Page 32 of The Man I Hate

I poured a glass of scotch, neat, and paused. The last thing she needed was a shot of liquor. I set the bottle aside. As I sipped the scotch, she continued to display her pouty-lipped expression, hoping to coerce me into feeling sorry enough for her to fuck her. I had news for her: there wasn’t a woman on earth who could manipulate me into fucking her once my mind was made up.

I took a sip of scotch. Mica’s legs went on for miles. I dragged my eyes up her lean frame. While not a God-given feature, her boobs were incredible. I finished what remained of my drink in one gulp. With my gaze fixed on the bulging mounds of flesh, I blindly poured the glass full.

I wondered what her father paid for her tits. I sipped the scotch. However much it was, they were worth it.

I realized halfway through my second glass of whiskey that I wasn’t physically aroused. Mentally, I was a devout admirer of the big-boobed coed. Physically, it appeared she did nothing for me.

I was as limp as a wet noodle.

Frustrated with my anatomy’s lack of interest, I imagined her lowering herself to her knees and begging me to stuff my cock in her mouth.

My dick didn’t so much as twitch.

Although fucking Mica was out of the question, I needed to know if I’d somehow become impotent. Normally, thinking about sex aroused me.

Assuming my subconscious mind was elsewhere, I decided to give the verbal path a try. Talking about it always brought my dick to full attention.

“You think you want to fuck, huh?” I asked over the rim of my glass.

She hopped onto the kitchen island. Her endless legs dangled over the edge. She wagged her knees back and forth in an obvious effort to entice me. “I know I do.”

I gave her a flippant look. “You’re young enough to be my daughter.”

She squeezed her breasts together with the inside of her biceps. Her tanned flesh bulged out of the skimpy top.

Seeming surprised at her accomplishment, she smirked. “I’ll call you daddy if that’s what you want.”

Despite her efforts—and the wayward sexual conversation—my limp dick remained completely disinterested.

I downed the scotch and set the glass aside. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

* * *

I pounded the back of my clenched fist against Anna’s door. After a short wait, it opened.

Dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a wrinkled tee shirt, Anna stood just inside the doorway. Her curly hair was gathered into a tangled mess that sat atop her head. Cradling a nearly empty glass of wine in her hand, she looked me up and down.

“Well, that didn’t take you long,” she said upon meeting my gaze. “What happened?” She gulped what remained of the wine. “Did she have a curfew?”

“She’s a client.”

She wiped the corner of her mouth with the heel of her palm. “Catering to half-naked teens now?”

“She’s twenty-two,” I retorted.

She coughed a dry laugh. “In dog years, maybe.”

I had no desire to bicker with her about Mica. Determining if I had erectile disfunction was my only concern. Instead of beating around the bush, I decided to get right to it. Knowing a verbal exchange would suffice, that’s the direction I traveled.

I gave her a quick look and then met her glassy-eyed glare. “I want you to suck my cock.”

My dick twitched at the thought of Anna complying with the request. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

“Fuck you,” she said, eyeing me as she spoke. “Suck my cock.”

My gaze narrowed. “You don’t have a—”

The door slammed shut.