tagSci-Fi & FantasyIntergalactic Courtesan Ch. 01

Intergalactic Courtesan Ch. 01

byFunkydrummer©

Desirée Tanner blinked in the June sunshine, not sure whether to curse or cry. The door to Cletus' Crab Shack slammed behind her with the awful ring of finality. Her left hand held her long ivory coat around her while her sandy blonde hair from flying in every direction.

Three sheets of powder-blue paper slipped from the file folder gripped in her right hand; Desirée tried to grab for her resumes but gave up when they flew into the 4:30 traffic jam snarling the six-lane road.

She could handle the obnoxious interviews, she thought, trying not to cry. She could handle the patronizing interviewers or the sexist pigs. Okay, that sleazebag at the nearby McDonald's, who intimated that she could get a job there if she put out, made her want to throw up. But she could still walk away, head held high as the parting words: "You'll be back, honey!" rang in her ears.

No, it was the apologetic way that Bob Frakes, the assistant manager at Cletus' Crab Shack, looked at her and said, "Sorry, Dee. If I had any space on my roster, you'd be in there, believe me. But all my other employees are begging for all the shifts they can get right now and I just don't have the room."

She'd worked at Cletus' for the past two summers, washing dishes and busing tables. She'd made friends with everyone on staff, and both Cletus and Bob had told her she could come back to work there any time she wished. Now even that door was closed to her.

It was merely one of many. Back in February, her parents had died in a car crash, T-boned by a drunk driver. Then she discovered her college fund had disappeared because her dad had invested all the money in a ponzi scheme that had gone belly-up. She'd sold the house and rented an east side apartment to cut down on costs, but even that was turning into a nightmare. She knew she had until the end of September before all her money was gone.

I'm 18 years old, my parents are dead, my college fund disappeared, and I can't get a fucking job, she thought bitterly, walking down the street from the Cajun restaurant.

She had two more resumes still in hand, and bus fare to get her home. She looked down at her meager accomplishments listed in her one-sheet resume: class valedictorian, captain of the swim team, editor of the school yearbook: all very impressive within the confines of Michael Ness High, but out in the real world . . . not so much.

She left her last pair of precious resumes with a camera store and the Human Resources department in one of the hotels. In both places, she received nothing more than a grunt. She hopped the bus back to her apartment, feeling more useless than ever.

"Hello!" Desirée called out when she stepped into the cheap 2-bedroom apartment she shared with her rapidly-becoming ex friend Carol. She kicked off her pumps, hanging her trench coat by the door. Standing in her stockinged feet, she was around 5'9"and four years on the swim team had left her with a trim body that was curved in all the right places. However, it had done nothing about her most hated feature: the soft, rounded cheeks that were the last vestiges of her baby fat. She hated them, remembering how her Great Aunt Gladys used to pinch them when she was a child. Great Aunt Gladys was long gone, but the painful memory still lingered.

Only echoes answered Desirée's call; Carol wasn't home.

She found a note pinned to the corkboard above the phone. "Gone out with Hank and Doug. Back later." it read. She crumpled the note, hurling it in the garbage. Ever since she broke up with her first boyfriend Doug Masters, Desirée had found herself excluded from Carol's plans. It was painfully clear that, despite Desirée having found Doug in the bathroom with a Grade 9 during the prom, that Carol preferred Doug's company to hers, mainly because he had a car, plus fake ID and plenty of weed. Desirée sighed, rolling her violet eyes; yet another night of watching TV and looking through the want ads.

She peered in the shared bathroom, wincing as she did. Carol had apparently been so busy getting ready for the night's activities that she had left it a complete pigsty, with curlers, tissue and make-up strewn everywhere. Hell, she hadn't even bothered to flush the toilet. This was but one of many reasons why Carol was quickly moving down the scale from BFF to "When can I get this bitch out of my life?"

Holding her nose, Desirée reached out and pushed down the lever, sending the bowl's fragrant contents down the drain. She then picked up the cordless phone and checked her voice mail.

