Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1999 10:02:02 +0000
From: Scot Thompson <needit83@hotmail.com>
Subject: Making The Sale

So many people responded to Sharon's last adventure, I just had to post
another. Who am I to deny anyone their desires? That's always been my
friend Sharon's belief, anyway ... Comments to:
Scot Thompson
TS/TG Admirer
Dallas
needit83@hotmail.com


Making The Sale

Everyone -- especially my t-girl sisters -- always ask me how I find so
many men for my adventures -- as if there's a real challenge in finding a
horny guy who appreciates a pair of warm wet willing lips wrapped around
his throbbing member and a nice tiny ass he can fuck like there's no
tomorrow.

Believe me. There are greater mysteries in the universe. Here's just one
of the way I do it.

Every city that has a major airport has a variety of hotels that caters
primarily to a traveling business clientele. Salesmen. Executives.
Administrators at a convention. And these hotels all have a bar, and the
guys you find in these bars on a weekday night all have one thing in
common: They honestly believe that someday, some hot lonely woman is
just going to walk up to them and say, "I know this sounds crazy, but do
you wanna fuck?" Not a prostitute mind you -- a real honest-to-god
business person like them who just needs a little company on a long cold
night away from home, yatta, yatta, yatta ... It's the fantasy that
makes their jobs worth while -- the promise that someday (who knows?) it
really might happen. And even though they always end up alone, in their
hotel rooms, with a stroke magazine in one hand and their cock in the
other, they keep believing.
And I just keep giving them reason to believe.
Typically, I show up late - 10 p.m. at the earliest. I cover my thin,
frail 5'7'' frame in a white blouse and dark business suit and pull my
long black hair back in a conservative bun. The final touches: white
panty hose, conservative in-the-office makeup (except for lipstick
that's a touch to red) and dark rimmed glasses (for that
repressed-female-executive-who-just-needs-a-real-man-to-set-her-free
look.) I take a seat at the far end of the bar, near the back, then pull
out my electronic data organizer, which I keep in my purse for just such
occasions. I make a few (fake) calls on the cellular phone, have a few
drinks, make a few notes in my datebook, and wait for the sharks to
gather. 
Oh, one other thing -- my business suits have a slit skirt so that a
little leg is always showing. Quite a bit actually, when I inadvertently
(whoops!) reach for  a cocktail napkin or a pack of matches on the other
side of the bar. Was that a white garter belt over a smooth tanned
thigh? You'd think their eyes will pop right out of their heads
sometimes.
The guys that approach first are the funniest. You sometimes can
actually see them pocket their wedding ring as they make their way over.
"You must be a busy woman. Why don't you take a break. Let me buy you a
drink," they begin, bravely.
If they are losers, I send them packing before they can finish their
first line. "Sorry, I'm waiting for someone" usually does the trick.
If they're not too bad, I send them away with a smile and a "Maybe
later".
And occasionally, when they're really hot, I invite them to sit down
immediately - like a spider might a tell a fly to relax, take a load
off.
>From there it's typically two drinks and too much meaningless
conversation before they make the suggestion to "head upstairs." 
"It's so noisy down here. Let's go find a place to talk," they
innocently suggest.
Sure, pal.
In a moment, we're on the elevator. The really agressive ones will reach
for you then and there, take your hand, and try to give you "the look":
I want you. I need you. Let's make passionate love, their eyes say. Of
course, they're really thinking:  Oh my god, I gonna get laid. I can't
wait to tell the guys at work.
What happens next? Their fantasy comes true. In a darken hotel room, as
glass tumblers full of cheap whisky roll off the end table and onto the
floor  and the "woman" of their dreams drags her sharp claws across
their back, they finally get some. That's what they think, anyway.
One night, one man, in particular has been my absolute hotel-bar
favorite -- an advertising executive from Boston (he said), a dark, tall
muscular Italian man in his 40s with salt-and-pepper hair, the sweetest
look in his eyes and the most rich smelling cologne. When we got to his
room, he took me gently into his strong arms and kissed me. His mouth
and long muscular tongue tasted like Cognac and fine cigars.
"I want you, Sharon" he whispered in my ears, as his lips caressed my
ears and his tongue made a cool titillating trail down my neck and onto
my chest.
I moaned as his hands and fingers unbuttoned my coat, my blouse, then
deftly unhooked my front-snapping bra. His strong hands were now engaged
in deep worship of my small sensitive breasts.
