Little Minnesota

Today's "Take Your Daughter to Work Day." Great. Not only am I battling a torrential hangover with a meager armory of tall drips and sausage biscuits (the number five on the McDonalds Breakfast Menu), but now I gotta worry about popping wood around a gaggle of flat-chested seven year olds.

It's 8:35 and already I can't concentrate on my duties. Damn kids. Damn day! Why don't they tell us in advance so I can request it off? Save myself eight hours of temptation. I need a break.

I gotta go jack it in the storage room. Release the tension; clear the mind. Little Minnesota. Who names their daughter Minnesota? I can see it now. She's gonna have C's. I can tell. Perky, round C's. Maybe B's, but they'll be big B's. B-pluses. B-pluses bouncing and flopping in my face. But, not yet. Now they're just nothing. Like a little boy. Like a seven year old little boy.

I come fast. I come hard. It flies through the air and lands on some files. I grunt a little too loudly. An explosion of a sigh too fast to stifle. I think someone heard me. Quickly, I pull my pants up and retreat to the corner.

"Hello?" The door squeaks open, a tiny head pops its way through the crack. "Hello?"

Minnesota. Damn that Minnesota. Damn that blonde hair, damn those green eyes, damn those tiny gaps between all of her front teeth. Damn those eventual B-pluses. I'm instantly hard again.

"Is anybody there?" She walks in. The door closes automatically behind her. Where the hell is her mother? I cross my legs and hope she leaves. She doesn't.

"What are you doing here?" she asks accusingly.

I turn away, facing the wall, like a vampire in sudden sunlight. "Go away!"

"Were you ... were you jacking it?" This isn't going right at all. I try to bail out.

"I said go!"

"You little pervert! What would your mother say?"

"Leave me alone!"

"Why, I got a good mind to take you over my knee and beat that boner right outta you!"

I think about the logistics in that statement. How could she possibly take me over her knee? She's a little girl! And even if she could, what makes her think that wouldn't arouse me further? I smile. The smile leads to innocent chuckling.

"And just what is so funny?" Minnesota puts her hands on her hips. Those tiny, slender hands. Those hips. Oh, she'll have full hips. Not obese! Not cellu-rific. But thick. Butt-thick? Oh my yes. Minnesota will have all the boys harkening back to Sir Mix-A-Lot's heyday. That ass in a thong with her shaved pussy and a tiny little opening. A tiny little opening just for me.

I pull my pants back down and go at it, this time 2 fast and 2 furious. Minnesota's eyes widen in rage. "All right, mister! You asked for it!"

Minnesota yanks me up by my jacking arm. Like a Weeble (wobbling, but not falling down), I instinctively clutch my boner with my left hand, now pointing it right at her forehead. She slaps my face. "Stop it!" I close my eyes and moan her name. "I mean it, young man!" She slaps me again. "If you keep doing that, you're going to go blind!" She slaps me hard this time and I fall to the ground.

"You're a sick, rotten child! If only your mother hadn't forgotten her birth control! You would've never happened and we'd all be happier for it!" Minnesota kicks me in the stomach and spits on me in disgust. The pain gets to be too much and I release. I roll onto my side to shelter any more blows, but it looks like she's had her fill.

"Now, clean up this pigsty, cunt. It's filthy in here." Minnesota walks back to the door and opens it. She calls back, "And, when you're done with that, your mother wants you to clean out the garage and mow the lawn. And, if I catch you lookin' at any more little girls like that, you're gonna get more than just a boot to your gut!" She slams the door and I relax. The boner's gone, but it's okay. It'll be back. Minnesota can't watch me 24/7.