There was a new message. Hardly daring to hope, she pushed '1' to hear it.

"Greetings, Ms. Tanner." It was a smoky, female voice that sent the roots of Desirée's hair to tingling. She spoke perfect English but with an exotic accent that Desirée couldn't quite place. "We would like to schedule an interview for 1 pm tomorrow, if that is at all possible."

Desirée copied the phone number and address, and immediately dialed the number. Considering it was already 5:45, she wasn't surprised when she got a voice message. She left her name and number so that they'd know she was interested and, when she had hung up, she padded over to the fridge to see what she could make for dinner.

"Aw shit." Carol had forgotten her promise to buy groceries again.

* * *

The next day found Desirée staring up at a featureless gray building in a lower-rent district. This time, she had gone with a blue blazer with her knee-length black skirt, wanting to make a good impression with her (hopefully) future employer.

The office building did not look good; the last time she had gone to an interview in a locale like this, it had been for a door-to-door pyramid scheme. Desirée was desperate for work, but not that desperate. It didn't help that there was no company logo anywhere on this gray concrete block. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She pressed the button for the com-link.

"Hello?" she said after a few seconds. "Is anybody there?"

"Greetings, male, female, or neuter," what sounded like a synthesized voice responded. "Please state your business."

"Um, my name is Desirée, Desirée Tanner," she said, nonplussed by the strange response. "I'm here for the job interview?"

There were several clicks, then a female voice spoke. It was the same woman who had left the message on her voice mail last night. "I do apologize, Ms. Tanner. Yes, please come in, we're expecting you." The door buzzed open.

Inside, the building was decently decorated and well maintained, belying the sketchy outside appearance. The carpet was new and soft muzak played in the background from hidden speakers.

A side door opened. Desirée tried not to let her jaw drop. Although the woman walking out to greet her was slightly above five feet tall, she carried herself with complete confidence, and no little sexuality. Desirée considered herself graceful, but this woman made her feel like an overgrown gawk.

She looked to be in her mid-thirties, but her dark eyes had the look of someone who had lived a lot, and enjoyed almost all of it. She wore a gray, conservatively cut business suit, and her curly brown hair was in a modest bun. "Greetings, Ms. Tanner," she said, putting out her hand, and peering at Desirée over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. "My name is Veronica Franco."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Franco," Desirée replied, resisting the urge to clear her throat. Just taking her hand gave the slender teen an immediate rush of blood to her face.

"Please." The half-smile on the older woman's face said she knew exactly the effect she was having on the teen, and enjoyed it. "Call me Veronica."

"All right then." Desirée hoped that the older woman hadn't noticed that her palms were sweating. "A pleasure to meet you, Veronica."

As Veronica withdrew her fingers, Desirée felt a sharp pain in her hand. "Ow!" she cried, before she could help herself.

"Oh, I do apologize!" Veronica said. "I must have a hangnail. Are you all right?"

"It's all right," the teen said automatically. There was the tiniest bead of blood on the ball of her thumb, easily brushed away.

"I am so sorry about that," Veronica said again. "Are you certain nothing is wrong?" She took Desirée's hand, examining it closely.

"I-it's nothing," Desirée stammered. The sensation of Veronica's hand cupping hers was making her feel hot. "Really."

"All right then." Veronica closed the door to her office. "If you don't mind, I'd like to conduct our interview in another room. If you'll follow me?"

"Sure." Desirée tried not to look at Veronica's rounded ass as she followed the older woman down the hall. A part of her was shocked; she had never been attracted to women before.

"In here, if you please." Veronica opened another door, in the middle of the building. This room was bare, except for a desk and two chairs.

"Please, sit." She waved to the closer of the two chairs, circling around the desk. Her red-lacquered nails trailed across the desktop. Desirée sat down in the hard-backed white chair, placing her bag across her lap.

