Hey, please your comments are really needed to encourage me. Even if you read only one sentence or paragraph, tell me what you think of it. Thanks. Oga Larrysun , OMA4U, and anyone with an eye for a good story, please drop a comment.

Waiting anxiously. .



[size=15pt]#SUGARBEE[/size]

DEDICATION

To Simonhabby, for planting the seed.

(I was supposed to submit this for his competition, but I didn't have enough time, and I didn't want to subject the story to the injustice of rushing it)

Whenever my neighbours flog their dog, I remember Seun, the enigmatic owner of nairaland and his crazy love for pets. It’s happening now; the unfortunate dog is getting it full dose as usual. As the dog yelps in hapless agony, I imagine Seun in my shoes. I imagine him cringe, suffer an instant loss of appetite, and go over to the culpable neighbour, his large eyes narrowing slightly and his dimples disappearing in genuine concern as he gives a brief lecture on how not to treat your dog. Of all things to care about, he chose dogs. I gave up on the guy the day he appeared to argue for a pack of dogs that went for a little boy’s scalp! I had wanted to take it up with him but realized I had around twelve megabytes worth of data to handle him, send my CV to a couple of offices that couldn’t care less and, of course, chat with my girlfriend. I decided to fight another day.


My neighbour’s landlady had to shout her reproaches from the window before whoever was handling the dog decided to let it be. I scrapped the last blob of pap with my spoon and into my mouth. Wetin concern me? I had enough things to worry about than some errant dog that probably deserved some beating. There were CVs to fire out to offices, prayers to back them up, and my girlfriend’s birthday that comes up in two months’ time to worry about. Then there was, at the background of it all, the looming shadow of house rent. The rent will be due in five months, and with what I earn as a secondary school teacher, I’ll need a miracle to raise that amount. I’ve calculated it back and forth, no point in flogging a dead horse. I can’t call my aunt for help; she has done enough by paying a year’s rent and leaving fifty thousand naira for me before joining her husband in Dubai. My main concern was how to retain the lovely apartment she left for me. After that, who knows, I could even buy a dog.


As I rinsed the plate in the sink, I considered the other accommodation alternative there was: moving into the teachers’ quarters in school. I almost spat into the sink. God forbid! Many things would be at stake. My colleagues would know more about me than I would normally permit: who comes, who goes, what I eat and whether I eat at all. God help me.


Back in the sitting room, I sank into the consoling softness of the leather chair and scanned the local TV channels, knowing I won’t find anything worth watching. My eyes caught the DSTV decoder. I had foolishly subscribed it once after my aunt travelled, with the fifty thousand naira still adding extra dimension to my bank account. Right now, I would gladly unwatch all those silly channels for half the subscription fee. But in all fairness, DSTV should have two or three free-to-air stations, I thought. Suddenly, it struck me that I could sell the decoder. I never thought about selling any of the things that were bequeathed to me, but now that it crossed my mind, I saw nothing bad in it; it seemed like a cost-saving measure. I began drawing up a mental list of potential buyers when my phone beeped – text message.


On a Saturday like this, I rarely expect important messages (unless my girlfriend felt like acting civilized for once and informing me that she was coming for weekend). True, I had no cause to expect a bank credit alert, but I often thought of it whenever I got a text message, only for a majority of the messages to turn out as one of the many ubiquitous unsolicited advert messages from MTN. I reached for my phone and opened the message. I froze. I scrolled up and down; the text message was for real. A job interview! I felt hollowed out with excitement. Then, as quickly as the excitement had come, it gave way for a numbing uneasiness.
I checked the message again, slowly this time, a strange sadness enveloping me. The interview was in two days’ time – Monday – at a big pharmaceutical company. I had my suit, shirt and tie hanging in the wardrobe, ready for the big day. I also had my determination to land a better job and upgrade my living. But, against all these, I had a doctored CV to defend on Monday. I suddenly started sweating from my legs. I decided to inform Bright, the guy that manufactured the CV for me. He had invented the pharmaceutical company in Ibadan where I had supposedly worked for two years as the personal assistant to the marketing manager. I dialed his number.


