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 alternative 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 alternative 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 alternative 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 alternative
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 alternative 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.
