Creative Writing: Dragon's Throttle

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Clean-up! On Aisle Nine! I left the office at about two o’clock, sadly recognizing the space I called my preferred home had its days numbered. Psychologically drained for my ruthless triggered bluntness toward Jasen but I did not buckle and walked out of my office with my head-up. If that wasn’t enough, I’d done all this shopping, yet it had slipped my mind to pick up a few essentials for home, I battled with myself whether to go to a local pharmacy for toiletries or shop for fresh fruit and veggies from the grocers. Damn it! I’m doomed to the all-you-can-buy commerce pit in the steadfast, crowded, bumper-to-bumper cart-mart. “Hi, Bradley honey. I’m glad you called.” “Hello, sugar. I actually called to leave you a quote . . . a lil’ something, realizing today would be hectic for you and thinking you would not necessarily pick up the call. I thought you might require some pepping up. It’s early, sugar. Did I interrupt, and how come it sounds like an echo?” “It is likely because I have you on speaker phone. I’m heading to the market and then home.” “I can imagine how stressful the day must have turned out. I miss you, Clareese.” “Bradley, there is an urgent topic we must talk about, but we can do this after I get home.” “Fine, ma’am. What are you wearing, sugar-lips?” “An entire metropolitan occupational black ensemble, pumps too, as if I was in mourning on some runway on Wall Street.” “Nice to be able to eagerly flash trade my tongue on your underlying assets.” “You, sir, are too cute. Thanks, you have me smiling already — and needing it, honey.” “Are you wearing stockings, skirt, or pants?” “Yes, jet black, sheer thigh highs, and a fitted skirt with a modest slit begging to be ripped, sir.” “Interesting! You best... ... middle of paper ... ...d off by you for a man who you recently met. It’s game on. You cannot be naïve, Clareese; men are competitive. Please, I am asking you to minimize or not at all have contact with him outside the office until this blow is over. He needs time . . . maybe another woman, and he’s angry. Of this I can assure you. Understood?” “Yes, sir.” “I would be too, because you are an amazing woman, his loss and he let slip through his fingers.” “Bradley, I understand your point of view, and frankly I also need to avoid drama,” I said, sympathetic to his feelings. “Good night, sugar. You have lots to read, and you must be tired. You have much at hand, and I have to get back to your sculpture. It’s the last piece I’m working on for the exhibit.” “Good night, Bradley.” “By the way, Clareese, slap your pussy a couple of times for me, and tell her I’m coming to get her.”

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