“Hello, Brighto.”


“Chief,” he said in his usual excited, playful manner, “how is it going?”


“I thank God, bro. There’s a little development though.”


“Hmm, development,” he repeated to let me know the word could mean a thousand things. “Is your girlfriend pregnant?” I imagined him grinning at the other end, revealing his perfectly carved gap-tooth.


“No, that’s not it,” I said in a serious tone, hoping my mood would rub off on his. When he said nothing and I sensed his excitement wane, I told him about the interview and asked whether the company actually existed. He assured me it did; one of his aunts had worked there. He promised to send me some information about the company later in the evening as he was about to go and watch the English Premier League. He reminded me to find him something when I finally land the job.

SUGARBEE:
Waiting anxiously. .



[size=15pt]#SUGARBEE[/size]

Thanks. Oya...

I don’t know much about fashion, but since a bank CEO I often admired said, in an interview, that he preferred his ties in Windsor knots, I googled Windsor knot and decided to wear only Windsor-knotted ties. So on Monday morning, I wore my tie in a Windsor knot, threw on my longsuffering suit and went for the interview. There were about sixteen applicants. The process wasn’t long; we were done in an hour, dismissed with a transport allowance of two thousand naira each and a promise to ‘hear from us’.


Schools were on holidays, so I wasn’t in a hurry. After the interview, I took a bus home, changed into a faded jean trousers and t-shirt and went to the market to buy some things for soup. I had wanted to drop at the market straight from the interview, but I didn’t want to draw weird stares from people when I haggled with fish sellers in my suit. I had also planned to buy a few things and create a semblance of jollof rice, but with the money from the interview, I could afford a decent pot of soup, a custard bucket of garri, a packet of sugar and a bottle of groundnut. I bought all these and went home to find my door unlocked, Luther Vandross playing on my home theatre. It can only be one person.


I slowed down briefly at the door, put on a smile and walked inside. She was sitting on the chair opposite the TV, wearing only my boxer shorts and my singlet – braless – the glossy, taut side of her firm breasts considerably visible from the side of the loose singlet, and the rest of it clearly outlined. I felt a weight in my chest. “What are you looking at?” she asked, a disarming smile spreading across her face. I exhaled. “Nothing. How are you?” She stood and I moved closer and kissed her briefly.


“How was the interview?” She took the water-proof bag from me and, on her way to the kitchen, added, “Don’t look.” I had already taken in the firm bulge of her buttocks outlined in the shorts and the effortless swing of her hips.


“Shut up,” I said playfully and took her position on the leather chair. “The interview went fine, by the way.” She wasn’t aware of the doctored CV. I didn’t think she should know. Not yet. When she returned, we discussed about the interview and made love. She cooked the soup; we ate, and had another round of sex.


When she left, I considered that the sex may work against my prayers for a job and quickly knelt down and asked God for forgiveness.

As there was no stipulated time to expect feedback from the interview, the next few days made me frantic with expectation. I had my phone with me always, even in the bathroom and toilet. I had heard stories of applicants who missed jobs because they failed to pick the calls that would confirm their appointments. And such calls, I heard, never came twice. I frequently checked my emails and called back unknown numbers that flashed me in spite of myself. Every ring of the phone quickened my pulse. I even changed my ring tone to a loud rock music, in case it rang when I slept. I decided to get a grip on myself when I started rushing to pick the phone only to find out it hadn’t actually rang.


After five days of crazy expectations, the frenzy died down. I decided to ease off. I started leaving my phone on the table to go and watch Premier League games, but I would still return to check for calls and messages. I got angry when there was none and angrier that I still expected to hear from them. I regretted that I didn’t get the phone number of any of my co-applicants; at least I would have called to find out whether any of them had been contacted.


