Monday 19 August 2019

ICYMI... Episode #1 of Sexting the Boss

Last month, I shared the first episode of my new serialized book, Sexting the Boss. the only people who got to read it were my newsletter subscribers.
(This is where I point out that when it comes to newsletters? I am not the kind of author who sends one out month after month. Generally, I only send them when I have a new release, or exciting news.)

Well, Episode #2 is due out this week, so.... I'm sharing the first episode only. And if you want more, then just pop along to and join us!

So sit back, pour yourself a drink, and enjoy Episode #1.

A moment of distraction was all it took. One moment, and then reality strikes long enough for Chandler Mitchell to realize the awful truth - hes just sexted his boss.
Hes gonna fire my ass.
So he isnt really surprised to get the email requesting his attendance at a meeting Monday morning.
Fuck. Canned for sure.
But when he's invited into the bosss office, Chandler is confused to see Stu Ganfords obviously good mood.
The good news? His ass is safe. Hes not about to be fired.
The bad news? The boss wants to make some changes...
Maybe Chandlers ass isnt as safe as he thinks.

Episode 1

Since when did it become so difficult to get laid on a Friday night? So what if I wasn’t in the mood to go out? There had to be plenty of guys in my area who wanted some action, right?
Wrong. No one on Grindr was ticking my boxes. As a last resort, I’d called up Ste. I’d figured he was a safe bet. He says he’s bi, and that amounts to turning up at my apartment whenever he wants to get fucked or suck a dick. Like I’d say no to that, right? But this was one of the few times I’d called him—and he was throwing me over for football.
“Aw, come on, Ste. You know you wanna.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But there’s football on TV, and…”
Football? Was he freaking kidding me? “And you’re gonna pass on my dick for football?” I wasn’t gonna back down. I had a severe case of blue balls, and that meant I was gonna fight dirty.
“I bet I could make you change your mind,” I wheedled.
He snorted. “Not unless you’re suggesting coming round to my place and letting me sit on your cock while I watch the game. Mind you, the rest of the guys would probably love it. We might end up being the half-time entertainment.”
That did it. This was a challenge, and I was more than ready for it.
I unzipped my fly, shoved my jeans down to my knees, and pumped my already meaty dick a couple times. Had to get it looking its best for the camera, right? Then I grabbed it around the base, holding it erect while I got the camera ready. Click. I checked the photo, liking how my cock filled the frame, then hurriedly sent it to Ste, along with the message, ‘Thinking of you.’
“Tell me you don’t want a piece of that,” I told Ste confidently, still lazily tugging on my shaft. Victory was mine. I could picture him drooling when he got the photo.
“Piece of what? You’re not taking no for an answer tonight, are ya?”
Goddamn snail mail. “Just check your inbox. Sent you a little something.”
Ste huffed. “Fine.” I could hear the TV in the background. “Okay, what I am supposed to be looking at?”
“The photo I just sent you.”
“Nope. No photo here. And before you ask, I just refreshed. Sorry, Chandler. Whatever you sent is out there somewhere in the ether. And now I’m gonna watch the game. Have a good night.” Bastard was laughing as he disconnected.
I stared at my phone. If he didn’t get it, then who did?
Before I could fathom that out, my phone pinged. When I saw the email from Stu Ganford, I had to admit I was puzzled. Since when did I get emails from the boss on a Friday night? I opened it, and was no clearer.
