| Mature Fiction posted September 16, 2008 |
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Short take on lust.
Sir Derrick of Loserville
by zeezeewriter
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.
This is not going to work ... any fool can tell; any fool but me.
I was warned by friends and family. Even Chiang, my dry cleaner, shakes his finger at me and laments, "You too much stupid."
Derrick is a loser, plain and simple. He reeks of loser. Loser should be tattooed on his narrow, fucking, forehead. Instead, I’m having it tattooed on mine.
The day he came skating into the diner I should have known. “No skate boards in the restaurant,” I said.
He grinned and set his board outside next to the giant ashtray.
“No problem, little Missy,” he said. “How’s the Java in this joint?”
Okay, you tell me, who says Java these days?
“You drinkin it or wearin it,” I asked, and poured him a cup without waiting for an answer.
I was on hour eleven of a double shift. My dogs were barking and my Summers Eve freshness guarantee had expired during my last pee break. I wanted a long, hot, soak in the tub, eight hours of sleep, and a bottle of wine; but not in that order.
“My name’s Derrick, little Missy, what’s yours?”
“Little Missy,” I answered. He laughed. I shuffled off to the next customer.
Four cups of coffee and a piece of apple crumb cake later, he was the last man standing. I shoved his check toward him for the umpteenth time and he grabbed my hand.
I started to pull away when it hit me. Needles of excitement ran up my arm, across my sternum, slowing down long enough to make laps around my nipples and then taking a dive into my damp panties.
That was three weeks ago. For three weeks I have spent every night with my legs in the air. Derrick is one hot loser and I am one horny loser. A match made in heaven.
He sleeps late while I work. He eats me out of house and home. He leaves the toilet lid up. He uses my tooth brush. I hate him.
But ... when the lights go out, he turns into Sir Gallacock. He is a love machine. He turns me inside out. He has a PhD in pussy. The guy is great in the dark. I hate him.
I will give this one more week, then he’s out. No, really, I’m not kidding. This is not going to work.
This is not going to work ... any fool can tell; any fool but me.
I was warned by friends and family. Even Chiang, my dry cleaner, shakes his finger at me and laments, "You too much stupid."
Derrick is a loser, plain and simple. He reeks of loser. Loser should be tattooed on his narrow, fucking, forehead. Instead, I’m having it tattooed on mine.
The day he came skating into the diner I should have known. “No skate boards in the restaurant,” I said.
He grinned and set his board outside next to the giant ashtray.
“No problem, little Missy,” he said. “How’s the Java in this joint?”
Okay, you tell me, who says Java these days?
“You drinkin it or wearin it,” I asked, and poured him a cup without waiting for an answer.
I was on hour eleven of a double shift. My dogs were barking and my Summers Eve freshness guarantee had expired during my last pee break. I wanted a long, hot, soak in the tub, eight hours of sleep, and a bottle of wine; but not in that order.
“My name’s Derrick, little Missy, what’s yours?”
“Little Missy,” I answered. He laughed. I shuffled off to the next customer.
Four cups of coffee and a piece of apple crumb cake later, he was the last man standing. I shoved his check toward him for the umpteenth time and he grabbed my hand.
I started to pull away when it hit me. Needles of excitement ran up my arm, across my sternum, slowing down long enough to make laps around my nipples and then taking a dive into my damp panties.
That was three weeks ago. For three weeks I have spent every night with my legs in the air. Derrick is one hot loser and I am one horny loser. A match made in heaven.
He sleeps late while I work. He eats me out of house and home. He leaves the toilet lid up. He uses my tooth brush. I hate him.
But ... when the lights go out, he turns into Sir Gallacock. He is a love machine. He turns me inside out. He has a PhD in pussy. The guy is great in the dark. I hate him.
I will give this one more week, then he’s out. No, really, I’m not kidding. This is not going to work.
I was warned by friends and family. Even Chiang, my dry cleaner, shakes his finger at me and laments, "You too much stupid."
Derrick is a loser, plain and simple. He reeks of loser. Loser should be tattooed on his narrow, fucking, forehead. Instead, I’m having it tattooed on mine.
The day he came skating into the diner I should have known. “No skate boards in the restaurant,” I said.
He grinned and set his board outside next to the giant ashtray.
“No problem, little Missy,” he said. “How’s the Java in this joint?”
Okay, you tell me, who says Java these days?
“You drinkin it or wearin it,” I asked, and poured him a cup without waiting for an answer.
I was on hour eleven of a double shift. My dogs were barking and my Summers Eve freshness guarantee had expired during my last pee break. I wanted a long, hot, soak in the tub, eight hours of sleep, and a bottle of wine; but not in that order.
“My name’s Derrick, little Missy, what’s yours?”
“Little Missy,” I answered. He laughed. I shuffled off to the next customer.
Four cups of coffee and a piece of apple crumb cake later, he was the last man standing. I shoved his check toward him for the umpteenth time and he grabbed my hand.
I started to pull away when it hit me. Needles of excitement ran up my arm, across my sternum, slowing down long enough to make laps around my nipples and then taking a dive into my damp panties.
That was three weeks ago. For three weeks I have spent every night with my legs in the air. Derrick is one hot loser and I am one horny loser. A match made in heaven.
He sleeps late while I work. He eats me out of house and home. He leaves the toilet lid up. He uses my tooth brush. I hate him.
But ... when the lights go out, he turns into Sir Gallacock. He is a love machine. He turns me inside out. He has a PhD in pussy. The guy is great in the dark. I hate him.
I will give this one more week, then he’s out. No, really, I’m not kidding. This is not going to work.
 Recognized |
I wrote this in response to a challenge on another writing site. This is called a two for one, just for fun.
Thanks to Shutterbug78 for the art work.
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and 2 member cents. Thanks to Shutterbug78 for the art work.
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