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Sex Sells
by Shayla Pandava
Bjelk & Strum didn’t entirely pay the bills, but it came close, and besides it got me other jobs. In this big, prestigious ad agency, I had a small freelance contract. Thanks to email and phone, I’d never met anyone from Bjelk & Strum face to face. To them, I was just a portfolio and a name.
I could be in my pee-jays and call Jeff, my project coordinator, and just put on my sexy, velvet voice, and the rest is imagination. You know what I find? Sex sells. Even in a business that plays human emotion like a board game and trades heavily on the fact that "sex sells." Sitting there in my pee-jays I learned what I guess all phone sex operators already know: put on that voice that seems to be dripping chocolate down the side of a stiff cock, and a guy’ll do anything. So I had things pretty cushy -- good pay and steady work.
But then a problem came up. I got an invite by the agency to some big project opening. Everyone in the city who was anyone in advertising would be there. I wanted to butt heads with these hot shot potential clients whose coffers overflowed. Head-hunting ad agencies with money to burn. Not to mention I wanted to meet colleagues, get out of the house, be seen.
Well, and meet potential mates if you must know. I was single, OK? A computer symbiant who didn’t get out much. I mean, I enjoy being a sexy cock-tease out on the town, but you get in a rut, you know? Sitting by your computer. You’ve got your chat, your porn sites, your dildos -- then you go back, do a little work, chat or IM while you work, hit the vibrator, wheee, and one more sentence over here, and then wheee, more lube and. . . It’s just too damned easy.
But you get in a rut, right? So I had to go to this party. Live humans! The problem was, going single -- as in "desperate." It just wouldn’t do. I wanted to feel sexy, not desperate -- how else to do my best selling? How else to feel that predator rush in my veins? The excitement of the meat market. I mean to get more jobs. So I decided to hire an escort -- a business expense, right?
Yeah, I know. Women don’t hire escorts. But I did. I scanned the escort ads on a site my friend Sheila has used. And I found a shiny male escort, suave, youthful, clean cut, urbane. In addition, he claimed to have education, social skills, conversance in all topics. . . Perfect.
He explained on the phone that he did not do sexual favors (Sheila told me these guys just said that in case I was a cop). I told him that sex was not on the menu -- who knows where these guys have been? Besides, he was just for cover. I wanted to land a guy in the ad biz. Someone with a contact list. OK, or at least a guy who could talk to me about my work beyond "oh, that’s nice." But the minute I opened the door to my male escort for the evening, I wanted to rewrite the contract.
"Hi, I’m Jim," he said, holding flowers, no less.
"I’m Lisa," I said, putting out my hand. I was thinking, why does a male escort waste money on flowers no one’s going to see? Well, except for me. So right there he had me swooning. And I know you’re thinking, he’s angling for the "big tip," and you’re like me saying "sex sells," and he was working it big time. But damned straight he’d get a big tip if I liked his ass. I knew romance was part of this guy’s package and I still ate it up like French vanilla cream.
Anyway, I was dressed in my Jean Paul Gautier, shimmery tight skirt, extra short, with slits up both sides almost to the hip bone, white silk blouse, little flowers on my bra -- and my mauve colored rose tattoo, just above the bra line, visible, next to the pearl buttons, through the silk. And there he was, his sandy colored hair moussed in that casually tousled way, and I wanted to say, "how much extra for you to push up this skirt, rip the crotch out of my panty hose, yank away my thong boy and fuck my cunt into the Fourth of July?"
But I didn’t. Besides our agreement that sex wasn’t for sale, I had to keep my head on if I wanted a financially good summer.
He told me I looked lovely.
"I want to look hot," I corrected him.
"That you do," he followed, with a little dip of the head. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled.
At the party, I repeated to him that he was there to make me feel hot, desirable, sexy, and that I was there to make money and to scope out and turn the heads of available men -- for future reference.