Then one Saturday afternoon, I got a text message from the company. I had just returned from watching Arsenal settle for yet another draw against a smaller team. I wasn’t happy. I went to the fridge and poured myself a glass of water. In the sitting room, I stared at the phone in ambivalence. I already felt bad because of the match, if I checked the phone and there was nothing, I might burst a vein. I ignored the phone; then it rang. I leaned forward to be sure it was actually ringing. It was, and the caller was not on my contacts list. My pulse quickened. I let the phone ring while I composed myself properly. I breathed in and out, and then I picked it.


“Hello, baby,” a familiar voice burst through as soon as the phone touched my right ear. I fought the urge to let out a long sigh. I squeezed my face in bitterness and replied “Hello”.


“This is my etisalat line. You don’t have it?” I said nothing. She continued. “Well, did you watch the match?” I sensed the mockery in her voice. My girlfriend, Ify, was a supporter of Chelsea while I was an Arsenal fan; so there was always an opportunity to have a dig at me. “I’m not in the mood, please,” I said almost pleadingly.


She laughed. “Should I come over and make you happy? The test didn’t hold anymore.” She was in her final year at the state university.


“No,” I blurted, although her presence would surely smoothen out things, but since when did she really have to seek my permission before coming to see me? She said “Eiyaah” and cut the call. As I made to drop the phone, I saw a message notification and clicked it open. For a moment, I couldn’t feel my environment; it looked like I was floating in the clouds. The chair I sat on and the rug on which my legs rested suddenly felt feathery, airy, like a powerful force has possessed me. I muttered “Thank You Jesus” severally as I re-read the message. I dropped the phone, sprang up and pumped my fist into the air, shouting “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and pacing around the room in careless happiness. The company has asked me to print a confirmation letter from my email and come with it for my appointment letter on Monday! The day after tomorrow!


I switched on the home theatre and played Nathaniel Bassey’s Imela, then I sent Ify a message, informing her about the good news and asking her to come over.


That Saturday evening was like no other before it. Before Ify came, I rushed down to the nearest ATM and withdrew five thousand naira to take her out. When she walked in, all smiles, we hugged and kissed affectionately. I offered to take her out, she declined; she had another idea. She had bought frozen chicken on her way and offered to make a special chicken stew instead. My disappointment was only brief. After all, my pastor had enjoined us to be very careful when we were happy or angry. I joined her in the kitchen, slicing onions, refilling the kettle with water, talking a little too much, occupying space.

slap1:
DEDICATION

To Simonhabby, for planting the seed.

(I was supposed to submit this for his competition, but I didn't have enough time, and I didn't want to subject the story to the injustice of rushing it)

And I've got a beautiful story dedicated to me.

simonhabby:


And I've got a beautiful story dedicated to me.

Thanks for making it possible.

Everything moved smoothly. Before ten in the morning, my appointment was confirmed and I was shown around the place and introduced to other staff. Finally I sat before the CEO, a man who looked rather smallish for his position. He removed his glasses and said, “You may sit.” When I did, he congratulated me once more and gave me a brief history of the company, how they strive for excellence and all that. I would be assisting the marketing manager who would be leaving to head their new branch in Lagos in a few months and I’m expected to be a fast learner so I can effectively step into her big shoes. My salary would be one hundred and eighty thousand naira for a start, and I would have forty thousand naira transferred to my account that day for wardrobe allowance. I suppressed a grin, merely nodding as though it’s not such a big deal. The CEO dismissed me and faced his laptop. I was to resume officially the next day.


