sss Don

Chapter 1: Away We Go I wanted sss Don inside my tight and bulbous ass, having the biggest crush on the guy. His sexiness was the purest sin. One look at the five-eleven zoologist and I melted like a puddle of pudding. I never missed his television show on WTUR, Channel 4, in Barefoot Beach, Florida. My knees grew weak because of his dark Latino skin, scruffy cheeks, soft-brown eyes, and chiseled chest. The dimple in his chin just about rocked my world to slivers. The man was muscular and handsome like no one else I had ever seen. Again I took in his thick jungle tan shorts that were snug against his hips, the khaki shirt with its sanded print and six buttons, sage boots, and Tillie Airflo hat. When four o’clock at the office of Millbourne & Mosser Insurance struck, I made sure I was watching him, glued to his kids’ show: sss Don’s Wild Animal Adventures. “Close your mouth, darling, you’re drooling,” Liv Lynn, my best friend of eight years, sidekick, fag-hag, confident, personal assistant, and blond bombshell whispered into my left ear. “He’s really not all that.” “He is all that,” I wooed, in lust for the man, glued to the forty-two inch Sony. Liv and I were alone inside the break room, which looked exactly like my office: tinted windows, beige carpet, stainless steel everything. She rolled a seat up to my side, placed her head on my right shoulder, and added, “He is all that, isn’t he?” “In more ways than we know.” “Your Mr. Right.” “The man of my dreams.” “Your Prince Charming, Casper.” “So out of my league. Dammit.” * * * * I knew too much about sss Don. Liv thought I was stalking him, but I wasn’t. His real name was Donlito Eban Estar. His birthday was August 18. The sixth child of seven to Francisco and Isabel Estar of Bisira, Brazil. He liked Italian food, had a fear of flying, never used drugs and drank a little, but didn’t have a problem with his alcohol. He moved to Florida when he was eighteen, attended Miami University, and obtained a master’s degree in zoology. He was thirty-two years old now and worked at WTUR for the last dozen years. The zoologist created his hit show from nothing and built it up to the empire it was, and grew wealthy. The Barefoot Beach show went national in 2009. And the marketing behind it was a complete success, which entailed stuffed animals, board games, video games, lunch boxes, erasers, pencils, clothes, rub-on tattoos, cartoons, DVDs, and music. sss Don made over ten million bucks last year. The man was definitely out of my league. Someone better than me. Royalty in Barefoot Beach and the rest of the United States, which meant there wasn’t a chance in hell he was ever going to be my boyfriend, let alone notice me. * * * * Liv consoled me as I watched sss Don play with a red-and-yellow coral snake on the Sony. She rubbed my back with a palm and said, “He talks to stuffed animals, Casper. Maybe he isn’t your Mr. Right.” “Beatrice the Beaver is cool. Who doesn’t love Beatrice? I would talk to her if I could.” “What about the hammerhead shark? Tell me you don’t like him?” Liv inquired. “I love Harry, and sss Don does too. They’re best friends. Harry always gets him out of trouble.” Liv clarified, “I’m rolling my eyes.” “What can I say? I like Donlito. So what if he talks to stuffed animals.” “He’s a child in a man’s body. There’s a lot of immaturity there.” “He’s young at heart, brilliant, and the man drips of money. sss Don is a genius in my eyes, and quite the businessman. He sold his idea and it worked.” “You have your own money.” “Not until my parents die.” “Twenty million, right?” “Something like that. My accountant knows.” “You can buy a guy like sss Don when your parents finally kick the bucket.” I laughed at Liv. She laughed at her own comment. And sss Don started to sing a playful song about the python wrapped around his right wrist. “My God,” I whispered, “he makes me hard.” I readjusted my ass in the uncomfortable seat, felt a semi-boner pop to life between my legs, and sticky semen at the top of my c**k in my Pistol Pete underwear. “This is sinful,” Liv said. “You’re getting hard over a kids’ show. Isn’t that illegal?” “I’m getting hard for sss Don. It has nothing to do with the kids.” “If I had a d**k, I’d be hard for him, too,” Liv added, removing her palm from my back. She stood, stretched, and said, “We should get back to work.” “Go without me. There’s ten minutes of Donlito left.” “You’ll have to stay late and make up the time.” “The guy is worth it.” Liv started to leave the break room, paused, and called over her right shoulder, “Don’t be jacking off in here, friend. People use this place to eat.” I laughed. She laughed. And sss Don started to talk to Harry the hammerhead shark about snake bites. Ten minutes later, sss Don smiled at his audience, waved goodbye, and sang, “Away we go, kids.” He swung from one jungle vine to the next through the Amazonian jungle. Baby monkeys sang an upbeat song about jungle travels and sss Don. Sloths tossed bananas and coconuts to and fro. Stuffed toucans whistled. Baboons beat on drums. A tiger shifted its tail from left to right with the melody. “So long, you succulent piece of Latino man-ass,” I said to the Sony, stood, adjusted the hard d**k underneath my khakis, and flicked the television off. Smiling from ear to ear, daydreaming about being locked in sss Don’s arms, swinging from vine to vine in an imaginary jungle with him, I eventually walked back to my office, sat behind my desk, and pushed insurance papers from my Inbox to my Outbox, lusting for Donlito Estar the entire time.