She entered the hotel room, exactly on time, her sweet feminine fragrance trailing behind her.
She was beyond what they'd expected, beyond what they'd dared imagine. About nineteen, blond, gorgeous, five foot six and full lipped, dressed in a slight blue dress with shoulder straps that accentuated her natural slenderness and marble smooth skin. A hooker's dress really, geared to turn heads, or rouse imaginations, in any street or brothel.
Which is what this girl did, day after day, to anyone who entered the red lit passages of her realm.
The group of businessmen muttered their greeting, quietly stunned and made awkward by the unusually beautiful prostitute before them. They could barely believe their luck. It seemed almost inconceivable that this girl, with her air of innocence, could arrive here ready for the acts of blunt and brutal carnality they had in store for her. She seemed so unspoiled, they wondered if she'd actually cope.
The loins of the three men tingled as they gazed at the teenager, each of them fixated on the mystery beneath her skirt, and by how far she'd go.
Their response was one the girl had grown used to. She saw it, day after day, in all the clients who, shocked and aroused by her freshness, would then go on and destroy the illusion in her soft teen cunt.
These men were the same. They were the ins and outs of her trade. Her young eyes, and body, had taken in so many like them in the ten months she'd been working. Still, she appreciated the way they looked at her. She enjoyed this power she had over men, how she could make them helpless and needy and be desperate for her, while they, in turn, thanked the Lord for her naivety and paid hard cash to exploit her in the full bloom of youth.
It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. The money made her life easier and, even on days when she didn't find the patrons attractive, the unrelenting involvement in her pussy over the eight hour shifts nearly always brought her to orgasm, often with the third or fourth client.
Her months of days and nights at the parlor had taught her all the nuances of being a good whore. She had slowly built her bag of tricks on the jerking hips of dozens of grateful men, their groans and ejaculations teaching her all she needed to know about the opposite sex. The rub of the thumb over a well oiled gland, the spasmodic flick and swirls on a head, the switches in pressure and vacuum on a shaft, the squeezing of the muscles in her cunt or sphincter that made them all moan; the casual, slutty finger up their ass and the cupping of the balls as they came...
She'd fine tuned her abilities on a never ending line of cock. Her touch had become velvet. Her sexual talents were already second nature.
The tone of her work had been set from the very first day at the parlor, when the manager broke her in, insisting he be the first to try the holes about to be put to constant use in his building. He had sodomized her mercilessly in the backroom, a purposefully rough initiation, so she would be in no doubt about the treatment she could expect. He had come violently in her virgin ass, while her first customer, eager to try the new girl, waited patiently in the foyer and plotted the exact same experience.
(Then there was the old man on her second day, straddling her face and shockingly raping her mouth, until his inevitable explosion filled the condom sliding down her throat. He had disgusted her, but it was a feeling she'd soon learned to suppress.)
From those shaky first days she had blossomed. She'd been fucked and used continuously, in hotel rooms, cars, in bars, and on yachts, by cocks of all shapes and sizes, becoming used to the slurp of strangers on her cunt and the pounding of anonymous men in whatever hole they chose, until it all became routine, a matter of course, normal even. She was fully immersed in the world of eroticism in which she now existed.
And here she was now, looking like sugar couldn't melt in her mouth.
******
The men had flown in from the north for a three day conference. Their briefcases sat around the room, all alike, except one was blue, one was gray, and the other one was black. The cases lay open, spilling pink and white slips of paper. Business to attend to. The cold hard facts.
They were a nondescript bunch. Men in shirts and ties, vaguely anonymous, as men in shirts and ties on the lower to middle echelon tended to be. It was very important work they were involved in, but people would walk away from them unsure exactly what it was they did. Something to do with cash and graphs and targets and margins and meetings of urgency with other men in shirts and ties.
These men had bonded in their years together, in their long gray office, with the desperation of people forced upon each other, who, as a matter of survival, had to find a way to make it work.
They did this with graveyard humor and their too hard laughs; the end of week drinking sessions where they'd gradually let their secrets slip; the nights out at bars and strip joints and nightclubs where they would huddle in a bunch, protecting themselves from the pounding music, and the glowing youth around them who made them feel uncertain of their place. They would cradle their drinks, and guffaw, and sneer, and pretend it was all beneath them.
They were slightly disappointed men who weren't quite sure they'd ended up where they wanted to be. Salesmen who, deep down, were afraid they had nothing left to sell. They recognized this in each other, and found comfort and solace in the fact.
The oldest of the three was Phillip, who, in his mid-fifties, had been at the company longest. He had made sure to exploit all his seniority over the years and had a well earned reputation as the office bully. Every day he would pick at and harass his underlings, telling himself he was just showing them the ropes, when, in reality, it was the slow and sadistic punishment of a man resentful of their futures and the danger that they could soon leave him for better pastures.
The women who had to work with him soon had his number too, and were uncomfortable in his presence. The way his gaze would linger on them, and never at their faces. The way they would discuss details with him, and he would stare at them, not really there, or even really listening. The young female secretaries would stiffen when he lent in too close, self conscious and pulling at their skirts, or at the buttons on the front of their blouse, as they politely nodded, wishing he would go away. Sensing the rejection, the old man would bark and issue orders, then storm off to his desk like he was mad at their work.
Phillip never quite got it. He exerted all the power he could in his small, contained world because, for a long time now, the wider one had him beaten. The fact gnawed away at him everyday, but he blustered on like the problem lay somewhere else.
His closest friend at the company was Robert - his left hand man, his able lieutenant, his confidante, the second in the chain of command. Vice seemed an appropriate title for Robert, who, with his combed back black hair and comparative good looks, fancied himself as the office lothario. He would delight the old man with his tales of on-the-road conquests and his sordid nights with a stream of loose and traceless women.
"Really?" the old man would ask delightedly, hanging on Robert's every word.
Robert would buff up the stories for the old man's enjoyment, but the sexual misadventures, fictional or not, soon became their main point of discussion. Along the way they would tend to their pink and white slips of paper, serious and earnest, plotting and scheming as if the future of the free world depended on it.
As usual, Willem was there in the hotel room with them.
Good old Willem, the eternal third wheel, tagging along like he always did. Curly haired, large, and thickset, Willem was tolerated by Phillip and Robert because he was close in proximity to their age, and because he didn't present a threat.