On my way home, I got an alert from my bank for forty thousand naira. I smiled. As the taxi passed a fast-food restaurant, the aroma of whatever they were preparing wafted into the car. I decided I wanted some of it, whatever it was. I told the driver to stop. Over the next few days, I ate more from fast-food than I had done in my twenty-eight years. I called my aunty to tell her the good news, pleading that she shouldn’t tell the people back in the village before they besiege me with request, but that I would be sending money back home and would inform them about the job when I’m a bit more comfortable. She thanked God for me, told me she was expecting a baby, and cautioned me about extravagance. “You’re not getting any younger, you know, so start planning for your future,” she concluded. I knew what she meant. Getting married was still further down the list of things I planned to do.


Three months on the job, my life gradually changed in a way that could only be made possible by money. I became more aware of things I initially didn’t care about. I stopped eating at bukkas, drank bottled water outside and sachet water at home and generally became more self-aware. I bought shoes of different colours (instead of the default black) which I normally wouldn’t have bought because they would select clothes. Ify rarely asked for money, but I made sure I spent a good amount on her. Being independent-minded, she almost never accepted cash gifts from me, so I bought her fashion items now and then.


Even so, in the midst of my new life, I often thought about the forged CV – backed with a signed letter of recommendation from ‘my former employers’ – and how everything could fall apart on a bad day. I hadn’t thought it a big deal (just a harmless tweaking of CV), but as my profile rose in the company, as I slowly adapted into my new life, reality struck me every so often. I often imagined being summoned by the manager to listen to how disappointed he was that a young man like me would take to forgery, and being handed over to the police, or more shamefully, being escorted out of the building by the same security guys who envied me and benefited from my generous tips! I shuddered at the thought. I thought to pray about it, but what would I ask God to do? Uphold my forgery? Postpone the evil day or strike it out completely? I thought about resigning and starting up something, but I hadn’t really saved up enough, so it could be back to square one in little time.

Things were different in the office. I had gotten a pay rise to two-fifty. Everyone seemed to like me. I had worked hard, learnt fast and became quite good and successful, so much that I think less of the forgery and more about going places with the company and even assuming its leadership someday. Presently, I became quite close with the CEO. He invited me to his house for dinner and took me to expensive hotels and bars for business meetings. He was one of those men whose faces betrayed little emotions, so you really had a hard time figuring out what he might be thinking at any given time. In some of our meetings, I wondered whether he knew, and what his reaction might be when he does. He always looked serious; it was difficult to tell how much he knew. I wouldn’t doubt that he knew about me but decided to hire me anyway, for reasons best known to him.


My relationship with my direct boss was even better. Since I worked directly under her, we had reasons to spend time together. We visited big pharmacies and hospitals together and sometimes worked together after normal office hours. I’ve even had to go over to her house on a public holiday to go over the details of a contract. Ify hadn’t taken it lightly, given that my boss was single and rich. And it didn’t help that, at forty-six, my boss had the lithe body of a yoga instructor. Now and then I caught myself imagining things with her; I imagined what it would be like, doing it with her; it would be an ethereal experience. I understood Ify’s worries, but assured her that nothing would happen, at least not until my boss made the move – I thought to myself – which seemed highly unlikely, or so I thought. I had always strived to maintain a strictly business relationship with my boss, not that I could really cross the line without risking everything.
One hectic day, we had cause to stay back after office hours. It was just both of us on the entire third floor, then the driver and the security guys downstairs. She suddenly looked at her watch. “We’re not going to finish this anytime soon,” she said. I said nothing, I was entering figures on Microsoft excel. After a short while I said, by way of a reply, “I don’t mind going home a bit late today, it doesn’t happen all the time.”
“I’m worried for Azeez. His wife put to bed a couple of days ago, so he should be around.” Azeez was her driver, and I agreed with her. But I felt a fleeting wave of disappointment and anger because there was, in her words, a suggestion that she didn’t care that I was also late.


“Can you drive?” she asked. I replied that I can. She picked up her phone. “Hello Azeez, sorry for keeping you this long. You may go home now, just leave the key in the ignition, OK?” She kept the phone on the table.

