As promised last week, The Bug is proud to begin publishing extracts from former Prime Minister Scott Morrison’s first foray into adult romance fiction writing.
While Mr Morrison’s book in print form will be published by Pills and Moans, he has offered The Bug exclusive online rights to his creativity. We thank him for that and we are honoured that he has chosen us.
So without further ado, please enjoy this chapter extract from The Master of Marketing!
A smirk appeared on Morris Scotson’s handsome face as he carried a fresh bottle of wine across to where his female guest was sitting.
Things were going according to plan for Morris. Her dress had risen up a little; her legs were tantalisingly ajar; her defences were clearly down. In the presence of such a fine example of manhood, she was only human, after all.
Morris assessed her once more as he poured two large glasses of a buttery South Australian chardonnay. She was no spring chicken but most blokes would give her one. Two if she asked nicely enough. Her tits were okay but not as voluptuous as his wife Penny’s and yet, to be fair and using a description he once heard from a Brisbane mate, her legs while a bit chunky were like Waterworks Road ….they most definitely went all the way up to The Gap!
The woman was Rosie Morjunie and tonight in Morris Scotson’s motel room she was the entrée, not the main course.
Rosie was the principal private secretary to Bailey Franstein, chairwoman of the Porpoise Spit Tourism Board.
Morris, already well-known as a marketing genius and brilliant orator – it was said he could sell coal to Clive Palmer and iron ore to Gina Rinehart – had travelled up from The Shire to the popular tourism spot on the NSW-Queensland border to share his brilliant marketing ideas with the board and perhaps snare a senior position with it. At the very least that of chief executive officer with a salary and benefits package to match his unparalleled skills.
The stumbling block over recent days had been Rosie Morjunie, who had been a stubborn sentry at the board’s gate, protecting Franstein and refusing all of his requests for an interview.
And that’s when Plan B had been launched and why, after a lengthy lunch and drinks at a nearby bar and bistro, both he and Rosie were sitting on a couch together in his $220 a night motel room overlooking the South Pacific just north of Kingscliffe. Breakfast was an additional $42.
After some harmless chitchat and a glass refill, he leaned in and his mouth brushed her left cheek. “My tongue can do much, much more, than just deliver brilliant marketing strategies and deliver flawless speeches of an oratorial standard that leaves large filled halls spellbound,” he said softly, his words clearly affected by animal desire. That smirk appeared again as her legs drifted further apart. They always do.
His hand moved slowly up her inner thigh and stopped teasingly at the furline of her panties. He lent in and kissed her neck once more, whispering “Now where the bloody hell are you?” before his fingers dipped under that panty elastic.
He smirked anew the moment he realised she was wetter than the main street of Tully after a monsoonal downpour and a forefinger started its travels up her soaked and slippery magic road.
“Ah, there you are,” he smirked as his finger tip touched the nub of the matter, her engorged womanhood, the bare undistilled essence of her femininity. That finger then started a slow circumnavigation of her mini stiffy and she began to moan louder that Sussan Ley does at Question Time.
Her love button started to palpitate, flicking in and out, just like clits do in Harold Robbins novels and looking exactly like Tony Abbott’s tongue does, darting in and out of his pursing lips whenever he thinks he’s saying something clever or funny and that’s all the time.
“How good is this?” Morris said softly before abruptly, cruelly, stopping his digital explorations.
Rosie’s eyes pleaded with him to continue and Morris whispered: “Can you get me an extensive interview with Bailey Franstein early tomorrow morning.”
“Yes!” she cried.
“Yes?” Morris sought confirmation before his forefinger resumed beating a faint but steady tattoo on a love bud simply begging to be opened up to a level of ecstasy the dear woman had never experienced before.
“Yes! Rosie screamed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
To be continued.
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