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Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: He followed the tips for sales success - to sexual success! The exuberance of youth is wonderful. The inexperience of youth is frightening. Remember starting your first 'real' job and the joy and excitement of embarking on your new career? How long before you realized that four years of higher education were not sufficient training to survive in the real world? For Mark, the doubt begins even before his first day of work. Sex on the Job follows a young man's evolution from naïve college graduate to a full-fledged sales executive. The journey is not easy and is peppered with lessons in both sales negotiations and steamy sexual etiquette. Mark joins a national firm as a Regional Marketing Representative, a glorified salesman, and is immediately thrust into a shark tank without a spear gun. A non-existent client base, an ill-equipped manager and a vice president who likes to play mind games; he is immersed in work turmoil. On the verge of losing his job, our young hero finally lands his first sale. But job security again turns to jeopardy, when he realizes that the sale has come with unexpected strings. In an intriguing encounter, Mark must use both his evolving sales skills as well as his sexual prowess to turn the tables on a very sexy, but highly manipulative MILF client. To complicate matters, Mark establishes a romantic connection with Beth, a colleague located in a distant city. It leads to a very erotic internet 'training' and mutual masturbation session, but ends abruptly when Beth confesses a dark background and hints of a possible suicide. While juggling job issues, Mark struggles to find and save his new love, and in route encounters a few of the perks of being a traveling salesman, including a strip club featuring a pair of busty twins conjoined by a faux cock, a cute but naïve business partner who wants to be mentored at work and in the bed, and a seasoned commercial rep looking for sensual fun. Proceed with caution, as Sex on the Job may entice you into an on-the-road sales career, or at least prompt a request to your boss for some work related travel.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler,
eBookwise Release Date: November 2011

Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [206 KB]
Words: 45392
Reading time: 129-181 min.

CHAPTER ONE

The exuberance of youth is wonderful. The inexperience of youth is frightening.

I had just landed my first job, right out of college. I was a Marketing Specialist. I felt the title was better than 'salesman', as in insurance -- or even worse 'used car' salesman; but not quite as distinguished as Account Executive, with their designer suits and expensive ties. I was joining a marketing Tiger Team working with distributors -- signing new accounts and managing existing ones. The base salary was significantly more than I imagined and a huge increase over my college job selling home vacuum sweepers. And of course, there was the potential for a lucrative monthly bonus. I received a company credit card and an expense account.

To put it mildly, I was ecstatic.

Accepting the offer on a Friday, I needed to celebrate!

I'm not one to party alone, but I had lost touch with my high school buddies while away at college. I decided to walk down to Chisman's, a local sports bar just a few blocks from my apartment. Even if I didn't know anybody, I could at least throw back a couple brews with a crowd. And if got scorched, I could easily just stagger home.

As I neared the parking lot, I was surprised to see it overflowing with motorcycles. It had strictly been a few 'locals' in my past visits. I had to maneuver around two leather clad gorillas just to enter. If I hadn't already walked a mile, I would have turned back.

Inside, the place was jumping and heavy rock music blared from the jukebox. A crowd, sporting black tees and club jackets, had circled the dance floor. A few regulars in polo shirts and khaki's sat on stools with their backs to the bar, trying to catch the action from a safe distance. I corralled a seat at the corner of the counter and ordered a beer.

"It's the annual Poker run," the barkeep explained when he returned with my bottle. "These guys stop here every year after the charity event. Sorry if it gets too rowdy, but it's just once a year."

"I didn't know we had a motorcycle club around here."

"Believe it or not," he had to yell as a chorus of cheers erupted, "These guys all work at the tool and die shop down the road. They're just weekend warriors; call themselves the Wrenches." I could see the insignia of a bulky hand holding a wrench on the back of a jacket. "Nothing hard-core, just regular guys blowing off steam." He moved away quickly to fill an order.

The crowd shifted and a hole appeared in the ring. In the center, at a high-top table, sat a long haired blonde in an orange bandana and a black sleeveless tee-shirt. I could see bulging biceps encircled with a tattoo of colorful intertwined snakes. Then I saw the swell of breasts. The shirt was stretched like a water-balloon, pointed nipples about to pierce the tight material.

It was a woman and she was poised to take on another arm wrestler.

A bearded man of considerable bulk stepped to the table and they locked hands, wrists obscenely twisted as they groped for a power grip. My view was blocked as a referee joined them. A shrill whistle blew over the top of the thumping music and he moved away. Forearms tightened and muscles tensed. I studied the woman from the side: long eyelashes extending from deep blue focused eyes; high sculpted checks, ruddy in complexion from the effort, with a pointed nose and strong jutting chin. Dark blue veins wormed her thick neck and I thought of a mutant penis on steroids.

As the crowd shifted, I got fleeting glimpses of the two combatants, now standing to leverage their grip and jostling for the most advantageous position. The blonde hung tough and the heavier man bent, the table knifing into his flabby gut. He worked his tongue in and out and spittle collected along his scraggly black whiskers. After several minutes, the music stopped, the crowd more intent on the contest than filling the jukebox with coins. The room was eerily silent. I could see sweat drip from the blonde's nose.