“You’re driving us home tonight,” she said to me. I thought of the possible meanings of what she has said. Driving us home tonight. I wondered whether she meant I would be spending the night in her beautiful duplex. My hormones reacted quickly at the thought and I was grateful that I was sitting across the table and my hardness was completely hidden. “Now come over and check these papers again,” she said suddenly, “right away, there should be no mistakes.” I panicked. There was no way I could go over there without her seeing the unusual protrusion around my crotch. “Just a minute,” I said, standing up slowly, a hand on the laptop, entering a useless figure while I prayed for the normalcy of my body. “And it’s about time you got yourself a car,” she said, swiftly standing up and heading to the toilet. I thanked my stars and quickly scrambled over to her side of the table.

Keep it coming. You're doing great.

Continue

Keep it cuming...........its such an interesting piece.......more mb to ur phone

After several occasions of regrettable ambivalence, I learnt to trust my instincts. So when, on a Friday evening, the CEO said he would like to have a word with me on the evening of the next day, I was convinced he has found out and probably wants me to resign – because of our smooth work relationship – instead of suffering the ignominy of being sacked. I managed to look unruffled as I left his office for mine. I was to meet him at a certain restaurant by 6:00pm; his driver would come to pick me. Thankfully the message came towards the close of work because I couldn’t concentrate anymore when I got to my office. I shut down my laptop and left. When I walked past the receptionist, she greeted waved and greeting with the usual beautiful smile. I returned the smile absent-mindedly and walked briskly into the warmth of the evening. She was a beautiful lady and I didn’t doubt that she would go on a date with me if I asked.


Back home, I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I couldn’t eat the fast-food takeaway I grabbed on my way back. I thought about calling Ify and telling her everything. I had always worried that she didn’t know about the lie on my CV, which had got me this job and, in essence, fetched the good life we enjoyed. I pushed the thought out of my mind. What difference would it make when she finally finds out? Even if I get the sack now, at least I’ve saved up something…


By 5:30 pm on Saturday, I was dressed in a blue jeans, red t-shirt and red loafers, waiting for the driver. I looked outside the window quite often in anticipation. I saw him pull up outside the house fifteen minutes later and walked outside. I replied his greetings and slid into the front seat, ignoring the back door he held open.


I walked into the VIP section of the restaurant which was empty except for the smallish frame of the CEO at the far corner, a bottle of red wine on the table before him. My first thought was whether he paid for this privacy or it was a fortunate coincidence. We exchanged stilted greetings, and then I pulled out a chair and sat across him. He offered me the wine, I declined. The bar was washed with pale blue light.


“How has working with us been, so far?” he asked.


“It’s been fine,” I said, a little nervous, more convinced that this was only the preamble and it was only a matter of time before he laid my sins before me.


“How’s your relationship with your boss?”


“Fine.” I hadn’t expected a question like that. “We get along very well.”


“She’s a beautiful lady,” he said, sipping from the tumbler before hm. It wasn’t a question, but it was said in that way that suggests you are expected to say something, so I quickly offered, “Yes, she is.” I wasn’t still sure where this was headed, but I was convinced that the purpose and outcome of this particular meeting would certainly be different from the others before it. When I thought about that statement again, it struck me that there might be something going on between them. I felt jealous for a moment.


The silence that followed was quite unusual. It was almost as though he had forgotten I was there, or he was in a trance. I regretted not accepting the wine he offered earlier; at least it would have provided a welcome diversion from this awkward moment.


“How well do you know her?” he suddenly asked. Then, perhaps sensing that his question didn’t make complete sense, added, “Your boss. Do you guys chat about other things than work?”


“I don’t know much about her, sir, and we mostly discuss work.” I was becoming uncomfortable and angry with this line of questioning. What does he really want? What was all this beating about the bush for? He suddenly looked at his watch and gulped down the drink in the tumbler. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. “Leticia is sitting between me and something I’ve always wanted to have, somewhere I’ve always wanted to be…” his voice trailed off. “I want her out of the way, and I want you to make that happen.”


