Page 2 of Sticky Fingers

And Peter Horsheshitmuncher, the fucking condo board president, is not such a man. Far from it.

And there’s no bigger tragedy than that, if you ask me.

Oh, yeah, I also have no fucking idea what Peter’s last name is. I mean, I knew it once when he told me, but he’s got such a fucking high-pitched voice I just forgot.

Peter is regaling the crowd with how fortunate we all are to be seeing and housing the Picasso while it’s on loan. This one was loaned to the Clarendon Tower Gallery by Daphne Abbot, the toughest lawyer this city has ever seen. You’ve probably already heard about her.

A few months ago, Dominic Larson, one of my closest friends, decided he wanted to expand his three bedroom condo at Clarendon.

The only problem?

His neighbor, Daphne Abbot, the lawyer, wanted the same.

See they’re both uber-successful people and they wanted a 7 bedroom apartment to match.

They fucking went to war over who would buy out who.

And…lets just say its complicated between them.

Anyway, I don’t know much about this Picasso, but a whole bunch of rich, uptight people seem to think it’s a great thing and that’s all that really matters around here.

I’m trying to keep an ear out for where Peter the Molester is at in his speech, but my mind keeps wandering. It’s hard to focus when you’re busy, you know?

What am I busy with, you ask?

“Oh, Malcolm, baby, you’re fucking me sooooo good!” a voice calls out from underneath me.

Yep. Welcome to my life.

And Peter Cumdrinker’s wife sure likes keeping me busy.

Because, dollface, when I say I’m in front of the Picasso, I mean I’m standing in front of it behind the curtain—as Peter drones on on the other side of the curtain—and I’m balls deep in his slutty socialite wife, Debra.

Pumping the living daylights out of her.

Spreading her ass cheeks, I push a little deeper into her warm, wet cunt.

She’s bent over, grasping the wall under the Picasso, and if it wasn’t for the fact that her dress is bunched up above her waist as I plunge inside her from behind, we would look like an admiring couple who just happened to be quite close to the painting.

“Oh, yes, deeper, Malcolm!” Her breathless plea has me pushing harder and deeper.

Spreading her ass cheeks, I push the final inch of my rock-hard cock inside her.

Even her moans can’t seem to drown out her husband, who’s running through the list of everyone who wants to be patted on the back for setting up this event.

I like to think my name is Malcolm Push for a fucking reason. It’s times like these that the irony of my name really cracks me up.

She’s not tight, and she’s not that fucking hot, but she’s slutty, and I had an itch…and you know what? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Her moan of appreciation lets me know I’ve hit the spot.

“There you go, baby.” I rub her tan ass cheek with my fingers while still holding her G-string carefully to the side.

My other fingers are busy strumming her clit, and I can feel her juices coating my hand. Pulling her back hard, I savor the push and pull motion as it tightens up my balls.

You crinkling your nose and judging me yet, dollface?

How can I be an asshole and live in such a fancy place?