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11-13-02, for Shalon Wood
Ping Shalon Wood
The Birthday Satyr has had quite a week. Quite a depressing week. Any other time, the Department of Birthday Creatures would run an add, screen the applications, invite a dozen or so applicants for interviews on the same day, and kick around the results. A new Birthday Spirit would be be tendered an offer and a contract negotiated. The duly appointed soul would then assume the mantle and duties.
But, noooOOOOoooo. Birthday Nymph's unpaid vacation is strictly temporary, and it falls on the Birthday Satyr's shoulders to hire a temp by whatever means necessary. He's run his hooves ragged looking for someone even vaguely satisfactory, and it has not only cut into his gamboling time, it has given him an unwelcome familiarity with the word “celibate.” He's desperately hoping this latest aspirant will pass her tryout well enough to dump the load on her. (He's already spent the back-pay he might have to offer a certain Nymph on Bloody Marys and out-of-court harassment settlements.)
Sighing, he dons his protective Oakley sunglasses as the potential Birthday Medusa takes La Taverna's stage. She's clad in thigh-high leather boots with 4-inch heels that draw one's attention to her shapely calves and sinuous legs. That leads the eye to a wide leather belt... make that a micro-mini skirt festooned with studs and chain - dangling chain being the only thing providing any concealment.
If the eye can make it beyond that, it will take in the bustier/corset affair that seems to serve as a shelf more than a binder for the copious evidence of her mammalian origins. (Those whose brows reside higher on their foreheads disdain mention of actual numbers - 44DD in this case - and necessitate the flowery description provided.)
In fact, those floridly described features have saved half the men in ASSD, by preventing actual eye contact with our candidate for temporary Birthday Announcement Duty. Some of the women, too, of course. Others attempt to make Disapproving Eye Contact, and find themselves hardened against her. So to speak. (Even many of those NOT making eye contact find themselves hardened.)
“Yo, lissen up!” she says. The rubba-rubba continues. Not one to carry a wand, she uncoils a rather impressive whip and the CRACK! of its tip silences the room.
“That's better. Some of you will need to be punished for failing to give me your undivided attention when I entered! We'll deal with that later.” She places one foot (and that 4-inch spike) in the nearest gentleman's crotch by way of making herself more comfortable. “For right now, just be aware that it is Shalon Wood's birthday, and be prepared to do proper homage.”
“The 'Birthday Medusa' - this might work out for a few days,” BS thinks to himself. “She won't let anyone make eye contact, once they're properly disciplined, and the ones who don't submit will be too petrified to argue...”
An indignant scream and the snap of a whip reminds him that next time he shouldn't schedule overlapping interviews. The Birthday Mongoose could have waited another day... Oh, well.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHALON WOOD!”