“Why…how…” He raised his right hand, signaling that I wait.


“I will explain everything to you, but just know that you must help me get rid of Leticia or I make sure you serve the full time for forgery.” I looked down in shame. So he knew all this while. “And don’t think of resigning,” he continued. “It won’t help.”

SammieLowkey:
Keep it coming. You're doing great.

nobletitus:
Keep it cuming...........its such an interesting piece.......more mb to ur phone

Ay04z:
Continue

Thanks, guys.

slap, like say make I slap u for real.. why did u stop dere nah I like d story, it's more like a diary.. #following..

Can't wait to see how things will unfold.

He should get a car and marry ify sharparly joor.


Following

labaski:
slap, like say make I slap u for real.. why did u stop dere nah I like d story, it's more like a diary.. #following..

Now what if you slap him and im con vex, run commot??

Hehe
OK guys. I owe you all an update tonight. Thanks for the comments.

On my way home, I slipped into the backseat and asked the driver to turn off the AC. I wound down the window to let in some fresh air. I wished for more fresh things: fresh life, fresh job, and a fresh world. Nothing around me made sense. I had played into the hands of an ambitious schemer, boxed myself into a corner. The three options I had played around in my head: resign and go to jail, set up my boss and retain my job or resign and run away. But where would I really run to? There were many places in a country like Nigeria where someone could hide forever, but what about Ify? What about my family? What would they think of me? I thought of my parents, would they survive it? Running away or going to jail was against the ways of my upbringing. It would shatter my family and everything we stood for. I realized the car had stopped.


“Any problem? Why are we stopping?” I leaned towards the driver.


“Sir this is your house na,” he said, turning back briefly. I couldn’t see his face clearly but I was quite sure he must have looked bemused. I apologized briskly and got out of the car. I wasn’t thinking clearly yet. But so far, the safer option would be to do the bidding of my CEO, but that would inflict an eternal injury on my mind; it would fill me with a guilt I may never live with. I needed to talk to someone, in spite of myself; I wanted to involve no one in my mess. It was my cross, and I had to carry it. But on second thought, I decided to call someone. I thought of Bright, who actually set the ball rolling. I forgot about him, he might give me an advice that might make things worse, like killing my boss, the CEO, or both of them. I decided to call the only other person whom I could truly rely on to give me sound advice.


“Hello, Baby,” I said, suddenly feeling guilty for not involving her from the start. Ify had a host of names for me, from the romantic, to the funny and the downright mischievous. This time, she chose, “My Fine Boy, how are you?” I could sense she was in a happy mood, a mood I was about changing. “Well, I’m not fine, babe, I’m not fine. There’s trouble, I need to tell you some things.” I added the last sentence so she could prepare her mind for anything. By default, I guessed she might be thinking I was about to confess of an affair or announce a friendly breakup.


“Hmm…” the happiness in her tone had vanished. “It’s late already. Why not…”


“Please, pick a taxi, take a drop…”


“Alright. I’ll be there.”
As I kept the phone on the table, I imagined how convenient – and how romantic – it would have been to say, "I’ll send my driver to come and pick you”.

Op i see greatness in you from your write up, you are good. if i may ask is this fictional or real?

iamehmakute:
Op i see greatness in you from your write up, you are good.
if i may ask is this fictional or real?

Thanks. It's completely fictional. Thanks again. I will post longer updates today by God's grace.

Following
Btw quote me when u update slap1

This is very nice. Also started a story for this same category of the competition but did not get to submit. I guess I'll put mine up here as well...

A good story so far. More of it please.

Op we've started commenting and you've stop updating. Maaka y?

iamehmakute:
Op we've started commenting and you've stop updating.
Maaka y?

NEPA and time have disagreed with me. But I'm working on an update now. Apologies.

