Business School, Financial Disclosure, M&A, and St Paddy's Day

I still smile a crooked grin when I make my annual alumni donation to my business school.

 

Simply, because we'd both learned the same way to set up certain forms and presentations from the same professor, though about ten years apart, Fred and I built a fantastic working relationship on the opposite side of M & A deals back when I was an investment banker.  And me being Dolly Jewel, one of the places that a great working relationship leads is to bed.  Or bent over a desk if I'm being honest.

 

I also snicker because one of the deals Fred and I did together, from opposite sides, was a regional airline, you know, the folks who fly as "Delta Express" or "United Express", and get you onto a regional jet or maybe even a turbo-prop into a smaller airport from one of the hubs.  And not that this particular airline was involved in the deal where Fred and I worked efficiently while representing the two different sides, but I recall about that industry that there was a regional airline that had a CEO named Mike Brady.  And yes, Mike's wife was named Carol.  Let that soak in.  Pork chops and apple sauce for everyone, I loved Brady Bunch re-runs even though it went off the air before I was watching TV.

 

No, never met or hooked up with Mike.  Or Carol.

 

But Fred?  It was just a matter of time.  When we both sat across a board room table and crapped all over a format used by a major investor's representatives ("I know, right, what night school, on-line, course credit for life experience diploma mill did they get this form from?" was pretty much the gist of what we both said simultaneously even though most M&A professionals dealt with that form out of fear of the big firm with the shitty form.

 

But Fred didn't worry any more than I did.

 

And when I pulled up my form on my notebook screen and showed him, Fred just aid, "Wow, same form as I use, did you go to...." and then we discovered the same school, same professor in our backgrounds.

 

I then I felt it.  No, not a twinge in my heart.  The moisture between my thighs.  Only us sex-crazed MBA types get hot and wet over financial disclosure.  A trait that helped me get through my first two divorces.  Just loved seeing the spread sheet of what I was getting half of the first time from Hubby #1, and what Hubby #2 was getting none of the second time because I'd done a prenup to protect my assets, both from my family and what I'd received from ol' Hubby #1. 

 

So when we later had updated financials and sent out for sandwiches or salads when we kept working through into the night on one of our deals, I started wondering if this was finally going to be the night when Fred plowed into me.

 

I needn't have wondered.

 

And female physiology being as mysterious as it is, I felt like I was just oozing moisture and soaking wet, but Fred was still having trouble entering me, like I was too tight, and while I'm nicely still fitting most cocks snugly, it wasn't like Fred was packing any donkey monster of a dong.  A nice cock but nothing beyond that one inch range of most cocks.  Black patent leather pumps, thigh highs, black thong nudged to the side, little black dress showing my arms in their sculpted glory, elbows on the conference room table, presenting my backside to him, and his trousers on, but open.  The most clothes still on of any fuck I'd done in a while. And then neither of us lasted long from all the stimulation of his pushing into my body, my pussy becoming a cock parking spot. Bottomed out, backed up and then artlessly started slamming away and pulled my hair a little and groaned out, "oh fuck Dolly I'm cumming" and he filled his condom. 

 

"I've never been a picky eater," I told him, "and I hope you aren't, because as hard as you just fucked my pussy, you need to kiss it and make it feel all better."

 

Sneaking me into the showers at the Delta Sky Club in Detroit was kind of a bold move that one time we were both changing planes up there for a closing in the Midwest.  That was a Northwest Airlines hub before their merger, and flyers would come in from fifteen hour flights to Asia so they needed a shower.

 

And Fred fucked me in that shower, and even after at an off-hours time of day, the noises of our coupling got us a mini round of applause when we finished cumming together and were gasping for air and groaning.

 

And an invitation to get dressed and get the hell out of the Sky Club.

 

I've been let back in.  I've got well placed friends in Atlanta who know Delta executives.

 

To my knowledge, the highest amount of miles of any lover of mine has been three million sky miles.  To my knowledge.  I don't always ask, though.

 

"Fuck, fuck fuck!!" Fred yelled.

 

We weren't naked.  Or alone.  Or having sex.

