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Part 7: Sex Sells
by Shayla Pandava The following is Part 7 of Sex Sells. If you missed parts 1 - 6, they're alive and well and living in our archives. But to get you started, here's where we left off last time:

"When I got out, well, I was clean, dressed and ready to crash. I was thankful that Jim would be driving. I was also thankful that I had no desire to get laid for the next week or so. I would tip him big time and maybe he could escort me again sometime. And there would be no resentful cajolings or frustrated goodbyes. I would not have to fuck him now.

I stepped out into the room where I expected he'd still be getting the royal treatment, and I'd curl up and fall asleep on the couch. Instead, I saw something I wished hadn't. At first I tried to ignore it, as if it were a drunken vision that would just go away.

Jim was alone there on the rug, lying on his side, naked, curled fetally into himself, heaving and shaking.

'Oh my god, what's the matter?' I said."

[And now for Part 7:]
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I went over to him, but he put his hand up and flapped me away.

"Are you OK?" I asked.

He slurped in a deep breath.

"What happened? You OK? Did they hurt you? What's wrong?"

He got himself up on one elbow and sort of hung there, cracking sheets of dried cum on his legs and buttocks. I figured it was his own. Those nasty girls had probably rubbed him down in his own juice. Why not? There was enough to rub all over their titties with plenty left to cover him too.

"Can I help you up?" I said, approaching him and tapping his arm with my hand. He took hold of it to right himself, wheeled around on the corner of his butt and then sat, his legs piked out in front of him. Dried cum curled on his belly and caked in his navel and balled like Christmas ornaments on the fluff of his crotch hair. I wanted to lick it off him.

He ran the back of his arm across his eyes. He put his knee up and draped his forearm over it. I watched his balls settle on a tuft of ass hair and couldn't help admiring the pale pink of his penis, soft and couched on his balls like a baby in its blanket. Liquid flooded under my tongue as I thought how I could suck it all in and play with it inside my mouth.

What could be the matter? He must have had a good time. Four naked, wet pussies and ample comes. Maybe it was those two over-developed men who carried him off for the models into this sex-scented bower. "Did those bouncer guys hurt you or something?" I asked irrationally. Jim's strange behavior was beginning to trigger my sense of dread.

His head was hung down, but he shook it, no.

"Can I do anything for you?" I asked. I dropped back onto the couch.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Give me a minute and I'll take you home."

I looked around the room to see where his clothes had landed. I found them here and there, piece by piece. The models who had covered his body with their hungry hands, and mouths were nowhere in site.

I sat back down and waited. And he sat. And I waited...

Finally he stood up, cupping his hands over his genitals as if he were shy -- a male escort shy! And he came over and took his underwear. I cupped my hands over his balls and pressed my palm very softly against his cock.

He seized my hand, tightly. "Don't," he said.

A little surge of jealousy swept over me. The models could paw him every which way, but I could not even touch him. Then frustration. Did he hate me? Had he seen me enjoying the attentions of all those men, letting all those male hands run wild and free over my body? So what? Did he watch me shudder with orgasm as the warm cum of one man after another drizzled over my naked skin? Did he think I was a pig?

How could he, I thought, when he had been in here doing the same thing with four beautiful, naked, horny wet models? Besides, he was just a paid escort. What was he thinking?

For some reason my mind slipped, paranoid, to the threat of STDs. I thought back to my orgy on the dance floor -- the dribbles of cooling cum from my neck to my tits to my thighs. But I remembered the feeling of dental dam hugging against my wet parts before the man (or men) ate my cunt. It had been pretty clean fun, all things considered. And from the looks of Jim's belly, crusted with his own jism, his dick hadn't slipped into any unfamiliar holes either. So what was his problem?

He dressed slowly.

"You can take a shower if you want," I said.

He tried to slick back his hair, which had come to look like a hay stack from all the female fingers that had clawed through it. Stubbornly, meticulously he put everything back in its place -- tie straight, shirt tucked, pants belted and buckled. I thought he was overdoing it, trying to be so neat at the end of such a wild evening. He ran water over his face, took a deep breath, and extended his arm.

"Are you ready to leave now?" he asked quietly.

I checked for anger in his voice. I didn't hear it. "Yeah, sure," I said.

He seemed somewhat back to normal by the time we got to my house. He escorted me to the door, opened my screen door all gentlemanly, clinging to his professional mask as if he would surely turn into a frog, should the mask drop. He took my hand, and said, "thank you," bowed his head slightly and turned to leave.

I seized his arm. All that gentleman stuff had me getting wet again. I felt a teeny shudder just under my clit.

"Come inside. I have something extra for you."

"No," he said. "I didn't earn anything extra tonight."

"But I had a great time," I countered.

"That had nothing to do with me."

I ignored him. "I think I worked off a year's worth of sexual frustration tonight," I told him. "God, working from home!"

I stepped inside and he was still standing there, so I grasped his arm and pulled him in behind me.

"What about you?" I asked him. "Did you have a good time? I mean it's OK if you enjoy yourself, too, right?"

"No, not like that," he said. "I lost control."

"Several times, from the looks of you when I found you," I joked. But now he looked ashen.

"What's the big deal?" I took him by the shoulders and tried to get him to look at me, but it was like he was tabulating very important numbers in his head.

I took advantage of him, I'll admit. I mean the way he seemed all disoriented and passive. I kissed him on the cheek. I wanted to feel him under my lips. It only made remember the pink softness of his cock and lust to have it in my mouth. If he had showed the slightest, tiniest bit of arousal, I would have reached my hand into his loose fitting, high-class pants and held his cock while I kissed him on the mouth. But he showed no reaction at all. So I just patted his arm and turned to get the little stash of twenties I'd held out for him in case he was good. In case...

"I'll be right back," I told him.

I thought how badly I'd wanted him inside me when my skirt was pulled up and my panties down and I was fingering my pussy in front of him, making him hard.

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.

[To be continued...]