"So . . . ummm," She wasn't sure how to begin. "How did you get my resume?"

"We received it through the temp agency you contacted." Veronica sat behind the desk, steepling her fingers. "Is that a problem?"

"N-no." The room seemed strangely warm, or maybe it was just nerves. "What . . . do you do . . . exactly?"

The older woman smiled. "We're actually a recruiting firm. We look for young people, much like yourself, who can teach English as a second language in Japan and Korea. Your resume said that you had tutored several people in English while in high school. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Desirée said. "And I know a little Japanese, as well as French and German. I've always been good at languages."

"That's great," Veronica smiled, showing even, white teeth. "As for ourselves, we've been in business for over 20 years now and we work with only the best schools in Asia. You can find all the information you need to know about us through the Net or through the Better Business Bureau. An attractive young lady such as yourself can't be too careful, you know."

"Of course," Desirée nodded, crossing her legs. "So--"

Something buzzed. Veronica grimaced, pulling her Blackberry from her pocket. "Can you hold that thought?" She stood up. "I really should take this call."

"Certainly." But Veronica was already out the door.

Desirée sat alone in the interview room, wishing she had brought a book. The minutes ticked by. Her left leg started jiggling from sheer nerves, and the room seemed to be getting warmer. Or maybe it was just her. She felt restless; she started chewing on a fingernail, made herself stop.

She brushed her hair back from her neck, shivered despite herself. It was like the nerve endings in her skin were raw and open, craving sensation. She brushed her fingers along her skin again and again, enjoying the touch, even if it was her own hands on her body. She stopped when she noticed she was breathing heavily. She sat on her hands. Her left leg started jiggling again.

A burst of nervous energy vaulted her to her feet. She prowled about the room, trying to find something of interest. It was completely clean and white, not even an interesting stain on the walls or ceiling. She opened the desk drawers, after listening at the door. The drawers were empty. She slammed them shut, leaning against the desk, her hips pressing against the lip.

She felt sweat beading her upper lip and forehead. She quickly brushed it away; now was not the time for her nerves to be getting the better of her! She quickly returned to her chair and sat down. She was feeling heat pooling in her hips, the thickening of her labial folds, a hunger in her pussy, crying out to be filled.

"Get a grip!" she told herself firmly. It was reaction to the tension, nothing more. There was no earthly reason why she should suddenly find herself getting aroused. But she could feel the inevitable signs: she was beginning to pant, her fingers were shaking, and her breasts felt swollen, constricted by her bra.

She quickly crossed her legs again, her hands clasping the side of the chair to hold herself still. Her pussy was lubricating furiously, drooling into her panties. She could smell the thick scent of her arousal, feeling the yearning emptiness in her pussy, her skin craving a lover's touch.

"This can't be happening," she moaned. Her mind pulsed with lurid images. Although Desirée considered herself to have a healthy interest in sex, her prior experiences with Doug had been somewhat . . . lacking. But that had no effect on the fantasies rolling through her brain: she could imagine eager, knowledgeable fingers pinching and caressing her quivering body, stroking her in those places she craved.

She squeezed her thighs together, trying to trap the flowing moisture inside her pussy. It was no use: she could feel it leaking out. Even worse, her clit and pussy lips were being pressed between the hard muscles of her thighs, making her shudder and shake.

"Okay, just one," she gasped. "One little one." She started flexing her inner thigh muscles, sending waves of pleasure through her hips. She gripped the side of the chair, her knuckles white from the strain. Her eyelids fluttered closed, sweat pooled under her collar and between her breasts. She bit her lip, trying to be quiet.

Her body tensed, reaching its climax. She let out a long rush of breath, her orgasm rippling through every inch of her. But it wasn't enough; the feeling returned along with another rush of fluid from her vagina. Desperate, trying to control the hard need possessing her, she reached into her purse and pulled out the packet of Kleenex. She quickly slid off her sopping panties, using the tissues to wipe both herself, and the underwear, clean.

