To describe Mika as gorgeous would be an injustice to the definition of the word and any synonyms. She was a young, tall, slender, platinum blonde Scandinavian goddess with flawless features. Aphrodite and Venus themselves would be appropriately insecure in her presence.
To say she was a world-class cunt would be more than accurate, though. There are Arctic glaciers that have warmer foundations that Mika.
Anyway, that's always the conundrum when faced with the prospect of fucking a beautiful, albeit world-class bitchy, woman. It's the age-old battle for men between their little head and the big head.
Who the fuck am I kidding? The little head has been undefeated since the dawn of time. Just ask Eve's Adam if you want proof.
This whole thing with Mika Lifflander, the hot-shot fashion buyer for a large regional department store in the Philadelphia area, started rather innocently enough. I was the security director for the chain of stores, responsible for not only external thefts such as shoplifting, but also for internal frauds committed by employees.
On this particular day, I was in the shipping warehouse checking on the possibility of some tampering with electronic scanners that impact the price tags that end up on merchandise.
Mika strolled by while I was inspecting the mechanisms. She wanted to check on the status of her departments' imported coats that were about to depart on delivery trucks. Any appearance by Mika herself was rare in the distribution center, she usually dispatched her minions, her assistant buyers, to perform such menial tasks, so I confess to being surprised when I noticed her.
The somewhat sensitive nature of my job required that I maintain personal distance from almost all other employees. However, within the last month, I had attended a retail seminar at the local Convention Center and had a impromptu, steamy two-night tryst with a visiting representative from the famous fashion house, Guess. She was a tall New Yorker named Donna who had legs the approximate size of a Manhattan skyscraper, and I spent the better part of forty-eight hours with my various appendages between them.
I hadn't known it at the time, but this same vendor was responsible for the account for Mika's department, and Donna had apparently spilled the beans to Mika about our little clandestine rendezvous, regaling Mika with some food for thought about the size of my cock and 'boundless sexual appetite'. (These were Donna's words, not mine, but hey, who's to argue?)
Mika, as always, was impeccably dressed, today in a light, almost sheer, sleeveless chiffon Diane Von Furstenberg mini dress. Perhaps it was her native Norwegian genes (Why is the adjective for Norway called 'Norwegian', anyway? Is there a country named 'Nor-wee-gee'?), but my first thought was that she was pushing the Spring wardrobe a bit early; it was late March and the temperature was still in the high forties. My next thought was how fan-fucking-tastic she looked in the dress, even more devastatingly scorching than usual.
Her presence was soon punctuated by wolf-whistles, cat-calls, and brazen invitations by the warehouse men, but Mika ignored and dismissed the audible commentaries with the flippant indifference of a Medieval queen addressing her peasants from the balcony of her palace.
Although I would normally go out of my way NOT to talk to Mika, for some reason, I opened my mouth and instantly regretted it, as I prided myself on never making comments to female employees with even the hint of a sexual overtone.
"I think they must be making notice of the lack of sleeves, eh, Mika?"
My professional stature in the company was such that if I wanted to make your life miserable, I could, though I rarely invoked such power-plays. Despite that reality, Mika stared at me almost contemptuously for having the audacious gall to address Her Majesty without having been prompted to do so.
She flipped her golden hair off of her tanned, toned shoulders and with the arrogance of a political talk-show host, she hissed at me in that accent which would be irresistible in most women yet mainly off-putting coming from Mika's mouth.
"I don't think it's the sleeves that they are all looking at, do you, John?"
I must have made a face that resembled one's countenance after they have consumed a barrel full of lemons, and turned my attention back to the task at hand, grumbling to myself beneath my breath, wondering how a woman so classically stunning on the exterior could be so consistently mean-spirited. I thought, 'Does she ever get laid, and if so, what kind of man could stomach her, regardless of her looks?'
I was about to find out.
I didn't even know that Mika was still near, my head was buried beneath the lid of the ticketing machine, but her next words caused my head to hit the lid in shock. "I understand you ran into Donna Yoakum last month at the seminar, John."
I rubbed my bruised temple in legitimate discomfort, trying unsuccessfully not to let my face reveal the 'How the fuck did she know THAT?' surprise that now permeated my nervous system.
