Tales from the Show Floor 02

So my last tale was one from the start of my career, so for this one I wanted to talk about a more recent occurrence. This will also be a much shorter story. But to be fair, none of my tales will ever be particularly long, since they happen over the course of 8 hours at most, and well, in the case of this story, it was not even 6 minutes of actual time. But enough preamble.

In the summer of 2016 I was working a car show in Michigan. It was a rather sizable show, a dealership with several car models on display, and they had splurged on about a dozen of us girls to help out. For my attire they sent me a lime green bikini and a simple pair of black heels. Not stripper heels thankfully, as there was no need for me to tower around at 6'4".

Now, to set a little bit of the tone, at this point, I'm 8 years into the business, and have had the pleasure of wrapping my mouth around, i'd argue, at least 50 of my employers. It's not an exact number, but my rule of thumb has always been, if I'm doing 40ish shows a year, at least 5~8 of those are spent working for a guy who thinks some portion of my day needs to be spent spit-shining the family jewel. Some years are feast, some years are famine, but you get the picture.

Anyway, so I show up to the convention center, parked at a meter knowing full well I'll kick the ticket over to my employer anyhow. I just didn't want to walk two blocks from the parking garage in my bikini and heels. I could have changed there, but I prefer to walk in prepared.

I'm around the fifth girl to arrive, making chit chat with my associates, checking out the cars, checking in with one of the supervisors for the dealership, working my way around the display area, making sure I know which cars are theirs. There's about an hour till the show kicks off. Haven't seen hide nor hair of anyone that should be handing us girls our fact sheets or giving us our sales pitch spiel.

The rest of the girls filter in, and once it looks to be the last one, I see if I know any of them from past shows, but no one looks familiar. At this point it's fifteen minutes to showtime, and I'm wondering if anyone is going to tell us anything, or we're just going to be going in blind.

Five minutes later, and my question is answered as I hear a voice call out,"okay ladies, gather round, time for a little q & a."

I walk over, standing in a loose circle with the other girls, looking over the man who was just talking. Maybe 30s/40s, but looks good in a suit, even though his hair is either dyed or a toupee. He looks like a used car salesman, but carries himself like a ceo.

‟Now, I'm sure you ladies have some questions for me, and we'll get to those shortly, but first I need to get a few things taken care of before we get started this morning. So without further ado, raise your hand if you've worked a car show before."

I raise my hand, looking around, and all but two of us have hands raised.

‟Alright, no worries," he says, ‟now, I'm gonna call out a number, and I want you to put your hand down if you've worked fewer shows than the number I call out. Simple, enough, right girls? ok. Two? Four? Seven? Ten?"

He pauses briefly between each number, but after ten, I'm the only girl there with her hand still up.

‟okay, thanks girls, at ease. You, missy, come with me," he says, motioning at me, turning and walking back towards the curtained off partition at the back of the sales area. I fall in behind him, stepping lively in my heels, clicking along after him. He walks through a break in the curtain, takes a step to the side, and turns and faces me.

‟wow, you're a tall one," he says, looking me up and down.

‟Thanks, I'm J..." I start to say.

‟On your knees, sweetheart," he says, not looking up, unzipping his pants, pulling out a half stiff erection.

Now, car shows are notorious havens of sex, second only to boat shows. Off the top of my head, I'd say girls that work car shows have like, a 40% chance of getting one of their holes stuffed. And this show, and this girl, clearly no exception. Now, I could play dumb, but, his well played game a second ago makes that kind of pointless. I know i'm going to suck his dick. He knows I'm going to suck his dick. I'll just suck his dick and we can get on with our day.

I drop down and cradle his shaft in my mouth. He's already pretty hard, either he'd been tugging it before he showed up or he'd just been looking forward to it all morning. One hand on his hip, and the other on the back of my head, like backup if I don't hit the pace he wants. But I can clearly tell he's close, and this is perfunctory at best, minimal effort required by either of us. I don't even hit a 20 count in my head before I start tasting the aftereffects of last night's steak and cigarette's spilling into my mouth.

I gulp it down quickly, fighting the urge to gag when he pulls his spent member from my mouth. By the time I wipe the back of my wrist across my mouth and look up, he's already gone, and shortly thereafter I hear his voice again, calling the ladies together to go over the sales routines for the a.m. crowd.

I reach down the front of my bikini bottoms, and tug loose the tiny baggie I taped to the inside this morning. Standing, I empty the contents of the baggie into my hand, two cinnamon Altoids, and pop them into my mouth. One thing I did learn in my earlier days, is that you do not want to walk around with a mouth that smells like a boy's bedroom trashcan.