A Truckload of Sperm

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Tough-ass attorney Thelma Bush who specialized in defending guys accused of assaulting women was in the city’s premiere bar, notorious for its callous indifference at fleecing its patrons.

She stared at the guy leaning on his table alone, chin cupped in his hand and staring at her. She mouthed the words, ‘Fuck off’.

God, she thought, what riff-raff they let into bars these days.

Half an hour later she’d had enough. She’d decided to march over and slug the pervert between the eyes with her handbag. Er, no. That would be assault, incapable of being defended in this instance. So she marched over and said sweetly, “Please sir, would you stop staring at me?”


“Excuse me?”

“There are something like fifty women in this bar, most of them hoping to get fucked tonight but none look as good as you and I happen to know you can’t hold on to a guy. Further, you are between guys at present and so are unlikely to be fucked tonight or any time in the foreseeable future.”

“You are mad and probably are a stalker. I’m calling the cops.”

“I’m a new recruit on the ‘Daily Beacon’. Here’s my card or do you wish to look at my more interesting credentials?”

She thought what a disgusting jerk. “Well just stop staring at me. It’s a waste of time. You know nothing about me. I’m married.”

She was walking away when the jerk said, “Whatever you say Miss Bush.”

She turned to berate him and saw the mocking look. The jerk was winding her up.

Thelma walked back to him and sat down. Her knees touched on of his and she pulled away, almost jumping through the roof. “May I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks, that’s real civil of you Thelma. Another Coke please.”

Thelma was too smart to express surprise he was not drinking alcohol and knew her first name. She ordered a Coke and a single shot Vodka on the rocks. The waitress making the delivery was not as smart as Thelma; she had to be told three times the Vodka was for Thelma.

“Cheers. What’s your name pal?”

“Jervois Rich?”

Thelma looked at him closely and then, “God, you are Jervois Rich. We went through junior high together. I had the hots for you and you just vanished. Was it I?”

Jervois grinned. “Nah, mom left dad and took me off to Europe when she scored a new posting. I finished my education at American schools abroad. She was a senior official working at embassies.”

“How exciting. And then you drifted into journalism?”

“Along the way, yeah.”

“And now are a crime reporter on the ‘Beacon’?”

“No, the first male to be appointed fashion editor.”

“Good god.”

“It was all wrong for them, tradition and all that crap, but I was the outstanding applicant and mentioned to the interview panel I would sue under the sex discrimination legislation if the appointment went to someone else. So they decided to make no appointment.”

“The cowards.”

“Yep. So I laid a complaint to start the legal process and hello — the editor-in-chief called me and congratulated me on my appointment as fashion editor. My mug will be on the front page in the morning with the ‘Beacon’ crowing it’s taken a courageous step, the first metropolitan newspaper in the country to appoint a male as fashion editor.”

“Good for you. You should have become a lawyer.”

“I was for three years and then decided it wasn’t for me.”

“Why are you here?”

“To try to date you.”

“No, I mean why are you back in this city?”

“I just told you and the fact mom’s retired to live here and would like me to drop round now and then.”

“I liked your mother. Okay, I’ll date you.”


“I’ll think about it and let you know — fashion desk at the ‘Beacon’, right?”

“That will do. I haven’t settled on an apartment yet. I thought there might be a chance of shifting in with you, sharing your bed and the rent.”

“I own my apartment Jervois.”

“You probably own the bed as well, but that doesn’t mean you can’t share.”

“I’ll thing about that as well.”

“Thank you. I’m off to the ballet and will leave you with this thought: “You dress badly, your clothes are ill-fitting but your saving grace is your deportment — oh and those violet eyes. I’ve never forgotten those violet eyes and often wondered how life was going for you but knowing professionally you had become rather famous.”

“For abusing my clients and judges?”

“That’s what the article in a French magazine said. I noticed your poor style of dress in those photographs but admired how well your body had developed since junior high.”

“Please shut up about the way I dress or dress improperly. It rattles me.”

“Okay, do you wish to hear the equation?”

“Sounds interesting, yes.”

“Dress with style plus make up more dramatically plus adopt a less uncompromising attitude equals more men with romance on their mind and with the intention of fucking you.”

“Ohmigod, all I can say is you’re different. Off you go and I’ll get back to my colleagues who worship me.”

“Only because poker oyna they probably work for you.”

