Here is an excerpt from one of my e-books, SKELETON: A BARE BONES MYSTERY. Available at $2.99 for Kindle, Nook, iPad, and other reading devices.
Barnes and Noble: http://tinyurl.com/3x2r494
Sean “Jelly” Jansen had drifted through high school and into the work world guided by a philosophy whose cornerstone was “whatever.” Career progression and getting ahead were not in his lexicon. Since moving out of his parents’ house—actually being forced out—at age 30, he had sought only to break even at the end of the day. Seeing his bank account click to zero and then $563.07 on the same day gave him a sense of accomplishment and brightened his spirits in a way that only he could understand.
He was a big man, tall and rounded, with a large head squared by jowls and a thick neck. His handshake always surprised people, who expected this hulk of a man to shatter every finger in a vice-like grip. But it was really like shaking hands with the Pillsbury Doughboy, their hands disappearing into soft warm flesh, so weak was his grip. There was a John Goodman look about him that would never have escaped Leaf’s casting eyes. The mantle of increased responsibility hung as loosely on him as the stomach that overflowed his belt, a mass that won him the nickname Jelly for eleven months of the year and Santa for the last. In truth, Jelly had little interest or skills in supervision, which was just fine with his team, who had breathed a six-mouthed sigh of relief when Jelly’s predecessor, Big Jack Hawthorn, had been caught selling vibrator rejects from the back of his pickup. If you looked up micro-manager in a dictionary, Big Jack’s picture would surely have been there. So, on the whole, his team was thrilled by Jelly’s oh-fuck-it attitude.
Top management, too, was elated. Relieved from the constant pressure of Big Jack’s watchful eye and reproachful screams, production had actually gone up. The team began to talk to each other, innovating fail-safe inspection techniques that increased line speed by 20 percent, while cutting error rates in half. If Jelly had ever had a thought about leadership—which he surely had not—it would have been that sometimes leadership is about letting go and turning away. Or maybe that was a defining quality of leadership.
But Jelly had not sought to be a leader. Oh, no. He had eagerly sought the promotion because of the vantage point it had gained him: a high stool with a clear view of the door that led to the pleasure testing labs. Now he could watch Sonya Alvarez’s comings and goings without appearing to be the stalker he actually was.
“Pleasure Wednesdays” had taken on new meaning since her arrival just six months ago. She had thrown herself into the job, eagerly spreading her legs to test new models and new features. Unlike the other testers, who took on the job with the detachment of meat inspectors, Sonya focused on the object of the testing: pleasure.
Six weeks after her arrival, the LuvMoan® feature had been updated to include her signature orgasmic moans and screams, which carried, somewhat muffled, even to the production line, causing sweat to bead, penises to salute, and Jane Smith, the matriarch of the line, to bolt from the room and seek counseling.
Sonya Alvarez, 20, had been causing people to bolt from rooms all her life, thanks to an admittedly out-there disregard for normal conventions. Her mother had bolted from the room when she discovered 12-year-old Sonya on the floor experimenting with bananas and various tubular vegetables, which she much preferred. And her father had bolted from their lives when he discovered the tape of 15-year-old Sonya’s first porn film, Naughty Nannies of Nantucket, in which Sonya had played the object of several nannies’ affections, sometimes all at once. Womanly even then, her body had continued to evolve, her breasts becoming larger, fuller, her hips widening, creating a wasp-like waist not unlike that of Salma Hayek, whom she resembled, or so Leaf would have observed if he had been within drooling range of Sonya. Sonya herself was not shy about drooling when she saw a man, woman, or vibrator she desired. After a brief stint at “giving college a try,” which mostly involved doing dorm mates and fucking the chess team—she had her quirks—she had happened upon an ad for a “pleasure tester” position at Vibrildo, whose open arms she ran to with open legs. The job gave her the opportunity for daily orgasms without commitment or disappointment, and a way to display her considerable skills at faking the apocalyptic moans of orgasm that she had learned so well as a porn princess.
While Sonya’s moans had certainly affected Jelly, it was her appearance afterward that inflamed his lust. The door would open quickly, an invisible cloud of musky love vapors preceding her into the room. She was always smiling and carried with her from cheek to throat to bosom the ruby flush of orgasm. And she always made a point to look at each man and woman on the line, giving each a nod, a smile, or a wink. Sometimes Sonya would comment on the experience.
“Watch out for the X-12, girls. It’s sneaky-good.”