For a very special friend
* * * * *
"Honestly, Ronnie, I thought it was a relatively simple task. All you had to do was change three pages of the presentation. It's due tomorrow, and here I find that you used the wrong numbers. Are you trying to make me look like a fool in front of the new owners? They didn't buy Osborne Products because they think I'm stupid."
"But Mr. Peters, you gave me those numbers yourself. I only did what you said to do."
"Yes, but I later gave you different ones, which you seem to have totally ignored, and I wanted those on the presentation. Didn't you see them?"
"No. You put the note in my out-box instead of my in-box. I don't usually check my out-box for messages."
"Now, see here, Ronnie. Don't get testy with me about your own mistake. I left that note in the right box. I can't help it if you can't keep them straight. Get those numbers changed and the new presentation on my desk by this afternoon. I'm leaving for the day. If anybody wants me, I'm golfing with the Hastings buyer, and I don't want to be disturbed. Is this all clear, or do I have to write it down?"
She finished the work at noon, and decided that if Peters didn't have to work, neither did she. The slam of her car door echoed through the parking garage, and she sat for a few minutes to cool down before the drive home. That jerk. Why does he do this to me? I can't afford to quit, and he knows it. I wish he'd just fire me instead of pulling this shit all the time. I do something and he wants it changed. I change it like he wants, and it's still wrong, because he changed his mind again. Half the time he just drops a little note on my desk somewhere, and expects me to find it. And why in Hell can't he remember my name? Dammit, I've told him a thousand times that I'm Veronica, not Ronnie. Oh, God, I hate the name "Ronnie".
She got a burger at a drive-up, stopped by her apartment to change into the string bikini and pick up some wine coolers, blanket, and the novel, and headed for the beach. Her destination was not just any stretch of the miles of sand that blanket the Pacific edge of Southern California. The little hidden cove was actually on private property, but the owners never ventured down. She steered the car past the rickety gate that proclaimed "TRESSPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED", and followed the dusty gravel path for half a mile. The seclusion, the orchestra of the surf and seagulls, and the scent of the salt air breeze wafted through her mind, and the stress began to melt into the distant past.
The sun was starting it's downward, arching dive into the sea when Veronica stepped into the small, concealed sector of beach between the towering dunes. Walking in the warm sand was better than any foot massage and she she kicked off the sandals to feel the gritty heat. She spread the blanket, dropped her sandals at the end, and eased herself down. Her dark brown hair spilled in shimmering waves over her soft shoulders when released from the confines of the barrettes. Veronica rubbed her scalp with her fingertips and then tossed her head. The brunette mane swished into a haphazard array of soft curls and she combed them from her face with a clawed hand. Peters had made it clear that she should look like a professional instead of what he described as a "sandal wearing slut", and she had to pile it on top of her head every morning. It felt so good to be rid of that severe, asshole-dictated hairdo. Peters worried a lot about hair, it seemed. Veronica smiled when she remembered the day she peeked in his office and saw him remove a mirror from his desk drawer and begin adjusting his toupe. She had managed to make it to the ladies room before she burst out laughing. After that day, it was difficult for her to look at him without giggling, and every time she drove over some road-killed animal, the picture of him staring into that mirror while he primped flashed into her mind. Ha! Mr. Peters. Mr. Primpyprick was more like it.
Veronica twisted the cap from an icy cold, peach wine-cooler and tipped the bottle to her lips, and she held the mouthful of orange-pink liquid for a moment to savor the smooth, sweet taste. She swallowed and smiled as she formed the picture of Peters watching her in the little bikini and trying hard to keep his dick down. Mr. Primpyprick should see me now. Aw, Hell. He'd probably just tell me he changed his mind again and for me to go back and change his precious, friggin' presentation. He wouldn't know what a woman was for if one jumped up and bit him. She growled out loud. I'd bite that son of a bitch, bite him right on his balls. Oh, God, yuk, no. That'd make me puke.
The sun was still high enough to burn her already golden skin, and besides, she liked spreading the lotion over her body. A quick squirt filled the palm of her hand, and she set about smoothing the creamy liquid over her skin. The lighter areas under the three small triangles covered by the bikini were not to be neglected, and Veronica watched in amusement at her body's response when she rubbed the lotion over her nipples. Their sensitivity to touch never changed, and they immediately stiffened into little rubbery tips perched on the dark, bumpy aureole, and she felt the twinge in her belly. The shaven edges of the dark-furred strip on her softly rounded mound received their share of the protective coating, and the familiar tremor floated through her body. She thought it strange that stress or strong emotions always increased her desire. Enough of this! I'll be humping my hand if I keep going.
