This may or may not be a work of fiction. Who knows? Who's to say?
Note to Authors:This story is written in your honor. Please laugh.
Note to Respectful Literotica Readers (most of you other there): You probably wonder who those people are that populate the comment section with disrespectful and inappropriate comments. They of course never offer their literary offerings for our praise or scorn. Because they never reveal who they are I give you one scenario. I hope you are amused by this story. Apologies in advance if you feel I've wasted your time.
Note to Trolls: To answer that question so you don't have to read John Donne's poem (heaven forbid you would read REAL literature) - The bells toll for thee. Don't read this story. Please skip to the end to the comments section. Here are a number of suggested comments you can copy and paste so you can save time and proceed to trash the next story that you don't read:
Worst story ever -- please don't ever write again. Minus one million stars.
You are worse than the bubonic plague. Go infect someone else.
You can't rite worth krap. Go dye.
Illiterate cuck shit 1*
*
Chapter One
I'm the king of the world. Women bow at my feet. Even ones I don't know and don't want to know.
I take my helicopter every day to work and today, April 1, like many others, I arrived home after another grueling day making millions trading options. I know my loving Swedish model trophy wife will don her monogrammed knee pads and prepare to suck my cock when I arrive home.
I walk in the door and my naked Annika (but for the knee pads) drops to her knees looking up at my 6'8" bulked up frame prepared to receive the holy sacrament of my cock. She dutifully opens her mouth, sticks out her tongue and gazes up at me with her cobalt blue eyes, sweeping her wispy long blond hair away from her face.