Unfair Negotiating Tactics

It was late summer - a miserably hot, humid season in the city. The fact that I was stuck at an outdoor baby shower for someone I barely knew compounded my unhappiness. Even in a seersucker skirt and white V-neck t-shirt, I was sweating freely in the sticky afternoon heat. One saving grace was that there was plenty of wine (I'd brought a few bottles myself as a "gift").

In the months since John and I had been dating, I'd been drawn into his tightly-knit family, culminating in today's pregnancy purgatory. The shower was for his younger sister – a year and a half younger than me, it had been pointed out by one of his aunts – and I was one of four unmarried women in attendance. One of the other "old maids" was a nineteen year old cousin. I appreciated that his family was so close, but as an "outsider," a large, emotional event like this was difficult to bear. I had probably said a dozen words all day that weren't some hollow variation of "Yeah, I love babies." I tilted my head back and swallowed the last two mouthfuls of wine left in my glass in a single gulp.

"Why do I let myself get talked into these things?" I muttered as I poured myself another brimming goblet and grabbed an unladylike fistful of goldfish crackers. I wandered across the yard towards the host's Labrador, presently tormented by two of the many small children in attendance. As I finished my snack, the children's mother called them away from the dog, which collapsed in the shade of a tree. I squatted indelicately next to him, whispering, "You know, boy, maybe we should just find a nice quiet bar together." He panted happily as I stroked his head and seemed on board with my plan for desertion.

"Sarah...? Oh! Sarah! There you are!" Nuts! John's mother had spotted me. "You need to come meet our friend, Mrs. Kutchner! Her son and John have been friends since first grade!"

I gave the dog a farewell pat on the head. "Don't wait for me. Save yourself." I whispered as I planted my sandaled feet and stood, walking across the yard with my wine glass in hand. The vessel was empty within a minute of joining the older women's conversation, as Mrs. Kutchner jumped right in to the deep end, asking whether John and I would be raising our children in the church. A half-hearted rescue by his mother was all that prevented me from turning on my heel and going home with the rest of the bar table's offerings. Instead, I nodded patiently for the longest six minutes of my life before I was excused. My escape route was a bee-line to the wine table.

John had asked me to come to this gathering of his family's female members and their closest, nosiest friends as a favor. He said it would endear me to his mother, put me in his sister's good graces, and give me the opportunity to feel out how I fit with the larger family. He had said he understood it was still early in our relationship, and that he wouldn't hold it against me if I didn't want to attend. He said I could say no. I repeated this to myself as I overfilled another wine glass.

I was further aggravated at the fact that John was safely out of town at a bachelor party while I was braving his family's collective baby-mania. This meant that while I was enduring the emotional probing of his aunts, John was most likely receiving a lap dance or – I didn't want to think about the other possibilities. This issue had actually boiled over the week before into our first substantive fight. John knew I didn't like strippers, and that I felt what "those women" were willing to do for money was pathetic and sad. I knew I shouldn't be upset with him though; he hadn't made the plan for his weekend trip, and again, he'd given me the opportunity to decline the invitation to the baby shower. And besides, I knew I wasn't in a position to play the jealous role. Still, the timing irked me.

"Why can I never say no to anyone?" I was still stewing over the intrusive old nutcase's interrogation and the question of "who-was-doing-what-on-John" when my phone buzzed in my pocket with a text. 'I'll be in your hood tonight. See you then.' Mr. Dalton was always succinct – vague, even - in his messages. He also never asked, but rather declared his own invitation at a time that fit his schedule. Not that he was rude or unkind in our encounters, but rather he treated them almost as he would any other business appointment; he was professionally courteous in his booty-calls, and expected professionalism in return.

As my relationship with John had developed, my engagements with Mr. Dalton had grown more intense. While John and my sex life was satisfying, Mr. Dalton drove me to an entirely different level of sexual desire. When I was with him, I became a searing, frothing, extra-bodily mass of rabid lust, aching to be consumed and filled until I was exhausted.

Standing at the snack table in this stranger's suburban back yard, staring at my phone screen that set the course for my evening, I felt a warmth spreading inside me and a bead of moisture seeped from between my lower lips. I strode across the yard into the house, bypassing the bathroom nearest the back door that was primarily used by party guests, and found a more private commode near the living room.

