A Business Arrangement Ch. 3byIsabella Thorne©
Chapter 3: The Marketing Submission
I must have read and reread that $16 million marketing contract with Richards International a dozen times during the last hour, pacing back and forth in my office like a prosecutor before a grand jury.
"Now that I think of it, I didn't even review a marketing plan with him, for fuck's sake! You've made a total fool out of yourself this time, Isabella."
Those things he made me do – was he, in fact, testing me? Did I have to pass some sort of "trial run" ritual before he bestowed his prestigious marketing account on the lap of our firm?
It is hard for me to believe that I first met him only one week ago.
When Jerry Richards slowly looked me up and down that spring day, I felt almost excruciating embarrassment. Yet I did not try to stop him in any way from trying to envision my body. In fact, I liked it.
He caught me off guard. As I look back on it now, I realize that he probably counted on doing just that. In fact he probably relished in it.
I am certain that I had acted like nothing more than a common tramp with Jerry, but, in my defense, you must understand just how sex-starved I was.
Well now that I've let you in on a bit of my kinky exploits, I guess I owe it to you to give you some background on how this interesting moment in my basically dull and predictable life came about.
Even though I am in my early forties, my giddish-teenage-girl side comes out when I get wound up – maybe it's because I've repressed her for so long.
I should let you know a little bit about myself. I have to confess that when I said early forties, I might have embellished that part a wee bit. I am actually 48 years of age – turning 49 this year. Most people will tell you, though, I don't look anywhere near my age.
I have a grown son who is 26. He and I don't see much of each other since he lives all the way on the other side of the country. His father was strong and evil and controlling enough to shut me out of Zachary's life completely since I left the "matrimonial home" just over 10 years ago.
"Matrimonial home"? I mean I never even heard that expression before the separation proceedings started – now that phrase is in my thoughts nearly every day since the divorce.
I've worked hard building a career and have advanced myself to Senior International Accounts Manager with M. Monroe Marketing – not bad for starting out as a Kelly Temp Girl and then a full time administrative assistant. I even took night classes at college for four years while maintaining a full-time position. Hey, maybe I'm bragging a bit, but I've worked hard to get my life back to the standard of living I had before I left my marriage.
I took my fair share of shots and capitalized on my opportunities. Some of those opportunities may have been a bit on the shady side, but I always thought that was just part of the business.
Here I sit today, on top of the crème de la crème of international high tech accounts.
As a woman of responsibility, integrity, character, and a certain degree of Victorian morality and principles, most men have shied away from me, especially when it came to romance. But sometimes I have to laugh at that notion people have of me.
Victorian morality – moi? If my co-workers and friends only knew the real inner me – my secret dirty, naughty, almost uncivilized thoughts and fantasies – any notion of highbrow proprietary would quickly be thrown out with yesterday's Jacuzzi water.
But the outer Isabella – the view most people have of me – that is probably the reason why I've not had sex in three years, 5 months, 2 weeks and 3 days. Yes, I have been keeping a daily mental note and, yes, this is my all-time record – a record I vow to break each morning as I wake up.
My love life is virtually – no, let me rephrase that – absolutely – nonexistent!
Nonexistent except for the intimate relations I have with my 10-inch true-to-life replica of Ron Jeremy's privates. That thing set me back almost $100 for the deluxe model but, as the sales clerk whispered with a sly wink when I bought it, "worth every damn penny, sweetie."
It's not that I don't want sex. I guess it's just that I am afraid of being hurt again and anyone who does attract me, I push away. I always managed to mentally justify my lack of sex as a trade-off for my business success.
But all that changed one beautiful sunny Friday afternoon in April. It was my last call of the day at 5:00. Some friends begged me to cancel and hit "happy hour" with them at nearby patio bar.
Normally I would have acquiesced in a second; however my voices told me, "Not this time! You have been trying to get this appointment for nearly three months. No way baby! Cocktails will have to wait!"
Always being one to follow my inner voices, I heeded their instructions and politely declined the invitation of my friends, begging off with a rain check for a later date.
I left my office, hopped into my cherry red Mustang convertible, and decided to fly with my top down. Alanis Morissette was blaring from my CD player as I hit the highway at about 85.
