Gonna Have To End It With Your Blammin Hot Lovemuffin Day!
You've been having some way hot pre-Christmas nudity with that single father these past few weeks. Seemed like you'd been searching high and low for someone who'd get you way wet and who'd be cool with you being married to one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the city. And then you took your son to that Saturday afternoon children's story hour at Border's and he started talking to little Maria about some book about a magic ant or something. And when you got a look at the jawline on little Maria's recently divorced pop you knew if you didn't see that jaw open up on a hotel room pillow and wait for you to dip your twat inside within the next seven hours you might start smoking again.
And when you found out this guy was happy to plow into you the three or four times a week you require (in order to keep from seducing the less malodorous help and having them executed soon after in exchange for a promise to provide amply for their families), and all the World's Greatest Dad was asking in return is that you not ask him for any kind of serious obligation as he was trying to ease little Maria into her broken home with as much attention as he could give, well shit if your pussy didn't just jump up from the table and shout out "Bingo!"
Well, I'm afraid the party's about to end. When you arrive at the hotel room this afternoon, Tall, Dark and Notyourhusband will be sitting in the chair next to the vanity fully clothed and completely unresponsive to the way your ass is made manifest by that skirt (normally he has his teeth in the bare stretch of thigh between your hemline and the top of your leather boot before you can even pour yourself a diet coke). Like you give a shit, you'll ask him what's wrong. And that's when he'll tell you that little Maria was diagnosed with leukemia and you're gonna start looking around the room for a fire alarm to pull so you can get the hell outta there before the faggot tries to get you to hug him (shudder). You'd forgotten how nauseous you could be made to feel by a man's teardrop on your shoulder.
Well don't fret. Just tell him he looks hungry and that you'll call room service for some soup. But instead, dial your cell phone and when you answer the ring, act all freaked out and tell him your son got hit by a car or some shit like that and you have to leave. Then sometime within the next week have your assistant give him a check for fifty thousand dollars and tell him that if he contacts you again you'll use your influence to make sure his daughter is forced to cut through a huge mass of bureaucratic red tape before receiving proper treatment for her illness.
Happy Gonna Have To End It With Your Blammin Hot Lovemuffin Day!