A Little Squirrel Problem

Dear Billy,

When I dropped the pencil it went dick dick dick. If only the office floors were carpeted.

This morning the squirrels were at it again, scrabbling our roof, their little feet frantic and insistent. One of these days they’re going to get in. You’d say they’re just playing, but I know it’s more than that. Frolic like erratic rain, I feel it on my skin. They’re fucking, nuzzling, nesting. It makes me shiver. I turn, my fingers playing in my bush. I try to masturbate, but it doesn’t work. Nothing works.

I put on the special stockings, the ones you got me, the ones we were saving for a special occasion. I stood in the street and looked up at our roof. Nothing. Oh, Billy! We should be fucking, nuzzling, nesting!

Afternoon at work Garret came by for his daily pencil and to tease me about the president. “Why don’t you take the whole box?” I ask him. “I don’t want to be greedy,” he says. I tap the freshly sharpened pencil on my desk and tell Garret about the squirrels. “Your Mr. Bush looks like a squirrel,” Garret says. “Too bad he doesn’t have a squirrel’s brains. Your Billy might be—” He doesn’t say it. He knows he’s gone too far. Besides, I’ve thrown the pencil at him. It bounces off his chest and hits the floor and tiny rattles tick into silence.

Garret goes down to pick up the pencil, and from the pencil’s point of view I might as well be wearing nothing but stockings. Garret’s eyes read me all the way up. The bunched skirt, the opened shirt. When the pencil touches silk, my clit burns, my cunt melts. Kindly Garret turns the pencil.

The sex-wetted eraser kisses my clit just right.

“Would you like me to come over tonight?” Garret says. Maybe I could fix your little squirrel problem. Maybe I could—”

“Maybe,” I tell him. “Yes, maybe you could.”

Kat