I locked the door and leaned against the sink, hiking up the front of my skirt to expose the pink flowered pattern of my panties. Holding my skirt with my left hand, I slowly pushed the fingers of my right hand under the waistband and across my smooth skin until my fingertips reached my clean-shaved snatch.

I let out a small gasp at the first contact, wetting the ends of my fingers between the moist lips, before bringing them up to the button of my clit. Rolling the nub rhythmically beneath my fingertips, my body churned with thoughts of Mr. Dalton's cock and how and where he would be using it on me in just a few short hours. I swallowed a moan as tiny pre-climax bubbles worked their way through my nerve-endings. I was about to stroke myself to orgasm in a stranger's bathroom at a baby shower! The taboo of the act pushed me over the edge and my body tensed as I clenched to cum. I was almost th-

"Sarah? Are you in there?" John's mother knocked on the door as she spoke. "Monica's about to open presents, but we don't want you to miss it. Everyone's waiting." A blue-hot wave of panic flashed through my brain, softening slightly into boiling humiliation. Had John's mother just caught me masturbating? I wrenched my hand from my panties and straightened my clothes as I looked in the mirror. Flushing the toilet, I forced my voice to normalize as I responded.

"Th-thanks, Cheryl. I'll be right out." I eyed the small window as an escape path, but resigned myself to returning to the party. I opened the door and his mother, who was standing a few feet away, turned and smiled at me.

"There's always such a line at the one near the back door. I'm glad you found another option." She said as she hurried by me and entered the bathroom. Relief washed over me with the realization that the older woman was merely anxious to use the loo. I returned to the backyard and poured another glass of wine as I braced for the gift opening ritual.

I faked my way through a couple rounds of girlish coos and sighs as the expecting mother unwrapped bibs and socks, before slowly backing my way to the edge of the estrogen fueled crowd. I felt another buzz in my pocket. "You need to look professional." I scrunched my brow in confusion, then as I turned, I found John's mother. I muttered an excuse of not feeling well and made my escape into the dimming light of the early evening.

"What does he mean 'look professional'?" I asked out loud in my empty apartment as I turned on the shower. I walked to the bedroom and tossed my t-shirt and skirt into the hamper. Was this some secretary fantasy he wanted to play out? Were we going to role-play a job interview? I reached to my back and unhooked my bra, letting the cups fall casually from my round, firm breasts as I pushed my panties down my legs to the floor. Or did Mr. Dalton just want to stick it to a buttoned-up white girl? I blushed as I stepped into the steamy spray of the shower, mentally surveying my wardrobe and assembling an appropriately prissy outfit. Dragging the soapy luffa across my skin, I scrubbed away the irritation and boredom of the afternoon. My body felt recharged in the hot wash, and I grinned eagerly to myself at what the evening held in store for me.

Turning off the water and wrapping myself in a towel, I stood in front of the mirror as I blow-dried and straightened my hair. Selecting an alarmingly bright shade of pink lipstick, I contorted my mouth into an exaggerated "O" as I applied the balm. I pressed my lips firmly together to even the coverage, then blew a kiss to the mirror. My full, pouty lips – plump and inviting in normal circumstances – were now transformed into a bright, attention-grabbing center of my pale face. I finished by applying my eyeshadow and mascara, giving my eyes a light smoked frame for their cock-hungry gleam.

Moving from the bathroom to the bedroom, I walked to the dresser and let my towel drop to the floor as I opened the top drawer and pulled out a matching white lace bra and thong. I stepped into the delicate panties, pulling the waist band until the elastic rested at my hips. Holding the D cups of the bra over my breasts as I looped its straps around my arms, I reached back to fasten its rear hooks. The translucent white mesh of the bra's cups was overlaid with a white lace flower pattern, providing a tantalizing glimpse of the creamy flesh of my breasts while discretely obscuring my pale pink nipples which stiffened slightly in the cool air of my room.

I went to my closet and selected a simple tight, white, three-quarter sleeved blouse. I slipped my arms into the shirt and buttoned the front – leaving the top two undone - and smoothed the small pockets over my boobs as I pulled a tweed pencil skirt off the hanger and pulled on the garment. I tucked the tails of my blouse into the waist, then fastened the zipper at the back of the skirt. The material of the shirt gripped my flat stomach and generous chest and, when pulled tight, gave a clear outline of the white lace of my bra. When I leaned over, the undone buttons at the top provided a mouthwatering view of the fleshy tops of my breasts, as well as the scalloped lace edges of my bra cups.