The stagnate pause was filled with a man's voice, "Bust his chops, Rae!"

A man in a plaid shirt two chairs down from me stood for a better view. He leaned toward me. "Talk about busts, I'd love to pop the cherry on that big-titted bitch; like breaking in a wild mare."

The crowd picked up a chant: "Rae, Rae, Rae." It started soft but grew as everyone stomped their feet and clapped. I joined in, banging my beer on the bar.

The rally seemed to give Rae the extra fortitude, because she got an edge, finally moving the man's arm just left of center. She levered higher, her rigid arm hugging the side swell of her bosom. Her breasts seemed to tighten and grow and the nipples elongate. With the chant becoming deafening, the man's stamina withered, and Rae slammed his wrist to the table. The pounding culminated in a roaring cheer.

The referee held her hand aloft, proclaiming her the Rally's Arm-Wrestling Champ. The motion exposed her taunt rippled stomach and a dazzling sun-circled belly button. I wondered where else she might be tattooed. The crowd shouted congrats to the woman and cat-calls to the man, and music again burst from the speakers.

I turned to my beer. Rae filtered through the crowd and, to my surprise, took the unclaimed stool next to me. I held up my bottle and said "Congrats, that was inspiring," then turned away quickly. I wasn't certain of the acceptable behavior with a motorcycle momma, especially one that could kick your ass.

I tried to catch side glances. Despite the sheen of sweat, she smelled of subtle perfume. Up close and without the strain, her features were softer, her eyes warm and open with mascara matted in her lashes.

Mr. Plaid Shirt swayed toward her and mumbled something inaudible. I could smell his stale booze breath two seats away. She ignored him and just as the bartender placed a beer and shot in front of her, the man put his hand on her shoulder.

She turned to him and said curtly, "Sorry foul mouth, college boy here already has dibs."

I wasn't sure if the reference was to his language or his breath, but when the bartender looked my way, I nodded and said, "Sure, this one's on me."

The man muttered again, punctuated it with Bitch, and straightened himself in his chair.

"I don't think you need me to protect you." I said, now marveling at her sculpted body. A single vein protruded along her bicep, the kind you see in weightlifters. Her shoulders and upper back were grooved, cut with muscle.

"He doesn't know it but I just saved his life. We all work at the plant together and my boyfriend would kill the fucker if he saw me drinking with him." She downed the shot in a single gulp, grimaced, and then chased it with the beer. I was glad to see there was no bob of an Adam's apple.

I looked into the crowd to see if anyone was watching us. "Don't worry college boy, you're safe." I smiled weakly.

"It's Mark, and how do you know I go to college?"

"I'm psychic," she responded.

"Really?"

"Noooo. It's that State College shirt you're wearing, kiddo." Her eyes darted down the bar. "But I could tell you what every other asshole at this bar is thinking."

I looked down the row and realized that all the polo boys were either overtly ogling us or trying to catch indiscriminate glances.

"I guess I could too." I responded. She raised her eyebrow in question. "They think you are either a mutant Amazon, or the most beautiful woman they've ever seen, but either way..." I hesitated and chose my words cautiously, "they all want to get lucky with you."

"You can say fuck. It does rhyme with luck," she returned. "Besides, I say it and do it all the time. Sometimes I just can't get enough of it." She wiped at a trickle of sweat at her neck. My eyes took in her gigantic mounds and I wondered what it would be like to have them in my hands. Would they be hard like her muscles or soft like overstuffed pillows?

"And what about you Mark? Where do you stand on the issues?"

"I'm definitely on the beautiful side, but the poll is still out on the ... fucking issue. I don't want to die."

"That's sweet, and smart. You are a college boy; probably top of the class. And the name is Racine." She extended her hand and as I shook it, I was amazed at how large, and at the same time soft, it felt.

"Nice to meet you and it's college graduate now." She raised her glass and pursed her lips in a congrats.

The music turned slow and she finished the draft in a couple swallows, then said, "Gotta go, grad. Thanks for the drink." She pecked me on the cheek. "And there's a kiss for luck. Unlike the rest of these losers, you just might get lucky tonight."

Foul Mouth gave her a nasty smirk as she walked into the crowd. I watched her ass swivel in her tight jeans, the back seam pressed like a wedgie up her crack. She pulled a man away from a table and on to the dance floor. He was large, with broad shoulders and a chiseled face. His long black hair was combed straight back with streaks of gray at the temples. They began to dance and she folded into him, crushing her melons to his chest. White flesh provocatively escaped the side of her shirt. His hands found her ass and they swayed to the music.

I took a last swig of my beer and was about to leave when the bartender replaced my empty with a fresh one. "From the guys down the bar," he said. I looked up and two men were saluting me and giving me the 'thumbs-up'. I waved back and tipped the beer in thanks.

As another slow song followed, I watched the couple continue to snuggle on the dance floor. I worked slowly at the beer and considered what a bummer this supposed night of celebration had become. I knew that Racine was an exposed electrical wire, and if you weren't careful she could give you the shock of your life; but two days from starting my new job and a possible lifelong career and I was sitting in a dump of a bar, all alone, and actually pining for a woman I didn't even know. I needed to piss and go home.

