(Nope, there is no sequel, sorry).

Nuh uh, the only character development you’ll find occurs between you and the words on this page... right now.

This is different.

You're encouraged to do some things you wouldn’t normally do – take a mental journey to places you wouldn’t ordinarily go. Is that all right?

Get naked from the waist down, and get the oil.

C’mon, let’s go.

Walk into jet-black darkness with your arms, your mind (and whatever else you’d like) extended. Give me your hand. It’s a forward motion, but we won’t stroll in a straight line to get to our destination.

Hold on. I know you may be tempted to run in the opposite direction. I hear your hard swallows and panted breath. I sense the slight tremble in your legs from facing the unknown.

But, just stay with me.

Pour some oil in your hand.

Here, in pitch-blackness...

Four fingers trace a message at the base of your neck. It’s a touch so soft that it sends a wave of possibilities straight to your extensions. Slowly, I write B-R-E-A-T-H-E.

Breathe deep for me. That’s it.

Apply the oil between your legs.

Exhale franticness.

Forget about the swig of coffee missing your mouth and drizzling on your shirt at breakfast. Forget about the wet spot quickly forming a thin chocolate outline the shape of the Texas panhandle, prompting you to have to change your entire ensemble. Stop thinking about the desperate search for your keys that made you trip over air, causing you to run instead of walk to your car – the one that made you take a whiff underneath both of your arms to be certain you’d swiped them with deodorant.

Stroke it gently – go down and up.

Inhale.

Breathe deep for me. Let me unbutton your shirt for you, baby. Tonguing your neck, underneath your chin, and sucking your bottom lip, I ease your shirt off and sniff it along with the part of you that conquered the antiperspirant; it’s a musky aphrodisiac. Nose nuzzling your neck, I inhale your quintessence, roll my tongue over your top lip, and nudge you back into an armchair.

Make a tight sphincter with your thumb and finger – push it down and pull it up.

Sit down baby and exhale.

Forget the commute into work. Forget the long line of shiny cars with wide-open windows blaring NPR. Forget about basses thumping some unfamiliar dissonance (Fetty Wap – Trap Queen) the young people call a tune. Forget that college girl staring in her rearview mirror applying that hideous purple lipstick, who for just one moment, you imagined lapping and wrapping those lips around your cock.

Let go of the fool who cut you off on the freeway this morning, leaned low in his seat, flipped you a black painted bird, sending your adrenaline and your blood pressure into overdrive with a heaping side of rage.

Exhale and let those clowns go.

Graze your tip with your thumb – go at a snail’s pace.

That’s it.

Inhale.

Kisses move from the part in your lips to your cheek – and finish with a suck and a nibble on each ear lobe. Thumbs massage your temples, fingers press into your neck, and hands squeeze your shoulders. Slow. I’m determined to relieve every hiccup and kink.

Let me straddle you, caress the back of your head, and press your face gently into my laced-clad bosom. Black lace thong with pearls (leading to my pearl), sheer black hose, and fuck-me pumps – that’s what you like, right? I press my pussy into you while I lick my name on your neck.

It’s a slow grind.

Stroke and graze, baby.

Exhale.

Breathe out the lunacy - the emails, the crazy boss, the lazy employees, the indecisive customers, the neurotic clients, and the meetings. Exhale that staff meeting (imprisonment) you had this morning with what’s-her-name. Let’s call her Ambrosia; the epitome of professionalism: hair slicked in a tight bun, black rimmed glasses, tiny waist, phat ass – a Coke bottle with nipples forever pointing to the heavens. Yea, Ambrosia: the one who sashays into a room like flashing neon lights and causes everybody to experience an erection - cock or no cock. Ambrosia: the one you cannot, (correction) the one you will never have...maybe.

Still stroking?

Inhaling, I feel your dirty throb. My honey drips just thinking about the trouser adjustments you must’ve made this morning whilst your mind surveyed and noted the steepness of Ambrosia’s profile. Her hills and mountains were such a sweet distraction from that mundane financial presentation, that you can still taste them right now, can’t you? Mmm. Tell the truth.

Not sure if your rising pulsations are coming from the thought of Ambrosia’s protruding nips, or if they’re coming from the feel of my juicy behind doing the dirty wind all over your cock. Exhale and tell me. Which one is making your pole jump?

I thought so.

Trace the length – up and down, and then stroke.

Inhale.

Do you know that I am your respite, your recess, your time out, and your fuck doll?

I am your naughty-ass Ambrosia... the maybe.

Borrow me. Bend me over the conference table. Lean into me. Slide the lace and pearls to the side, and guide your hardness into my topside: the northern passage. Thrust. Make this drag of a staff meeting worth your time. Mind fuck harder. Push me down onto the table, and press past my resistance. Drill me.  Pull. Free that knot of hair, twist it around your hand, and give it a firm pull.

Pull him just a little faster now.

Homebound, put your foot on the pedal. Work your rhythm with an unyielding intensity. Drive in; pull out.

Do that... repeatedly. Tell me, where do you plan on blowing your jism?

I thought so.

Exhale and feel free to scream multiple combinations of expletives as you spray your liberation all over Ambrosia’s face.

Tissue?