New Corporate Courtesan Ch. 04

The story so far: Diane Fortier had long been socially and sexually liberal. After hesitating a few days, she accepted the offered promotion to Manager of Client Services. "Company Whore" would have been a clearer name for the newly created position, but how would that look on Tolland Health and Beauty Products' organizational chart? Five months later, Diane still enjoys her work, but she has discovered that the life of the company whore is not all peaches and cream. (You might enjoy reading chapters 1-3.)

Reader advisory: This chapter contains a small amount of watersports, a bit of lesbian sex, some anal, and a large helping of group sex. And, for Diane, pretty much all the sex ranges from "nonconsent" to "reluctance."

Technical term: Dewar vessels (or Dewars) are essentially very large Thermos bottles used in industry. Some liquified gases including helium and nitrogen are shipped and stored in these insulating containers.

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New Corporate Courtesan

Chapter 04

Getting out of the building had been refreshing, even for only 45 minutes. The brisk walk back from the sandwich shop had gotten Diane's blood flowing again and had pumped a few much-needed endorphins into her system. Not enough to last the afternoon, she knew, but every bit helps.

She reached her own office at one on the dot. An LED on her desk phone was blinking: a message. It was Cheryl, summoning her to a conference with Mobley at two. Diane finished up a handful of tasks then fetched some water for her plants. The newest orchid plant--sent to her by Krantz, of Erato, after her first major assignment--looked especially thirsty. Then she headed to the eighth floor.

In the vice president's outer office, Cheryl greeted her with a warm, "Good to see you again, Diane," and waved her into Mobley's private office. The room triggered pleasant memories of her training a few months back. The stretch of carpet in front of Mobley's desk, where she had mastered deep throat. The leather divan where, eight or ten times during her training, she and Mobley had had very nice sex together, for no reason other than they both wanted to. The door to the private conference room, where she had fucked both Mobley and, weeks later, Krantz.

Mobley had ended their sexual relationship when her training was finished. That was prudent, she figured: after all, he was her boss. Still, they had had some lovely times together.

The Vice President for Operations and the Manager of Client Services sat in leather chairs, sipped coffee, briefly pictured the other naked, and then got down to work.

"'Helium Shortage 4.0' they're calling it," Mobley began. "The gas is plentiful enough, but only about 14 facilities in the world can extract and compress it. They extract it from natural gas. So everything that could possibly fuck up the natural gas market has just happened. The pandemic. Ships unable to dock and unload for months. Then Russia decides to invade Ukraine, and everybody embargoes Russian gas products. So now there's a big natural gas shortage throughout Europe, and some of the 14 plants decide they need to process more gas right now, and never mind helium. The Algerian plant, for instance. Then Algeria goes down for unscheduled maintenance, quote-unquote. At least one of the three helium plants in Qatar is down for scheduled maintenance. The planned big new Gazprom helium plant in Siberia is even farther behind schedule than anyone thought possible. Though that probably isn't all Gazprom's fault this time, what with the war and all the embargoes.

"Everybody needs helium, and there's no good substitute. Semiconductor manufacture absolutely needs the stuff. Medical and scientific labs absolutely need it--especially for MRI. We need the stuff for our own MRI--spectrometers and such--plus, as you know, some production processes. Rockets need it. Advanced particle research needs it. Fiber optics needs it. Without new helium, our MRI machines don't just shut down: they practically self-destruct. No distributor has enough of it to meet demand, and they're giving priority to their biggest customers. That's electronics and med-tech, not cosmetics. I'm looking up how to say 'clusterfuck' in seven different languages. Do you know how to pronounce Polish?"

Diane smiled. "Besides that, how can I help?"

"On Friday you can have lunch with me and a couple of business associates from Gazprom. If you too are boycotting Russia, I understand the lads have additional passports. You can have lunch with me and a couple business associates from Belarus or Moldova or possibly Austria. After lunch you might spend the afternoon with the fellows. Show them the sights, so to speak. Our North American operations need about two thousand litres of liquid helium a year, and the stuff doesn't keep. That's small potatoes--twenty 100-litre Dewar vessels--but, like everyone else, we need it most sincerely."

"Do you have some information on your friends for me?" Diane asked.

