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Hate Fuck
I couldn’t believe I was in this situation — having to explain to these people why I should have been the person to get the publishing contract. But here I was.
Oh, you want details.
So, there’s this big Hollywood movie, with big Hollywood names attached. Big name producers, director, and actors all signed. And so naturally the movie company wants a tie-in novel, to be based right off the script.
The selected author would have to sign a non-disclosure agreement and everything.
This movie was going to be a big deal. With a lot of money at stake. In fact, the author who got the contract was going to be an instant millionaire.
I thought the competition was going to be pretty tight, too, even with the rule that you had to have an agent before you could submit a proposal, but I had hardly any competition. I thought I had that contract all sewn up, as the saying went, until along came a new entry — a young, beautiful, black woman, just graduated from college, a fifth-generation descendant of former slaves, but with NO publishing contracts under her belt.
No publishing experience to speak of.
Like I said, I thought I had it in the bag. But the committee who was going to be ultimately deciding who got the contract was fawning all over her. Couldn’t get enough of her.
While I had plenty of experience under my belt, as far as working with a publisher and working under a deadline, I was no longer young. No longer very photogenic.
Everything this young woman was. She was 22 or 23 if she was a day, about five foot-three, with milk chocolate skin, straight, shiny, jet-black hair almost down to her butt, and dark eyes the color of black coffee. And don’t get me started about her ass or her tits, both of which were bigger than her head, and the same chocolate color.
The possibility that this girl was going to waltz away with the contract enraged me to no end.
I’ve never had anything against black people, exactly. But when that black person is standing in the way of me becoming an instant millionaire, yeah, I’m kind of pissed right now.
At the moment, I was in the convention center space where the competition for the publishing contract was being held.
Little Miss Chocolate had just made an impassioned plea all about how her family would be so proud and all that crap.
Then the head of the committee turned to me. “Mr. Fields. Now it is your turn to explain to the committee why you think you should get the contract.”
So I rose from my chair, smoothing down my jacket and tie, and turned to face the committee, not looking at Miss White.
“Committee Members,” I said. “I won’t deny that Miss White has drive, and passion. But ask yourselves, has she actually published a book? Writing a book is one thing, but when you start working with a publisher, everything changes. Suddenly you have deadlines. Suddenly you have an editor. Suddenly you have to work with people to get your book on the shelf. And the compromises begin, between what you want and what the publisher thinks will sell. Has this young lady been through that? And with a project this big, do you want to take that chance? I’ve been through it, working with a publisher and all the rest. Would you entrust your project to anything less?”
And then I sat down.
There was a long pause, during which the committee members talked among themselves.
Then the talking stopped. I was suddenly hopeful as the head of the committee stood, a serious-looking fellow in a plaid shirt and a sweater vest. “Well,” he started off. “Thank you both for your passionate speeches. We will take both into consideration and have our decision for you tomorrow morning. Have a good evening.”
Right, I thought. Have a good evening, trying not to think too much about what this decision would mean for my life. Deciding against me would pretty much doom my career as a writer.
No pressure, right?
Just as I was rising from my seat, my competition came over.
Great.
“Mr. Fields,” she said, smiling flawlessly. “I just wanted to wish you luck, no matter what the committee decides.”
“Thank you,” I said. What else could I say? “And the same to you.”
“Have a good evening,” she said.
“You, too,” I said. “Or at least try not to think about today too much.”
To my surprise, she nodded and rolled her eyes in agreement. “Sugar, you got that right! This whole process has been nothing but stressful from the word jump!”
“Yeah, all that,” I said, matching her movements. “You got any plans for this evening?”
“Probably spend tonight at my sister’s house,” she said. “She just had a new baby. Can’t stop talking about her.”
“What about you? No kids?”
“Nope,” she said. “And how about you? No wife and kids waiting at home for you?”
“Nope,” I said, not wanting to lie. “No wife. No kids. No nothing.”
