Compliments Matter

His Majesty Michael, King of New Dorset, sits at his desk, fidgeting with a small foam basketball, spinning it on his fingers. Something buzzes on the desk, and he doesn't realize what it is until he hears the voice over the intercom. "The prime minister is here, Your Majesty," it says. "Send her in, please," says the king. A few moments pass, and then the intercom buzzes again. "Your Majesty, are you there? The prime minister is here." Frustrated, the king puts the ball down, stands up ad looks around the very large desk, stacked with papers. Finally, he finds the intercom, and holds down a button. "Send her in, please," he says again. This time the voice on the intercom says, "Yes, Your Majesty," and a moment later Judy comes in. She's wearing a very fitted knee-length red dress, a short black jacket over it, and black heels over hose. She approaches the king, and curtseys deeply. "Your Majesty," she says. The king

The muscular man walked into the bar. It was still happy hour. He loosened his tie. He'd left the suit coat in the work truck. He was tired from a long day, one in which he was passed over for a promotion by a less qualified woman. He took a seat and waited for the bartender to come over. Just a few hours later he was banging the shit out of a 20 year-old pussyboy. "Oh my god, Mr. Mullins! Fuck me," the twink whined. "Yeah, boi! Take this cock," barked the man. He thrust his 7-inch-by-6¾-inch dick into the raven-haired emo boi with the wispy haircut. The sissy cried out, "Oh my god! I always wanted this!" "It's yours now," he huffed as he plowed. The man wondered how he got here in this small apartment fucking a dude. He was straight. Always had been. Damn. He kept thrusting. "Yes, sir! Fuck me, daddy!" The answer would be evident to anyone who had been watching at the bar. "Oh my god," the bartender had beamed. "