I was just zipping up at the urinal when the writhing rhythms of "Brick House" vibrated through the walls. The crowd began to whoop and holler. Stepping from the wash room, Bad Breath grabbed my arm and said, "Come on kid, you'll want to see this."

Racine and another girl were dancing in the middle of the parquet floor. The other girl was rotund and top heavy. Her black tank top was embroidered with "WRENCH WENCH". The 'Wench' barely visible as it was buried under her overflowing breasts. She wore stiletto heels and was poured into black jeans. Her shape reminded me of an ice cream cone. Her tummy bulged like a flattened scoop from the top of her jeans, with her massive tits forming a second dip. Her cranberry hair was the perfect cherry topping.

The two gyrated about the crowd like strippers, seductively gesturing and rubbing against select males. As they circled, a man called, "Shake those babies Monica." The heavier woman crossed her arms over her chest and shook her upfront load. The cleavage expanded in her tight tank top and her tits wobbled. She raised her arms and shook again causing her melons to flop side-to-side. She stumbled as she tried to twist her hips in a counter motion. I could see her eyes were glazed from alcohol.

Bad Breath and I remained just beyond the outer ring, along with a couple brave regulars.

The women backed toward each other in the middle of the floor. They gently came together and wiggled their asses then rocked their shoulders giving everyone a full access view of their dangling jugs. As they straightened and locked elbows and hands, Rae's long blonde hair mingled in Monica's shorter red locks, cascading across her shoulders.

Monica turned and spooned Rae's back, dipping her legs and running her hands along her thighs. Rae, standing taller, sat on the cushioned human chair, her hands also caressing along her mate's thick sides. She melted into Monica allowing her to nibble at her neck, her white teeth flashing and tongue snaking across her shoulder. She buried her face in the pony tail created by the bandana. Holding Monica's hands, Rae ran them along her sides and slowly up and over the gently rise of her round tits. They swayed together, eyes closed like seductive lovers in after-climax bliss.

As they rocked, the heavier girl started to falter and loose her balance. With cat-like reflexes, Rae whirled. She caught Monica and clutched her to her athletic body. Standing with their legs intertwined, groins nestled together, the girls dry-humped their hips and feigned an open mouth kiss. Rae pressed her hands along the mash of their bounteous chests and Monica grasped her neck. Their eyes locked and then Monica pulled their faces together. A glimpse of tongue preceded their wet, soulful kiss, lips sucking, chests heaving and bodies undulating.

Monica pushed away and twirled with her arms extended like a heavy ballerina. Her eyes were closed and a smile of delight on her face. The crowd watched in awe as she swirled.

"Show us your tits." It was Foul Mouth who broke the mood, but the motorcycle crowd didn't object nor even look our way.

Rae mockingly wiggled her index finger and shook her head, but Monica's hands disappeared in her pliable flesh as she lifted and massaged her chest. She tugged at the shirt bottom, but could not extract it from her tight jeans. Giving up, she seductively worked one shirt strap then the other down her shoulders, batting her eyes at the audience. Grabbing the low cut collar, she pulled the thin fabric over the bulging top of her bust. Her hands held momentarily while she waggled her shoulders, then she slid them lower and cupped the under-slopes. Her exposed nipples were large brown ovals slightly distended, an erect button in the center.

I heard and smelled Bad Breath sigh. Monica perused her enthralled audience, then stepped forward extending her hand. Rae's former dance partner took it and stepped forward, towering over the girl. She hugged him to her naked torso and ran her hands down the back of his jeans.

"Why the fuck does he get all the woman?" No surprise, it was my new best bud talking. "It's not enough he fucks them at work? But Moni best be careful, 'cause Rae is one jealous bitch." Monica had slithered down the man's body and was solicitously mouthing his pant's covered bulge. In a fellatio falsetto, he held her by the back of her head, moved his hips in a slow circle, and smiled, playing to the crowd.

I didn't see Rae coming. She pulled me reluctantly into the circle and wrapped her arms around me. Before I knew it, her wet tongue was plugged into my mouth. She ground against me and her tits were watermelons against my chest. I kept my arms safely at my side as she wrapped me in her powerful hug.

Her boyfriend had caught the action, but showed no interest. Monica had risen and he cupped her hot hanging jugs. Rae glared at him and he returned her vengeful stare. Not getting the response she wanted from either me or her boyfriend, she pushed me away. I stumbled into the on-lookers.

This time she selected Foul Mouth. He was only too happy to oblige. She turned with a smirk at Monica's partner, who had hefted a nipple to his mouth. Foul Mouth surrounded Rae from the rear, filling one hand with a tit and groping her groin with the other. That was all the man needed. He closed the space between them in a blur. Foul Mouth was sucking at Rae's earlobe when the sucker punch caught him in the forehead. I barely side-steeped him as he staggered backward landing on his rear. The big fellow followed and for a brief second I though I was next.

Then Rae had my arm and was pulling me to the door. I saw the bartender on the phone and heard the crash of glass and furniture as we exited into the cool night air.