It was a white-hot, sexual, upscale party. The serving girls wore the tiniest glitter-gem patches over their tits, connected by thin strings. And one of those girls, lying on a table, played an almost naked food bar. Swatches of honey kept the strawberries and melon squares stuck to her body -- strawberries on her thighs and lower abdomen in a kind of horseshoe pattern around her g-string. The melon squares were stuck in semi-circles around the inner crescent of her breasts, which fell to either side in their string bikini top, showing all but nipples. Men and a few women -- though there were about twice as many men at the party -- buried fingers in the girl’s foodbar flesh -- we’ll say they were after the honey. Some fingers seemed to have accidents which led them between the girl’s legs, where she was smooth and shaven. An even bolder move was pulling aside her tiny bikini top’s strings, and as she lay there with nipples exposed, checking her out, what her nipples had to offer. She didn’t seem to mind. If they looked at her face, she flashed them a smile. A true exhibitionist was she. Not that I don’t have my exhibitionist moments because, trust me, I do. But I have to be pretty drunk.
"Having fun?" Jim asked the girl-foodbar when we passed her. But most of the time he lavished his attention on me.
Yes, Jim played his role well, down to the tiniest serving napkin. He was the man every woman would want. He smoldered. He shone. He praised me when need be. He deferred to me where appropriate. He conversed like a charm when called on. He held my suit jacket, fetched my food, drinks, napkins. And I wanted his well-tailored bubble butt so bad I was creaming the cotton crotch of my red lace thong boy underwear.
But then I got the chance to talk to Jeff, my contractor. I excused myself, leaving Jim with a group of women I had just met from the agency. Jeff a lot older than his voice, and a lot less well, exciting than I had pictured. And pudgy. So talking to him was just like talking to a boss -- not at all fun or exciting. What a letdown. I guess the phone-sex fantasy thing can go both ways. Here I was talking to my boss face-to-face for the first time, and all I could concentrate on was Jim, out of the corner of my eye, seducing a whole circle of women like a snake charmer. Even the models hired to fluff up the party swooped by and cooed over him whenever they had a free second. Jealous? Me?
Jim kept looking in my direction to let me know he was at my beck, with that dimpled smile, or a thumbs up of encouragement, yet I could tell by the body language of the women around him that he was working them, too. A call boy’s gotta keep an eye out for prospects I suppose. He had charisma, alright. Oh, they were wet for him. (He loved it, too). I thought I smelled pussy in the air. I imagined every pussy in the place leaking pearls of excitement over him. That anorexic-looking secretary; that voluptuous middle-aged accounts manager. I pictured labial lips swelling with arousal in every corner.
When Jeff finally excused himself, I had failed to say something memorable. Lucky for me, he likes my work because I’m sure I didn’t score any points, distracted the way I was. I did manage to chat up a few other possible clients got one nibble and a pretty sure bite for decent money. Gave out some cards. Worked all the tricks: stretching my back so my tits stick out; holding my glass so I can rub my nipples with my forearm to make them harden, giving a guy the sense he’s seeing something through my blouse that he shouldn’t. Through all this, Jim was waiting on me periodically. When the most important contacts had left, I gave Jim the hi sign to follow me into the hallway.
"How’s everything going?" he asked when he caught up with me through the thick of bodies.
"Could you get us a drink?" I asked him. I was about to make up for lost time.
He went off to get the drink, and I watched his ass. I had to wait for him to take a step to see the curve of his ass cheeks etched into his loose suit pants. I was now so wet, I could feel the chilly dampness between my thighs. My pussy wanted out. As I watched him, I rubbed my upper arms like I was cold, but really what I brushing my forearms back and forth over my nipples because this whore babe made them antsy. You know how nipples can get so you have to touch on them? Mine were like that now; they wanted his mouth on them.
When Jim came back, I dragged him into the coat room -- so indiscreet of me. Though no one saw us slip in, anyone could walk in on us, no lock on the door. I glanced at his package hating the fact that free access to his body wasn’t in our contract. Screw that, I thought. I leaned my back against the coat room door, hiked up my skirt, pulled down my pantyhose, slid my thong boy down my thighs . . . could I feel the wetness then! I watched his reaction. He liked, I could tell. I’d have him breaking our no-sex clause in no time. The tight red elastic pinched my thighs like bondage and it was a turnon. I spread my legs against the elastic, thrust my cunt forward, pushed my finger into the slit (yeah it was wet) and fingered myself. "I want you to eat this," I said, my free finger pointing to my crotch.
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