The loss of Jody Baldwin really hit me hard, and for several days I mooched around my house feeling sorry for myself. It was ridiculous really, as I was a young, healthy multi-millionaire with a multitude of options for casual sex. I didn't have an orgasm for several days which was highly unusual for me, and once I snapped out of my funk, I realized that I was in an elevated state of arousal, and desperately needed to bust a nut.
It was Kat, the MAC make-up artist, that I turned to for release, the inherent asshole within me completely taking advantage of her interest in my sexual prowess, having witnessed me put the wood to Jody.
In my usual authoritative style, I didn't even really ask the young woman, electing to send her a very forthright text.
"I have an opening at 10am tomorrow at the club if you want to audition," it read. "Wear your special rim-job make-up."
I didn't even sign off as Pete in the text, deciding to close with my preferred salutation, Papa. I didn't even really care if Kat showed up or not. I was going to be at work anyway, having let over a week go by without showing my face in there. If Kat did arrive at the appointed time, it would be a sign that she was willing to submit to me, particularly as I had made no attempt to sugarcoat my lewd expectations.
I had zero intention of hiring Kat. She certainly was attractive enough, and she possessed the playful, flirtatious manner that is a necessity within the manipulative environment of a strip-club. Kat was however, lacking the key ingredient that I required all of my employees to possess.
My stage manager, Jade, had mastered the art of private dancing, where the girls are looking to remove the maximum amount of cash from the punter's wallet, and the guy is looking for as much action as possible, for the least amount of cash. Jade had extracted seven hundred dollars from me, in the middle of a job interview, for fuck's sake. That was truly impressive, the benchmark by which I judged all subsequent auditions. Maybe Kat possessed a similar level of manipulative allure, you could never really judge a book by its cover, as the saying goes.
Whatever attributes Kat did bring to the table, the key required ingredient that she lacked was desperation, which was an absolute requirement for a position in my pussy club. Kat had graduated Cosmetology School, had a full-time job at the MAC counter in Nordstrom, and free-lanced for extra cash. While she might have been impressed with my Bugatti that I drove to work most days, and had certainly reacted positively to my inducement of multiple orgasms from Jody, it was the lack of desperation in her life that gave me cause for concern.
Without the overriding, crushing pressure of some unyielding outside force, such as impending bankruptcy, job loss, or threat of foreclosure, young women would go with my program until they were faced with some sexual act that they deemed repugnant, at which point they would throw in the towel.
Truly desperate women, however, those for whom life presented no alternate options, would suppress their disgust, force a smile onto their faces, and suck it up. Without this desperation, Kat wouldn't be forced outside of her comfort zone, and the encounter would lack the young girl's abject revulsion, something that I needed in order to experience a fulfilling climax.
The following morning I was pleasantly surprised to see Kat sitting in the waiting room completing her application package, which included the employment application, the non-disclosure agreement, and the various consents to sexual activity, being filmed etc. Olivia checked Kat's paperwork, scanned her California Driver's License into my database, and then escorted her to the large walk-in closet where the club stored its vast collection of fantasy and fetish wear.
"Paperwork is all in order, Pete," Olivia said over the intercom.
A few minutes in front of the mirror as the hair stylist attended to the last minute touches, and Kat was ready to be used as a cum-receptacle for my six-day load. Olivia knocked quietly on my office door, announced the arrival of "Pussy," my latest aspiring dancer, and Kat crawled in on all fours in a black latex catsuit, complete with a long black tail and some cute kitten ears.
However alluring her previous boyfriend might have found this hyper-sexualized costume, it left me cold. I had enjoyed hundreds of lovers by this point in my life, and had been through the submissive pussy-cat scenario maybe a dozen times. In fact, just about the only memorable encounter of this nature, was when I forced the college Freshman, Gina, to lap up the entire football team's ejaculate from a saucer, as if she were a kitten.
I needed more from this current sexual encounter. Kat was in front of me, but it was Jody that I yearned for. As Kat crawled around my office floor, purring and mewing like a kitten, I watched on in amusement. Olivia's assurance that Kat's paperwork was in order meant that for the duration of her audition, I could take complete liberties with the young job applicant.
Written by a team of highly experienced labor-law attorneys, my interview process disclosure was quite graphic. It stated quite clearly, that due to the physical interaction inherent in giving somebody a lap-dance, the job applicant should expect some incidental touching, groping, caressing, genital contact and the likelihood of inducing an erection, possibly even a climax.
When I first read the document that the lawyers proposed we had all applicants read and sign, I thought it was a joke. It seemed so unnecessarily blatant in its disclosure of what could occur during the audition. However, several thousand job interviews later, with the courts having ruled in favor of "Top Shelf Pussy" on multiple occasions, against accusations of sexual harassment, the document was an indispensable part of the application process.
Kat had signed it, acknowledged that she had read and understood its contents, and she was mine, ripe for the taking.
"I want to watch you bring yourself to climax first," I ordered the bewildered-looking young woman. "There are some toys in the ottoman in front of you."
Kat bit her lip first, a seemingly universal sign among young women that they are struggling with the idea of something. Fortunately for me, Kat's internal battle was brief, and she lifted the lid of the large, leather foot-stool. Extracting a "Magic Wand" personal vibrator, she looked at me for direction, her indecisiveness immediately losing her points.
"On the floor, on your back," I instructed. "Maintain eye-contact with me."
Kat fired up the vibrator, slid the crotch of her catsuit to one side, and lowered the wand to her genital area, before finding the correct placement to stimulate her clitoris. A smile crept across her face as the personal massager began to work its magic. I was barely hard, going through the motions as I tried to imagine Jody in the same situation.
As I slowly undressed I closed my eyes, and accessing the recent image of Jody sucking me off from my short-term memory banks, I finally got an erection. I watched dispassionately as Kat brought herself to climax five or six times, before I gave her my next directive.
"Stay on your back," I said firmly. "Are you wearing your rim-job make-up?"
