Have Pussy, Will Travel

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“Ms. Johnson, Mr. Drake will see you now; follow me, please.”

A gorgeous redhead set aside the magazine she’d been reading, rose, and strolled down one of the hallways that opened off of the room in which she, along with the other women, had been waiting to have her name called.

Half way down the hall, her escort stopped. The woman who’d called the redhead’s name knocked on a closed door. A moment later, having been invited to do so by the room’s occupant, she opened the door, and the redhead entered, closing the door behind her.

The brunette who’d led Ms. Johnson to the office returned to the waiting room, taking her seat behind the large desk on which her computer monitor, telephones, intercom, and other secretarial supplies and equipment were stationed. The brass nameplate on her desk identified her as “Marilyn. Holliday, Administrative Assistant.”

The waiting room was like many others in which Sharon Cade had waited for job interviews. (Not “job,” she reminded herself, but “career.” She’d answered the help wanted ad in her local newspaper only because it had promised “not a job, but a career, opportunity” that could pay as much as a million dollars a year and, to qualify, one need not have graduated from college; hiring would be based solely upon applicant’s performance at auditions.) The large room was tastefully, even elegantly, furnished, with thick wall-to-wall carpeting, pastel floral wallpaper, a chandelier, and several oil paintings–not prints, but originals–in ornate frames. Deep, overstuffed couches lined the walls, and there were armchairs interspersed among the coffee tables and end tables. A wide assortment of magazines was available.

From the looks of the place, one would never suspect such an office to be associated with a call girl operation. Even the company’s name, Executive Services, gave nothing away as to the true nature of the enterprise’s business. Like the ten other young women who sat poised on the edges of their chairs or couches, each as beautiful and sexy as Sharon herself, Sharon had inferred the actual nature of the services that the business offered its clientele from hints dropped in a preliminary interview, prior to her having been invited to audition. After several such clues had been provided as to the nature of the company’s true services, her interviewer, a woman named Jessica Lane, had stated bluntly, “Executive Services isn’t really involved in the travel and tourism trade, Ms. Cade. Can you tell me what services we really do provide?” “Prostitution,” Sharon had answered. Although the interviewer had corrected her, claiming that the company offered “call girl services, not prostitution,” she had recommended Sharon for the series of auditions for which Sharon and the other applicants for the position (described in the ad as “hostess”) had come to try out.

Sharon was an altogether lovely woman. Just three years ago, at eighteen, she’d graced the pages of one of the nation’s premiere men’s magazine. Unfortunately, her appearance hadn’t produced the break she’d been seeking when she’d doffed her clothes for the camera, which is why she’d answered the ad for a million-dollar-a-year “hostess” position at Executive Services.

Her competition was stiff, though, she had to admit. Whether blonde like herself, brunette, or redhead, the other applicants were also drop-dead gorgeous. Sharon wasn’t unduly concerned, though, for Ms. Lane, in interviewing her, had assured her that the position would be offered to the “most qualified” applicant, not just to “the girl with the biggest tits.” When it came to sex, Sharon wasn’t merely good; she was fantastic. She was confident that she could land the position. In a year or two, she could be a millionaire, possibly several times over.

An hour later, Marilyn again rose from her chair, and called, “Ms. Cade, Mr. Drake will see you now; follow me, please.”

Excitement lanced Sharon’s heart, and she breathed a silent prayer, asking the favor of heaven in helping her to land the job–position! she corrected herself, position!–as Executive Services’ latest “hostess.”

* * * The First Audition * * *

The man named Drake (he’d offered no last name) was naked when Sharon entered the room. He was seated in an overstuffed, brass-studded armchair covered with burgundy leather. At his feet, there was a thick rubber mat. The chamber was otherwise empty.

He was a handsome man, Sharon thought: dark, curly hair; nice-looking features; broad shoulders; a deep chest; tight, six-pack abs; powerful thighs. His cock was erect. Circumcised, it was, she judged, at least eight inches in length. Thick and rigid, it stood upright, against his belly.

“You’re Sharon Cade?” he asked.

She smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re here to audition?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve been apprised as to what the audition entails?”

Her smile faltered for just a moment as she recalled the directions she’d been given. “I have, sir.”

He motioned for her to approach him, and she stepped forward, stopping before him when he held up his hand.

“Remove your clothes,” he said.

As she removed her clothes, she felt, as well as saw, his eyes travel slowly down her body, as he admired her firm, high, round breasts; her concave tummy; the hairless cleft of her pink sex; and her shapely legs.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

She pirouetted, offering him a view of her splendid backside. After several moments, during which he studied her sleek cheeks, pleased by their firm, full, rotund shapes, he told her, “You may begin.”

She knelt between his parted thighs, on the rubber mat at his feet, and caressed his big balls through the silk-soft, tight flesh of his contracted scrotum. Gathering the purse containing Drake’s egg-shaped family jewels in her hand, she squeezed his testicles gently, yet firmly, in her tightening fist and shook them playfully.

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