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Part 5: Sex Sells
by Shayla Pandava Welcome to Part 5 of "Sex Sells." If you've missed any of parts 1 - 4, you can catch up by going to the archives. But just to get you started on part 5, here's what you've missed: The party is just getting to that "anything goes" stage. Earlier, Lisa made some good business contacts at the party. She had brought a male escort to make her feel sexy and powerful. And it worked. The problem Lisa found out (the hard way) was that he made her feel TOO sexy. Here's the trouble Lisa was in when we left off last week:

"The models all wore spikey heels. The rest of us had on pumps, and we seven ladies were amid about 30 hungry men. Most of the men had their shirt buttons undone and tails out of their pants. A couple of the younger ones were bare-chested. I knew the situation was a little dangerous, a little risky, one that could get out of hand. I thought of the worst that could happen. I didn't care. It was my moment of worst abandon."

[And now for part 5:]

In no time, a crowd of men had gathered around me, my shimmery skirt threw sparks of light at them. It hugged my hips. I thrust my hips wildly like I was in labor. My unbuttoned shirt slipped back off my shoulders and clung there, waiting. I closed my eyes. I shook and swayed. And soon I felt it, a hand, just a small poke at the side of my bra. It excited me. Some time later another hand grabbed one of my ass cheeks and let go. Suddenly, I felt the air grow denser, the flow of air died -- air that had breezed across my face, air that had rushed under my skirt to cool my heated pussy -- and I knew the men were moving in on me, closing in a circle around me. I felt a touch to my breast. Just a touch, off to the other side this time.

And another. The frequency of their gropes and feels picked up and filled me with suspense, a few more, closer timed, more again -- the sequence was like pop corn popping. I kept my eyes closed. No, I did not want to see them. It was the sensations that drove me wild, raw on skin, without brain. And the mystery of all those feelings flooded my head with faces. Faces and bodies and hungry hands. Movie stars and models; nervous, twitchy old men and drooling lechers; B-boys and hipsters. The dismissive fingers of slick stock brokers, the critical fingers of long-haired, scruffy artists. The hands and heat of a whole team of beefy football players. Pork-fed salesmen, callous cab drivers, fabulous fairy boys, raunchy frat boys, gold-toothed pimps, turbaned sikhs -- a damned world-party of faces crammed my head to the touch of groping hands growing less timid, more proprietary, less discreet, more commanding.

Someone grabbed at the neck of my blouse and pulled. I felt it slide down my arms. I could feel the air against the sweat on my chest. I could feel the beads of sweat between my breasts. Hands were at my bra, too, now. Prodding touches. Pinching. A pinch on a nipple, another, another, both nipples firing help messages to the brain. Two paws, a press, a squeeze. The sensations doubled and tripled up. Hands on my ass cheeks one at a time, both together, squeezing, lifting through the tight-hugging lycra. They spread me and I felt the air against my anus.

The music played on. I danced on. Hands touched my thigh through the slit of my skirt until soon, a hand slid up my skirt on my right side, and when it did, the stretchy material stayed raised. The top of my black nylons was exposed there. And quickly the idea caught on at my left side, the skirt rode northward, to bunch at the top of my thighs. Hands from either side pushed it higher to my waist while at the same time hands were pulling down on my bra straps. I could feel the cunt juice leaking through my thong boy's crotch, I imagined blotches of it staining my upper thighs as hands on both sides tugged my bra down and down and I felt like fine chocolate being unwrapped.

My skirt was more like a belt now, tight at my waist, and there were hands around the elastic band of my nylons. I was being stripped, clumsily, hungrily, surely. My nipples caught in the folds of the bra. They had pulled it down as far as it was going to go, and it was pinching my nipples and they were tugging, and I just let go and got into the pinch and twinge because it went straight to my cunt in little leaps for joy. The grip of elastic dragging down my thighs. Someone's hand at my back fumbling, nipples burning, fabric rubbing like a rope burn against them, then snap -- they were whipped and they burst free, all red, I imagined, as the back-clasp came undone and someone snapped my bra off and the air gave my tits a chill slap. Suddenly bodies touched me everywhere, because I was half naked in a crowd of inebriated men offering myself, and squeezes moved all over my breasts and ass. My nipples felt themselves between fingers in numbers they couldn't count.

My nylons and undies were now at my ankles, so I felt helpless and little, like a bad girl standing at the potty, pressing my legs together. I thrust my bare ass backwards, shielding my pussy. But when I did, fingers slipped in between my cheeks, firming up against the crack of my ass. And when I thrust forward, fingers pressed into my mound. I think I had a brief thought of embarrassment for the first guy whose fingers contacted the puddles of excitement at the apex of my thighs. I was oozing. It had pooled up in my underwear, and now, there was no underwear to catch it. It would start to trickle soon. My bare breasts succumbed to countless hands -- my whole body was now in their hands. And suddenly I heard my name. A desperate calling from across the room.

That desperate sound threatened to kill my mood. I didn't want to open my eyes. I knew who it was. It was that teasing whore of an escort.

I heard a woman's voice in my ear. "He wants you to leave with him," she said. I thought maybe she touched me.

"Weren't you going to keep him busy?" I panted.

"We can do that," she said.

My eyes still closed, I could feel a let-up in my man-handling, as if she had chased the men off, and I was getting frustrated and angry. One big frustration per night was enough. I wondered who was she anyway.

"You're rather in heat, aren't you?" the voice said.

So I opened my eyes.

The men were all there, but had moved back to give her room. She was the same model who'd asked me if she could have Jim, but she was naked now except for her heels. Her pale, shaved pussy sported a diamond stud in one lip. It was a pink, girlish pussy that spat lightning at the crowd from its diamond piercing. She put a hand on each of my breasts as she leaned into me to speak in my ear. I creamed again.

"We'll keep him busy for you," she nodded. I glanced in the direction of her nod. Two rather large bouncer-looking men towered over Jim, holding him fast by either arm.

"Wait a minute," I said. I started to move, but she had me by the tips of my breasts. Her grip was also like a vice but it felt damned good.

"Don't worry," she said, "me and your friend, there, go way back. I know how to keep him amused. The girls'll help."

He didn't seem to be struggling. Like me in the breast lock, I thought. A little edgy, but scrumptious. It made me just a little apprehensive when I noticed he was frowning.

[To be continued...]