As the elevator doors opened on ninety three, Tommy stepped out and immediately realized that the entire floor was Wyndam House Publishing. He strolled to the receptionist, a dapper brunette in business attire with a hint of cleavage showing.
But, he was here on business. He stepped to the glossy mahogany counter and announced himself. "Tommy Castle for John Woodson." The perky receptionist shot back, "Yes, Mr. Castle. You're right on time. Follow me please." She pushed away from her desk, stood and motioned with her head, "This way, please." and continued down the hall to her right.
Tommy followed behind her to catch the swing of her ass. Naturally, since she was young, hot, and sexy, she was used to it.
After about a two minute walk, during which the women coming towards them all looked Tommy up and down, while the men spun their heads around like the girl in the "Exorcist," they arrived at the door of John Woodson, or so it said on the door. "Here we are. He's waiting for you. Anything else?" He smiled and raised his eyebrows. She said coyly, "Besides that?" He smiled, pushed the glass door open, "I'll get back to you," then stepped inside, on the plush carpeted floor. No desks, perky receptionist, no coffee...
The focal point of the room was a bizarre abstract paintng that looked like Picasso's nightmare. The painting was enormous-filling most of the back wall. Hmm. A couple of ornate chests sat along the right wall, probably used as filing cabinets, and a long glass counter ran down the left wall displaying some of the books that Wyndam House was apparently proud of.
Curious, he casually walked over and strolled along the counter, glancing at the books and their authors. No MOB GAMES, and no Tommy Castle. Hmm.
Through a series of erotic short stories, he had gained a rather large following, along with substantial notoriety. In other words, he wrote dirty books. Jerk off crap. Designed for lonely women to read and get themselves off on, while waiting in their mini vans for their kids to come screaming out from pre school. Or men to read on the crapper, during mid morning breaks at the factory or warehouse they worked at. So said his critics from the right wing 'moral majority'.
However, for every one of those Bible huggers, there were hundreds, maybe even thousands that praised his work; claiming his thoughts and ideas weren't crap or smut, but fresh, liberating, and honest.
Just about the time Tommy was thinking of walking out the door, he heard a high pitched voice behind him. Distinctly feminine, he turned and looked down at a man. About 5'5", his head circled with hair, leaving a shiny spot on top, and smartly wrapped in a three piece suit, sporting a bold pocket hankie of blue and gold.
"Yes." The short man extended his hand to Tommy's ham sized hand, and shook it loosely. "I'm John Woodson. I believe you're my nine fifteen. This way please." He turned and walked down a wide hall on the other side of those chests, and opened a door marked "Private", stepped in and held it open for Tommy.
Once inside, Tommy's eyes went immediately to the stuffed heads that adorned the walls. Tommy was disgusted immediately, but this little turd was his publisher, so he simply sat, as Woodson walked nervously around his ping pong table sized desk, and sat behind it in an enormous Judges chair. He looked stuffy, arrogant, and ridiculous. He began tapping his fingers against the edge of the desk.
"I'll get right to the point, Castle. I want you to tone down your language in your short stories. Now, I've listened to all the pros and cons from your contemporaries, but the final decision is mine, and I've made it. No more foul language, no more descriptive terms for men and womens anatomy, and no more sex with teen age girls. Nothing obscene. Wyndam House is a family owned publishing company, and we publish books suitable for the family. Understand?"
He leaned back in his chair feeling pretty damn smart. He'd had no resistance from Tommy. In fact, Tommy looked extremely calm, lighting his cigarette, then puffing the smoke from the side of his mouth, as he slipped his lighter back in his pocket. But, those of us that know him, and follow him know this was just the calm before the storm.
That was part of his charm. Disarming people was his specialty, and no one did it better than him. He stood, and walked over and reached across the wide table. He bentover and whispered in his ear, "Fuck you," then turned to walk out. He knew he wouldn't make it to the door before the little prick would stop him. He was right. "Castle!" He fingered his way around his desk and approached Tommy.
"What?" Tommy snarled down at him. Eyes blazing , chin jutted out.
"Uhh. I wasn't quite finished." Woodson knew it would be his ass, if their newest author of serious work (MOB GAMES) walked out.