For a moment, a different look lived in her brown eyes. Then she said, “Well, I hope you have a good evening, Mr. Fields.”
“Thank you,” I said, hopefully in a civil tone.
Even as she walked away, her heels clicking on the marble floor, two impulses warred within me.
I wanted to fuck her silly, just to find out what it was like. And I wanted to win that contract, just to see the look on her face.
Nothing to be done about either — at least, not until morning.
* * *
The next morning I woke all at once to the sound of my hotel room phone ringing.
Somewhat blearily, I reached over and picked it up. “What…”
“Mr. Fields, good morning,” a brisk male voice said, giving me a jolt of a adrenaline.
“Oh, hi,” I said, suddenly quite awake.
“I trust you slept well,” the voice said.
“About as well as can be expected,” I said, only a little tartly. “I take it the committee has reached its decision?”
“Yes, we have,” the voice said, sounding non-commital. “In fact, Miss White should be arriving any minute now–“
Suddenly there was a knock at my hotel room door. “Excuse me,” I said. “The door. Be right back.”
“Of course.”
I put the phone down but didn’t hang up, pulled on a bathrobe and went to the door.
There stood my competition for the contract, Gabrielle White herself, looking beautiful in a silk blouse and navy silk skirt, with red patent-leather heels on her feet.
“Mr. Fields,” she said, smiling flawlessly. “May I come in?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, fumbling slightly, pulling the door open for her.
She strode in and I closed the door behind her. “I take it that’s the committee on the phone?”
“Yes,” I said, returning to the phone. “Hello?”
“I take it Miss White is there?”
“Yes,” I said. “And why is she here?”
“As I said, the committee has reached its decision,” the voice said. “But I think I should let Miss White explain. Once she had done that, I will call back in an hour for your decision.”
“What–” But they had already hung up. So I looked right at Miss White. “All he said was that they had made a decision,” I told her. “Then he said you were going to explain.”
Gabrielle smiled and gave a single nod. “Yes. I’ll be quick. So, your impassioned plea yesterday had some effect. The committee was…reluctant to give me the contract, for the very reasons you had brought up. So, they would give me the contract–“
“I knew it!” I snarled.
“–under one condition.”
“And what, pray tell, might that be?”
“That you be my editor,” she said quietly. “I mean, you did say that you’ve been around the block. You’ve worked with publishers. You know what it takes to get a book published. Who better to work with a brand new, never published author like me?”
I couldn’t believe it. “The committee told you that.”
“Yes, they did,” she said, still smiling. “I can see you need some convincing.”
“You could say that,” I told her.
She opened up a folder and pulled out a check and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“That is your retainer, for agreeing to become my editor,” she said.
I looked at the check. My head swam. It was for six figures.
“And there’s one more thing I can offer,” she said, speaking in a soft, seductive tone.
“Uhm…what’s that?”
“Well, it’s crossed my mind that you seem…lonely,” she said, taking two steps across to me. “Perhaps I can entice you with something else that you don’t have?”
“And, uh, what might that be?”
She eased down on her knees before me and spread apart my bathrobe. In no time she had my cock in her fingers, her chocolate skin tone standing out magnificently against my skin.
“Uhm…what are you doing,” I asked.
“This,” she said, leaned forward and went to town on my cock.
In short order the room was filled with her slurping and sucking, and my grunts and groans.
Her oral arguments were slow and sensual. She took her time with me, but we both knew where this was headed, so to speak.
Ten minutes later I let out a loud groan as I blew my load in Gabrielle’s mouth, her lips closed tight around my pulsing shaft.
After a few moments, she pulled back, rose to stand, and went into the bathroom, closing the door.
She re-emerged a few minutes later with a smile. “So, do you find my oral arguments persuasive?”
I cracked a grin, making her giggle. “Yeah, I think so,” I said. “Let’s call the committee back and tell them.”
“Excellent,” she said happily, searching for her phone.
ero