After stepping into a pair of three-inch black patent heels and completing the outfit with a string of pearls around my neck, I walked to the mirror to assess my appearance. I sized up my reflection; the image cried out 'secretary ready to take dictation', and I hoped Mr. Dalton would be pleased.

I hung up the towel and straightened the apartment, then looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was already a quarter after ten, and there had been no word from Mr. Dalton since I left the party a little after six. I sat on the couch with an impatient huff, my body and mind teetering between arousal and irritation. Pulling out my phone, I checked the timestamp of his last message again, then absentmindedly pulled up an internet article to put my mind elsewhere.

Finally, at almost eleven, there was a knock at my door. I leapt to my feet – too eagerly, I thought – and started towards the door. Forcing myself to relax, I called out "Coming!" and paused to check myself in the mirror one last time. I smoothed the wrinkles from my skirt, checked the profile of my underwire-enhanced breasts, and puckered my lips a final time to inspect my makeup. I took a final deep breath, then turned the doorknob.

I was greeted by a surprise upon opening the door. Mr. Dalton towered at the entry to my apartment, dapper as always in a lavish sport coat with no tie, carrying a bottle of expensive looking liquor and wearing a strange smile on his face. Beside him stood two other large, well-dressed black men, each staring intently at their phones. My gaze moved from Mr. Dalton to his companions and back; I was at a loss for words in my confusion and he offered no elucidation.

Breaking momentarily from their phones, the two men purposefully looked over my body, then brushed past me into my apartment without so much as a "Hello." My mouth fell slightly agape and I stared blankly at Mr. Dalton, seeking explanation. He moved towards me, but rather than a greeting, he handed me the bottle.

"Pour us some drinks, please." His words were delivered in an instructional manner – not asking, but civilly explaining what he expected of me – as he moved to join his friends in the living room. I turned slowly as I shut the door, and saw the two men had settled on my couch as Mr. Dalton headed toward a plush chair next to them.

I went to the kitchen and poured three glasses of the cognac. From the living room, I heard someone – Mr. Dalton, I assumed – turn the radio to an R&B station. I reached into the cabinet above my refrigerator to find a tray for the drinks, my breasts straining the tight fabric of my shirt as I extended my body to access the high shelf. With the soulful voice of Keith Sweat floating softly through my apartment, I brought the tray of cocktails out to the assembled group of men. I found them engaged in a playfully heated debate regarding their apparently failed post-dinner plans.

"If this cheap motherfucker would just tip a bouncer, we would have a table at Jazz right now." The man at the far end of the couch said while laughing and pointing at Mr. Dalton, referring to a high-end club a few blocks away. I set the tray on the coffee table and bent across it to hand the two strangers their drinks. Both men unabashedly trained their eyes down the unbuttoned opening to my blouse and the inviting glimpse offered of my lace-swathed melons. As I handed Mr. Dalton his glass, he motioned that I should pull up a nearby chair and sit across the coffee table from "our" guests as he responded to the jesting criticism.

"I know that you spend most of your weekends corralling club rats, Mr. Farmer," Mr. Dalton quipped with a grin, "but Mr. Mills and I have a serious business matter to discuss. And this – with the hospitality of our lovely hostess – is a place where serious business can get done." He gestured towards me as I sat down and crossed my legs, quietly half-tuning-in to their discussion.

From what I heard of their banter, I gathered that Mr. Farmer was a business partner of Mr. Dalton's and Mr. Mills was a distribution manager from a major supplier. Earlier in the evening, the three had gone to dinner at a nearby steakhouse to set out the conditions of an agreement. Now, here in my living room, the three were apparently finalizing terms for the deal that had been particularized before their arrival, although I found the details of the seemingly complex transaction difficult to follow.

"I'm more than willing to make the initial investment offer to get things started if the two of you don't want the risky exposure early on. But I need to know that if my tender is accepted, one of you will be there with the follow-up capital to keep things moving." Mr. Farmer looked from me to Mr. Mills to me and finally to Mr. Dalton.

"I'll fund Stage Two after your initial offer is accepted." Mr. Mills responded, tipping his glass in salute to Mr. Farmer's brave trailblazing role while casting a sideways glance at my chest. "I think the rewards are full and ripe enough to be worth any risk."

