A Custom Story by The Midnight Talebearer
"Stories Without Limits"
The
Playboy
offices were in a tall, beige, concrete, building that seemed uninteresting, despite being several stories high. Lydia Jones hadn't been expecting the Taj Mahal when she'd joined the legal team, but each time she showed up, it was just a little more depressing. The building seemed to lack all charm. That, and windows. It had shockingly few of those for its size. Lydia made a note of it, but she was determined to stay positive. She had come all the way out here to start a new life, after all.
The Beverly Hills sun was uncommonly strong for November, so that Lydia felt like an ant under some sadistic kid's magnifying glass. She could barely believe it, but the heat was drawing the moisture from her soft, peached-toned, skin. She dashed for the building's unimpressive, glass doors, smoothing the jet-black skirt of her suit as she went.
Inside, everything was cool and shaded, and Lydia's low heels sent echoes throughout the room as she walked over the black, marbled, floors.
Thank God for air conditioning
, she thought to herself. There was a desk on her left, just a few steps ahead, and she was before it in two quick strides.
"Good morning, Ms. Jones," came a squeaky but genial voice from behind the desk. It belonged to a pale, elderly, man with a dark, wizened, face and keen eyes.
"Huh? Oh, good morning," she replied distantly, etching "10:45" in the log, under "Tine In". Without another word, she turned purposefully toward the elevator banks.
As she waited for a car, Lydia turned over the phone call she had gotten an hour ago in her mind. They wanted her to oversee some new promotion, that much was clear, but she couldn't figure what all the secrecy had been about. As a rule, Lydia was not overly fond of secrets, and puzzling through this one was not helping her mood.
I don't like flying blind
, she thought, wondering what all the fuss was about. All the secret keeping at her last post had nearly driven her insane. She tried to tamp down the wave of bitterness that suddenly rushed over her as she thought about it, stepping into the car that had finally arrived, but it was too late. She could feel it writhing inside her, clawing desperately, like an enraged housecat.
She jabbed the sixth floor button a little harder than she meant to, and winced as her finger spiked with pain. Instinctively, she squeezed it in her other hand, hoping the pressure would provide a bit of relief. She swore in a low voice, and tapped her foot impatiently, until the doors finally opened, and she stood in the gray, carpeted, hall that led to the magazine's offices.
"Let's get this bullshit over with," she mumbled to herself. She walked to a heavy, wooden door, dragged it open, and stepped inside.
The offices were large and tolerably well decorated with plants, end tables, and ferns.
"Mr. Peters is waiting in the rear office, miss, and he actually seems to be in something of a decent mood today," a heavy, gravelly, voice called out. Lydia gave the stout, Black, gray-haired, old receptionist a polite nod, taking in her pleasant, toothless, smile.
Good old Diane
she thought to herself, feeling just a little bit better as she reached the door of the rear office. Diane had been the first person to greet her when she'd arrived three months ago, fresh faced but confused, and since then, she'd taken on the role of grandmother. She gave excellent and very poignant advice, and every now and then, she could be counted on to show up to the office with a batch of homemade cookies in hand.
"Who the hell has time to make cookies these days?" she wondered quietly. "I really ought to do something nice for her."
Lydia delivered three sharp knocks to the door before her. There was a brief rustling inside the office, as if someone were hurriedly gathering a stack of papers together.
"Come right in, Lydia," a man's voice answered wearily. It was businesslike, yet slightly frantic, and bore a pronounced Midwestern accent. It belonged to Matthew Peters, Matt to his colleagues, and Lydia flashed him a small smile. Matt sighed quietly and nodded back, feeling a growing dislike for his chosen profession. He had come on board many years ago, hoping to get a foothold in the business, and while that had indeed panned out, his life had become one corporate disaster relief effort after another. Chaos. It seemed to follow him everywhere he went, and the effort of combating it was beginning to drain him. "Take a seat. We'll begin in a second," he added.
"Sure, Matt." Lydia replied, moving toward her end of the table with something like quiet grace.
Lydia let herself in, took a seat, and tried not to think about how good a drink would have been right then. She wasn't too thrilled to realize most of the people in the room looked like they were thinking the same thing.
The rear office was actually a boardroom. Management had put it back here to ensure privacy with an eye toward encouraging candor. It was fairly large and well-lit, an oblong rectangle with a long, mahogany, table in its center. Plush, black and gray, swivel chairs ringed the table, and enormous, high-quality pictures of extremely beautiful women hung on the cream colored walls. Matt, a tall, pale, handsome, man in an expensive-looking suit, stood at the far end, aiming a long, metal, pointer at a massive touch screen displaying a graph.
