You say that like it's not a fair trade."

Greg looked to Sheila's body, then down to his own lumpy conglomeration of mismatched parts. He shrugged.

"Plus, it's one hell of a story." Sheila nodded to the pages. "Read it."

Naked as a jaybird, Greg—the Night Editor of the Bakersville Independent—dropped his used condom into the nearby garbage, picked up the packet and started reading.

"Holy shit. What is this?"

Sheila shot a laser beam of sarcasm. "It's what we in the business call a scoop."

Greg flipped through the pages, devouring text. "This is going to sound very insensitive considering what we just did… but who have you been sleeping with to get these Irregulars stories? 'Bakersville Irregulars to Tell All on Library Steps?' All of a sudden, you're like Clark fucking Kent."

"Would you believe me if I said this one comes straight from the Three Stooges themselves? They promised me a glorious shitshow tomorrow at the library. I guess the sun shines on a dog's ass every once in a while," Sheila sighed. "Or more on topic... Even a homely Night Editor gets some pussy now and again."

Greg whistled. "It sounds like these assholes are trying to get caught."

"Yeah," Sheila nodded, "yeah it does."

"I could get in trouble. I'm not supposed to touch A1 once Ryan finishes it."

You're also not supposed to penetrate your subordinates' vaginas." Sheila swiped the pages back from Greg's hands. Rolling them into a loose cone, she bopped his nose. "Especially on company property."

The threat of sexual harassment shriveled Greg's manhood into something resembling old beef jerky. "A1 it is, then."

"Good," Sheila nodded. "Glad you see it my way. Now put your damn pants on. We need to redesign an entire paper in," Sheila checked the clock over the door, "48 minutes. Lives may depend on it. And I don't think the night staff will appreciate your junk as much as I do."

Greg lunged for his pants with a smile. "You appreciate my junk?"

Sheila shook her head as she slipped into the newsroom.

"Boys."
 
 

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