Her hips involuntarily bucking, she wrapped her panties around a wad of tissue, trying to at least get them dry. The closed-in room reeked of her arousal; she wiped at herself, desperately trying to get her lubricating pussy under control.

Her finger brushed her clit. She groaned with the sensation. What was wrong with her? She tried wiping herself with the now-soaked tissue, but her fingertips kept finding that little nub, touching it, rubbing it.

Desirée was no longer pretending to wipe down her dripping pussy. Her second, third, fourth and fifth orgasms followed in quick succession, each one more intense than the last. She was no longer trying to keep her voice down; her cries echoed off the walls. Her sandy blonde hair was sweat-soaked, stuck to her face and neck. She could no longer control herself; her hips bucked against her fingers as they plunged deep inside her, rubbing her slick inner walls, bringing her back onto that steep roller-coaster climb. Images of pleasure pounded her mind, in time to the rush of her blood. Her mouth was permanently open, gasping for air.

Her sixth orgasm slammed through her, just about knocking her off her chair. But it wasn't enough; her body wanted more. Her clit felt super-sensitive, the slightest touch sending shock waves through her system. She knew she was going to regret it --she was already incredibly sore -- but the need remained. Once again, her body went into that slow climb, traversing the terraces of desire, her fingers sliding in and out of her abused pussy, her thumb brushing her clit in time with each thrust. Her hips kept up that reflex motion, driving her fingers ever deeper inside of her. She bit her lower lip hard, trying not to scream, wondering if she was going to taste blood. She pleasured herself frantically, each wave of pleasure ratcheting the tension ever higher, wondering if she was going to pass out before she reached her goal.

Finally, her muscles tensed for that final climb, she sobbed with relief as her own body overloaded on pleasure, slipping into inevitability. She slumped forward, waves of ecstasy flowing through her, her head resting on the desk. Finally, the hard need slid away; her tense muscles relaxed, the endorphins rushing through every nerve.

* **

Desirée woke, her head still lying on the desk. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She looked at her watch: over three-quarters of an hour had passed.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit." She grabbed her things, trying to put herself back together. The room stank with her scent, her hair was a wreck and her clothes felt like they were glued to her body. Dried sweat caked her face.

The doorknob turned. Desirée scrambled back into her chair, ignoring the wet skirt under her ass. She grabbed the wad of tissue and panties and shoved them into her purse, hoping whoever was behind the door wouldn't notice anything amiss.

"Oh, I am so sorry." Veronica Franco walked into the room. "I had to deal with unexpected difficulties and forgot that you were still here."

"That's no problem." Desirée tried to smile. Thankfully, the woman seemed oblivious to her bedraggled condition and the smell of sex in the air. "Is everything all right?"

She grimaced. "Unfortunately not. Would you mind if we rescheduled this interview for tomorrow? I'm so sorry, but I still need to put out some brushfires."

"Sure." Desirée stood up. Her long legs barely supported her weight. "What time?"

"Same time, same place?" Veronica smiled. "Here's my card, just in case. The website for our company is also on there. Don't hesitate to check us out online, and to check us out with the Labour Board, the Better Business Bureau and the university. We are accredited with all three organizations."

"Thank you. I will." The teen placed the buff-coloured card in her purse, hoping she wasn't breathing too hard. "Um . . . could I use your washroom before I go?"

"Why certainly. Right this way."

* * *

Veronica Franco narrowed her eyes as she watched the young girl close the front door behind her and carefully walk down the front steps. Even from a distance, Desirée looked bedraggled and shell-shocked, a far cry from the poised young woman who had walked into the office building earlier. Even this far away from the interview room, Veronica could still smell the musky scent of the teen's arousal. She smiled. Desirée: an appropriate name for a very desirable young lady.

Veronica pressed a button on the side of her Blackberry. "We have a potential candidate," she spoke into the device. "She passed the first interview with flying colours. Be ready for a possible pickup."

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