“God, you are horrible to me.”

Jervois winked at Thelma and walked off.

In bed that night Thelma’s mind was in a whirl so she got up and sat looking at the city lights. She couldn’t believe Jervois had gotten away without being scalped. Even before he’d identified himself he’s not been verbally eviscerated. Towards the end he became even more mockingly abusive and she’d taken it like a lamb. She was never like that with men. What was it? Then it hit her: he’d manipulated her with skill. He was provocative, made statements to arouse interest, then drew back just in time and ego-stroked and although being outrageous he’d remained calm and actually appeared to be very non-threatening. God, he’d mentally fucked her and that crap about the way she’d dressed stopped only just short of making her orgasm through being so emotionally aroused. God, was she making this up or had she dissected it accurately? She thought it was the latter. Damn, she wished she hadn’t had so many drinks.

Thelma turned on TV and with most stations screening a film at that hour turned to a program she watched occasionally late at night because she loved to hate it and it reminded her people really were stupid. A guy and a woman worked as a team discussing questions posed by viewers who phoned in.

“It’s Gladys,” said the caller — none were filmed, for obvious reasons — and she wanted to know why Sundays were usually rainy and Mondays when she returned to work were usually fine.

The guy thought it might depend where one lived. He thought half of his Sundays were wet and half were dry.

His companion thought half her Sundays were dry and half were wet.

They laughed and Thelma rolled her eyes and then the guy redeemed himself by saying it’s possible there would be something in it because he’d heard woman complain it usually rained when she put washing out to dry on Mondays. “Perhaps a weather expert or two who are listening could phone in with their informed views?”

“Hi, it’s Mandy. I work in a 24/7 store out of the city and have just received tomorrow morning’s edition of the ‘Beacon’. On the front page it’s announcing it’s new fashion editor is a guy. What does the panel think of that?”

“That is sensational news,” the woman panelist (Ruby-Mae) said. “Women readers will be in an uproar about that. The fashion photos will be all breasts and butt — we all know what men are like.”

The guy said: “I don’t know about that. Men have a fine eye for detail, are not emotional bunnies and don’t get confused about color and textures and know that change needs to be incremental, not radical. However, since Ruby-Mae has expressed her sexist view let’s open the line for callers to make one sentence statement about the ‘Beacon’s’ move to appoint a female editor. Only twenty or fewer words please.

Male: A brilliant move.

Female: I won’t buy the ‘Beacon’; not that I’ve ever bought it.

Female: Fashion is so screwed up these days that having a guy in the supreme position of fashion editor will really screw it up.

Male: Who cares?

Female: A guy wouldn’t know about fashion editing even if he tripped over it.

Female: This is a courageous move by the newspaper, so I think this guy is probably more qualified for the post than any female. By the way I’m his mother.

Ruby-Mae cut in. “If you are this guy’s mother, please remain online as I wish to talk to you. You are?

“Emily Rich.”

“That name rings a bell. I’ve seen you being interviewed on TV, a trade official perhaps?”

“I was interviewed on TV and by magazine writers quite extensively last year following my retirement after long service abroad that ended as a Minister Counselor for Public Affairs at several US Embassy postings.”

“Ah, now I remember — straight white hair, a rounded face with dimples.”

“Do you have my photo in front of you? These days I believe the dimples are buried in wrinkles.”

“Is your son qualified for this newspaper post of fashion editor, emphasis I must say on women’s fashion?”

“Yes, I would think so. He’s spent the past eight years writing about fashion, emphasis on women’s fashion, as a freelance writer for an international agency distributing articles to magazines and newspapers. He’s won several top awards as a journalist presented to him in England, France and Italy and has had two books on women’s fashion published in France — one of them in five languages. Personally he dresses without indicating much fashion sense but that is a preference: his passion is for what he sees and not in what he wears. I suggest people wait until they see a stream of results before they judge him as a fashion editor without emphasis on the fact he’s male.”

“It has been most interesting listening to your comments and suggestion Mrs Rich. Thank you for sharing with us tonight.”

Thelma drifted off to sleep, at peace at least, dreaming of Jervois Rich stroking her nude hip as she slept.