"And I'll make sure, Mr. Farmer, that you are first to enjoy the rewards. It would be wise for us to maintain funding levels for all stages of the project to ensure we all reap the early benefits. After the initial payoff, however, I think we'll find the payoffs will come easily, and there will be any number of nice opportunities to slip into." The guys raised their glasses and enthusiastically toasted their arrangement. I giggled half-heartedly, pretending to follow their discussion.

I'd grown bored with the conversation and allowed my disappointed mind to wander to what I needed from the store and how I could reach the stray strand of dust that clung to the popcorn of my twelve-foot ceiling. With my legs crossed, I absentmindedly jiggled the high-heeled shoe from my toes as I agitatedly bounced my leg at the knee. I took a deep breath and let out a high-pitched sigh of boredom, feeling my plump breasts strain my shirt as they rose atop my expanding ribcage.

It took me a moment to realize that their conversation had ceased, and that three pairs of eyes were now trained on me, my bare leg, the tight shirt stretched across my swollen mounds. Each of them had finished their cognac, and Mr. Dalton signaled that I should fetch a fresh round.

I smiled as I stood and bent over the low table to pick up the empty glasses, sensing as Mr. Farmer and Mr. Mills craned their necks to again peer down the opening of my shirt and into my deep cleavage. As I straightened with the tray in my hands and turned to head back to the kitchen, Mr. Farmer cleared his throat to get my attention.

"We... ahem, uh, Sarah, is it? We appreciate your hospitality, having us here tonight." He said as his gaze slowly traveled upwards from my boobs to make eye contact with me for the first time.

"Well, I wasn't given a choi-..." My eyes shifted to Mr. Dalton whose look directed me to change my response mid-sentence to a mumbled "It's been my pleasure" before I started back towards the kitchen.

Mr. Farmer cleared his throat to regain my attention. "So, I was thinking we might reach a mutually beneficial arrangement..." he reached into his pocket and pulled out a startlingly thick money clip. My eyes widened at the staggering wad of cash, which he took as his cue to continue. "I'll give you five hundred dollars, and how about you fetch those drinks in your bra and panties." He peeled five notes from the bundle and extended his hand towards me. Suspecting a trick, I looked hesitantly to Mr. Dalton for reassurance, who nodded his concurrence.

I quickly did the analysis in my head: five hundred dollars could go a long way on a graduate student budget, and it's just underwear – basically the same as a swimsuit! – so it seemed I was getting the better end of the bargain.

My small fingers extended towards Mr. Farmer's large, dark hand and took the folded bills. I discretely fanned them apart to confirm they composed the promised amount, and tucked the money into the breast pocket of my blouse.

As my three guests stared on intently, I set about undoing the five buttons of my blouse. The gap of exposed skin on my chest widened as my shirt fell open with the downward progress of my fingers, finally reaching the waist of my skirt. Leaving the halves of my shirt hanging apart – exposing the lace edges of my bra cups – I rotated my fingers to my back and unfastened the hook-and-eye clasp and zipper of my skirt. Its closures released, the garment slid freely from my hips and pooled on the floor around my feet. I stepped out of the flattened skirt, bent and picked it from the ground, and folded it neatly over the back of my chair.

All eyes in the room focused ravenously on the last cotton barrier protecting my flesh. I undid the final buttons of my shirt and the fabric peeled away from my pale skin, revealing my supple body shrouded in only the most crucial of coverings. I pulled the shirt back from my tummy, innocently shrugged my shoulders out of the sleeves, folded the blouse over the chair with the skirt, and turned to face my guests.

Three pairs of eyes were pinned to my pale breasts veiled by thin, patterned white lace. I bent at my knees to pick up the tray, then turned and made my way to the kitchen. As I walked, the back of my thong was pulled between my cheeks and was nearly lost in my round ass. I poured the drinks and returned to the table.

On my return, I found that Mr. Farmer and Mr. Mills had moved to clear space in the middle of the couch and they gave the open spot an inviting pat as I approached. I placed the tray on the table and stooped to sit between the men, feeling a few grazing touches of their fingers at my back and butt as I came down. Each of the gentlemen reached to grab their own drink from the table this time, and as I settled between the two large men on the sofa, Mr. Farmer draped his arm around my shoulder.