My typically cheerful voice was replaced by a bizarre, whistling croak, "Thank you for calling, Lynnwood Suites." My co-workers freeze into place. The person on the other end of the phone hangs up. I have some explaining to do.
I can't tell them that I've spent my weekend screaming my head off; instead, I shrug, "I'm coming down with something." Remaining wide-eyed; I imagine them recollecting their personal bouts with the flu or a cold, I'm sure none of them have ever sounded like this. My voice sounds damaged, warped and mid-pubescent.
With every word I attempt to speak, I am reminded. The leather belt wrapping around my thigh, making me yelp with its sting. Her thick, eternally erect strap-on carrying my voice to higher registers. Her brutal, rhythmic thrusts making me shoot off with percussive profanity. Damn! Shit! Fuck! A part of me begs for her to cum deep inside of me to end the madness. The other part of me slaps the former part for thinking something so stupid.
How do you explain that? How do you convince human resources to use a sick day because you've been fucked too hard, for too long? I could pass this off as Strep Throat, but the marks around my neck are a dead giveaway for a good time. A hangover would get more understanding. My manager approaches me with kid gloves, "I have a project for you, we have to take inventory." In other words, "You're scaring away customers, let's find you something to do in the back!"