Mika smirked at me, pleased with herself. "In fact, I have it on good authority that you ran into her repeatedly, again and again."
Before I could reply, Mika went on, which was probably best because anything I said at that point can and would have been used against me. "Not to worry, she gave a very glowing recommendation as to your attention to detail." Mika glanced down and riveted her steel-blue eyes directly onto my crotch, so as to eliminate any ambiguity in her next sentence.
"And, most important, at least from my perspective, was her vivid description of your fixed assets." The look in Mika's eyes now was one that I had not witnessed before, they sparkled and glazed with unmistakable desire.
Suddenly, I had an enormous amount of empathy for Adam when the poor bastard was tempted by the forbidden fruit.
Mika turned sideways, and in the sunlight of the warehouse windows behind her, her dress became essentially transparent, providing me with a perfect silhouette of her sheer thong under the dress. My dick was growing fast and hard, and she fucking knew it. her eyes blazed onto my lap and she licked her already wet lips and ran her manicured fingers over her collarbone seductively.
"I'll be at the Warwick tonight, that new dancing club on Locust Street, you know the one?" I nodded dumbly, caught in her web now, damn it.
Her resplendent face was now void of that constant snarl, and almost looked prurient. "Maybe it's time we called a truce and performed some mutual inventory. Maybe you could clear your busy schedule and meet to discuss the possibility?" Her eyes seered into mine. "Say, about nine-thirty?"
I should have brought an apple to munch on and covered myself with fig leaves, such was the trap of Biblical proportions that I ran the risk of falling into, but nonetheless, I walked into the Warwick at nine-twenty-nine. Mika, not to my surprise, was nowhere to be found. After all, what diva with any sense of self-image would not show up fashionably late?
I sipped on a sparkling water, wanting to keep my full faculties and not succumb to the buzz of alcohol to cloud my thought processing. The allure of Mika's pussy had already brought me here tonight, against the better judgment of the big head, who remained winless in the eternal battle with his alter-ego impulsive cousin who resided to the south.
In the sea of gyrating bodies on the crowded dance floor, a comely brunette caught my eye and visually entertained me for a dance or two, and momentarily almost made me forget about the basic reason I was there. Almost.
I smelled Mika before I saw her, a burst of vanilla perfume wafting through the air of the club. Then, I felt her after I smelled her, the soft skin of her thigh brushing against the back of my own before I even had a chance to turn around. When I did, and saw her, I swear I could hear my assiduous little head shout as he looked northward to the brain. "See, look at this woman, this is why you big brains never stand a fucking chance!"
To try to portray a visual to you nice readers, if Christina Aguilera would have walked into the Warwick right then, patrons would have gasped and exclaimed, "You know, you look like that fashion buyer, Mika Lifflander, except she's a little hotter!" A slight exaggeration, you say? Well, you haven't seen Mika in that outfit.
Her normally platinum-blonde locks had been freshly highlighted and streaked to achieve an overall golden-honey-ash hue. She wore a stunning off-the-shoulder, low-cut draped-neck teal-colored mini dress with ivory beads an open back that hugged her sleek, lean torso like one of OJ's gloves. She was turned slightly sideways as I turned myself, so I could also see that the dress, if you could call it that, was also cut open in the back, and reinforced only with a small zipper that ended in the crack of her ass. It would have been virtually impossible to wear a bra in this ensemble, and Vegas handicappers had set long odds against Mika wearing any thong, as well.
She smiled as I ogled her unabashedly. "See, it isn't the sleeves that attracts the most attention," she purred mockingly.
I tried to maintain my composure, though it was rather apparent I was the gazelle being circled and sized up by the hungry lioness. I wrinkled my nose and sniffed into the air. "Hmmmm, Aqua Allegoria perfume, very nice." I then let my eyes wander down to Mika's dress, or lack thereof, wondering how those pert tits could defy gravity that fantastically outlandish. "And, let me take a semi-educated guess.......Tadashi Shoji for the designer dress?"
Her pale blue eyes sparkled in mirth for just a second, betraying the icy coolness of the impenetrable veneer that she was desperate not to reveal, at least not quite yet. "Hmmmm, very impressive, you must work in retail." I bowed at the waist like a magician who had just found a rabbit in a top hat. "Well, if so, that also means you can't be rich, so good thing you're well endowed."
