Page 87 of Wicked Pickle

Right. The message.

I pick up the phone.

Symphony: Study group done. I’m brain dead memorizing dictatorial regimes.

Symphony: You already at the bar?

Me: Yeah, sitting at my desk.

Symphony: You promised to do unspeakable things on it to me.

Me: So ready for that.

Symphony: I can be there in forty-five.

Me: Jose will be here by then.

Symphony: Your door has a lock.

Me: It does. Get that sweet ass over here.

Symphony: Coming!

Me: Not until I say so.

Symphony: Be my daddy dom, baby.

I laugh and set down the phone. I look at the sketch. I’m not in the mood for the soft one now, so I flip the page.

I draw my desk, the piles of pages, the neon signs. Then Symphony, casting only light curves across the page at first, not sure what direction to go.

But it takes shape, her ankles cuffed to the drawers on either side, back arched, breasts high in the air. You can only see her chin, the rest of her head falling back, hair cascading across the folders.

She clutches the far corners of the desk. There’s no way to secure her to those, but I draw in cuffs, anyway.

I save my favorite part for last, those thighs and the hot center between them.

Jose bangs on the door, and I take a break to let him in and let him know Symphony will be here eventually.

I should stop the drawing and put it away, but I’m eager to finish. I can’t stop where I was.

I close the door and return to the sketch.

I take care making the flesh of her pussy supple and soft and incredibly accurate. My cock jumps as I use the pad of my thumb to soften the lines.

Drawing her is almost a sex act in itself. Maybe that’s why I’m addicted.

I add shadows and details, my grip on the pencil getting tighter.

But then there’s a timid knock on the door. I glance at my phone. Shit. How has so much time passed? I slam the sketchbook closed.

“Come in,” I call, dragging the top drawer open to shove it inside as Symphony strolls in.

But I’m clumsy in my haste, and the drawer is nearly full. I shove hard enough that it bends, and when I flatten it out, the old sketches fall out of the pocket and onto the floor.

One of them flits on a current of air right as Symphony arrives next to my chair. The scrap of paper lands on her shoe.

She bends down. “What’s this?” She lets out a gasp as she recognizes herself from the bridal suite. “Did you do this?”