"I do indeed. I'll email it to you next time I'm at my desk. And lovable rogues they are. Valery Reznik and Andrei Pankov. They're not oligarchs, but they're certainly practicing for the role."

"Will I be doing any actual negotiating on the helium?" she asked.

"No. It would take you weeks to get even minimally up to speed on the complexities and nuances of that market--not to mention the nuances of dealing with Gazprom executives who may or may not be acting in their official capacities. I'm close to being in 'way over my head in this market myself. Fortunately, I have a friend at Goldman Sachs who is good at explaining things. Even the payment--if we get to make one--is going to be highly convoluted, what with the embargoes. On Friday, just be pretty and cordial, and make our two friends feel all warm and fuzzy about Tolland Health and Beauty Products. Which is not to deny your shrewd handling of the Erato deal last month."

"Thank you. Okay. 'Can do.'"

He smiled and then rose, signalling the meeting was ending. She stood too. "Thank you, Diane. Give me a call if you have any questions. I'll let you know the lunch details as soon as I can."

Diane could see that this assignment was a bit of a step backwards. Breaking the logjam on the Erato deal had required some creative thinking, good analysis of the business situation and human psychology, and some subtle rhetoric--in addition to the sex. This time, though, they were asking her only to be a toy for the boys to play with.

"Fine," she said.

Many of her training sessions in this room had ended with a goodbye kiss. The thought of giving Mobley one now entered her mind, but she decided against it. She gave him a smile instead then let herself out.

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Reznik and Pankov differed a good deal from the Russian crooked businessmen and oligarchs depicted in TV dramas. For a start, their business suits fit them well, their English was very good, and their manners were better than most Americans'. They looked to be mid-to-late-40s in age.

The two were used to fine dining. For lunch today they had requested instead a place more "idiomatic" in food and atmosphere. So the four found themselves at the Green Keg, just over the city line, in the southeast corner of West Hartford. The Russians took their rental car. They had some other business in the region they might or might not attend to immediately after lunch. The car's navigation system could get them the five miles to the restaurant easily enough. Mobley drove Diane in his own car. At the Green Keg, Diane sat between the Russians at a curved banquette. Mobley took the chair opposite.

The four spoke only a little of helium and world events. The Russians guardedly expressed their regret of their country's move into Ukraine--especially its disastrous effect on business. Obviously, no good could come of talking about the war and its casualties. Instead, the four discussed UConn Women's Basketball--which is the only ball team of note in the entire state. Then they discussed how different countries were dealing with the pandemic. Diane inquired about Russians to watch at the Summer Olympics and then the Winter, two years down the road. In-between bland observations, the four consumed a good quantity of fried shrimp, fried scallops, spicy curly fries, very decent coleslaw, and the Green Keg's remarkably good hamburgers.

"Don't forget to take an extra Lipitor tonight," Diane jokingly advised her guests.

Pankov smiled. "Perhaps you could remind us at the time," he said. Diane flinched. She knew Lipitor is taken at bedtime. She willed her lips to make a smile.

"Give me your number. I'll send you a text at 11."

After the table's second pitcher of beer, the Americans switched to soft drinks, their guests to bourbon on the rocks. At about that time, Diane felt the first hand exploring her thigh, under her dress. Her left thigh: Pankov. She glanced at him. He was looking elsewhere, his face quite innocent.

The hand was no surprise. She had read enough stories and seen enough movies to know what happens to a girl seated between two drinking businessmen at a banquette--at least in fiction. That is why she had removed her pantyhose before going to lunch. And conveniently--for Pankov and probably Reznik--today she was wearing her V-front "boys shorts" underpants, cut quite loose at the legs and crotch, instead of her usual tight panties. She opened her legs a little.

The hand confidently made its way up her thigh to her underwear. Diane bit into a scallop. Reznik and Mobley were now comparing this year's Red Sox and Yankees teams. Hartford was about halfway between Boston and New York, so citizens had to choose one team or the other. You weren't allowed to like both--or, for that matter, the Mets. The other two at the table were silent.

Diane decided that removing the hand from her thigh would not be a good move in this game. Trying not to sigh audibly, she set down her fork, leaned back a bit, and opened her legs more--giving Pankov better access to his goal.

