|
|
Part 8: Sex Sells
by Shayla Pandava
The following is Part 8 of Sex Sells. If you missed any of parts 1 - 7, they’re alive and well and living in our archives. But to get you started, here’s where we left off last time:
[As I grabbed the wad of twenties, I determined to seduce him. I would stop at nothing. If he wouldn’t be seduced, I’d hold onto the money -- I wasn’t above blackmail -- I’d let him know the money was for something extra. I felt myself bold and powerful in that instant, and Machiavellian -- but really I was just hot for this guy, and all worked up from the dance floor orgy and feeling devil-may-care from the booze.
But when I got back to him, he was on the floor, collapsed. Curled in a ball -- again -- he seemed to be squeezing the rug as if it would lift him onto his feet.
"My god," I said. This time, I started to panic. I wondered if the models had drugged him.]
---
[And now for Part 8:]
"I don’t think I can do this anymore," he whispered to me. "I lost it."
Still baffled, I just sat down next to him.
"Forgive me," he said.
I wasn’t even sure he was talking to me.
"For what?"
"What I did at the party. That wasn’t right."
I sighed relief. Jim hadn’t been drugged -- just gone a little weird. Maybe touched by the alcohol, since he normally doesn’t drink. The up side of working for myself is that these wee-yoo occurrences don’t phase me. Your social conditioning on job sites doesn’t prepare you for cracks in people’s psychology the way a good stint of working at home will do.
"What wasn’t right?" I asked. "Having fun?"
"You weren’t paying me to have fun," Jim said. I suppose the social conditioning a male escort receives doesn’t have much to do with life at the office, either.
"I have no complaints," I said. "I got what I paid for."
I placed the wad of twenties on the floor where he could see it. I ran my fingers through his hair. It just seemed like the thing to do. OK and I was damned turned on. I was wet and horny and -- he didn’t have to know -- still picturing his velvety penis sliding up inside me. That sort of thing doesn’t go away just because a guy suddenly discloses a personality glitch in your living room.
"I’m not going to take your tip," he said, "but I appreciate the thought." He said it like parting words. He seemed to not realize he was still lying, immobile, on my floor.
What was going on with him? He talked as if he’d broken some sort of personal code, opened one of those private, hidden doors we all have, with the extra padlocks.
But there he lay, so I stroked his body. I ran my hand along his shoulder, down his side, and well, around his ass, stopping there, resting my hand on the meat of his cheeks with tiny pressure from my fingers -- not quite squeezing -- and then back up again.
"You going to be OK?" I asked.
I still feared that once I gave him the tip money he would leave, and so I picked it up and clung to it. My pride wanted to call the money a tip. My wanton body wanted it to be an aphrodisiac.
"Yeah," he said. "It’s just I forgot to eat."
I had a wicked thought of stripping him and him being too weak to protest. Thought didn’t stop there, either. I pictured straddling his chest, backwards, my skirt riding up to my ass. I’d pull my underwear aside then spread my pussy lips so the wet nerve endings in my cunt would press into the soft down just above his navel and leave my juice like dewdrops on his hairs. I pictured falling forward, lightly leaning outward against his inner thighs, pushing his legs apart. His balls would sink between them. I would scoop them in one hand and fold my mouth around his soft, growing penis. In my imagination I could feel it bobbing against my tongue. Yes, I’d pay money for that.
He lifted himself on one elbow, catching his bearings.
Against my instincts I folded the money. "I want you to have it," I said. I tucked it into his pants pocket. I meant to be honorable and aloof and all, but when I was there, inside his pocket, well, my hand kind of...
My hand moved slowly, and yeah, being so close to his private territory, his overheated body ... so OK, I extended through the pocket, and ran my hand along his cock right up to the bulb. Maybe I was taking advantage. Except that his cock was stiff and the bulb, swollen.
He put his hand over mine, pressed my hand into his stuff. I felt it stir. This time he wasn’t stopping me. But then he spoke.
"I’m sorry. I knew better than go with them," he said. "She knows me."
"Who?"
"Melody ... the model at the party. She knows me. Doesn’t like me much. Tries to make me look like shit if she sees me working."
My hand lay along his shaft, fingertips at his balls, palm at the ridge of its fat nipple. I pressed with my palm.
"She threatened to tell people I was a whore," he continued, "or an escort or a pro -- whatever. It would have reflected badly on me, on you. It would have been messy."
Why talk now? Like a nervous chick? I wanted to stop his talk with my mouth on his and take him.
Instead, I talked back. "All my business contacts had left the party at that point," I said. "And I was the biggest slut there and I’m not worried about it. Really, Jim, it’s no big deal."
"I told them no. They got the bouncers to hold me down. She knows me. My lack of control."
I sat upright and took my hand away from his package. "Well, gee, Jim, that makes me feel pretty shitty," I said, kind of taunting him. "Because you had plenty of control when I was fingering myself in front of you."
His cock craned upwards when I said that. I could see it through his pants.
"I need to be professional," he went on. "I promised myself -- it fucks everything up when I lose control. But I came so hard. I kept coming."
The fabric of his trousers formed a rolling hill over his cock. He wanted it, that bastard. So why all this prating?
"I don’t even like Melody much, either," he continued, "but they were all over me, with their jasmine scent, and their breasts, and once they got hold of my dick ... Once I let go like that, I can ruin everything..."
"You didn’t ruin anything."
"I was supposed to be escorting you. What if things got out of hand for you, out there on the dance floor? What if something had happened to you? It’s my job to make sure things like that don’t happen."
I came this close to admitting I had sicked the models on him to keep him occupied.
"I should never lose control like that. A messy trick has aftershocks."
It was almost as if he knew I’d put the models up to it and he was trying to force a confession out of me.
"You know what? Life is messy," I snapped. "Get over it."
In response he waved his hand at his crisp shirt and smooth pants. "All this is an act," he said. "I work at it."
No shit, I thought.
"That’s the whole point," I said, "right? It’s a fantasy."
"And I’ve learned from the past. If I let one piece of it slip...my whole life goes to trash."
"OK, OK," I said. "I get it." I almost forced a French kiss into his mouth to quiet him. Twice, that Melody girl had asked if it was OK for her to go for him. And twice I said yes. I had wanted him off my back -- since he wasn’t putting out and I was in heat and he was playing the tedious voice of reason. So of course I was guilty of aiding in his ruin -- if that was how he looked at it. And I mean he already had the tip money, so what else was he after?
"I’m sorry," he repeated.
That did it. Guilt was not an emotion I wanted just now, considering how juiced he had me.
And anyway, I was sure now that he could be seduced around his whore’s ethics. He was more than halfway hard, his body hot, his professional resistance broken by the serious milking those models had given him. Would it be taking advantage to seduce him? Sniffing his weakness, indulging his dick and not his words? Hell, yes.
|
|
