Pimpin' and Representin'

by G'd Up Stylez Hill

It seemed like any other morning at startup wave3498 when young George Mason Esquire rolled into work to pick hisself up a couple three Benjamins in exchange for a day's work. Little did he know, the boss lady had some other hard labor in mind.

"George," she whispered to the young professional with a smile, "Can I talk to you for a minute, alone?"

She stood there for a while, playing with the neckline of her blouse.

George was a little surprised at first, but then he thought, "What the hell? I'm hella fly, maybe the crazy bitch wants to break off a piece of me. Yeah, that's it."

She was standing at her desk when the virile young executive slowly entered the room. Cautiously, George walked forward, flashed the resident queen a coy smile and asked, "What can I do for you, baby?" Of course, he already knew the answer.

The CEO, slightly unnerved by her own determination, pulled herself up on her four inch heels and slid by George on her way to close, and lock, her office door. She crossed her fingers behind her back, and glanced over her shoulder at her acquisition target while she closed the blinds that separate their musky world from the duties of the colorless, common cube minions.

"I'm sorry to ask you this, but I seem to be having some trouble with the zipper on my skirt. I'm terribly embarassed, but I thought I could trust you to help a woman out."

"Oh, I see the problem," George said, setting his Palm V on her desk and adjusting his package with authority.

He slipped his strong arms around her and pulled her soft hips close to him. He dropped to one knee and surveyed the smooth line from her pointed heel to the round curves of her ripe, juicy, bohemian ass.

"Good lord black women turn me on," he said, to no one in particular.

How long had it been since he'd had some hardcore, buckwild monkey sex with a woman like this? A week, two days...hard to say. So many hoes, so few sober hours. All this shit starts to blend together after a while.

Although they had both begun to sweat a little, no one was really surprised when her zipper slid down to mid-hip with no effort. Her thong-tha-thong-thong-thong peeked up over skirt, exposing an ebony hip, inviting him to take action. To bust his game. To get his mack on. To treat her like a 1976 Cadillac convertible - get under her hoodget out his tools, grease things up a bit, and go to work! And that's just what our hero did.

Just when George had the Nubiam Queen's RPM up to 8000, she squealed like she blew a fan belt and hot viscious oil burst from her various gaskets. She pulled over to the shoulder, wheezing, catching her breath, and thanking God she was a-igh't.

"You damn right you a'ight," said George, slapping her ass with the quickness.

Just as George zipped up his equipment, venture capitalist and all around jack-ass Chris "Buzzkill" Frey stormed into the office carrying a stack of projections, a "How to be a venture capitalist" book, an 8"x11" glamour shot of his wife/master, a double grande mocha verte dulce frapaccino, and a worried look that said he was uptight and ready to ruin a beautiful moment.

"Mr. Mason, why are you smiling? Don't you see how important I am?"

And then, as if for the first time, Frey pulled his head out of his ass long enough to examine the situation: "Were you guys just, um, fucking, or what?! IUt smells like a dairy farm in here! How are we going to proactively compete in this interconnected global marketplace with the latest in b-to-b productivity enhancing solutions when you're balls deep in the CEO?"

The frazzled CEO blushed.

George Mason was unfaded.

Wasting no time at all, Mason grabbed a dry erase marker off the white board and yanked a page out of Frey's projections between his pudgy fingers. He scribbled his cell number for his newfound "exercise" partner, and gently tucked the number in back of the skirt she had just zipped up.

She gasped.

"Take this job and shove it, pencil grinder, and you bess step the fuck back 'fore I put my foot in your ass. You think I'm lying?"

Frey turned red and pissed his linen pants in terror.

And to his queen, "I know you gon' call me." And with that he walked out the door forever.