Pankov smiled at Diane as his hand slipped through the loose crotch of her underpants. He gently explored the surface of her genitals, caressed her mound of Venus. His fingers combed her pubic hair. He looked Diane in the eye, smiled again, and said, softly, "I approve." She wasn't sure if he approved of her pubic hair or her underwear. She rather liked both. Pankov's fingers moved back to her vulva, pressing more firmly now.

Diane studied his dark features. He was easy enough on the eyes, she thought. Better looking than many Russian men. But at this moment she was not in the mood for sex of any kind. What her body most wanted was to sit quietly, sip a little water, and start digesting the many grams of carbohydrate, fat, and cholesterol she had just put into her stomach.

Bad timing aside, Diane realized that Pankov was fingering her with admirable skill. His middle finger, pointing downwards, was sliding up and down along the cleft of her labia, constantly rubbing the hood of her clitoris. At the end of the finger's downward stroke the tip would just reach and gently prod the upper part of her vaginal opening. Then back up again. All the while, the two fingers flanking the middle were caressing her outer labia. That combined approach was actually working quite well. For a few seconds Diane closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and focused on the sensations. She couldn't help wondering what the man could accomplish using both hands. Probably she'd know in an hour or two. Her moisture began to develop. Pankov smiled again.

All in a day's work, she decided. She was Manager of Client Services now. There's the client. This is part of the basic service... like putting on new wiper blades with an oil change. That's why God gave women pussies, right? To make sure cosmetics companies get the helium they need to make $65 lipstick and other necessities. In case you were wondering.

She realized her sarcasm was interfering with the sensuous pleasure of Pankov's touch, so she knocked off the sarcasm--just in time to feel another hand on her other thigh. Reznik. His hand felt rougher than Pankov's but not unpleasant. It inched upwards. Diane realized she was becoming more aroused and wetter.

What to do about Reznik? Just sit here and hope he and Pankov don't get into a fight when their hands meet at her vagina? Maybe I should take his hand off my leg--play hard-to-get a little? He might even enjoy that. Increase his sense of conquest when he does succeed. What do I want? I think I want an orgasm. Reasonably soon. From Pankov. From his mouth, actually, not his fingers. How the hell is that going to work?

Reznik's left hand moved high up her right thigh. It stopped short of her crotch and squeezed. He knew his colleague held the high ground. Diane had no idea what to do so, being a woman, she did nothing. (A man would have done something at random, on the dubious theory that action is always better than inaction.)

By now Pankov was concentrating on her clitoris. Diane, breathing heavily, put her left hand on Pankov's thigh and squeezed. Reznik, on her right, was now stroking her right thigh.

She briefly studied Reznik's sandy hair and solid, Slavic face. Like his hands, his face looked a little rougher than Pankov's. That's not necessarily bad, she thought. It's like Krantz versus Mobley. Sex with each of them had been very nice indeed. This moment was feeling very nice indeed.

Diane realized it had been years since she had last attempted to have a silent orgasm. Well, she had about 20 seconds to learn a new skill. The restaurant was full of people. She clutched Pankov's thigh tighter, then grasped Reznik's with her free right hand. Tension rose rapidly in her thighs and lower abdomen, front and back. She could feel her nipples distending. She wrapped her lips around her teeth and clenched her jaw. Oh, God, she thought, this is going to be a...

The orgasm caught her before she got to "good-sized one." Her shoulders jerked forwards. Her vocal cords stayed silent, thank goodness, but an audible snort escaped her nostrils. She felt suddenly punctured, like a balloon, felt dizzy. Then, also suddenly, that beautiful post-orgasmic peace descended: her major muscles all at rest, endorphins flooding her system, light-headed, her breaths slow and deep, her mind at ease--apart from the embarrassment of making a small spectacle of herself. Which bothered her less at the moment than it would have normally.

Diane touched a napkin to her mouth and nose. "Excuse me," she said, as though she had unexpectedly sneezed. Mobley managed to keep a poker face. The Russians smiled.

"Would you excuse me for a moment, please?" asked Diane. Perhaps not thinking quite as clearly as usual, she added, "I need to pee."

Reznik stepped out of the banquette, allowing Diane to pass. He returned, and the Gazprom boys spoke quietly for a minute, in Russian. Then Pankov leaned forward and spoke quietly to Mobley, in English.