Meeting in my office, Monday morning at 9.00.
For one thing, it wasn’t his usual format. Stu Ganford was a succinct man, I grant you, but one-line emails were not his style. Signing it Stu wasn’t his style either.
What the fuck is going on?
I read it again, only this time a terrible idea began to dawn. Stu…. Ste…..
Oh God. Sweet Jesus, I didn’t. Tell me I didn’t.
I clicked through my sent messages, and Holy Mother of God, there it was.
I’d sent a dick pic to Stu Christ Almighty Ganford. Who now wanted to see me in a meeting.
I sagged into the couch, the phone dropped onto the seat cushion beside me. Well, that was it. Goodbye, job, Hello, unemployment. And I could kiss goodbye to any positive references. Employers who received explicit photos of staff genitalia tended not to write about them in glowing terms for future employers.
As if in response, my erection wilted, my balls shriveling. I was well and truly fucked.
It took me a moment to realize my phone was buzzing. I glanced at the screen apprehensively, in case Stu had decided he couldn’t wait until Monday. Thankfully it was Dean, a coworker. I connected the call absently, my mind still on Stu’s email. “Hey.”
“I forgot to mention today that I’m having a BBQ Saturday, and you’re welcome to come. I know it’s a bit last minute and all.”
Dean was an okay kinda guy. We chatted about sports and movies, he’d tell me how many girls he was banging, and I’d tell him how many guys I was screwing. Really symbiotic relationship.
Right then a BBQ was the last thing on my mind.
“Sorry, but I’ll have to pass.”
“Sure. Like I said, it’s last minute, so I get it. You going out tonight with the rest of the gang? Rachel, Joey, Phoebe, Monica…?” He snickered, like he always did every goddamn time he said it.
I don’t know which I hated more—my name, or the fact that everyone felt they had to make a joke out of it. So my mom loved Friends. So what? Except right then I was in no mood for Dean’s laughter at my expense.
“I really don’t need this. In fact, the joke is wearing pretty fucking thin.”
I thought I heard Dean choking. A moment later, he was back. “You okay, buddy?”
And just like that, I regretted my outburst. “Sorry, Dean. I… I got a lot on my mind.”
“Wanna tell me about it? A problem shared, as they say.”
I deliberated telling him for all of two seconds. I had no one else to talk to, for God’s sake. “I… might have just sent Stu Ganford a photo of my cock.”
Okay, this time he was definitely choking. “Jesus fucking Christ, Chandler!”
“It was an accident! I was sending it to someone else. Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never done it. Because I’ve seen your phone, remember?”
“Sure, yeah, I’ve sent a girl a dick pic, but I’m always real careful when I’m sending.”
“It was one letter different, that’s all.” One goddamn letter that was gonna cost me my job.
“Maybe he won’t get the message. Maybe he won’t see it.”
Bless his optimistic little heart. “And maybe he already saw it, and emailed me to say he wants to see me Monday morning.
“Aw shit. Really? That’s too bad.”
“Too bad? You do realize he’s gonna can me for this, don’t you? Because once I step into that office come Monday, my ass is grass and he’s a fucking lawnmower.”
Dean sighed. “Looks like there’s nothing you can do, except hope he’s feeling lenient. You might get away with a reprimand.”
“Yeah, and pigs might fly outta my butt.” I’d had enough. I had a whole weekend to come of thinking about Monday, and I was already depressed as hell. “I’ll see you Monday morning, okay? Until I get my marching orders.”
“Try not to think like that. You don’t know what’s gonna happen.”
Yes, I do, I thought as I disconnected the call. And it’s not gonna be pretty.

