pick of the harem

she sat in her cubicle eating her cuticles and throwing quick glances at the computer clock, slowly making its way towards three. he promised to call at three. he said he would definitely call, just as soon as the meeting was over. he cursed at that dummy of a supervisor who kept firing emails every five minutes, demanding project changes and rewrites. and here she was, staring at the bright monitor and picking on her scalp.

his scent was still in her shirt. she wondered if her coworkers had guessed that she had not been home last night. probably not. she smiled, thinking back to when she first started working here, and the catcalls each woman got when they showed in the same clothes the next day. possibly it was their way of bragging. possibly, it was less conspicuous than showing up in a man’s shirt with the cuffs rolled up and that faraway look in their eyes.

she inhaled his scent and tried to come back to reality. he said he’d call at three. thirty more minutes and she’d hear his gut-wrenching voice with its youthful intonations and inner shine. she could anticipate the fluttering in her belly and the squirming in the chair, while that naughty, naughty voice would replay the most succinct parts of the previous night.

perhaps she’d been too forward. he’d certainly looked a bit surprised when she said yes to his invitation, even under the obvious heat that had filled his eyes. she had no explanation about accepting, or her subsequent supernova in his apartment. it had certainly never been that way before. she’d always waited until her feelings had matured, and until she was sure that her date would bring her pleasure. with him, she’d simply said “yes”. she’d waited for the guilt or the panic but it had not come, maybe because his thumb was playing with her palm. it had been so erotic, that play of finger against smooth palm, even better results than a roofie.

a sharp wave of heat hit her straight in the gut and she almost cried out from the esquisite pain of remembering. oh man, it was still twenty to three.

c’mon, c’mon, c’mon you mofo. move your metallic butt already.

the phone was silent, just laying there passively. maybe it was mocking her and her obvious discomfort and day old hair. she did not care. her lips were still swollen from his kisses. she had been afraid to fully shower, because his tracks would dissipate so quickly and she would have nothing to dream by. she had only met him last night, so there were no other memories of him.

she imagined his hands picking up the other side of the telephone, as carefully as they had taken hers last night. she had felt so special, the pick of the litter, the queen of the hive, the slavest of the harem. it had felt like an accomplishment, he picking her like that, she accepting him like that, they leaving together like that. they had made out in the car, a veritable battle of breaths and tongues, they had made out by the car, then the door, then the hallway, then the room, then the bed, then the coffee shop in the morning, then in her mind in the cubicle, while she waited for his call.

five minutes to three. he would not mind her calling now, would he? it was only four minutes and a half to three, after all. she picked up the phone and called his number. another shiver of pleasure passed her body as she waited for the tone, and just before the receptionist picked up at the other end. she was so high, she did not mind that.

“Hello, EMA llc. How may I direct your call?”

want to speak to the sexiest man on earth, the sultan of my harem, the master of my soul, the ultimate mind apeaser and love god that you currently employ.

“Oh I am sorry but he had to go home on a family emergency. His wife was hurt in an accident early this morning”

she mumbled her apologies and hung up. the phone was still black and lifeless, just a bunch of numbers one could punch their life out on. and those cuticles, the more she bit on them, the more they grew. well, no use thinking so negatively. she’d just have to bite harder that’s all. and bloodletting was good for circulation.

she went to the restroom and washed his smell off her clothes and hair.

29 thoughts on “pick of the harem

  1. me pelqejne shkrimet e tua sidomos kur arrij ti kuptoj (anglishtja ime humbet çdo dite). Nuk jam dakord me Enin nuk eshte e trishtueshme por hop duhet hedhur prapa kurrizit dhe me shume shans heren tj. (mendimi im sigurisht)

  2. Beautiful!
    I kept reading breathless! The moment is so true: the frozen time, no information, just sensations, scents, memories, that feeling of being the only, the “chosen”…Too beautiful to continue after three…
    Cheers Blete!

  3. ah, what the heck…. some guys have all the luck, like Rod Stewart says….. (i.e., unfair world).

  4. blete, almost 20,000 hits on your blog. You need to celebrate that occasion…..

    Congrtas and keep it up!😀

  5. One more thing. This passage is cruel, they should make laws to prohibit authors from saying:

    “…it had felt like an accomplishment, he picking her like that, she accepting him like that, they leaving together like that. they had made out in the car, a veritable battle of breaths and tongues, they had made out by the car, then the door, then the hallway, then the room, then the bed, then the coffee shop in the morning…”

  6. gjergj, i am not that influential! i can give you blendi’s email and then you can establish communication and explain your ideas to him. he is a very receptive person.

  7. peach, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen before i get started on the jam.😉
    kidding aside, thx for the encouragement. and Rod Stewart in leopard print.

  8. swed, une nuk njihem per shije, njihem per veteqejf. i kam dhene vetes shume kohe me pare te pelqej ke te dua, pa me ardhur turp hic dhe pa e vrare mendjen per shije.🙂

  9. Oh,daddy,dear,
    You know you’re still number one,
    But girls,
    They wanna have fu-un!😛 😛 😛

    p.s. Cheers Blete!

  10. Blete, kjo qe e rende fare, pse mi s’paskena? S’ke pas fat thuj po, po mos mendo se jane te gjithe njesoj.

  11. swed, i could not resist.
    pastaj ndryshe nga amerikanet, per ne shqiptaret je fajtor deri sa te te provohet pafajesia.
    p.s. the story above is fictional. i told you i am preparing for romantic fiction.

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