"Probably," Mobley replied. "I'll check." He rose and headed for the rest rooms. He intercepted Diane on her exit.

"Andrei and Valery are quite taken with you, Diane. They'd like to spend more of the afternoon with you, back at their hotel suite. Possibly the evening as well. They were vague about when you'd be free again. I'm meeting with them again tomorrow morning, so presumably you'll be free by then. How do you feel about any or all of the above?"

Diane took a deep breath. "It's fine," she said. "Part of my job. Smart fellows, those two. It didn't take them long to figure out what a Manager of Client Services is all about."

Mobley took her hand. "They have no idea how valuable you are to us, Diane, or of everything you contribute. But thank you for doing this. Call my cell phone if there's any problem or if there's anything you need. Let's go back to the table together, and I'll take my leave."

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The Trumbull Hotel was one of the few fine 19th century buildings still standing downtown, a relic of Hartford's days of wealth and importance. The hotel had been well maintained, but there is a limit to what can be done with a 140-year-old building. The sash windows were far from airtight, the elevators were beautiful but slow, water pressure was on the low side, and the rooms were a bit smaller than the Marriott's. Diane, entering the building for the first time, loved its slightly tarnished Victorian elegance.

The Russians' suite was spacious. The hallway door led to a comfortable sitting room. A mini-bar and kitchenette had been added to one end--a mid-20th-century "improvement," Diane guessed, from the Formica countertops. Beyond the sitting room were two connecting bedrooms and the main bathroom.

The three sat on the sofa, chatting amiably, sipping some odd Romanian red wine, kissing and fondling a little. The men wanted Diane to use their first names, so she worked on getting them straight.

Pankov had gotten to her pussy at the restaurant, so now it was Reznik's turn to grope and fondle it. Pankov concentrated on her breasts, and the men took turns kissing her lips. Her body responded predictably to the stimulation.

Then Reznik quite skilfully removed Diane's dress and bra. He stood before her, lowered his trousers and underwear, and said. "Please suck me now, Diane."

Diane thought his penis remarkable. It was only slightly tumescent but already about five inches long--and thicker than she was used to, too. Diane had never felt that a bigger penis is a better one, but this one was certainly interesting. It grew inside her mouth. Apart from its very large size it responded like any other penis she had known. Diane did not attempt deep throat, but all of her other oral skills worked just fine.

Diane was just about to say, "Let's put on a condom" when Reznik announced, "I will come now" and did. Diane let him stay in her mouth. Reznik made a loud gasp and then, hips bucking, produced four or five substantial squirts. Diane fought her instinct to swallow. When he was done she gently sucked on him for another 20 or 30 seconds. Then she pulled back, retrieved her nearly empty wine glass, and, as daintily as she could manage, transferred the semen from her mouth to the glass.

Diane estimated that his cock had reached seven or eight inches. Not John C. Holmes territory but the longest she had ever had. Girth was harder to tell, but he was above average in that too. She realized her jaw muscles were sore from the extra stretching.

He plopped onto the sofa next to her. "Thank you, Diane," he said. "That was nicely done."

"My pleasure, Valery."

He smiled and stroked her hair. "I hope to bring you still more pleasure before the afternoon is over.... American girls are always asking. 19 centimeters--about seven and a half inches--if Natalya measured properly."

"And Russian girls aren't always asking?"

"They just give me a pitying look and tell me not to worry about being on the low side of normal. Size isn't everything, they say."

Diane smiled. "This is recycled Communist propaganda from about 1967, right?"

Reznik smiled back. "Of course."

"Let us retire," Pankov proposed. The three stood. Pankov deftly pulled down Diane's panties.

"I'd like to use your bathroom," Diane said. Remembering the men were Europeans, she clarified, "The toilet."

"Do you need to pee only?" inquired Reznik.

"Yes."

"We will watch."

Diane flinched. Another new experience today. But her bladder was full enough to prevent a quarrel.

"Fine," she said.

The floor's small, hexagonal tiles were cold on her bare feet. Diane raised the lid, sat back on the seat as far as she could, grabbed a handful of toilet paper, and spread her legs wide. Now everyone had a good view of the show.