Soon she was stretched out on her stomach and deeply involved in Chapter three of "The Sand Castles of Cimmaron". The novel had caught her eye as she absently gazed over the grocery store book section. The man on the cover was tall, muscular, and his dark eyes and black hair hinted at Hispanic descent. The voluptuous woman in his arms gazed into his eyes with a look of uninhibited passion. She had scanned the first two chapters, and found the story to be tantalizingly erotic. After reading "Maria whispered, yes, Raoul, and he entered her", she dropped the paperback in the basket. She had read the first two chapters the night before, and then had dreamed of the tall, dark man. He was staring into her deep, emerald eyes as his hands caressed her body. She woke to find herself hugging the extra pillow to her breasts and belly, and drifted along on the half-conscious dream of his hands on her body, of his lips working against hers, and of his hard manhood slipping between her thighs to satisfy the desire that burned in her soul. Veronica slid her slender fingertips between her morning-wet lips and exhaled deeply as she stroked the slippery surface. Raoul was preparing her body to accept his rigid organ, and in her mind, she begged the man of her imagination to mount her. She could feel the power of his touch as he caressed the wrinkled, wet inner surface of her sex, and her hips began to rock into the sensations created by her fingertips and mind. Veronica could almost feel his weight as he settled over her for his entrance. The large purple head was spreading her swollen lips and teasing at the entrance to her passage. As she lifted her hips to accept him, the alarm buzzer screamed at her, and the stranger evaporated into the dim light of the dawn that streamed through her bedroom window. The orgasm that staggered her in the shower was good, but without the vision, her fingers only succeeded in relieving a bit of the desire.
Chapter three was consuming. The heroine was watching Raoul as he disrobed in preparation for bathing, and was obviously quite taken by his appearance. Veronica devoured the description of the short, dark curls that blanketed his sculptured chest, and of the veins that stood out from the bulge of his biceps. Maria described the rippled belly and more curls just visible at the low waistband of his pants. She described his muscular hips and thighs when he removed the pants, and Raoul was about to turn to face her. After reading the paragraph twice without comprehension, Veronica gave up; the warm sand beneath the blanket and the stressful morning were conspiring to make her sleep. Her eyelids wouldn't stay open and she kept nodding into the book. Her face slowly lowered to her arm, and her mind flowed back to that morning. The book fell closed on the blanket as her breathing became deeper.
The calm of the cove was shattered by a pair of shrieking seagulls that wheeled and tacked on the updraft, and the sound woke her. The sun was a half circle of dark red waiting to be swallowed by the Pacific. Even though this location was fairly well protected from discovery in the dark, the beach was no place for a woman to be alone at night, and she groggily raised herself to leave. The wine cooler was warm, so she poured it into the sand and placed the empty in the cooler. The blanket needed to be shaken to remove the sand before she folded it and she bent to lift the edge. Even had she not been in this off-balance position, the heavily callused skin that hit her in the buttocks would have knocked Veronica to the sand. She screamed as she fell, and expected the blow to be followed by groping hands turning her to her back before the man threw himself on her belly. She drew up her legs to be ready to kick out as hard as she could, and lay terrified as she listen for the soft squish of footsteps in the sand.
The snuffling breath in her ear told Veronica this was no man, and she slowly turned her face to her attacker. The big wet tongue that licked her from chin to eyebrows convinced her it was safe to turn over. She stared into the deep, soulful eyes and grinning mouth of a tail-wagging, black labrador retriever. Her smile was promptly followed by a sloppy lick across her lips and open mouth that left her spitting. She grabbed his ears to hold him off.
"Hey there, big guy. I'm a lady. Don't be so rough. Where'd you come from, anyway?"
The pink tongue was reaching for her, but she held it at bay and laughed.
"God, if only you were a man."
It was hard to sit up and hold the flailing tongue at arms length. She managed, though she received many sloppy licks to her arms in the process, but almost fell back down when she was startled by the deep, baritone voice.
"Rocky! Heel!"
A chill trickled down her spine as he approached. The lab pulled back, and ran to the man's side. They stopped a few feet from the blanket. "Rocky! Sit!"
