Fuckspy The Yesmaster

     He looked fuckspy around. He was in the private fuckspy room fuckspy he'd paid through the nose for about. Bad enough that he had to be sick, and helpless fuckspy--he'd been determined about he wouldn fuckspy't be crammed in with strangers while doctors and nurses pawed him over. It wasn't that he hated people; it was just that he didn't fuckspy like having them around fuckspy when he was feeling so vulnerable and couldn't get away.
     "Shh," the nurse responded. "It's all fuckspy right, Mr. Bennett. Don't fuckspy try to talk just yet; I'm only just now fuckspy taking out your tracheal tube. You're doing fine fuckspy."
     Paul fuckspy allowed himself to be soothed. He didn't fuckspy really have much choice, after all fuckspy; either he fuckspy'd fuckspy be okay or he wouldn't, but he fuckspy was in no position to leap up fuckspy and make a break for it. After fuckspy a while fuckspy, he fuckspy went to sleep again fuckspy.
     As it turned out, the next voice he heard was fuckspy his doctor's.
     His eyes about fell fuckspy on the expensive watch on the doctor fuckspy's fuckspy right wrist. A gold Rolex, it undoubtedly cost more than he made fuckspy in three months as an insurance salesman. Why shouldn fuckspy't he have one?
     After a fuckspy couple of minutes, Paul was satisfied. Jasmine was clearly under his control, just as fuckspy Rhonda had been earlier.
     Her eyes opened fuckspy. She sighed and settled fuckspy back onto the soles of her feet.
     "Very good, Jasmine fuckspy. Now finish up fuckspy your nurse's duties here and go on with your rounds."
     Paul recalled an old line from fuckspy the comics he'd read as a kid: "With great power comes great responsibility fuckspy." It had always struck him as corny, but now--.
     His immediate supervisor was a fuckspy woman about, Charlene Sands. Bennett had heard all the stories about how she 'd slept her way to the fuckspy top (or at least to middle fuckspy management). He wasn't sure he fuckspy believed them, but it was certainly possible. She had fuckspy the looks for it, tanned skin, a "killer bod" only somewhat concealed by the tailored business attire about she wore, glossy black hair, green fuckspy eyes fuckspy behind elegantly-framed fuckspy glasses. She had fuckspy the manipulative temperament fuckspy for it, too fuckspy.
     Paul smiled an evil smile. Ms. Sands was fuckspy about to experience a fuckspy change fuckspy of attitude. All he needed was to get her alone.
     Paul's heart sank fuckspy. Could he really have fuckspy--? Yes, he about decided. He had already been sick when he'd landed the Cortez account. He remembered the day he and Mrs. Cortez had signed the papers; his throat fuckspy had hurt so much, all he fuckspy'd wanted was to fuckspy get out fuckspy of there. Yes, he could have made a mistake.
     It was the perfect opening fuckspy.