The founder of my company, Lima Pharmaceuticals, died three years ago of a kidney infection. His death was slow but certain. His marriage to my boss was childless but not loveless. He was a kind and friendly man, but the easiest way to see the bad side of him was to suggest he took another wife since the first one was childless. As the company grew, he brought in his best friend and made him the CEO while he became the director of the company and his wife the marketing manager.


One month after his burial, his will was read. According to the will, his wife would become the director of the company and would remain so unless she remarried or had a sexual relationship with any man, upon which the company would be headed by his best friend, the CEO. It was an unusual clause, but it was the dead man’s wish. From the moment the will was read, the CEO plotted towards assuming the role of the director. He had paid young men to monitor her movements with hidden cameras. He even paid heavily to monitor her when she travelled outside the country. So far, his efforts had been unrewarded. And now here was I, a young handsome man, close to her and – most importantly – with something to lose. I was clearly the ticket to his ambition. So I either do his bidding or lose my job and then go to jail.


Ify said nothing. We sat in the two-in-one settee in the living room. She was definitely thinking of something, but it was impossible to know what it was; I could only feel the comforting warmth of her body as she sat close to me. Then she took my hand and squeezed it. “There’s always a way, baby. And forget that you didn’t tell me about the CV stuff, I understand’ I’m not mad at you.”


“Thanks,” I muttered, really meaning it.


“We’re on the same side,” she said, leaving my hand and moving closer. “The best thing to do is find a way out of the mess.”


“That’s the issue, honey. I can’t seduce my boss…not in this case. That woman has been good to me. I can’t hurt her, and I can’t disappoint my family either. I don’t see another way out of this mess!” I was completely devastated. I wondered whether the job had been worth the troubles I was faced with. Different images of the CEO filled my head, a small man with an overly big ambition. An imp. The thought of sleeping with my boss and having it on camera couldn’t even materialize in my mind; I couldn’t think it.


"What do you think your CEO values so much?” Ify asked, plucking me from my thoughts.


“What?” I didn’t really understand her.


"Your CEO, what does he value so much? Do you have an idea?”


"No. Why do you ask?”


"Why do I ask? Sweetheart, he’s playing hard ball, he’s playing dirty! The only way we can fight back without hurting innocent people is to pay him in his own coin. Let’s find a way to stand between him and something he cherishes most.” As good as the idea sounded, I didn’t see how we were going to achieve it, so I kept quiet to allow her continue. “You’ve been to his house severally, right? Do you sense genuine love between him and his family?” Ify was sounding different, like those badass lawyers in John Grisham’s books.


"I don’t really get you, but hey, which man doesn’t love his family?” She wasn’t impressed by my reply. “Well, he does. He talks about them now and then. I think he met his wife in the university or so,” I added. “But what are all these questions for?”


"Let’s set him up the way he wants to set your boss up. You know the hotels and bars he frequents?”


"Yes.” I dragged the ‘yes’, not yet sure what she meant, but content to let her continue, since she seem to have an idea while I can’t even think clearly.


"Get me a list of the bars he often visits alone, or with you. We could plant beautiful and endowed girls and give them instructions. Beautiful, endowed and smart girls. Then when he gets hooked to any of them, we keep a close watch and get it on camera when they get down for real.” I didn’t like how she said get down for real, it sounded unladylike; but right now, don’t care. “It’s a long shot,” she continued, sensing I hadn’t really bought the idea, “but it could work. We have no option anyway.”


“I’ll get the list tomorrow,” I said finally.


“I’m tired. I need some sleep.”


“Me too,” she said. “Don’t worry, OK? The plan will work. You know you men are led by…” she tapped my crotch playfully and got up “…this place.”


“Shut up,” I said, laughing, something that had seemed like a luxury some minutes ago. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”


“OK,” her voice came from the bedroom, “but no show tonight, babe.”


“For your mind.”

WilliamsNedd:
Following
Btw quote me when u update slap1

OK

tanks for updating at last.this is spicey