"And all I really want is some patience … a way to calm the angry voice … and all I really want is deliverance" …
"What I wouldn't give to find a soul mate …. someone else to catch this drift ….and what I wouldn't give to meet a kindred … Enough about me, let's talk about you for a minute … Enough about you, let's talk about life for a while … "
After a short while, I could see my destination glimmering in the distance like a tall diamond scraping the virgin blue sky with its prominent architectural points – The Pinnacle Building.
Virtually all of the software for the entire national government is manufactured right here and many prestigious worldwide companies also utilize the Richards International magic.
This multi-billion dollar international conglomerate was founded and run by one man – or should I say boy. He is a 25 year-youngster. This whiz kid's reputation as a predator in the business world is impressive and his reputation as a technical genius is indeed legendary. Surely some sort of pact with the devil attributed to and created to explain his unusual success at such a tender age!
"Hey what the fuck – I don't care! If I score this deal, then maybe I can relax the reins a little and start living the high life for a change."
"Jesus Christ, this building is one massive structure – and all glass – now that's impressive." I entered the massive atrium.
Parrots and other exotic birds flew freely throughout the massive open space. Pelicans walked the floors like busy pedestrians in a metropolis while exotic fish swam in the myriad of ponds that decorated the interior landscape. Beautiful flowers and trees adorned the atrium giving the illusion of a tropical paradise.
The rays of the late afternoon sun penetrated the area like nightspots in an airport. No reception desk was in sight and I was looking for some direction, when all of a sudden a security guard – a massive mountain of a man – gently touched my arm and said, "May I help you, miss?"
Politely I handed him my card and explained that, "I was here to see Jerr ... I … I mean Mr. Richards."
"Just one moment please ... " He disappeared and then, within a few moments, mysteriously reappeared. "Right this way ma'am."
"Thank you," I replied and followed him to a glass elevator that took us up 60 stories. Now, I've been in high-speed elevators and hi-rises before, but never have I been able to see the outside while engaged in my ascension.
Within moments that which appeared so large and lifelike on the ground, now seemed so small and then – oh no – POP – my ears.
"God, I hate that!"
The guard stood firmly, never making eye contact. Suddenly the elevator slowed to a stop and he took out a key, placed it into a keyhole and turned it, to ascend us one more floor.
The elevator ride finally came to an end and the doors opened.
Even more impressive than the atrium was the reception area of what I anticipated as being one of the most extraordinary offices that I have ever entered.
Lo and behold, there was the reception desk, with not one, but three women with headsets. As phones rang constantly in the background these gorgeous women were, oddly enough, all speaking different languages at the same time.
Behind them clocks from virtually every time zone on the planet ticked their moments away in unison – tick tick tick.
I asked the guard, "Is Mr. Richards' office on this floor?"
For the first time, the guard's stone face broke into a smile and he replied "Ma'am this whole floor IS Mr. Richards' office."
"Oh," I said timidly.
"Now you've made yourself look way too blonde, silly girl," I thought to myself.
"All of these beautiful, bright, sophisticated women scurrying like ants from one end of his super-sized office to the other – with only one extremely maniacal and focused purpose – to serve the vision of the international whiz kid – the inaccessible arrogant genius, who today was granting me an audience and an opportunity to get a piece of his extensive and lucrative marketing budget."
My hair was a bit mussed and I primped it up just a bit – making sure it didn't look too "pouffy". My silky nude hose beautifully accented my Gucci patent leather pumps and I knew my new dark blue Donna Karen suit was hot-looking – short tight skirt, long tailored jacket and sheer cream silk blouse with the top three buttons undone. I wore an ivory demi lace wonderbra to accentuate my plunging cleavage, but to avoid unsightly panty lines, I decided to go shamelessly al fresco under my pantyhose. My lucky gold cross adorned my neck. A spritz of my favourite perfume – Calvin Klein's Obsession – the musky scent tantalizing and barely noticeable – was just subtle enough to seduce.
"Who was I kidding?" I thought. "This kid could have any woman he desires. Me trying to be sexy for him? I've got to be nuts! No, I will impress him with my forcefulness and knowledge and maybe just a smidgen of charm."
"I don't care how rich and powerful he is. He is younger than my own son, for Christ's sake!"
