Zeus

Hot damn. Suck this, you royal pansy who thought I couldn’t do it.

Fireball’s about to fuck my nuts off.

This chick—yeah, she’s way out of my league. Brains. Self-confidence. Owns her own airplane.

Defies fucking gravity.

She drags me down the narrow hallway lined with pictures of pretentious golf dudes, trophy cases, and framed awards until she finds a door that opens.

Office. Desk. Picture of the manager and his poodle. Window overlooking the course. A big tee clock that neither one of us better sit on.

Her hair’s the only thing loose about her, flowing over her shoulders like a curtain of silk. Her body’s so smokin’ hot it sets off all the fire alarms in my system. She’s got the focus of a tiger. Not often I feel like the prey.

Considering she can’t be bigger than five-seven, maybe one-forty soaking wet, I should be the lion to her gazelle. But those dark eyes are telegraphing an unmistakable message that she’s about to own me.

“You get one chance, Berger,” she says as she makes quick work of the buttons on her white blouse and drops it to the ground, revealing olive skin over taut muscle and two beautiful tits held in place by a utilitarian white bra. I don’t even care that she’s in grandpa pants that go all the way up to her belly button. Blood pumps into my dick like a fucking dam burst.

“Supposed to be my line, Fireball,” I reply. “Or should I call you…?”

“Lose the dress. Fireball’s all you’re getting.”

She’s using all of my lines against me. Get naked. Call me the Brute. Let’s fuck.

Yeah, the chicks I bang know my name. But they don’t know me.

“Your dress?” she prompts.

“Honey, women don’t tell the king of the gods what to do.” I don’t know if I can get out of this fucking thing by myself. One wrong move, and it’s popping seams.

I can get rid of these coconuts though. I heft them out of the bra, and hoo—fuck, I forgot I wasn’t breathing all the way. Back’s tight too.

She chuckles out a delightfully evil laugh as she peels her breasts out of that ugly-ass bra. “Honey, you don’t get to touch these unless you do what I tell you to.”

My fingers itch, my cock begs to be tagged into the game, and my tongue twists itself in a fucking knot. I’ve seen boobs. I’ve licked boobs, I’ve sucked on boobs, I’ve fondled boobs. Me and boobs? There’s never been a shortage. I know boobs.

But the thought of not knowing these pretty titties is making that demigod in my jockey shorts threaten to go on strike.

I’m about to call her bluff—she’ll be begging me to lick her nipples in three-point-two seconds—when she cups her breasts, puts her thumbs to her pert rosy buds, and lets her eyes slide shut. Someone’s taking a cracker to my nuts, because the sight of this woman touching herself is about to make those puppies under my stick burst.

I spin in a circle trying to grab the hook on this bra Madame Cosette strapped me into. Fuck it. Gonna have to settle for pulling my arms out of the straps.

Except my arms are the size of a normal man’s thighs, and fuck, the strap’s stuck too. I’d burn the fucking thing off if I could find a lighter, because I’m starting to think that’s what it’s gonna take.

She shoves me back against the desk. The tee clock bounces to the oriental rug under the desk. My coconuts clatter on top of it. Some other office shit moves and shuffles, but I don’t notice, because she’s climbing up on the desk, straddling me like there’s not a huge-ass window right behind us. “Poor baby needs help?” she purrs.

Yeah, she’s fucking purring.

And I don’t give two shits that she’s mocking me, because those firm titties are bouncing just enough to hold every iota of my attention, her legs are framing my hips while she thrusts her goods against the demigod in my skirt, and halle-fucking-lujah, she just released the hook on my bra.

My mouth’s gone dry as a desert and can’t stop salivating all at the same time. I don’t know which way’s up, what color the sky is, or how to count to ten, but my straining dick knows she’s north and it wants to sit in Mrs. Claus’s lap.

Shut up. You’d be brain-tied too if this chick had her tits in your face.

She’s straddling me, yanking my dress down to scrape her fingers over my pecs, rubbing her pussy against the happiest god on earth, and fuck, Mt. VuZeusius is about to blow.

