The letterI was dressed and halfway out the door before I realized I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Damn! I might not have a job any longer but it was still Dag’s office. I went back and changed into a black business suit—slacks, white blouse, jacket, sensible shoes. I put on the same blonde wig I’ve come to identify with since I started wearing it a couple of years ago. I knotted a scarf around my neck and went out to catch a bus downtown.The office was cold and empty. Silent. I didn’t bother to open Dag’s door. I couldn’t bear to look into his office without him there. First, I’d check email. Come to think of it, there was paper mail lying on the floor inside the door. I needed to check that. I wondered if there was a protocol I should follow about opening company mail. No one had actually told me I was fired, so I figured the best thing to do was carry on business as usual.That meant throwing away the junk mail and opening the one remaining piece. It was a check from FinCEN for. In between stepping out for short walks, drinks and meals, the first couple of days were filled with hours of sucking, fucking, and making sure we had drained every drop of sweat and sexual fluid out of each other; yet, I couldn’t help but notice that something was off. She had not asked if I wanted her to pee in my mouth, something that was almost normal when we were together. Other times after coming from a wonderful evening dinner, we would start making out right when we got in the room, and sooner than later she would say “I got to pee, want to come?” Which as my signal to undress, lie down on the bathtub or on the bathroom floor, and for her to rub her beautiful crotch already moist with her juices on my face, and then lift it just far enough so that I could enjoy the view of her piss sipping through her panties and drink that wonderful nectar mix of pee and pussy juice...Not only had she not invited me to enjoy her piss, she had not used the phrase that in her voice could melt.
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