Next morning canlı poker oyna over coffee Thelma read all about Mr Jervois Rich, fashion editor, and had to admit his credentials probably made him over-qualified for his newspaper position. She read two interesting facts: He’d been married to a Swedish model but she died in a boating accident in the south of France just before their first wedding anniversary when he was in Buenos Aires working. Less interesting was his name Jervois was of Norman origin and was the name of a suburb where his mother lived with her parents for some years in her early teens. Thelma recalled where her English mother had lived in her early teens and was glad she’d not been called Blackpool.

Midmorning — it was Saturday — Thelma joined the regular bunch of six sometime eight unmarried women friends (three very unmarried, being divorcees) at the mall for coffee. Janis produced the article about Jervois. All but one was aware of the appointment. A lively discussion followed with the best comment, Thelma thought, coming from Mickey — ‘How could any guy unsure of the difference between his ass and his elbow adjudicate on fashion unless he were gay?’ At that they became the noisiest group in the mall, laughing so much. As it happened the arguments provided good fodder because later that morning Thelma was invited to join an all-women panel of six on the program ‘The Big Mistake of the Week at 7:00’ to grill Mr Jervois Rich about his appointment. She accepted, thinking it would be fun, and was amazed she’d be paid to appear and to be told she was ‘a virtual celebrity’. Thelma made the assistant producer giggle when she said, “I guess all the celebrities are out of town?”

Thelma walked into a fashion shop in the mall and was horrified that the assistants all appeared to be high school girls. She waited for the best-dressed girl to become free and then asked: Please dress me sexy, as I’ll be speaking at a public function, sitting.

“Then it’s all about hair, make-up, shoulders and cleavage?” said the girl, astonishing Thelma.

“How is it one so young knows so much?”

The girl tossed her head and said she was a senior at design school specializing in apparel.

“Well in that case you better assist me to build a new wardrobe likely to appeal to men who are not looking for hookers.”

“Yes ma’am. You’re that gutsy defense attorney who’s often on TV, aren’t you.”

“Possibly. Please call me Thelma as I’ve yet to qualify to be called ma’am.”

Thelma was delighted when meeting others on the panel and the producer and her fellow team members. Three of those women in off-the-rack clothes and unremarkable features gave her catty glances. If women were jealous of her appearance, despite Thelma being constantly horrified that she was about to tumble out of her shelf-bra, then what more could she asked? That incredible shop assistant Jolene had even managed to get a hairdresser friend to squeeze her in for a 3:15 appointment.

When the last panelist arrived late to make her dramatic entrance — she was both blonde and a professional actress of note although Thelma hadn’t been aware of her existence — the producer clicked her fingers and Jervois was led out and introduced. Thelma had decided to reveal she knew Jervois and lied she’d been nude with him some years ago in a sauna at a ski resort in Switzerland. At that disclosure she received catty looks galore. The producer almost collapsed when Jervois said drolly, “Oh yes, I thought I recognized those breasts.”

The presenter Dolly Rainbow (known to her parents as Jill Smith) entered and was introduced to everyone.

The half-hour show was lively, funny and some savage barbs were thrown and Jervois defended himself quite well. Winding up the conclusion Dolly said, “Thelma I understand our pilloried guest knows you slightly, recognizing your body from being in a sauna with you and others in Switzerland, although I find that recall a trifle suspect. You have the final word, as I believe this debate has been inconclusive. Go!”

Thelma remembered Jervois’ mother’s words expressed on TV talkback the previous evening. “My words are not original. People should wait until they see fashion pages produced under Jervois’ direction before they judge him as a fashion editor without emphasis on the fact he’s male.”

The audience cheered and when the studio lights dimmed the panelists and Jervois were invited to stay for drinks and nibbles. After fending off the attempt by the female producer to date her, and watching the blonde actress almost bury Jervois under her bosom, Thelma left early, pleased she’d had such a rewarding day. For the next two hours she took calls from friends congratulating her plus two ex boyfriends attempting to say they were sorry for dumping her. The minor celebrity then went to bed and on TV found Jervois’ editor-in-chief under fire from a panel of female journalists, mostly overweight with a hint they might by gay. The editor was valiant but was overwhelmed. He refused to concede under bombardment he’d made a mistake in authorizing internet casino the appointment.

Next morning one of her phone callers was Jervois.

“Hi, lunch at the Dumb Waiter 12:30 today?”

“I’ll think about it.”

The phone clicked.

