A Booty Call Backfires - Sex Stories

A Booty Call Backfires

To men, women are fascinating creatures. Intriguing, unfathomable and, perhaps most importantly – formidable. Most of the time, they're one step ahead of us. They know how to get what they want. Usually they can convince us it's what we wanted all along. Guys catch on eventually. Usually after it’s too late to do anything about it. But every now and then, a guy outsmarts a girl. Or does he? In my senior year of college, after two years of putting in my time on the staff of my college newspaper, I was named editor in chief. It was a paid, part-time job, but it came with perks: An office of my own, a premium parking place on campus, and a staff of bright, bubbly, eager-to-please, young reporters. Most of them hungry for the big stories and plum assignments. Most of them women. Though I had worked my way up from reporter to assistant editor to editor in chief, I still was the same guy I was before. Same dark, brown hair with eyes to match. Same disarming smile that I had learned comes in handy on tough interviews. I wore the same faded Levi's, the same tweed sport coat, fraying slightly at the sleeves – the only one I could afford. I drove the same nine year-old car I’d had since high school. Not much was different about me. Only now, to my surprise, I discovered I’d become a minor babe magnet – at least in the minds of some of the women on my staff. I’d discovered first-hand that power and position is an aphrodisiac. I couldn't believe my great, good fortune to be surrounded ...

... by so many smart, clever, attractive women vying for my time and attention. And I couldn't believe my rotten luck. By rotten luck, I mean, I was the boss. I planned on a career in journalism, so I’d have to keep things strictly professional with the women under me – no matter how much I fantasized about what it really would be like to have them under me. My colleagues, however, never got the memo. I was home late one evening, on a chilly, windy, evening in January, having put the paper to bed and getting ready to do the same to myself, when the phone rang just as I brushing my teeth. As I reached for the phone while spitting toothpaste out of my mouth, I wondered: Did a fire break out on campus? Did the printing presses break down again? “Jay!” came a frantic voice. “Yes, who is it?” I asked, struggling to talk around the last bit of toothpaste in my mouth. “It's Christy!” hissed a voice, coming into focus as one of my assistant editors, two years younger than me. Normally I thought her voice was oh-so-sexy. In the newsroom, there were times we'd be talking, but I wouldn't be hearing what she was saying, only how she was saying it in that breathy alto of hers. This time, her voice sounded oh-so-scared. “What's up?” I asked, becoming concerned. “Someone's in my house!” she said in a stage whisper. “What?!” “Someone's in my house!” she repeated a little louder this time. I froze for a moment. “I need you!” she pleaded. “Now!” I snapped out of my hesitation. “Hang up and call the ...