 

He merely realized that there was a flash drive he'd left at home after pulling something close to an all niter updating financials at home.  "I don't live far, look, its lunch time, I can be there and back in an hour, everyone go eat and see you back here at one o'clock."

 

I dawdled and the rest of both teams scattered to the usual lunch places near the office.

 

"Want company?" I asked.

 

"Dolly, you slut, I thought of that, too, but it’s like ten minutes each way.  I lived close, its surface streets."

 

"That's twenty minutes round trip.  You think I can't come up with a great way to spend your time...or my time, when we've got twenty minutes available?"

 

I didn't know he drove a Corvette.  Who drives those anymore?  Well, he's older than I am by a good 10-12 years.

 

No chance to fuck in one of those cars.  But I'm flexible, and I got a creamy tasty mouthful and he damn near drove into a fire hydrant.

 

And then he said, "what the fuck?"  as we pulled up to his house.

 

There were two cars.  One belonged to his working wife.  And, I deduced, the other belonged to the man who was fucking Fred's wife.

 

I deduced that when Fred simply said, "c'mon in, maybe I need a witness.  Or someone to stop me from doing something stupid."

 

Turned out I was both.

 

Gillian Garvin was an attractive woman, I'll give her that.  Who was absolutely being stretched ridiculously by her ebony-skinned lover (her boss I learned within the hour).  Squeals--she was squealing!  Like a porn audio, only Gillian and Mark (that was the boss' name, I learned, when he and I made three minutes of totally awkward small talk after he got his clothes back on and Fred and Gillian yelled at each other in their bedroom with the door closed, as if that made a difference.)

 

"So, is there a Mrs. Big Black Dick, or is that thing a free agent?" I* asked.

 

Gillian's boss smiled, looked my body up and down, and simply said, "Never really saw the need, and this way I'm not cheating on anyone when I fuck a great piece like Gillian.  So, how 'bout you?  You like black cock?"

 

He stepped toward me and while some serious interracial porn ran through my mind, Fred opened the door and burst out into the hall, "C'mon Dolly, we're out of here."

 

By the way, a kinky Dolly date of mine introduced me to an internet porn series called, "Blacked.com" -- much more romantic stuff than most porn, very sexy and hot and nobody abusing the other and no fatties or gross people.

 

If I knew the producer, I'd have sent my praise.  Sure the bareback creampies are a bit too taboo for me to want to emulate, and I grew up in a kind of traditional environment where such images were not the norm, but I do confess a lot of their videos are hot, make my guys cum so fucking quickly, and me right there with them.

 

Fred reconciled, and our series of fuck buddy adventures came to a close when they went to a marriage counselor.  Who instructed them, "stop fucking everyone else instead of each other, and start making love to each other instead of just fucking."  I beg your pardon, like there is something wrong with fucking?

 

But eventually, it was not to be.  Gillian found a new job.  And a new man of color.  A person likes what a person likes, and poor Fred couldn't offer her the diversity that the new Mandingo, er, I mean the new man could offer.

 

And Fred and I didn't have professional direct contact any longer since I'd moved on professionally.  So we simply decided we could just fuck even though we didn't work together anymore. He loves when I talk dirty in the bed he used to share with his wife, the one where she presented her married pussy to diverse lovers.  I know he was hurt at first, but now I think there's a kink turning him on.

 

I'm Dolly, I don't dwell on the reasons why my sex with him is hot.  Or why his seed tastes bitter.  I just know that Fred's cheated-upon anger turns into some hot ass fucking and the loud sound of sweaty bodies slapping into each other.

 

Happy spring and St. Patrick's Day, everybody  -- I don't usually drink beer, but a little corned beef, cabbage, and Guinness together with a Kelly green thong and green tinted condoms is  a lovely way to bring in the new spring.  So I'll be enjoying the last couple days of winter and welcoming the spring with Fred and will be walking gingerly the next day, but I'm still thankful for my business school professor for having such a better form for disclosure, which led to me and Fred bonding, which led to....

 

You know the rest.... 

 THE END

Purely fictional fantasy for your reading pleasure

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