Clash of Titans

Liz had a weaponized ass. All her features were in harmony, but her backside had the type of curvature that bends gravity and space-time. Naturally, she was aware of it, and she knew perfectly well when to cover it with a long sweater and when to put on a tight top and yoga pants. She used her power to get good jobs, win contracts, and make new friends. No sex was involved, just good old fashioned promise of heavenly pleasures. This stuff has been along ever since Satan invented intercourse in the Garden of Eden.

Liz was the queen of the block until Jo appeared. See, Jo was old school and she stayed old school even in the times when we guilt shame women into being “natural.” Jo had weaponized everything. Her ass and tits were easy, but she also weaponized her eyes and lips with porn star makeup, her hands with rings and intricate nail polish, even her belly with a skull ring studded with heart-shaped rubies. I kid you not. Jo was a veteran of some old war and she was not done kicking ass.

Liz was not prepared for the attack when Jo first appeared. The cool and edgy startup office downtown was not ready either. Liz tore into its morning haze like an asteroid, upsetting the balance for millennia.

“Hey, Lizzie,” said somebody, “Meet Jo, she’ll be taking over Jackson’s clients.”

They smiled at each other, Liz a disoriented puppy smile, and Jo an old MMA fighter smile. How are ya? I’m gonna kick your ass, but it’s not personal.

Jo used the cool bitch method. You had to earn her interest and her respect. This blew Liz out of the water. Guys were a little bored with Liz’s all friendly and pleasant girl-next-door front. They were all fed up with Liz’s holy self, too pure to violate, too cute to leave alone, promising happiness in the afterlife. They wanted fresh meat and Jo was it.

“Hey, Jo, I got that report you were looking for.”

“Jo, you wanna go out with a bunch of us? We’re going to watch the game at Barney’s.”

“Jo, I’m gonna get some sushi for lunch. You want any?”

You had to be a fighter to stand ground like Jo did, really. It took a lot of balls to put yourself out there and still control all of their male urges, make sure nothing gets out of hand. She was a tiny figure surrounded by howling demons of desire and she walked the battlefield like a champion of the old gods.

But Liz did not give up.

“Sir,” she would call anyone Sir, “Could we merge the two accounts and sell more at discount prices?”

“I need a break. I just want to go out dancing.”

“Uhm,” throwing her hair back, “I don’t know,” and a cute little smile.

Plus a link to an unfunny video she sent you every now and again.

One day, they both appeared on two sides of my desk. Liz just stood half a step from it on the left. She had her legs crossed as she stood, a very unstable position, and she threw her hair to one side, exposing her neck. She made me think of my high school sweetheart back when summers were long and dreams could come true.

Jo was on the other side, seating an edge of her tiny tight denim-clad ass on my desk. She leaned forward and I could see piece of a tattoo on her left tit. What was it? A jester head? She smiled like a cat and made me realize blood flowing into my nether tower.

Jo spoke first, making a request. Liz smiled to show they were working on a project together and that it was okay for me to grant Jo’s request because she, Liz, my old pal, was fine with it. She removed a piece of lint from my sleeve, as she might have many times before. After all, I was hers before Jo was even here.

At that very moment, I realized I did not matter. And all the meticulous preparation they went through that morning, and all the clanking accessories and the clinging attire were not for me. I was the battlefield, and the copy machine in the background was the howling wind. The wind that would carry the souls of the dead to Valhalla.

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