Thelma, still a fine-looking woman at thirty-six, arrived at the Dumb Waiter at 1:00 wearing a white suit and a wide red hat with matching red shoes. Her new bra made her feel dangerous. She waved to Jervois, sitting morose with an empty glass in front of him. Three dumb waiters converged and the winner led Thelma to a window table for two. There was a 10-minute wait before Jervois yielded and joined her.

“You’re a bitch,” was his sour greeting.

“Yeah, men have been bad news for me. Is your ego standing up to all this passionate publicity being heaped on you?”

“Had a call from my disgruntled editor-in-chief last night with back-stabs suffered in a ‘Meet the Press’ show involving distinguished female journalists. He said if I resigned from my post within a year he’d personally sue the pants off me.”

“A charming man. I was telling you about men like that.”

“You were very nice to me on TV. Or was that not you?”

“It was me, you recognized my breasts.”

He laughed and said that reminded him, she was a little large for a shelf bra.

“Only you would know, being a fashion editor. Still thinking of getting you hands around them?”

He turned and raised a hand. Three waiters came running. He ordered champagne, French.

“Oooh, flushed at the moment are we”

He grinned slyly. “The bill goes to you; this is your table.”

“Not only do you jerk off, you are a jerk,” she grinned, watching him squirm.

“Only a woman with a finger up her butt would say something like that.”

She smiled and said god he was rude.


She sighed and said okay.

“What about me moving in with you?”


“So you’ve given it deep thought.”

“No, I haven’t had time to worry about that. I guess if you don’t fit in with my scene you’re out with the trash.”

“Then I better find my own place.”

“”That’s a real intelligent comment. You surprise me.”

Jervois looked at her darkly. “We agreed to a truce.”

“Oh, so we did. Sorry. Like to fuck me after lunch?”

Jervois’ eyes bulged.

“What, in here?”

“You are a devil. Okay.”

“No, no. I didn’t mean that. You meant that.”

“I actually meant at my apartment.”


“Apologies don’t come shorter than that.”

“Oh, of course. I apologize Thelma for misunderstanding you. Something is happening to me.”

A fat and jolly-faced waiter arrived. He nodded to Thelma as if he knew her and showed Jervois the two bottles tucked into his arms.

Jervois choose one.

“Select the other one Jervois. It’s fifty bucks cheaper. Please bill Mr Rich’s table for the wine and meal Carlos.”

“Mr Rich, the controversial women’s fashion editor is here in my restaurant?”

“Yes Carlos, well spotted. He is likely to be a regular because he’s trying to get into my bed.”

“Mr Rich. Please call me Carlos and please accept the premium bottle with my compliments.”

“Er, thank you Carlos. You have a lovely restaurant — the ambience even at lunchtime is very European.”

“Thank you sir. I’ll send over my dumbest waiter because he’s our best with the wine, even better than me.”

As Carlos left Jervois said, “You conned Carlos, you cow.”

“Did I really? You are going to become famous in this city, and very quickly I’m picking. You will need somewhere to hold court and my picking is your conscience will compel you to give your business to a restaurateur who gave you a two hundred and sixty-five dollar bottle of wine. That’s the price on the wine list of course if I remember correctly.”

Jervois looked at her in awe and then his face crumbled. “I called you a cow.”

“Oh I don’t think so. I thought I heard you say you gorgeous creature.”

Jervois stared at her and swallowed, deeply.


Thelma had Jervois lie on his back on her lounge sofa and unzipped him. “It’s gorgeous.”


She licked it. She blew on it. She played with it. She sucked it. She took off her top, pulled up her bra and pushed it between her breasts. All in all, she put it under great stress. Finally licking it one more time she watched the angry red head turn purple and Jervois groaned and it began pulsating and moving slightly on its own accord. She blew on it. It shot a string of cum up in a lazy arc, and then another and there may have been others to come but one would never know because the still pulsating cock was by then in her mouth.

“Oh God, Jervois groaned. How on earth can you conduct a world-class performance like that and still be without a man?”

Thelma dribbled cum on to his shirt and grinned but didn’t answer.

She dropped her skirt. She saw sexy hold-ups but no panties. She climbed over his face and was not required to give instructions. After her pussy spewed over his mouth she wriggled down and inserted him. There was enough length so she found it unnecessary to finish undressing and anyway, knew men’s balls were not a pretty sight even when she was half-drunk.

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