Soon I was walking to the door and grabbing my briefcase. She shadowed me. She almost followed me right out the door into the chilly air, naked.
I got to work. The client was waiting for me already. Damn, why do they have to be prompt?
I was sitting in my office, listening to his story when my phone lit up with a text from Lo. “Jilled it.”
I ignored the text.
Five minutes later another text came in: “TCB’d again.” (That is, “took care of business” — her term for masturbating.)
Five minutes after that another text: “I couldn’t help it. Once more.”
And then, just before the client got up to shake my hand, she sent me a text saying, “4X!” with a smiley face.
I was distracted, to say the least. This is what life is like with a nymphomaniac.
After my client left, but while my secretary was in the next room, I called Lo.
“Lo.”
“Yes Daddy?”
“You were a bad girl.”
“Yes Daddy.”
“What is going on?”
“I don’t know. Being on winter break, I suddenly have so much time on my hands. I just am so randy! It’s like I have a constant itch between my legs that I can’t get at, no matter how much I try. I feel like I’m rubbing it so much, I’m going to set it on fire!”
“Well, tell me all about it when I come home. Your texts are distracting.”
“Oh yeah?”
Admitting to her that they were distracting was a mistake.
“Did they get you hard?” she asked.
I could tell she was petting herself again as she asked the question — trying to engage in erotic talk with me over the phone.
“Lo.”
“Were they, Daddy?”
“Yes, they were.”
“Did you get hard?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I had a client here.”
“Not even a little? You were so delightfully hard in the morning.”
“Lo, I can’t talk now.”
“Oh, Daddy.”