"Sales are trending downward due to the rise of free, easily accessible, pornography," the man was saying, scratching his long, raven-tinted hair, "and we need a new campaign to turn things around. Pornhub is going to be the death of us if we do not maintain our relevance. Yesterday, we had a productive meeting with Katherine McNamara, whose star is blazing due to Shadowhunters' popularity. She has agreed to pose nude for us for three million dollars, and we have organized a global contest to-"
"A
global
contest, Matt? Have you lost your damn mind?" Lydia, interjected at once, anxiously twisting her long, red, hair in her fingers. "I thought we agreed to limit all contests to the US mainland to eliminate the possibility of arbitration and litigation in foreign countries. A global contest would expose the company to the need to meet the legal standards and rulings of a hundred ninety-five countries! Say we're sued in New Zealand. Which court has jurisdiction? America? New Zealand? The international Court? I mean-"
"Lydia," Matt interrupted, sighing sympathetically. "Ms. McNamara insisted it was unfair to sell the issue globally but only run the contest locally. She made her participation conditional on a global contest. There is no one as popular we can get for the money we're offering on short notice, so we had to give in."
"But...alright," she sighed heavily, resigning herself to the inevitable clusterfuck. "How does the contest work?"
"In five thousand words or less, a contestant must explain why Kat would enjoy a date with them, introduce themselves, say something quirky, the usual business. Kat has elected to choose a winner herself, so-"
"
Herself
?" a husky, scholarly, black man in a navy suit and tie responded incredulously. "Granted, readership is down, but that's still some percentage of seven hundred thousand subscribers! What if she picks someone we can't market? My department has to curate this thing so it shows the magazine in the best light."
"Yes, Martin, I know," Matt said, his shoulders slumping as though they bore a heavy load. "But again, she insisted. Apparently, she has volunteers. Every branch of the company must try to overcome these hurdles and make this a successful promotion."
Matt went on for several minutes more, outlining the company's marketing and promotion strategies. The longer he spoke, the more doubtful everyone grew, but the spectre of Pornhub was staring them down like an oncoming train. Everyone knew they had to do something and they left the meeting feeling resolute. Two weeks later, in a simple Sydney flat, a beautiful woman named Lyonesse was enjoying the fruits of their labor.
Lyonesse was a singular beauty, sporting, full, bouncy, curly, blonde, hair. The golden locks cascaded down to her shoulders, framing a clever, seductive, face, accentuated with rich, emerald eyes. She was shaped like an hourglass, with round, large, firm, breasts, and shapely buttocks it was impossible to ignore. She lay in her comfortable, old, bed, wearing nothing at all, with the November 2019 issue of Playboy open to the middle. Kat McNamara was reclined seductively with her hand resting on her pussy.
"Yes. Rub that slit for me, Kat," Lyonesse breathed sweetly as she teased her right nipple."
She imagined the fingertip lightly twirling around her turgid nipple was the lithe, long, darting, tongue of Kat McNamara. It drew a sharp, swift, intake of breath from Lyonesse each time it caressed the sensitive flesh. She could feel the soft, pleasurable chill as the cool air danced across her lover's saliva. The Aussie clasped her breast, showly kneading the flesh, and in her mind, Kat was no longer licking, but sucking. Lyonesse's breath's grew longer and more rhythmic as her clit began to stiffen in its fleshy hood.
"Oh, goddess, yes!" Lyonesse moaned, slipping her hand down to her pussy. "Suck that tit for me. Shit, it feels so good. Do you like the way I cradle your head? How I hold you to my breast? I like what you're doing to my clit. Keep rolling it in your fingers like that. Slip one in my hole, It's so hot and wet for you. Yes!" she cried as she slid two fingers inside.
Lyonesse's skin grew warm, radiating heat from every pore, as her body began to twist and writhe. She felt the rush of blood into her tender nipples and the teasing sensations of desire licking at her flesh like tongues of fire. She heard the wet, sploshing, sounds of her fingers pumping in and out, stretching her slick, sopping, slit deliciously. Moaning urgently, as waves of pleasure began building in her core, she switched to a closeup of Kat's pussy and ass.
"Fuck!" she grunted, fingerfucking herself more intensely as she stared at Kat's perfect, puffy, folds and licked her lips. "Let me be your girlfriend, love," she added, beginning to drool. "No one will eat your pussy as often or as well as I will. Goddess, open your legs for me. Feed me your slit. I want my tongue buried deep, stretching your walls. I want to feel your muscles grip it, squeezing it like a cock. I want to savor your juices as they dribble all over my face! Oh, fuck! Ride me!" Lyonesse panted loudly, the waves of her orgasm rushing forth rapidly. "Ride my face, Katherine! OH FUCK ME!" Currents of pleasure surged through her sexy frame, from her head to the tips of her curled toes, as her overheated twat undulated around her soaking fingers.
Smaller orgasms radiated from Lyonesse's pussy like aftershocks. The magazine slipped from her hand and covered her face. Her body writhed against the sheets, cool air dancing across her burning skin, and her breathing was hurried and ragged. Just as she started to calm down, a sudden song rang out in space: "9 to 5".
Wearily, Lyonesse recognized her ringtone. Pushing Kat off her face, she snatched her smartphone from the nightstand and swiped to answer it.
"Timothy, you are a very fine person, and I am very fond of you, but it's four in the morning. What was so important you couldn't just message me on Discord?"
"The new
Playboy's
out," he replied in a fast, mid-range, voice. "There's a contest to win a date with Kat!"