"What beautiful tits. You have the tits of a little girl," he whispered.
His teeth and lips surrounded a nipple, then softly bit down, as he
rolled and pinched the other in his strong hard fingers.
I was shaking. I was getting hard, or was it wet? I needed to take
control.
"Get undressed," I commanded --  my usual command in these situations.
He smiled. "You first."
What could I do? I took off my shoes. I took off my glasses. I unfurled
my hair. Then I unhooked my skirt and let it fall to the floor, careful
to hide my growing maleness between my thighs.
"You like what you see?" I asked, adjusting each garter and letting my
hands trace the shape of my long legs, my hips, my ass, my stomach, then
rub my breasts that medicine, not God, had given me.
"I like it this much," he said, glancing at the rising mound in this
crotch.
"Then take off your clothes."
Now he complied. First his tie. Then his shirt. His shoes. He stood to
let his belt and pants fall to the floor.
Now I thought my eyes would pop out of my head. Beneath the straining
confines of a pair of loose silk boxers was the most glorious cock I'd
ever seen.
"Do you like what you see?" he asked, tracing the outline of the
monstrosity in his pants.
I answered by getting on my hands and knees before him.
"This much" I said with a smile.
I pulled the waist band of his boxers down slowly to let my eyes first
feast on it all. Thick black curly hair. The wide base, as thick as an
ax handle. The shaft, long and veiny and seeming to never end. Then, the
head -- an uncut perfect marvel. My hands held it first, a hot heavy
hanging trophy of manhood that made my own look like a toy. As I began
to stroke it, it rose in a rhythmic progression as his heart and mind
pumped it full of blood and lust.
My lips tasted it first: rich, warm, smooth and salty.
"That's it, Sharon. Suck it," he urged. His skin was on fire.
I would surprise him: I breathed deeply, relaxed my throat and drove him
carefully into my mouth and down my throat, swallowed him to the hilt in
one long straight plunge, stopping only when I could feel his dark curly
hairs on my nose and his balls on my chin. A long smooth stroke out,
then back in, over and over, with only a break to breath and to lick his
shaft from base to tip and taste the musky flavors of his ass and
foreskin.
"Oh yeah, suck me hard, Sharon" he begged. And I did. Deep and urgent,
with his hands on my head and my hands on my hairy ass, guiding him
deeper inside with each stroke.
"Oh, stop, I'm gone cum,"  he screamed.
And I did stop, because I had other plans for that load -- perhaps the
only he would give me tonight.
"Get on the bed," I said,  "I want you to fuck me."
In a second he was on his back waiting at attention -- and I mean full
attention.
I moved beside him on the bed and kissed him passionately, careful to
not reveal the real source of my pleasure, which strained and lurched in
my silk panties.
"Now I want you to fuck me in the ass. You up for that?" I teased,
grabbing his cock.
"Oh, yeah."
"Then we got to do it my way," I explained. "A cock this big could hurt
me, so you have to let me be on top and you cannot force me down on you
until I say it's OK. Understand?"
He promised. He would have promised me the keys to his car at that
point.
>From my purse, I produced a condom and tube of clear lubricant -- I
prepared the missile for launch. He just lay there staring at the
ceiling, obviously loving it. Who was going to believe this? he was
thinking. A blow job and butt fuck from some hot chick at the bar. He
would be the envy of every ad executive he'd ever meet -- because he was
sure going to tell them the story, with all the gory details.
Just keeping fantasizing, I thought. With a cock like this you're
allowed a few fantasies in life. I turned to face away from him,
straddled him, and lowered myself gently down onto  his cock.
"Oh Christ," he said. "This is unreal."
Yep. But his cock sure wasn't. The head alone, even bathed generously in
thick slippery jelly, was enough to spend my ass into a spasm -- a sharp
warm mixture of pain and deep sensations that slipped quickly into
ecstasy. Another inch. Then another. I worked up the courage to lean
back and let his magnificent tower rise into my heavens.
His moan told me this wouldn't last long. Nor would his promise. His
hands went quickly to my hips as he drove himself deeper inside me,
again and again. I held onto his sack as his tool worked inside, drawing
my long nails gently across the flesh on his balls. He screamed. He
shook. He slammed himself inside me and came, oblivious to the
sensations of my own orgasm, pouring into my hand and onto the sheet.
Is this true? Did it really happen?
Whether you believe depends a lot on if you travel a lot to the city I
live in and have ever seen a beautiful young business woman at the bar
late at night, reaching for a cocktail napkin to reveal, beneath the
spreading folds of her open skirt, a simple white garter and the promise
of fulfillment.

Sharon