“What do you mean, I can’t see him?” This was driving me nuts. “He asked to see me, this morning.
“I know that,” Fiona explained with more patience than I would’ve had in the circumstances. “But as I told you this morning—and on each of the…” She glanced at her notepad. “…four occasions you’ve asked to see him, Mr. Ganford is very busy. When he’s ready to see you, he’ll let you know.” She went back to peering at her monitor.
There was nothing to do but go back to my desk and wait for another unspecified period of mental torture. I glanced at the clock on the wall in the hallway. It was already four in the afternoon. The office closed at five, for God’s sake. Was he gonna keep me waiting until the end of business?
And then it hit me. Of course he was. It was his way of making me sweat.
Damn him. It was working.
I sat at my desk, trying to focus on my insurance reports. Like that was possible. When five o’clock came, people got up and headed out of the office, exchanging comments and wishing me a good evening. Dean said nothing as he strolled past, but he patted my shoulder twice. When I caught sight of Fiona walking toward the door, her purse over her shoulder, I sighed with relief.
He’s gone. Then I realized I’d have to go through the whole process again the following day. If he hadn’t been about to fire me, I’d have sued him for mental cruelty.
The irony of the situation was not lost on me. As bosses went, Stu was drop dead gorgeous. Short brown, neat hair, brown eyes, a permanent five o’clock shadow, and this sexy lopsided smile that always did things to my insides.
Okay, I’ll admit it. My boss was hot.
I glanced up and froze. Stu stood at his office door, his jacket and tie removed, the top two buttons of his pale blue shirt open. “Sir?”
He beckoned with his finger. “My office. Now.” Then he disappeared behind his pale wooden door, leaving it ajar.
Fuck. This was it.
I shut down my computer, tidied my desk, picked up my jacket and bag, and trudged along to his office.
“Close the door.”
I shut it behind me, and waited. Stu pointed to the empty chair facing his desk, and I hurriedly sat down. Disconcertingly, my knees were shaking. I put my jacket over them, then balanced my bag on top.
Stu walked over to his filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. To my surprise, he removed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He glanced over at me. “Drink?”
“I think I need one,” I croaked.
Stu chuckled, before pouring two good measures. He handed me a glass, then sat in his big, wide chair. “Well, well, well. You certainly surprised me.”
I said nothing, but sipped the whiskey. He probably had this whole speech worked out.
“I suppose you know why I sent for you.”
I sighed. “Because I accidentally sent you a dick pic.” There was no point being coy anymore.
Stu paused, his glass halfway to his mouth, his forehead creased in a frown. “Accidentally?”
Before I could get my head around the implications, Stu put down his glass. “I see.”
No, I wanted to yell. You don’t see. Because I was just starting to figure it out. But some inner voice kept me quiet.
“Well, in that case…” Stu leaned back in his chair. “In ordinary circumstances, I would be informing you that your employment here was at an end.”
I took a mouthful of whiskey before trusting myself to speak. “Ordinary circumstances?”
Stu smiled, and his eyes glittered. “As you might have realized by now, these are not ordinary circumstances. What I am about to propose will mean the continuation of your employment here—if you agree to my terms.
My breathing caught, and I put down my glass.
“I can see I have your full attention, so I’ll come to the point and I’ll be blunt. You get to keep your job, as long as I get to fuck you.”
