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The Rules of Sheets
Scott G.
I had recently taken the job, and within two weeks, I was traveling with my boss. I would like to preface this by saying I am definitely all man, and my boss is definitely all woman. And we are both married.
We sat apart on the plane; we had to save money for the company. That meant flying in one of those flying casket planes—you know, where if you crash, your family doesn’t have to buy you a coffin.
I stand about six foot five, a cool 350 pounds of mostly muscle … mostly. So the flight was bad enough, squeezing into the space.
My boss, Jamilah, stands a mere five foot six with heels on. I am sure, with her thin, but not-too-thin frame, that she weighs 120 on a wet, rainy day. Anyway, she sat ever so comfortably in the seat right behind me. “It’s killing me to see you suffer like this, Carl; move your seat back since I have plenty of room.”
She was so nice to suggest that I let my seat back, but I declined since it’s not polite to crush your boss to death.
“I’m good, but thank you anyway.” Besides, after the first hour, my legs had become extremely numb, so I was good to go since I couldn’t feel the pain anymore.
After the flight, we had to go right to the office to meet folks in our department since I was the new guy to the group. I was uncomfortable; I am what is called, in medical terms, a sweaty type of person. In laymen’s terms, I believe it’s interpreted exactly the same way. I have to change clothes if there is a possibility that I will exert more than a couple minutes of energy. Coming to Houston in the summer, where it’s a sweltering 95 degrees in the shade, I was in trouble from the time I stood up to get off the plane, get my bags, and walk to where the rental car was located.
Although I had changed clothes when I arrived, I’d accidentally pulled a tank top out of my suitcase, blindly, and I did not have enough time to pull out everything to find a proper T-shirt. So I did the best I could. Tank tops don’t welcome the automatic absorbency that a T-shirt provides. It wasn’t pretty when I went to introduce myself to my colleagues, but I grinned and beared it like they did. At least I will be remembered in Houston. “Ah, yes, Sweaty McSmelly.”
Thankfully, the workday finally ended, and we were able to go to the hotel and get cleaned up. My boss went to her room, and I went to mine. We met back in the lobby for dinner an hour later.
It wasn’t awkward between us; we are each comfortably married. This allowed us to have a good time talking about life in general without having to worry about anything happening. I love my wife, and she loves her husband. It was good to see two black people coming up in a white man’s business world. Victories, however small, are still victories nonetheless.
As the evening was settling on the horizon, we had gotten a very nice view of the skyline, had shared experiences, and laughed at the thought of how happy we were in our respective lives. She had shared how she met her husband. It was a great story. While watching her tell it, with a shine in her eyes, I was picturing myself in the story as the lucky man who would get to bed her regularly. She is a very beautiful woman.
Although I am truly happy, and in total love with my wife, it’s automatic for men to do this. Any chance we have to put sex in our minds, it’s going to happen. If we are deathly ill, we’ll imagine that a buxom nurse will come give us a bath and spend more time in our crotches. If we are consoling a friend whose dog has died, we would somehow find our hands on her breasts to console her. How that happens, we don’t ask, we just do this in our heads, jack off, and go about our business.
As she was recounting her experiences leading up to marriage, I was becoming heavy under the table, so I am glad that I had a very generous napkin covering my crotch. I am also glad that I was wearing dark slacks. The more energy that was given to the thought of sex, the more energy was given to the eye of my dick and letting out an involuntary spurt of juice.
Now I am not sure that my boss had the same issue when I was recollecting my story of unbridled love, but I am smart enough to know that I, at least, had her attention. She kept great eye contact throughout my story of meeting my sweetheart.
Throughout the evening, we enjoyed great music, great company, and great wine. Unfortunately, my boss had a lotta (not a typo) too much to drink, so I had to drive us back to the hotel. She swore up and down that she would be fine to get back to her room, but being the gentleman that I am, I insisted that I would see that she at least made it into her room, and I would be on my way. She frustratingly agreed.
The awkwardness was rising up for me, but it was no big deal. I kept my mind furthest from the Zane anthological possibilities to which my mind could have easily wandered.
As we walked down the hall, my boss said that she didn’t feel well and was about to barf all over the hall. We were about ten suites away from her room, so I grabbed her key and swept her up with my right arm. Because I had to have the key ready for immediate entry, I had to grab her around the waist and slam her against my body.
She noticed in the process that I was, well, excited. She made a comment about something hard and big poking her. I immediately, and embarrassingly, pulled her away from me. She automatically pulled herself back into position, and said, “I didn’t say I minded it!” Her flirting quickly turned to green on her face.
I got her to the door, got the card in the slot, and opened the door just in time for her to decorate the front of her dress, my clothes, and the floor immediately inside the room.
She felt horrible about what had happened, and told me to sit down. She had to finish in the bathroom what she had already started in the entryway. I felt obligated to stay because she did not feel well. Of course, with the grossness of it all, there was no more uncomfortable feeling. Sex was the furthest thing from either of our minds. At least, so I thought.
I began using the amazingly unusual amount of towels available to clean up the floor while she tended to herself. The sounds coming out of the bathroom were horrendous. I asked her if she was okay. She told me that she had drunk too much, and would be fine soon. She sounded like this was not her first time getting blitzed. So I felt better that she was going to be okay.
I told her that I had cleaned up the floor as best as I could and that since she was going to be okay, I was going to head upstairs to my room to get cleaned up. She insisted that I wait until she came out to help me clean up. I told her that I was a big boy and that I could take care of myself. She jokingly said she knew I was a big boy already.
I laughed uncomfortably, but didn’t worry about it. I figured that I would head toward the door so as I was saying good night, the door would be closing on her argument against me leaving. I was about to open the entry door when she emerged from the bathroom.
She came out in a towel. My gaze immediately moved to the left and right to avoid staring at her and wondering if she had anything on under that towel. She walked toward me, and again, the uncomfortable feeling left when she began speaking and her breath was exuding negative memories of puke. To get the point across faster, I asked her if she had a toothbrush handy. She now shared the uncomfortable laugh that I had earlier. She told me not to leave yet and she brushed right in front of me. When she bent down to spit into the surprisingly low sink, her towel cropped up in the back to confir
m my earlier thought. Yep, no panties whatsoever … Look at that beautiful, caramel, no-dimple-havin’ ass! This was going bad places quickly.
I emphasized how I was the only one not clean and that I needed to go take care of it immediately. She walked up to me and said that it was not polite to let her employee walk out of her room looking a terrible mess and that it was all her fault.
She said, “We can either get you cleaned up in my room, or in your room, but it’s my responsibility.”
I began to get nervous again, and my little head must have heard what she said. He was standing at as much attention as he could through my underwear and pants. It was aching that my dick was being obstructed from rising to its full potential. But my boss immediately grabbed my zipper and let it free.
