• How low can you go to achieve your dreams?
Faced with a strong woman, even the worst of Chris’ kind backs down. Bullies are just cowards covering up deep-seated insecurities. But he holds his ground. He does it with the confidence of a man who holds all the cards and has dealt them exactly like this a million times before and won.
“This contract will either end up in the garbage or signed and in your hands,” he says. “What you do in the next five minutes to make either of those things happen, is up to you.”
Wow. The balls on this guy. Direct, no sugar-coating. Put out or get out.
I weigh my options. I can walk out, dignity intact, no contract and live to fight another day. I could probably drop his wife an email and tell her what a jerk her husband is.
But I already know how that will go. When he leaves here tonight, he will tell her we met and I offered myself to him but he turned me down. Men like him cover their tracks very well. She will probably doubt him, but driven by the desperate urge to believe him that kills all reason, I will automatically become the bad guy, out to get her man.
She will badmouth me to all her friends and my subscription numbers in her circles will begin to dry up. Then he will drop nasty tidbits to my existing advertisers. These people are all in the same circles. The same country clubs, golf buddies, blah, blah, blah. It’s all one big sausage fest and they hold all the cards. He has the power to make or break me. I have no choice.
“Yes, you have a choice!” screams my conscious. “Just walk out!”
I think about the sum of all the things I have done for me to reach to this point. All my dreams and aspirations stretch out before me… I have no choice. I have no choice. I have no choice.
I fall down to my knees in front of him and open his zipper. There is his manhood, semi hard and ready to spring to attention. I look up at him; he has a triumphant look upon his face. Also, I sense something else. Disappointment? Did he want me to put up more of a fight? I drop my eyes from his gaze, gently hold him in my palm and take him into my mouth. He grows hard under the stimulation and is fully erect in seconds. He grunts and holds the back of my head, pushing me up against his pelvis, forcing me to deep-throat him. I do it without pulling back. It’s one of my many skills.
“Look at me,” he rasps.
I look up at him. His expression is different now, it’s smug. I can see it as clear as day. This is not about sex; he can get any woman he wants. This is about power. He is drunk with it. It courses through his veins. He can get anybody to go down on their knees and suck his trumpet because that’s what rich, powerful men do to women every single day. I start to feel something deep inside. Something resembling rage.
“Sign it,” I say, releasing him from my mouth and lowering my eyes. I don’t want him to catch a glimpse of how I’m feeling right now.
“What?” he asks.
“Sign the contract,” I say, gesturing towards it with my head and continuing to play his trumpet with my hands.
“Yes, yes, I’ll sign it,” he says.
“Sign it now,” I say, bending over slightly and softly licking around the crown of his trumpet.
“Now?” he asks.
“Now. Since we’re all clear that this is what you’re buying,” I say, taking him fully in my mouth again.