I blinked. He wants to…. I fought hard to maintain my self-control. This is a dream, right? The kind of dream you never want to wake up from.
I licked my suddenly dry lips. “You get to… fuck me?”
Stu nodded. “Whenever I want. Wherever I want.” That smile hadn’t dimmed. “I’m aware this amounts to blackmail, but I’ve done my homework when it comes to you, Chandler. I don’t think what I’m proposing could be called rape, do you? That implies without consent, and I don’t feel that would be an issue, do you?”
My first thought was that my boss knew me a helluva lot better than I thought he did.
“I should add at this point that accepting this proposal will neither help nor hinder your possibilities for advancement in this company.” Stu locked gazes with me. “You don’t get to rise through the company just because we’re fucking. Any advancement would be purely on merit.”
God, every time he said ‘fucking’, my brain did a default to an image of me spread out on his desk, while he plowed into me.
I struggled to keep my mind on topic. “You… you could have anyone you want. There have to be hundreds of guys out there who’d be willing to bend over for you.” And I was one of them. In a heartbeat.
“But I don’t want ‘hundreds of guys’, he air quoted. “I want you. On tap, as it were. At my beck and call. These are dangerous times we live in, as I’m sure you can appreciate. I never know if the person on a screen is the one who’ll turn up at my door. I prefer to take risk out of the equation. You’re a known quantity. You’re gay. And you like sex.” He grinned. “You wouldn’t believe the conversations that reach my ears. And apart from that, I have you over a barrel.” His eyes shone. “I’d rather have you over my desk. Or over the back of that couch over there.”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Not that I wanted one. There was no way I was about to tell him he was offering me all my dirty fantasies on a plate. Let him think he has the upper hand.
“Is that a yes?” Stu got up from his desk, walked around it, and came to a halt beside my chair. He cupped my chin, tilting it until I was staring up at him. “If you’d rather not do this, then we’ll call it a day and you can leave when you’ve worked off your notice. I’ll even give you a reference.”
The last part took me by surprise. I definitely hadn’t expected that.
I gazed at his lips, so pink and full, and damn it, I was imagining them around my cock. My heart hammered. I didn’t want to leave. And I wanted him.
Quick mental calculation. I get to keep my job, and get fucked by my hot AF boss.
“You do know this is illegal, right? #metoo ring a bell?” One last attempt not to appear too eager.
Stu’s eyes gleamed. “You have no proof of this conversation. There’s no one around to overhear us. Hence that barrel I have you over.” His fingers caressed my cheek. “It won’t be an onerous task, I promise. And I’m not exactly unskilled. Put it this way. I’ve never had any complaints.” He bent over and whispered into my ear, “Not that you’re in a position to complain anyway.”
Fuck, he smelled amazing. And okay, I’ll be honest. Right then he got me wondering about his skills. Especially with his tongue…
Whoa boy. I had to rein in my libido. Drooling was not exactly a sign of reluctance.
Stu straightened and regarded me steadily. “Well? What is your answer?”
I took a deep breath. “I accept your terms.” Which was a damn sight milder that me clearing his desk with a sweep of my arm, bending over it and dropping trou.
Stu’s smile widened. “Excellent. Then I see no point in wasting time, do you?” He let go of my chin and slowly undid his belt.
I glanced down, my heartbeat climbing even more when I got a glimpse of his bulge.
This was gonna be a stretch. Then a thought occurred, and me being me, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Just one last question. I get to fuck you too, right?”

