Mister O

I no longer picture her servicing me.

What gets me off more than anything is the prospect of her coming. The sounds she’d make. The way her lips would part in an O. How her back would arch. Fuck, I’d love nothing more than to get out of the shower, walk into the living room, and find her naked on my couch, legs spread, one hand between them, the other playing with her tits.

My spine tingles as the image intensifies, grows sharper, and feels more real. The muscles in my legs tighten, and I let the fantasy play out. Hell, do I ever want to discover her masturbating, to walk in on her pleasuring herself when she’s so damn close to the edge.

She moans and writhes as her fingers fly across her wet *, over the delicious rise of her clit. She’s worked up and desperate, clawing for release.

Her eyes snap open. She doesn’t even have to beg me to finish her off. Those blue eyes, hazy with lust, tell me how much she needs my mouth.

I slide my hands up her thighs and spread her legs wide. I bury my face in her sweet wetness, and holy fuck. The start of an orgasm barrels into me as I taste her. It races through me as I devour her. It wracks my body as I make her cry out and come so fucking hard on my face.

I’m right there with her, my fist flying, a wild groan ripped from my throat as I finish.

Panting, I stand there for a few minutes, the hot water raining over my back as my shoulders rise and fall from the intensity of that Harper-fueled orgasm.

A little while later, I’m freshly showered, clean as a whistle, and naked in bed.

I park my hands behind my head, a satisfied man. Yup, I came, I saw, I conquered my lust. Mission accomplished. Harper Holiday has disappeared from the 99.99 percent of my brain devoted to sex, and now I can focus on helping her tomorrow without even a single stray dirty thought getting in the way.

Clearly, I don’t want to fuck her anymore.

Nope. Not a bit. Not even when my phone buzzes. Not even when I open the text from her. Not even when I see the picture she sent—a super close-up selfie of her licking ice cream off a spoon.

I close the screen, and I swear I don’t dream about licking a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone all night long.





10





The next afternoon, I sit in a coffee shop, earbuds in, listening to music and working on the next storyline of The Adventures of Mister Orgasm after yesterday’s massive brainstorm fest with the writing staff. In this episode, our hero has to break into a three-hundred-year-old spooky house to rescue a woman who’s being haunted by the Ghost of Orgasms Past.

Something about the animations the head writer sent me feels off, but I can’t put my finger on it. I shut my laptop, slide it into my messenger bag, and grab a notebook. I need to figure out what’s wrong, and sometimes I do that best by just drawing what I see playing out in my mind.

I loop my arm around the sheet of paper, and soon enough I like the way this concept is taking shape. It’s still got the dirty humor the show needs, and I know this sounds weird, but it has heart, too. That’s key. At the end of every episode, Mister Orgasm is ultimately a good guy who helps the world.

Look, I know who I am. I don’t harbor any illusions. I’m not curing cancer or saving the whales, but I take some pride in the fact that when people watch my show, they laugh. Sometimes they even laugh so hard they pee. Yes, I’ve received fan letters to that effect. Some viewers get frisky with each other after watching. Maybe they’re laughing and maybe they’re fucking and maybe they’re peeing, but I hope the thing people aren’t doing is fighting. The Adventures of Mister Orgasm is not violent, and ultimately the hero uses both his skills and his brain to save the day, but never his fists.

That’s why I draw a bubble near the hero’s mouth and write the words, “I’m a lover not a fighter.”

I keep drawing, moving on to other images swirling around in the corners of my mind. Random things—a ninja banana, a dog walking on its front legs, a trio of puppets presenting a naughty puppet show. Maybe I can work that into an episode. Everyone likes dirty puppets. With the pencil flying over the paper, I sketch out the story in their puppet show, about a hot mechanic who’s washing her car under the sun, her wife beater clinging to her sweaty chest. She sweeps her red hair off her face, and pulls it back in a bow—

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the door opening. Harper crosses the distance, and I scramble, folding the paper into quarters, or eighths, or sixty-fourths so she won’t recognize that I drew her.

And drew her like this. Because she’s crazy sexy even in a sketch.