Patrick's morning routine went as it always did. Moisturizers, lotions, workouts, face masks, lip masks, washing his hair in such a way it wouldn't lose its fullness or thickness, washing his body with soaps that cost more than some of his suits, watching the Patty Winters show (making sure he taped it so he could watch it later), breakfast of cut up fruits and Evian water, before he got dressed in a wool Armani suit with Ralph Lauren socks and shoes that Evelyn had gifted him (around $50,000).
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
On his way to the office — Patrick listened to a Genesis tape on his Walkman. Shoulders back and legs striding — Patrick walked past other people going the opposite way of his office, none of which acknowledged him. Walking past Jean, he went into his office, the door closing behind him. And though he seemed fine — Patrick felt the need to rip someone's flesh off. Sitting down on the white, pristine futon in his office, Patrick just listened to the sounds of Phil Collins' voice (much preferring his voice to Peter Gabriel's whiny and empty voice). A knock sounded from the door and before Patrick could pretend to ignore it — someone who wasn't Jean walked in.
She was most definitely a hardbody — strong, sleek, smooth legs, delicate hands, small yet strong shoulders and arms, and her tits looked amazing in the top she was wearing. "Mr. Bateman, you had three calls today." The hardbody announced ("Her mouth would look amazing around my cock"). Patrick nodded before letting out an exasperated chuckle, "I'm sorry — who are you?" The hardbody lifted a questioning brow. "I'm very surprised you forgot me that quickly Mr. Bateman. I'm Beatrice Kruger — we met yesterday. I'm taking over for Jean while she's away." ("I want to make you choke on your own vomit.")
Suddenly Patrick remembered the whole conversation about designer brands the two had yesterday — even he was surprised he forgot about it. "Oh yes — Beatrice. What were the three calls?" Patrick gave her a warm smile — as warm as he could make it. She returned one, "All of them were asking if you were free for dinner later — Van Patten, McDermott, and Carruthers — I told them no." Patrick couldn't help but be surprised, Jean could never say no even if he told her to say so ("Just say no.") but here Beatrice was, already being better than Jean at her job. "You know... are you free for dinner? I was thinking maybe... Dorsia?" What was Patrick thinking? Dorsia? No one can get a reservation in a day.
No one could get a reservation in centuries.
Beatrice raised both brows as she licked her teeth in thought, "Mm, okay, pick me up at eight." Patrick couldn't even tell her that she should go to his apartment instead — so now Patrick had to get a limo, a taxi to Dorsia would look tacky. Beatrice placed a file on his desk as well, "Oh and here's some work for you to do — I think you can figure it out yourself." She was clearly flirting and Patrick gave her a flirty smirk as he watched her hips sway as she walked out of the room. Patrick waited until the door closed to look at the file — he got up and flipped the folder open only to see photographs (Polaroids) of Beatrice wearing lingerie (which looked to be high end but he couldn't quite tell where it was from as it was a dark red that was a rare color for lingerie, at least that's what he thought) along with some red liquid all over her body (maybe strawberry jam? Sticky. Patrick couldn't help but now think of putting Beatrice in a mouse trap and having her stuck and squirming). He slipped the Polaroids in his pocket before he sat at his desk and drew the inside of women's bodies — his erection increasing at the thought of Beatrice's guts spilling out of her body as she rode him.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
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