"Yeah right – who am I kidding? I am one nervous wreck. Oh well, as Charlie Sheen said in the movie 'Wall Street', 'All of life comes down to a few moments – and this – this is definitely one of them!' "
I clutched my black leather briefcase firmly under my arm and tried to reassure myself that the marketing plan I would soon pitch to Mr. Richards was going to impress him so much that he would end up begging our firm to represent his interests.
The guard looked at me, questioning me with his eyes. "Are you ready?" they seemed to say, and he graciously opened the door to Mr. Richards' office.
There he stood.
"Gasp!" my voices screamed inside me as my heart skipped a million beats.
He extended his hand, "Ms. Thorne, or if I may, I'd love to call you Eesabella - possibly the most gorgeous name a woman could have!"
I must have turned ten shades of crimson then but he was gracious enough to pretend not to notice. No one had ever pronounced my name like that before. I liked it. I liked it a lot.
Of French Canadian origin, Jerry Richards had changed his name from the original francophone version of "Gérald Richard" (the last name is pronounced "Reeshar" like the famous Canadian hockey legend Maurice "Rocket" Richard) years ago, in an effort to better "anglicize" his image for the international marketplace. In spite of his noble intentions and flawless English, however, his telltale, and somewhat sexy, Quebecois accent still trickles through.
Firmly, I shook his hand saying, "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Richards – and yes, by all means you may call me Isabella."
"Only if you call me Jerry!" Not taking his eyes off of me for an instant, he addressed the guard, "Nathan, that will be all." Without a sound Nathan bowed, turned and left the room.
"My goodness, what a lovely smile you have, Eesabella!" Jerry motioned to a couch. "Please have a seat. May I get you anything – coffee or something cold perhaps?"
"Evian water would be nice," I replied, and in as poised a manner as I could muster, I walked as encouraged to the couch.
"Oh God, please don't let the tops of my pantyhose show," I thought nervously as I tugged at the bottom of what now seemed my way-too-short skirt and tried to sit as lady-like as I could, sinking back bit by bit into the soft leather couch.
Suddenly I felt so out of place. "What was I thinking when I bought a skirt this tight and short?" I thought. "I can barely pour myself into it. I am nearly 50 years old for Christ's sake!"
It was at that moment that I noticed. I thought I was mistaken at first. No, it couldn't be – or could it? Was he staring at my legs?
Shyly I looked away. "Oh I am blushing again – he is going to think I am acting like a high school girl", and with that thought a small giggle escaped my lips.
He turned around and headed to the wet bar across the room. Had he noticed the giggle? Now I was getting nervous. I couldn't blow this deal.
I tried to relax as I surveyed the office. It was sparsely but tastefully decorated. A Leonard Cohen lithograph adorned the wall next to me and the nude woman from the picture was so erotic I began to feel turned on.
"OK, girl, now you are losing it – where is there left for you to look?" Everything in the room seemed to represent sex – from the phallic-shaped telephone to the erotic artwork scattered sporadically throughout the room.
I opened my briefcase and took out several stacks of papers – three different and unique marketing proposals. One of them was sure to please him! I began fidgeting with the documents and laid them out in three neat piles on the coffee table in front of me.
Finally he returned with a couple of drinks. One look at the drinks and I could tell he wasn't serving Evian water.
"I just thought we could relax a little over our business meeting, n'est-ce pas?" Jerry said with a mischievous grin – a little boy's grin, like that of a naughty child who knows he is about to get away with something forbidden. It is always the grins that get me.
"What's in the drinks?"
"Just a little Richards Special", he snickered. "Try it, cherie – you'll like it – most women do."
Damn he was sure of himself.
But I could see why. At well over 6 feet tall, his young lanky physique was firm and slightly muscular. His straight light brown hair hung loosely over his ears and he had a habit of brushing back loose strands that fell into his eyes from time to time.
And thank goodness he would brush back those strands or else they would block my view of those delicious gray-blue eyes of his – eyes that pierced through my physical being to reach something forbidden inside.
He wore a navy Armani pinstripe suit with the casual ease of a man dressed in blue jeans. The two gold stud earrings in his left ear gave him just enough of a bad-boy edge to stir my interest even more.
I reached for my drink and the pungent aroma of expensive, well-aged scotch drifted into my senses.
