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The shoot was going so well that I thought it would be a good time to slip away, go into the creative director's viewing room, get some face time with the boss and a pat on the back for a job well done.
I knocked twice, got no response and walked in. His back was toward me, and he was leaning forward staring at the video monitor.
Usually the creative director sits alone in front of a videocam feed, focusing on the shoot without distraction, making sure the client gets the most for their millions. But from where I stood, the image on the monitor looked black and red, nothing like the filming going on outside the door.
I walked closer, squinting. It took me a moment to realize that I was not looking at the shoot at all, but at the black hair surrounding the model's unshaved pussy underneath her red dress.
There he was, Geoff Counsul, executive creative director, married, two kids, making a few million a year at least, sitting in front of a video monitor, looking up a supermodel's dress.
I guessed the pussy was being taped by a camera underneath the stage; a hole in the floor of the set created by the famous MTV-video director, for the famous ad agency creative director, to look at the pussy of the famous model.
"Who's standing behind me?" Geoff asked from his chair, without moving his body or taking his eyes off of the video.
"It's me."
I'd already seen the supermodel's tit covered with spinach, and now her pussy was on a screen. Quite frankly, I couldn't wait to find out what this day was going to bring next. |
"That door wasn't locked?"
"No."
He didn't turn around, and I didn't move a muscle. I'd seen a lot of things in advertising, but I had absolutely no idea what to do in this particular situation.
"Do me a favor and lock it," he said.
"Should I stay in here, or go back out to the shoot?"
"What do you want to do?" he asked, still not looking at me.
I thought about it. I'd already seen the supermodel's tit covered with spinach, and now her pussy was on a screen. Quite frankly, I couldn't wait to find out what this day was going to bring next.
"I'll stay."
I locked the door, and when I turned back around, he was half-facing me in his black leather swivel chair. His pants were wide open, and I could see the head of his penis peeking above the waistband of his underwear.
He kept turning toward me, and then back to around to the peep show in front of him like he was afraid it would disappear if he looked away for too long.
"Oh, come on, don't look at me like that," he said, imagining my condescension when really I was squinting at the shiny drop on the head of his penis. "This is why we go into this business in the first place, isn't it? It's one of the perks of the job." He started to move his hand up and down over his underwear, the material tightening around him, showing me a perfect outline of his stiffening cock.
"I'm not looking at you in any particular way," I said to ease his mind. And then I walked over to him and stood next to him in a show of solidarity.
"Look at that pussy," he said. "Isn't that something?"
I looked down at him, riveted by his cock. It was tall, smooth and silky. A supermodel in its own right. |
"It is," I said, and the moment he saw that I was on his side, he pulled down his underwear and started stroking himself freely and easily.
"Ah, yeah," he said, leaning back in his chair and moving his hand faster. "This is what it's all about."
I looked down at him, riveted by his cock. It was tall, smooth and silky. A supermodel in its own right.
I wanted to touch him before it was all over. I stepped in front of him, but not so much that he couldn't see the screen, and moved his hand off of his cock. I watched it for a second without touching it. It stood straight out, pointing at me, and I could see his balls underneath, tight and perfect. I held them lightly in one hand, squeezing them slightly and stroking his cock with the other. He leaned all the way back in the swivel chair, and spread his legs wide apart.
"I wanna fuck so bad," he said, moving his hips up and down, fucking up into my hand with his cock. I gripped him really tight, and he bent forward, moaning, as his sperm hit the video monitor.
He relaxed back into the chair.
"No one will ever know," he said. "The film stays with us. It's our own private property."
I walked through the makeshift kitchen and watched the private chef cook more spinach soup, knowing that I was never, ever going to get that picture out of my mind. Every time I saw her face on a giant billboard in Times Square, I would see that video monitor dripping with sperm.
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| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Margot Berwin is the author of Irresistible, a work of creative nonfiction. She is currently working on an instructional novel called How to Avoid Disaster. She lives in Manhattan. |
©2007 Margot Berwin and Nerve.com. |
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