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Peter thrust deep between Roxie’s legs one final time before spilling his hot seed.

Roxie held her milky breasts hard against the glass and looked down at the snow as she felt the first drips of his semen running down her legs.  She collapsed against the glass and turned to face him with her back now feeling the cold.  “That was fucking awesome.”

Peter, robust and tall, stood firm.  “I know.”  His large belly rolled with his laughter.  “We must fuck again.”  He stooped, picked her up and carried her back to the hotel room bed.

“Holy fuck, with all that snow outside, this could take days…”

Peter grinned.  “Is that a complaint?”  He thrust deep inside her again.

The brunette put the manuscript down while she silently mouthed the words, “Hot seed?” She looked across the long board room table and began snapping her pen on the papers.

“So?”

“Well, it is…”  Her white blouse and blue jeans seemed much less corporate than the surrounding mahogany office furniture…but it was Friday.

Sun was blotted out by blinds.  From here, on the tenth story of the building, the cars below were like ants marching under tables and dreaming.

“But will you publish it?”

Her green eyes glanced up at him from the pages before her.  “Mr. Mitchell, it really is not quite that simple.”

“Oh?”

“Well, take the story, for example.”

“What about it?”  His smile vanished from his face.  His blue eyes went, quickly from hope to panic.

“There is no story here.  I am not sure what to say.”

He shifted in his chair and crossed his legs.  “No story?”

The Chicago sun illuminated the room without any man-made lights.

“It is a lovely idea, I mean a pornstar falls for an average Joe…but there really is no story.  I do love your descriptions, mind you.”

Shoulders falling, he kept his mouth shut as he debated a response.

“Don’t joke with me now.  This character, Peter, is you.  Right?”

Paul nodded without answering.

“Yeah, I thought so.”  Her blonde hair slipped over her right shoulder as she leaned on her fist.  Her elbow rested on the table to support her head.

A smile slapped his lips. “Thank you for reading this, Ms. Thompson.”

A tight grin and a nod.  “If it helps, I see potential here.  I think you need to work on it more and I am willing to work with you.”

The smile reappeared on his face.  “Thank you.”

Her head cocked to one side.  “Might I ask, however, who is Roxie?”

Paul laughed…then they hammered out contract details on Paul’s first book.

An hour later Paul stepped off the elevator.  He turned right and saw her waiting for him as she made the building security guard laugh.  Her blue eyes lit up seeing him.

The guard, Jimmy, was a third generation Chicago boy on his mother’s side who hated the term African-American…he had never been to Africa and his grandfather was born in Winnipeg, Canada…a story he had been sharing with Crystal and was disappointed to see that she would be departing.

“So?”  Her body tensed as he got closer.  She wore a green denim skirt to her ankles that swayed as she stood up straight.  Her red hair was held in a tight elastic ponytail…save a few stray strands wandering into her face.

A tight grin.  “It needs work, but she bought it.”

Crystal’s arms flung around him in a bear hug.  Her red hair flew behind her as she jumped at him.

The movement even brought Jimmy to his feet…but then he realized her attack was a celebration.

“I knew you could do it,” Crystal said with a kiss.

Paul hugged her back.  “Without you I couldn’t have.”

Even in three-inch heels she had to step on tiptoes to get to his ear, but then she whispered, “I know.”

He laughed.  “She didn’t like the name Roxie, though.”

Crystal took his hand and started to lead him out the door.  “Oh?”

“No.  She said it, and I think her exact words were, ‘it stank too much of the old Police tune called Roxanne’.”

Both laughed at the reference being caught.

“We’ll have to rename her then, won’t we?” She lightly slapped the black leather jacket covering his chest.

“We could call her ‘Crystal’.”

New laughter fell from her lips.  “Yes, I suppose we could.  Not like I’m making films anymore.”

They walked in the June sunlight along West Lake Street.  A line of never-ending cars dragged past, and people walked along past them as though they did not matter.  A plane passed overhead just as one of Chicago’s famous architectural cruises passed beneath their feet.  All they were missing was the infamous “L Train” passing beneath the bridge to complete the scene.

Paul stopped her and grabbed her elbow.  He pushed her up against the old brick wall, bent past his ample belly, and gave her a deep kiss.   Brushing some of her red hair aside, he asked, “So, Crystal?”

“Yes, my pet?”  She snuggled her chin into the big man’s chest.

“Being you are no longer making these films, what is your real name?”  His question was a tease as he grabbed her ass.

At first, she said nothing and her face went blank.

Paul’s eyes and attention was stolen by a car slamming on its horn as it went through the intersection.

With his head turned, she lifted on to her tip toes and whispered in his ear, “Trina.  My name is Trina.”

Their mutual blue eyes met.

His lips raised in a bigger smile than she had seen him make before.  “Nice to meet you, Trina.  I’m Paul.”  His tongue quickly found hers in a deep kiss.

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