Friday 14 December 2018

Okay, NOW I can share...

Okay, you’re going to have to bear with me, because this is going to take a while…
I don’t talk much on social media about my dad. There are a few reasons for this, and most of them have to do with the fact that sharing hurts. But we’re past that now – well, maybe not, but I can write about it now.
Some of you will remember my Dad’s paintings. He started painting again when he and my stepmum, Hache (aka Wicked Stepmother – it’s a joke, btw – she’s wonderful) were living in Montpellier in France. Every time he finished a painting, I shared it on Facebook.
Which brings us to a couple of years ago…
Dad and H decided they wanted to move back to the UK. He’d been diagnosed with lung cancer, and again, some of you will remember my posts as he went for check-ups after surgery, and was given the all-clear. BUT… his health was not good. Getting around was proving more and more difficult. We’d known about his arthritic hip for ever, and walking was painful. By the time they came to move, Dad was getting around in a wheelchair and sleeping on the recliner sofa because climbing stairs was too much.
I went out to France to help them move back to the UK. They’d talked about where they wanted to live, and after some discussions, they decided on the Isle of Wight. The Hubby and I went to investigate rental properties for them, but the plan was always that when they sold their house in France, they’d buy a place on the island. Eventually, we found a ground floor flat about twenty minutes away from us. They managed to cram everything into it, and life got into a routine.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a good one.
One result of the chemo was that Dad’s spine started to curve. No way to stop it. Sleeping on the recliner was now a permanent thing, because he couldn’t lie flat. Hospital scans proved difficult. And Pain became a new permanent feature too. There were some good points. They bought a mobility scooter, so Dad could get around, and it was great to hear about them going for a pint in Newport, and discovering one of our favorite cafes. But then things took a new course.
They sold their house, and were able to find one not far from where they’d been living. Once they’d moved in, a stair lift was put in. Dad has had psoriasis for as long as I can remember. So when the spine curvature got worse, the skin on his back was so thin that his backbones started breaking it. We’re talking painful sores which got so bad that District Nurses had to visit to dress them. The hospital also arranged for a hospital bed, but it proved so painful that it was used once.
By the end of November, the nurses were visiting three times a week, and it was obvious his sores weren’t healing. In fact, they were getting worse – and spreading. Previously, Dad’s life had been reduced to reading and sleeping, but pain was making both those things more difficult. Oral morphine was a way of life, and trying to find the right mix of pain killers to make life bearable became the goal. A life he didn’t want to live anymore…
There is never a good time to let go of someone you love, but Dad made it clear that he couldn’t go on like this. What stopped him? The effect it would have on H. What pained him most was that her life was reduced to caring for him. Basically, she had no life. So when I received an email from him, saying that he hadn’t found a way to go yet, but not to be surprised if he did…
Then November 26th came. I was hosting a two-day Facebook event, with forty authors taking over. Ninety minutes before kick off, H called to say Dad had been taken into hospital. He’d lost all the strength from his arms, and they suspected a severe infection. My thanks to the authors who supported me, not knowing more than where he was.
And as for what happened in the hospital?
It was an up-and-down time. Days when his antibiotics made him so nauseous, he couldn’t eat. When the morphine made him sleep. When they weighed him, and said he weighed ninety pounds. But after a week, the antibiotics stopped, he started eating, and he looked so much better. The turning point was a visit from a consultant from the Mountbatten Hospice here on the island. The upshot was that his pain management would be changed – and they would find a way to bring him home. He’d have carers visiting three to four times a day, and he’d be permanently in a hospital bed, but he’d be home. For the first time in a long while, he was comfortable, because treatment of the sores had stopped, and that had been the cause of a lot of pain. There was nothing they could do anyway.
We all knew he was coming home to die, but… he was positive. He said knowing it was coming made him feel powerful. He asked H to buy him a cigar for when he got home. Why the hell not? I figured, whatever he wanted, he’d get. He was also talking about finishing his book. We had no idea of how long was left, but it wasn’t imminent. He’d be around for Christmas. We thought.
The hospice staff were wonderful. They rushed funding through for Dad’s care package, and he was looking forward to Monday. That’s the Monday just passed, by the way. We dashed around like mad things last weekend, getting the house ready for him. There were a few last-minute hiccups, but Monday arrived, and we waited for him to come home.
By five-thirty, I was beginning to wonder why I hadn’t heard anything. I called H, who said he was awaiting transport. Then the call came. He’d been taken back to the ward, because his blood pressure dropped through the floor, and his sats were low. They said they’d try again, because Dad was insisting he wanted to go home.
We knew what that meant. He wanted to die at home.
I got in a taxi and hurried to their home. It wasn’t until seven-thirty that we got a call. He was on his way. When I asked how he was, I got a cautious ‘okay’. Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance arrived. Two men brought the stretcher into the house – and as soon as we saw him, we knew he’d already gone.
Apparently, one of the men told him he was home, and got a response. He died before he got through the door.
I’m going to stop there, because now I’m a mess again. We have no idea when the funeral will be, because…well, red tape… but it’ll get sorted. H is doing okay – I think she’s doing incredibly well, actually – and there are others to consider too – my sister, my mum…
There is a small network of friends who have known what is going on, and they’ve been wonderful. I’m so lucky to have the Hubby, who has been a rock. Parker Williams and Sue Brown have been checking up on me, and so many friends have been sending messages of support and love. Needless to say, writing is not that high up on my agenda right now, and Dreamspinner Press have been awesome.
My dad…. A very intelligent man, with a sharp wit. An extremely creative man who composed, painted, sewed, cooked… whatever he turned his hand to, he did exceedingly well at it. But a man who hated what his life had become, so maybe this was the best way after all.

                                          Barrie Peter Jones. August 1945 – December 2018