"Yeah ...yeah you were. You took great pleasure in that little speech of yours. It looked rehearsed, sounded rehearsed, and I guarantee you is just your shitty little narrow minded opinion. Not Wyndam House. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to that hot little receptionist of yours, take her to lunch at Tavern on the Green, and fuck her in the ass in that corner booth. Then she'll dismount me, suck my cock until it explodes in her mouth, and she'll giggle as she swallows every drop."
Ok, the storm is here.
Woodson tugged on his suit, "You're the most obscene man I have ever had the displeasure to meet!"
Tommy replied, "Obscene? You want to know what's obscene? Look around you fucking hypocrite. All these 'trophies' of yours. Probably shot in the back because God knows you couldn't face them and kill them. You're a dirty little bastard. And these gun magazines? AK-47's for deer hunting? You're a stuffy, pretentious little prick."
"Uhh, please let's sit back down and discuss this rationally." He turned and walked back to his desk. Tommy smiled,followed, and sat back down..
Woodson began, "Let me apologize. I apparentley came off as rude. I was going for concise."
"Do you cuss, Woodson?"
"Certainly not. I'm an educated man with a tremendous vocabulary. Why would I use foul language?"
"Foul language makes a point. A direct point. No mysterious inuendos, no hidden meanings. Bullshit is bullshit. Not cow poop. A woman's vagina is a pussy. Vagina sounds harsh, cold and unforgiving. Pussy sounds sweet, cuddly, juicy, and warm. Now which would you rather put your penis in?"
"I don't use that kind of language."
Tommy leaned across the desk, "Never?" (Think the O.J. trial and F. Lee Bailey here)
Woodson cleared his throat and grumbled, "Never"
"In your life?"
"In my life."
"You're a fucking liar." Tommy looked at the picture of an attractive, but matronly woman on the credenza behind Woodson, presumably his wife.
"What do you say to your wife at bedtime Woodson? Dear, would you mind terribly if I slipped my penis in your vagina for a few minutes. It might pleasure us both. Perhaps you need release as much as I do. I've had a frightfull day with a most obnoxious client. I'll be quick about it. Then she says, 'if you must'. But, don't make a mess. These are new sheets. Is that your idea of the way the real world acts in the bedroom?"
"Only the civilized ones. I suppose you'd approach it with something vulgar."
"Yeah, and I'd get laid. You'll end up jacking off because you didn't curl the little woman's toes, pal. I gotta go. You're a dickhead, and there's plenty of publishers on this street that will appreciate my work."
Woodson got nervously to his feet as he saw..."Mrs. Wyndam...I'm..I'm...we were just having a discussion."
Mrs. Wyndam took a long, slow draw on her cigarette and walked towards Tommy, "Sit down John." Then extended her hand to Tommy. He grinned and said, 'Nice to see you, again Mrs. Wyndam." Shocker alert.
Mrs. Wyndam was the silver haired woman in the elevator earlier when he fucked Ivy against the wall. She protected him then, and she's about to do it, again.
"Nice to see you, too Tommy. It's Jane. Come with me." Jane snuffed out her cigarette and took Tommys hand. As she walked to the glass door, she looked over her shoulder and said, "Woodson, you're fired. You have until 1:00 pm today to get your shit and get out. If you don't, I'll have security throw your assout."
Tommy looked back and smiled as Jane stepped through the door, and made his hand into a pistol. He pulled the imaginary trigger and mouthed, "Bang, bang." Then blew the tip of his finger and said to Jane, "So ,tell me sweetheart, where are you taking me?"
Jane kept walking, still holding his hand and replied, "First to bed, then to lunch at Tavern on the Green. After that, we'll play it by ear. I'm thinking of taking you on a world tour for MOB GAMES. Up to it?"
"Did you read it?"
"Then you know the answer."
As Woodson pulled into his driveway in the Hamptons with his BMW packed with his books, and office memorabilia, his wife slipped her copy of "Daddy, make me your slut" under her cushion of her wicker sofa, then touched her red lips.
I wonder if I'll ever get fucked like that?
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