I grasp her waist, grit my teeth, and count my ABCs to get control of that thunder growing down under, because Zeus Fucking Berger does not lose his shit before the third period.

“Didn’t paint you for a puck bunny,” I rasp out.

“Pink hair turns me on, even if you’re due for a good weed whacking.” She rubs me harder with her magic pussy, and shit, I need to get a grip. We’re both still in our pants—okay, me in my underpants—my dick’s about to punch through this dress, and if her pussy’s half as hot and wet and silky as those fuck-me bedroom eyes of hers are promising, this little trip to the principal’s office is gonna be one for the record books.

“Not my coconuts?” I grunt out, because grunting’s where I’m at. I can’t talk. I’ve got a dick ready to blow and the ref hasn’t even dropped the puck yet.

“Which one was Athena? This one?” She takes a nail to my left pec and starts tracing a spiral out from my nipple, shooting sparks so hot the air’s crackling. My bra’s hanging open, the dress stretched so thin by the coconuts it’s showing off the girdle Madame Cosette insisted I wear too. I need this chick out of her pants, I need to get suited up, and I need to get in this game. Now.

“Or this one?” She bends over me, nips my right pec with her teeth, grinds her hips against my dick, and—

Oh, fuck.

Fuck fuck fucking fuckity fucking fuck, I’m coming.

Blinding.

Hot.

Fast.

In my jockey shorts.

I jerk up into her, trying to stop it, but I’m fucking shooting fireworks out the tip of my dick. That volcano’s erupting. My nuts are running for cover, my dick’s making the party foul of the fucking century, and I can’t bear down hard enough to stop it. I’m coming like a twelve-year-old who just looked at Dora the fucking Explorer the wrong way—don’t judge, asshole, you know you did it too—and Fireball knows it.

I know ice, and this princess who just froze over me is frosting faster than the lake in my Minnesota hometown in winter. “Did you—” she starts.

“No,” I lie. “Baby—”

“You did.”

“That’s just a precursor.” Fuck, there’s so much more I want to do to this woman. Fifteen minutes, I’m back in the game. I can eat her until there’s nothing left. Finger her with my fat sausage fingers that are bigger than most other men’s dicks. Hell, even half-mast, I’m twice the man most other fuckers are.

Her eyes narrow.

I’m losing her. She’s gonna leave.

I don’t want her to fucking leave. I want her to stay, here, until I can salvage this—this—whatever the fuck this is. I launch myself up, grip her by the back of her head, pretend I’m not leaking jizz out the bottom of my dress, and slam my lips over hers.

When in doubt, always go for the kiss.

I think.

Fuck, I’m never in doubt. This doesn’t fucking happen to me.

She lets out a muffled curse against my lips, gives me the titty twister to end all titty twisters, and I leap back with a yowl.

She scowls at me while she shoves her blouse back on and snags her bra off the floor. I can still see her nipples standing rosy and perky and ready under the white fabric. And I’m pretending I don’t have the spoils of war leaking down my thigh. Mr. Party Pooper in my Pants has the nerve to give me an oh, yeah nod.

“I’ve never—” I start.

“You know what? I’m really tired of always wearing the pants in a relationship.”

The door slams shut two seconds later, and I’m left waiting for my dick to explain to me what just happened.

Which—newsflash—is like waiting for a Minnesota Lake to boil in January.

Because that fucker in my pants has even fewer brains than I do.

“Fucking king of the gods,” I mutter.

And because today apparently can get worse, the door swings open again almost immediately, and—fuck.

Ares and Chase look at me. Then they look at my dress. My deflating boner. My legs.

My dripping-in-my-own-shit legs.

“Shut the fuck up right fucking now,” I growl.

Chase ducks his head, bites his knuckles, snort-snuffles, and leaves.

Ares grunts. Happens to all of us, man. Smear some on the dick’s window.

I don’t give a fuck about messing with the asshole manager.

All I care about is finding myself a plate of cookies and a good, stiff bottle of whisky.

Only Fireball I’m getting tonight, apparently.