War

War Ch. 1: Opening Shots

Heather Saffron had a firm rack, legs that could do no wrong (or perhaps all wrongs), and an ass that any man would kill to touch, grab, or smack. She had golden blonde hair tinged with black, giving her a look truly deserving of the description ‘dirty blonde’. She had blue eyes, cherry red lips, and a skin tone that wasn’t too dark, wasn’t too light.

She was God’s gift to men but somehow that gift lost its tag. Heather Saffron ended up a lesbian much to the horror of any man who had the pleasure of looking upon her. Sure, it was a bit comforting to imagine her in bed with a woman, but we did the same with straight girls. According to the stories I’d heard, you could convince every straight girl in the world to experiment with a girl before you’d even manage to get Heather Saffron to think about a guy.

The term unattainable was written in stone for her. Any man who could fuck her would be regarded as a living deity—they’d add a new chapter to the Bible for that son of a bitch.

It wasn’t the moment I laid eyes upon her that I decided I’d be that son of a bitch. It wasn’t when I heard the stories I decided I’d be that son of a bitch. It was when I first tried to be that son of a bitch and she shot me down that I knew I would have to be that son of a bitch.

* * * * *

Markus Publishing dealt in all corners of the world. We weren’t a moralistic or upstanding company—we gladly made propaganda for dictators and lied and slandered innocents in the Western press. I had gotten into the inner circle thanks to my friendship with Arthur Markus—I had sent a few women his way and he felt obliged to promote me. I now had access to the company jet, the special executive company account, and the company assassin if I so required. I’m still not sure if that last thing was just a joke the other guys in the office were playing on me.

It was the definition of the Old Boy’s Club—brandy, cigars, and the dirtiest and most racist jokes you can imagine. The only thing I was sure had changed since the 1940s when the company was founded by James D. Markus II, is that now Asians and Blacks were gladly allowed to make their own racist jokes towards white people. I guess that’s social progress for you.

When rival newspapers put up stories from women claiming sexual harassment and gender discrimination against Markus (each and every one true), he was forced to make a move and hire a female employee for a top executive job that had recently opened up. She was Heather Saffron. The claims quietly went away, since apparently no asshole would ever hire a liberal lesbian like Miss Saffron. Arthur was an asshole, just a cynical asshole who knew how to play the corporate game.

Her first day on the job was an interesting one to say the least, since most of us men at the top floor were afraid to talk to her. Towards the end of the day I built up the courage to strike a conversation.

“Say, how about you and I go get a drink after this,” I slipped in to our conversation just after mentioning an accounting problem.

“Do you know what the worst part about being a lesbian woman in a straight man’s world?” she cooed with her soft but powerful voice.

“Do tell me, Miss Saffron,” I said.

“Trying to think up the cruelest ways possible to turn down men each and every day.”

“My, that would be difficult. One of these days you’ll be without a retort and you’ll be forced to go out and have a little fun.”

She flashed a mocking smile. “Little being the operative word, I’m sure.” She passed by me and with that our first conversation was over. She got the last word. I was in fucking love.

* * * * *

Heather began to integrate herself into the job more successfully in the next two weeks. She never was in the Inner Circle, but always hovered around it to remind us that she was in the company too. She even slipped in a few jokes about women to Markus and got a smile out of him.

We never got around to another conversation in the early days, but that didn’t stop me from shooting glances like a machine gun. Every time that cleavage was in full view, every time she bent over to pick something up, I’d be there looking and she’d be annoyed and embarrassed. One time she even verbalized it.

“Would you like me to start coming to work in a frumpy potato-sack? Perhaps then you’d go back to looking at secretaries and assistants like the other men do. At least they accept I’m untouchable.”

I grinned. “Go ahead. I imagine a potato-sack would be quite itchy. You’d probably need to slip out of it by noon.”

“Believe me, I can bear an itch.”

“But will you ever take a scratch?”

She pulled back her lips just slightly, grimacing. Without a word she stood up and left my office. This was the first time I got a last word in, and it felt good. I kicked up my feet.

I considered the fact that Heather and I were just another battle in the gender war. I was a patriarchal, male-centrist and wasn’t afraid to admit it. If I could fuck her that would validate every chauvinistic bone in my body. This was a battle I had to win.

* * * * *

It was that weekend I realized her advantage in this gender war. Heather had the power to control me from afar, even if she didn’t realize it. I had taken home one of those secretaries or assistants she mentioned, just for my own amusement.

She was a spunky brunette who moaned in a high-pitch squeal, one of those really pixie types. I got her naked only moments after we stepped in my door and only got a real good look once we got into my bedroom.

Her tits were slightly on the small side, but that was alright. She was real boney, to the point I was afraid of getting jabbed. She laid me down and straddled me quickly—a woman who liked to be on top.

I began to massage her breasts, going through the motions. Sure, I was a chauvinistic jerk but I still knew how to pleasure the woman. With each tweak of a nipple she let out a little cry of joy, and I had to smile.

Her pussy was tight, it took me a few moments to get myself in. She swiveled her hips to help, screwing herself down. With this, she clenched me in even further. It was a bit like locking someone in with the handle bars as they got into a roller-coaster.

The brunette’s body jolted and jumped with little co-ordination. I was actually finding it hard to enjoy it, with her trying so hard and wild. My dick was being jerked around like it was in a tornado. She didn’t realize that sex just had to flow.

My hands slid up and down her naked body, from breasts right down to the ass. I grasped on to her cheeks and hoped to take some sort of pleasure in it. I didn’t. In fact, my erection was fading fast.

Quickly I pulled out from under her and rolled off the bed. This didn’t happen to me. It just didn’t. I moved away from the bed so she couldn’t see me and stepped up to the dresser, where I leaned and contemplated what to do.

She looked up from the bed. “Baby?”

I looked in the mirror. Usually, any girl would get me off. What was wrong?

“Baby?”

I heard the word again and turned. It wasn’t an overly perky voice saying this, it was a smooth and seductive call. On my bed, in place of the brunette, was Heather Saffron, in all her naked body.

Despite the fact I knew this was a fantasy/hallucination, my curiosity arose along

with my hard-on.

It may have been my mind inventing this, but I’ll be damned if this fake Heather wasn’t as perfect naked as I imagined. Her nipples weren’t tiny and pink and unnoticeable, nor where they quarter-sized beasts they could take an eye out. They were just right, which made them better than just right.

Her glistening pussy was shaded above with a small patch of blonde hair. Her legs arched up with the smoothness of ice.

I lunged for the bed and came out on top, grasping onto Heather and sliding inside. She wrapped her arms around me, tight, as I thrusted in and out with abandon. “God yes,” I moaned.

That brunette was lucky I was slightly drunk and crazy that evening, for she got the fucking of a life time.

* * * * *

When I awoke the next morning the brunette was gone and I was aching. I put more passion into that night and the fantasy of Heather than I had in the past hundred women I’d been with.

At work I ran into Heather in the elevator. She was silent. I didn’t bother saying anything because now it wasn’t an antagonistic and pointless flirtation, it was me genuinely wanting her. Most women were merely an object to me, but she was an enemy—a rival—she had to be taken down before I could get her.

My eyes slid over and I took a glance at her tits. She was wearing her shirt buttoned up, probably to spite me. That some how made me even more turned on.

This was going to be an interesting war.