The Bug is proud once again to publish another extract 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 had offered The Bug exclusive online rights to his creativity. We once again thank him for that and we are honoured that he has chosen us.
In our first extract recently, marketing guru Morris Scotson had proved himself a cunning linguist in more ways than one to secure an interview with the local tourist board female chief. And now it was time to clinch the marketing and promotions job he knew his Lord and Master Jesus Christ had created especially for him.
So without further ado, please enjoy this new chapter extract from The Master of Marketing! It’s a real bodice-ripper.
Morris Scotson allowed a very short smirk to travel across his handsome face as he swiped the security card and opened his motel room overlooking the esplanade at Porpoise Spit.
He gallantly ushered the town’s tourist board’s CEO head honcho Bailey Franstein inside, his hand landing gently on the back of her fawn Carla Zampatti jacket.
His plan was coming together well; maybe they would too a little later on and another smirk rose and died quickly over his clever double entendre.
Morris has to admit their talks in the board’s office had not gone exactly his way and she had not warmed to his arguments as to why the job should be his. His suggested motto for an ad campaign – You’d be bloody stupid not to holiday here! – had not gone over as well as he had hoped.
And she had only reluctantly agreed to Friday night drinks at the local rissole and he figured it was the half bottle of Ben Ean moselle they had shared there that had broken the ice and why they now found themselves standing at the room’s large glass doors, watching the surf on an incoming tide battling the fading light of an early autumn evening.
He then walked over to a side table and poured her two fingers of a cheap blended whisky purchased at the local BWS and decanted into the empty Glen Elgen 12-year single-malt bottle he always carried with him.
“I’ll give you two fingers!” he thought as he passed the glass over and flashed that famous lopsided grin of his.
He beckoned Bailey over to the fake vinyl lounge and as he joined her there, a frown passed briefly over his handsome face as she instinctively moved away from him.
“So,” Morris thought to himself. “It’s like that, hey? I guess it’s time for The Rapture.”
Morris closed both eyes and looked up at the dusty fan on the ceiling above him. “Hi ya babba bubba seya forya ha ha ha oh yeah,” he intoned quietly. “Walla bubba me rudda bubba hiya see ya oh yeah bubba yubba ha ha.” Ever so gently, he then placed the palm of his left hand on her bare right knee.
Bailey’s eyes shot open wide with surprise at the effect that simple touch had evoked in her: it created an electric shock that travelled at speed up her right leg but then turned left and buried itself deep in the very core of her womanhood, a category-five cyclone of carnal desire that made glandfall and teasingly settled its eye over her engorged bud.
She blushed as she realised her mini mongrel was now beating a low and frustrating tattoo against her soaked lilac panties, demanding immediate attention.
“I can get Cyclone Morris moving again,” the master marketeer from the Shire whispered as he leant in and bruised her dainty neck with his half-day-old growth.
“If you let me have a go, I’ll have a go,”’ he said, his voice filled with barely controllable lust.
He turned quickly, their lips met and his tongue darted into her mouth faster than a Jack Russell terrier down a rat hole.
Her response was quick, her dainty hands beating a defiant tattoo against his manly chest.
But that characteristic smirk returned as Morris sensed her objections slipping away faster than Sussan Ley after yet another disastrous trainwreck of an interview.
Morris grabbed one of her hands and placed it where she could best understand the extent of his desire for her.
She let out a gasp and he whispered hoarsely: “Now you can see why I have trouble holding a hose.”
Bailey’s objections disappeared faster than that first slab at a schoolies’ party and enjoying one more self-satisfying smirk, Morris paused momentarily to marvel at his way with the little ladies and to thank once more his Lord and Master for bestowing on him a gift he had possessed his entire adult life; the ability to bring women to rapture with nary a burning lake of sulphuric acid in sight.
“How good is that ability?” he whispered. “And now, dear Bailey, it’s time to put you out of your misery. That is my job!” The cyclone started moving again and the poor woman cried out in a level of ecstasy she had never believed possible; indeed, had any woman in history ever reached before! “Oh God,” she screamed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Yes, I’m here,” Morris replied softly.
And then he took her!
READ OUR FIRST EXTRACT HERE!
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