Colonized Mike, Ch. 4: DRIVEN

by Smiley McGrouchpants

            These moments that besieged him — Truly! it felt like a hard rain, or dodging machine-gun fire — left Colonized Mike feeling perturbed, empty, and put-upon.
            (In other words . . . it smacked of work!)
            Vaguely displeased, but — as I said — experiencing it as something just sort of trauma, Colonized Mike held down the button that'd “buzz” his secretary — buzzzzz — and summon her.
            Sure enough, there she was, looking somewhat disheveled, for all her finery: just-over-the-knees skirt, blouse by Louis Vutton, manicure, hair washed with cocoa oils routinely, pantyhose by Christian Dior, fried like she'd touched the third rail thanks to the unavoidable emotional effect of a prolonged buzz.  Were bombs due to be falling?
            Colonized Mike laid on the charm.  He felt vaguely better; he could afford it, anyway (inwardly), since he was a whole five-and-a-half income tax brackets above his secretary, which was about as likely to change in her case as a radical rewriting of European nations' borders, of the dollar being replaced as the currency standard around the world with the Buffalo Chip.  “Teresa,” he breathed, almost battling his eyelids but not just yet — he was waiting for that — (he hadn't bedded Teresa, but had watched her get changed during a weekend company retreat in the Catskills; he knew what she looked like, alright), “ . . . could you, um, tape?”
            She looked flustered — and almost dove into outright panic.
            “Tape . . . ?”  She lifted a hand in the air, open towards the sky, and made a few trails.  She was veering between some composure and none at all.
            “Sure!  Scotch tape.”  He pulled open his desk drawer, blah-blah-blah, that stuff about the parking ticket, you know, I told you all about it, blah-blah-blah.
            She left with the parking ticket pieces, diligent as any Smith college graduate, and pulled the door shut with just a tad too much force.
            Colonized Mike had a hard-on in his pants to worry about, and a meeting with some European clients in less than (he looked at his Rolex watch) 17 min. (he looked again — was that a scratch?) and now he had to . . . fuck.
            It was.

            Driven to spank one out, he suavely amscrayed into the Executive Bathroomâ„¢, and closed the stall door, barely unzipping before he had his medium-sized dick in his hand, damn! he hated feeling not all that special, and concentrated on the memory of Teresa shedding her tennis clothes . . . sports bra . . . SPLOOGE!