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Intimacies of Print

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Bugger this, Q.

I know I agreed to this, and your gadget seems simple enough to use, but I have no idea what you’d like me to write.

Can’t I send you a postcard of an iceberg instead? Or maybe a nice penguin?

- J
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I’m open to other suggestions, but you were as blank as I when we last talked, and I am emphatically not open to three-plus months of you iced in and nothing more substantive between us than a penguin wearing a silly fedora.

It’s not that hard, James. I’ve read enough of your AMRs to know you can write. Of course, I’m only assuming you can write non-fiction as well.

~ Q
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How about a sexy penguin?

Sexy woman in a furry penguin costume

- J
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If you’ve had relations with her, I’d take that story, certainly--or any other kind of interaction you'd like to detail.

Since she’s highly ranked on a Google image search for “sexy penguin,” however, I hesitate to assume this. Perhaps she’s a penguin slut though, and all the sexy penguin fetishists have had her.

Are you a penguin furry fetishist, James?

~ Q
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No.

No more penguins then. Though I am reconsidering the ice.

- J
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So, is that the kind of thing you're looking for? You want to hear about my 'exploits'?

How about the time I defiled the mascot of the Tampa Rays? She wasn’t a penguin, but was probably aquatic. Whatever she was, she wore a black cape and jiggled her fuzzy blue arse a lot on the field.

It was well before your tenure. Boothroyd had gifted me with a sedative-injecting pen and little else to get myself into the owner’s booth during game two of the American’s inaptly named World Series.

So I found a girl, of course. This one just happened to be covered in blue fur.

I worked her all afternoon, encountering her under the cover of a park employee in the tunnels as she came and went from the field. By the time her team had scored several times, she was exuberant, her energy literally bouncing off the concrete walls of the stadium. In other words, she was ripe.

She found herself paged to an upper floor, and again, there I was. A little flirting, and we moved to a lightly trafficked corridor so she could remove her headpiece. A little more, and I had her crushed up against the wall, futilely trying to wrap her fur-clad legs around me while I sucked at her neck. She wasn’t wearing a stitch under the suit.

She suggested we find someplace more private. I laughed, keeping it low and friendly, removing a hand from within her suit enough to gesture at the crowded stadium surrounding us.

Her grin was intoxicating, flush as she was with their imminent victory. She boasted that she knew a place, giggling and half-mad with excitement.

I helped her settle the suit back into place and checked that my Rays cap was still low on my head. Through the corridors she led me, fuzzy hand in mine. We slipped right past the overflowing luxury booths with their too-inquisitive occupants, a game I’d had simply no time to work that day.

Eventually, the corridor quieted and there we were, outside the unoccupied owner’s booth. I shoved her against the wall again and slipped my hands into her suit. I made it all but impossible for her to focus enough to key in the code.

Once she finally managed, she dragged me into the box by my ears. I had started in on the suit’s fastenings before the door shut behind us and had her pushed over a very expensive leather couch with her suit gaping open a long zipper pull after that.

She watched the end of the sixth inning like that, facing the glass while I pounded into her. At some point her mask flew off and rolled until it smacked the window. I waited for her to come (it seemed only fair), finishing myself as her cries started to escalate. Abandoning the rough handling, I leaned forward, still inside her. My body stretched a long promise against hers, sheltering my hand from the cameras. The pen hissed against her neck, and she was still.

I tossed the condom sloppily toward the bin, landing it intentionally on the coffee table. I came around the couch zipping my flies and sat next to her, knocking the laptop onto the floor as I did. It was a matter of seconds to download what I needed from the terminal, and I brushed her hair back tenderly for the cameras as I did.

I left her there, a sweaty mess draped over the couch, with her fuzzy blue suit around her knees and the eyes of her mask staring back at her from the floor.

She was fired right after the game. They never even looked for me.

- J
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Oh, bravo. Very amusing. The furry exploits of 007. Though it lacks even a hint of avian subculture (it’s the wrong pole, anyway), I’m sure I will survive.

I should make you sedative-laced condoms. You could cut the middle step right out and never have to deal with post-shag awkwardness again. Professionally or personally.

Yes, you can tell me this kind of thing, if that’s what you’d like. I’ll take whatever kind of thing you want to give me. There are no actual rules here, but is this really what you’d like to use our precious bandwidth for, Bond? You couldn’t even tell me about sometime you were having fun? (The girl has fared quite well, by the way. It’s not a guilt you actually need to carry.)

My seemingly-endless shift is nearly over, but I think I can still manage to leave you with something less furry to think about.

I was fifteen the first time I felt a mouth on my cock. I thought she was unsure when she pushed me down, all soft and saccharine, but she was pissed as hell at a friend who had, apparently, a rather large crush on me (though it would be years still before I learned this). I was deathly afraid to make any noise at all, so I shoved my face into the cushion. Her mouth was hot, wet and surprisingly agile: when my impossible-to-suppress thrusting brought me to the back of her throat, she maneuvered me back effortlessly, just enough pressure on my sternum to hold me off. She clearly had the advantage of experience on me, and not just years.

It was, of course, over quickly, and I utterly failed to warn her (I might have thought to, possibly, if I’d had any warning myself). Her coughing brought attention from the party raging in the next room, and an awkward, muttered “Thank you” was the last thing I ever said to her. I doubt she even heard me. She bounded off to rejoin the party—her mission accomplished—while I pitifully tried to navigate my cock back into my pants under the watchful glare of her friends.

All in all, it was almost exactly nothing like the first time you took me in your mouth. The only similarity is that neither time did I have any idea what to do with my hands. Neither of you did I dare to touch—to spook—the fear so overwhelming I could not think around it. I did not dare even to breathe, and she reveled in that power but you...

You held my eyes, and my breath evened to meet yours. You knelt there between my legs, and your strength melted in through my thighs. You were inexorably there with me, solid and real.

Undeniable, as you usually are.

As you have been ever since.

~ Q
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You could do that? With the condoms?

- J
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I could, yes. I won’t.

Though I’m now considering making some exploding ones.

Seriously? That was your take-away? The condoms?

~ Q
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No.

It was just... taking apart what you did to me with the rest might take a little time.

Give me some?

- J
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Ever since, James. Ever since.

(I’m grinning at my screen now, you dolt, and it’s making the minions nervous. Sleep.)

~ Q
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