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C-Suite Letters: Lost & Fondled

Lost & Fondled

C|Suite Letters

Dear C|Suite: About a month ago, I had to go down to my local municipality’s By-Law Department to speak to a By-Law enforcement officer. As I walked in, the line was out the door—a line larger than the one’s you would see in all the Auschwitz pictures from WW2. It was stuffy in there. “This is going to take all goddamn day”, I thought. Luckily, though, I had been forced to quit my job, due to a string and series of grief related tirades on my co-workers. The longer I had to wait at City Hall, the less time I had to sit in my bedroom and stare myself in the mirror, asking myself “Why?”

Finally, after about two and a half idyllic hours, Krista—a saucy red head, with dick-taking hips strong enough for the might of a 3-hour romp fest—led me down the hallway into an office. “The officer will be with you shortly” she told me. What I would’ve done to her if I didn’t hate myself so much!

The door opened, and a real pistol walked into the room. “Sorry about the wait. I’m Officer Becky Lockhart.”

“That’s alright,” I said, trying not to produce a loaded boner in my pants whilst trying to stand to shake her hand. She was just my kind of woman: dark glasses, hair tied up; has a vagina and a hot rack of tits.

“What brings you in today?” Officer Lockhart asked. She had a glow to her, a joy for life one would say.

A glimmer I hadn’t seen in a woman since my wife left me a couple years ago. “My cat Timberland, has been missing for a week now. I’m concerned he was kidnapped…catnapped?” My pants were tightening with every word. I kept thinking to myself “Good thing I didn’t wear sweatpants today”.

“Have you tried to look for him, asked any neighbors?”

“No, but I’ve been getting some pretty strange and mysterious phone calls. Sounded like Eastern European people demanding ransom for Timberland's freedom. They also sent me this letter.” As I handed Becky a letter written in my cat's blood, she stood up and bent over; I was able to get a pretty sweet glance at her jugs. I was on Boner patrol at this point. “Were all officers this hot?” I thought to myself.

Officer Lockhart looked at the letter, very seriously. Her eyes were round, like her nipples.

“We can do some tests here to see if it's actually your cat’s blood, but…” Becky looked into my eyes. “There is a good chance that your pussy cat, Timberland, is already dead.”

Just as I was wondering where the closest bridge to my apartment was, Officer Lockhart accidentally spilled coffee on her white blouse; a blouse as white as my face, due to the blood differing elsewhere in my body.

“Oh darn. This never happens.” She said. “I better take this off. Oh, but…”

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “My wife left me. My cat has been murdered, presumably by dangerous Ukrainian psychopaths. Ain’t nothing going to give this guy a stiff one!” We both laughed. “Who has two thumbs, a dead cat, a wife who left him for some well-hung black guy, and no feeling in his penis? This guy!” She laughed again.

I forgot how charming and funny I can be when I am depressed. I was lying though—not about my wife or my cat, but about the rager to which was enforcing itself, in my pants.

Becky took off her blouse, revealing what I, at first, thought to be a pair of titties; I was right: it was a pair of titties.

"How embarrassing, I forgot to wear a bra today.” As she turned to pick up another shirt from her drawer; her titties bounced up and down, like a pair of bouncing titties. My dick was as stiff as my dead cat’s body.

“We can file a Missing Pet report. There is still a chance he’ll show up,” Becky said while putting her hand on mine. Her skin was softer than my Fleshlight at home.

Suddenly, before I knew what was happening, Officer Lockhart was sitting on my lap, kissing my face. I remember touching her rack of titties, immediately. They felt like real ones. Then, my crotch got harder than my dead cat’s rigor mortis set body. I felt deep into her department issued uniform; she was as wet as the lake that the Ukrainians would soon throw my dead cat’s body into.

We banged for all but 2 minutes; the amount of time it probably took my cat to drown or bleed out. It was a weird moment; considering all I kept thinking about was the two wet pussies in my life.


Chad Swagger is your typical American male who enjoys wearing a polo shirt to the office even more so than getting drunk on the weekends with the guys. In his high school yearbook, he stated that his ambitions in life were to work for a large beer company and to become a “skilled lover” between the sheets. Half as charming as he thinks he is—and twice as desperate— Chad’s erotic sexual exploits tend to be awkward in the wake of his supreme thirst for love, desire, and admiration. Darkly funny and utterly offensive, The Bro Next Door is a twisted character study that exposes a rare side of the characteristic American Bro.

C-Suite is a men's magazine founded by Frank Cervi. It combines urban/office life-style articles with soft-core pornographic pictorials. In recent years, C-Suite introduced the 'letters' column in which readers send in borderline ridiculous sexcapades, resulting often in explicit and unnecessary detail.

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