afford to snub De Beers. Not even the great Brogan O’Donnell was above a little schmoozing.
Still, he hoped the store’s PR people would keep the worst of the journalists at bay. Recently, the whole “blood diamond” controversy seemed to have exploded into the national consciousness to a worrying degree. First there was that god-awful film, with Leo DiCaprio running around Sierra Leone with some kaffir, repenting of his sins as a smuggler. Then came a series of tiresome celebrity campaigns railing against De Beers and their chief rival, Cuypers, for knowingly allowing stones from war-torn countries onto the mass market.
The whole thing irritated him intensely. What did these people expect? There would never be an Africa without war; never.As far as Brogan was concerned—and he considered himself well informed on the subject, having operated on the continent for more than a decade—most African blacks were little more than savages, corrupt to the core and utterly undeserving of the sympathy lavished on them by bleeding-heart Hollywood democrats. So what if they spent their diamond money on guns? Let them fuck up their own lives if they wanted to. Nobody was forcing them to do it, least of all the buyers paying vitally needed hard currency for their stones.
About two years ago things had gotten so bad that he’d decided to pull O’Donnell out of Africa altogether and focus on his Russian mines. But now these fucking parasite journalists were starting to ask questions about his safety record and workers’ rights in Siberia too! It was ridiculous. He’d even had to go on record with the BBC, defending the company’s practices in their Yakutian mines. A few months ago, no one outside the industry had ever heard of Yakutia, but now suddenly every liberal eco-worrier and their dog wanted to sponsor a miner there.
“Everything OK, Mr. O’Donnell? You want I’m doing something different?” The girl looked up from between his legs, her head cocked to one side like a curious dog. She seemed bewildered by his softening erection and could tell that something was wrong.
Brogan looked down at her and immediately felt himself hardening again. Her pink lipstick was smudged around her glorious, overwide lips, and her chin glistened with saliva and the sweat of her efforts. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more wantonly desirable.
“Get up here,” he said, smiling. “I want to fuck you.”
Pushing back his chair so she could climb out of her cramped hiding place, he helped her to her feet, then turned her around and bent her over the desk. Yanking down her True Religion jeans—she was so skinny, he didn’t even need to undo them but could pull them right off—and cheap Victoria’s Secret panties,he drove himself into her, releasing all his pent-up anger and aggression with every thrust.
Dascha oohed and aahed obediently, but it couldn’t have been much of a pleasure ride for her; it was over so quickly. Once he’d come, he lay slumped over her for a moment, his heavyset, bulldog body pressing down on her fragile frame like a paperweight on a flower. Then he withdrew, wiping himself with a tissue from the box on the desk and pulling up his pants while she did the same.
“If you want some more, I can wait,” she said helpfully, reaching into her purse for face wipes and makeup, reapplying her lipstick as if nothing of any importance had just happened. “I don’t have any jobs this afternoon.”
Brogan smiled. “No, no, that was fine,” he said. “But I appreciate you coming by. I can tell you’re going to be a great asset to Premiere.”
Once she’d gone, his mind turned quickly back to tonight’s party. Apart from the De Beers and Cuypers guys, there were a number of other people he wanted to see. Nothing gave Brogan quite the same thrill as crushing a business rival, and there was one particular individual, one of his American competitors in Russia, whose company he’d recently had the
Still, he hoped the store’s PR people would keep the worst of the journalists at bay. Recently, the whole “blood diamond” controversy seemed to have exploded into the national consciousness to a worrying degree. First there was that god-awful film, with Leo DiCaprio running around Sierra Leone with some kaffir, repenting of his sins as a smuggler. Then came a series of tiresome celebrity campaigns railing against De Beers and their chief rival, Cuypers, for knowingly allowing stones from war-torn countries onto the mass market.
The whole thing irritated him intensely. What did these people expect? There would never be an Africa without war; never.As far as Brogan was concerned—and he considered himself well informed on the subject, having operated on the continent for more than a decade—most African blacks were little more than savages, corrupt to the core and utterly undeserving of the sympathy lavished on them by bleeding-heart Hollywood democrats. So what if they spent their diamond money on guns? Let them fuck up their own lives if they wanted to. Nobody was forcing them to do it, least of all the buyers paying vitally needed hard currency for their stones.
About two years ago things had gotten so bad that he’d decided to pull O’Donnell out of Africa altogether and focus on his Russian mines. But now these fucking parasite journalists were starting to ask questions about his safety record and workers’ rights in Siberia too! It was ridiculous. He’d even had to go on record with the BBC, defending the company’s practices in their Yakutian mines. A few months ago, no one outside the industry had ever heard of Yakutia, but now suddenly every liberal eco-worrier and their dog wanted to sponsor a miner there.
“Everything OK, Mr. O’Donnell? You want I’m doing something different?” The girl looked up from between his legs, her head cocked to one side like a curious dog. She seemed bewildered by his softening erection and could tell that something was wrong.
Brogan looked down at her and immediately felt himself hardening again. Her pink lipstick was smudged around her glorious, overwide lips, and her chin glistened with saliva and the sweat of her efforts. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more wantonly desirable.
“Get up here,” he said, smiling. “I want to fuck you.”
Pushing back his chair so she could climb out of her cramped hiding place, he helped her to her feet, then turned her around and bent her over the desk. Yanking down her True Religion jeans—she was so skinny, he didn’t even need to undo them but could pull them right off—and cheap Victoria’s Secret panties,he drove himself into her, releasing all his pent-up anger and aggression with every thrust.
Dascha oohed and aahed obediently, but it couldn’t have been much of a pleasure ride for her; it was over so quickly. Once he’d come, he lay slumped over her for a moment, his heavyset, bulldog body pressing down on her fragile frame like a paperweight on a flower. Then he withdrew, wiping himself with a tissue from the box on the desk and pulling up his pants while she did the same.
“If you want some more, I can wait,” she said helpfully, reaching into her purse for face wipes and makeup, reapplying her lipstick as if nothing of any importance had just happened. “I don’t have any jobs this afternoon.”
Brogan smiled. “No, no, that was fine,” he said. “But I appreciate you coming by. I can tell you’re going to be a great asset to Premiere.”
Once she’d gone, his mind turned quickly back to tonight’s party. Apart from the De Beers and Cuypers guys, there were a number of other people he wanted to see. Nothing gave Brogan quite the same thrill as crushing a business rival, and there was one particular individual, one of his American competitors in Russia, whose company he’d recently had the
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