A few Richards Specials later and my clever business banter soon gave way to nervous giggling. I found myself succumbing to Jerry's insistent sensuous whispers – whispers about my body.
Jerry told me how much he admired my breasts and how much he wanted to play with them. He asked me if I liked making his cock hard. He told me I dressed like a slut and that he knew how to take care of sluts like me.
Believe me when I tell you that, at that moment in time, my whole body craved so badly for the touch of that wunder kindt, I would have gladly committed murder if it meant feeling his hands on me.
It was then he revealed his wicked secret to me. He told me how he always searched out older women who were sexually adventurous – women like me. He told me that only an older woman could quench the heat of his desires because only a woman who is sure and confident of her body could allow him the luxury to indulge in the things he craves.
I listened with awe. How much did he really know about me – had he done some kind of "research"? It couldn't be that difficult for someone in his position to do.
"Eesabella", he commanded out of nowhere, "remove your clothes for me now."
"I can't … I … I can't do that … we are in your office for Christ sake." But even as I spoke those words, I knew I would do it.
I stripped for him under the harsh glaring fluorescent lights.
"Wait slut – leave your pantyhose and shoes on."
I stood naked in front on him, dressed only in my sheer silk Christian Dior pantyhose and shiny black pumps, as he took me into his arms and kissed me hard.
"Jesus, Eesabella, you look so damn fuckable," murmured Jerry. "That hot little body of yours is driving me insane …. Mmmm what luscious tits, and nice full protruding nipples …. mmmmm yes …. so very fuckable."
His hands were everywhere instantly. He felt every inch of me within minutes and then he spread my legs apart with a swipe, expertly shifting me into a standing spread-eagled position.
Jerry grabbed one of the pencils from his desk and, using the sharp lead point as a dagger, he tore into the thin veil of material protecting my crotch.
In one smooth swoop, he tossed the pencil aside and plunged a finger through the freshly-made rip into my wet dripping cunt hole.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaa" … I screamed out in pleasure. His long strong finger fucked me harder.
"Get on my desk on all fours."
"Oh please, Jerry, I can't do that. P-p-please don't ask me to do that".
"Eesabella you can and you will. Do you understand me?"
I cleared some space on his enormous cluttered desk and timidly climbed on top.
"You must remember, my dear slut, to keep your legs open at all times."
He forced my legs wide open and then savagely ripped my pantyhose apart with both hands, exposing my bald pussy and protruding ass to the harsh lights and his penetrating ogling.
"That's it Eesabella, cherie – look at how wet you've become – now that is a true sign of a whore."
"Y-y-y-y-es, Sir", I managed to stutter. My embarrassment was quickly giving way to lust.
"Oh, I see my new little slut knows how to show obedience. Do you like exposing your body in this fashion?"
"Ohhhhh yes, Jerry – I m-mean Sir, I do like exposing myself for you".
"Only for me, slut?" and he walked to his office door. Trickles of my wetness began slithering down my inner thighs.
"Miss Tess, Miss Jane, and Miss Penny, would you please come into my office, tout de suite!" Jerry barked out impatiently to the women at the reception desk.
All three were grinning like Cheshire cats as they scurried into his office, walked over to the desk and surrounded me within seconds.
"Oh my God, they've done this before", I suddenly realized.
Miss Penny spoke first, "Jerry, this is indeed a prized older tramp – just look at how sensual and curvaceous her body is – and such a soft pretty face. You told me she was nearly 50 – why that is older than my own mother for fuck's sake! But this one could pass for her mid 30's. Believe me, my mother doesn't look anything like this!"
Normally such a statement would have me elated but at this point I was so fucking embarrassed I couldn't even look up. I stared down at the desk – trying desperately to count the number of notches engrained in the mahogany desktop.
I guessed Miss Penny to be in her early 20's – how inappropriate for her to be talking about me in this manner. What a sweet piece of eye candy she was, though!
Dark roots brazenly capped her glossy blonde hair, which fell to the tops of her full breasts – luscious plump breasts that were prominently displayed in a tight raspberry sweater. A short plaid skirt draped her trim hips and allowed a generous view of her long shapely legs. As I looked her over, I noticed with slight surprise, that a small reptilian tattoo peaked through her sheer dark stockings, shamelessly gracing her lower right calf.