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Conclusion: Sex Sells
by Shayla Pandava The following is the sexy conclusion of Sex Sells. If you missed any of the previous parts of the story (1 - 8), they're alive and well and living in our archives. But to get you started, here's where we left off last time:

"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 had. 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, using his guilt, to indulge his dick and not his words? Hell, yes."

And here's the conclusion of "Sex Sells":

"You fucked up," I said, "Only one way to make up for your sucky performance." He didn't even get that I was playing him. That's how I knew it was for real. All this gloom about him feeling like he'd failed as an escort.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll come work for you half price next time -- No, I'll give you a whole evening for, like, a hundred. And I've never done that. But I want to -- "

"I don't want it next time," I said. "And why would there be a next time?"

"Alright, a freebie -- "

"I think you need to fuck me, right here and right now."

"I know," he said. As I leaned over him, his body started to fall into mine. I rubbed my hand along his arm and breathed at his neck. His cock jumped and his head dropped back and I saw him inhaling the scent of my hair just before his body tensed. He started to sit upright, "I need to regroup." But then he seemed to lose his resolve.

He was so hot and tense I thought he was getting ready to spring at me. "You're going to fuck me" I whispered. "Right?"

He was looking down at the floor. "Next time," he said, "I promise."

"I can very well see you want to fuck."

And then so quietly I almost missed it, he said, "Can't you leave me with a tiny shred of professionalism?"

"I'm not holding you prisoner."

"You're right, I want to fuck you," he said, "But, I'm not. . .myself."

"Not in control, you mean?"

"Right," he said softly. "I'm not in control."

"So?"

"I need that. It keeps me from getting..."

I sat there next to him, and as he trailed off I spread my legs so my skirt edged up my thighs. "You had your fingers in my pussy," I pouted. "Me with my fine business clothes rolled up to my waist and my wet pussy hailing you. And you rejected me."

"You knew I wanted you," he mumbled.

"But you turned me down."

"It was the right thing to do."

"And now?" I pulled up my skirt and took his hand and pressed his fingers against my crotch. Underneath the silk, flesh opened beneath his fingers. He was touching the softer parts. I stared into his eyes. What unprofessional lust I saw there.

"OK," he said simply.

With his free hand he pulled my mouth to his and kissed, too deeply for a pro who wants to keep his emotions stashed safe. I tongued him while sliding the crotch of my panties aside so his fingers touched how wet he made me. I wasn't trying to win his heart. But I admit I had this lust to strip his shields and fuck him emotionally naked, reaching in to feel his heart. I knew emotional release would thrill him, the way a dozen nameless men on the dance floor peeling my pussy open thrilled me right down to my hunger.

I led Jim to my bathroom and he let me smooth a condom on him and we lowered both our spent bodies deep into warm water and my luxury bath. He entered me soft, and we did it slow. And he did feel like velvet inside me. A tingly sexual energy passed between us; I felt it spreading deep into my lower belly. He came in shivers, and then stayed inside me as he ran his fingers lightly through the water over my clit. His penis softened and retreated, but its head held on inside me, and he ran two fingers into me, above his cock head, so he could press the spongy mound of my G-spot. In a wave of deep sensation I fell towards him, offering my nipples. He nibbled them while massaging my clit. And somehow at the same time (with great dexterity) he applied steady circular pressure to my G-spot. The orgasm came up slow and smooth like the hint of a wave, far out to sea, and then gave a sudden heave, like a bloated bellows discharging inside my body. And we fell into each other in the steam, me shuddering and him kissing.

Boy knows his craft.

The magic is in the details. It's in how he pays attention to the small signals from my skin or my pussy or my breasts, rising and falling on excited breath. He seems to know that I am not a girl who likes to be overpowered with sensation right away. So in doling out sensation he is miserly. The magic's in how he holds out on me, saves his best moves till I'm almost twitching for any kind of touch. And then he makes me wait. And I need it bad; he can read it on my nipples -- God, can he fuck.

You may notice I'm using the present tense...

That night, after the best sex I've ever had, I lay exhausted and lazy in my bath tub. He kissed me and said, "You got to me." I watched him get up, towel off, tuck his well-worked cock into his briefs, its head poking out till the last minute when he pulled the waist band on top of it. The lips of my languid pussy drifted apart and closed like a water lily as I watched him slip out the door. That was all he said, but I knew what it meant. When he was gone, and I couldn't sleep, and I was cleaning up the fuck traces to fond flashbacks, I found the wad of twenties -- his tip, his fuck money -- tucked under a decorative pillow in my living room. How shall I put it? I'm no longer living alone.

Is he still a whore? Yeah. And you may ask what kind of life a girl can have with a guy who regularly goes out to date, and sometimes fuck, other people.

I'd like to say that raw sex is the reason I can watch him put on the expensive suits, the debonair charm he reserves only for clients, and still love him, still love fucking him. Maybe it's because his escort charm comes with the same cool distance that stung me in the drawing-room at the party when he rejected me flat.

He's told me how it is with him. He was never any good holding down jobs. He thought himself a loser. And then the escort thing came along, and he took to it. Power and money flowed his way like an easy river. Sex sells after all. He uses distance to feel professional and charm to feel successful and, voila, he's a business man. Everyone wants those feelings, no?

He's never used his cool pro distance on me again. The place he goes to when we make love is beyond his inner door, somewhere that neither of us ever planned on.

But that story is too private to tell.

THE END