Page 14 of Remember Me

“Relax, sweetheart.” Ignoring my request, he squeezes my other breast. It hurts like hell, my breasts still extra-sensitive and swollen from nursing, but I hold back a yelp. “What size are these knockers?”

Steeling myself, I deflect his question. “Sheldon, you have something you want me to audition for?”

The sleazebag scratches his balls. “Sweetheart, let’s take it slow. I’ve had a shit day. Those idiot network executives think they know everything. I told them to eat it. No one tellsmewhat to do.”

“I’m sorry.” The arrogant asshole. His reputation precedes him.

“Come with me, sweetheart. First, I need to see if you can take direction.”

My pulse again speeding up, I let him usher me to a massive burgundy velvet couch. Taking a final sip of his drink, he sets the crystal tumbler down on the gilded coffee table in front of it.

“I need to de-stress. Give me a massage.”

My muscles tighten. “Do I have to?”

“Sweetheart. I’m surprised at you.” He swipes at his comb over. “You’re looking for your big Hollywood break and you’re questioning me?”

Mentally, I smile. Fingers crossed I’ve got it all recorded. “I-I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting—”

He cuts me off. “Just do it, babe. We don’t have all night.”

Impatiently, he snatches my champagne flute and sets it down next to his depleted tumbler. My heart hammers—is he going to disrobe? I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t and instead plops down on the plush couch. He rolls over face down onto his potbelly.

“I like it hard, doll,” he mutters under his breath.

“Me too.”

“Sweetheart, now you’re talkin’ my language.”

Without another word, I bend down and start kneading his upper back. I happen to excel at giving massages because I love getting them from my husband. A sudden wave of guilt sweeps over me, thinking that the only man I should be touching is my beloved Finn. I’m doing my job, I tell myself. It’s just a job. No different than an actress’s.

“Wow, babe! You’re good,” mumbles Sheldon, cutting into my second thoughts. “I’m loving this. Don’t stop.”

For the next fifteen minutes or so, I continue to knead his meaty body. It’s hairy, laden with moles, and he stinks. Muffled grunts, groans, and “oh yeahs” spill onto the cushions. He shifts and then rolls over onto his back. His hideous comb over has fallen into his half-open eyes. He brushes the greasy strands off his forehead.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“I need you to do the rest of me.”

Before I can take my next breath, he unbelts his robe and exposes himself. Unprepared for the ghastly sight of what awaits me, I swallow hard, overcome by a sudden rush of nausea. What’s wrong with me? I’m an investigative reporter. I’ve witnessed fatal gun wounds, stabbings, and gory accidents. Mass destruction by fires, hurricanes, and earthquakes. Mass murder by bombs, gunfire, and arson. I’ve possibly seen every atrocity known to mankind, but I can’t stomach the engorged, veined, purple monstrosity before me.

“Sheldon, I think you should—”

“Shut up and get down on your knees,” he orders, his voice deep and belligerent.

“Shel—”

“Do it. Suck me.” His voice grows several decibels louder with anger. “That’s if you don’t want your career to be over before it starts, sweetheart.”

Oh God. I pray that my secret recording device is getting all of this. “Sheldon, this is sexual harassment.”

He snickers. “Harassment, my ass. Nobody gets ahead in this town without giving a little head. So, Lana...”

His voice trails off as I slowly fall to my knees, the cold marble sending a chill up my spine. He squeezes the base of his erection with his hand and aims it at my face. I have the burning urge to run as far away from him as possible. Escape while I can. He doesn’t give me a chance and presses down on my scalp with the splayed fingers of his broad hand, forcing my lips toward his monstrous appendage. I zip my lips together as they hover over the bulbous crown. Bile rises to my throat. My gag reflex activated, I can’t make myself clamp my mouth around it. I want to cry out for him to stop, to let go of me, but for sure, I will vomit if I open my mouth, so revolted I am by the sight of his repulsive organ and the equally repulsive scent of his sweaty, hairy balls.

“Suck me,” he growls, pressing down on my head with more pressure. “What’cha waiting for?”

I resist, pinching my lips together so hard my teeth dig into them. Still squeezing the base of his penis, he begins to pump it, waiting for me to give him what he wants.

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