Screwing The Pitch

This is the big pitch. This is the one that's going to elevate us up into the advertising stratosphere, and that's why I'm the only one who's going to make it. That's the way it's always been with Howie and me. He's the creative force, the one who comes up with the ideas the clients want, and I'm the one who sells it to them, makes them wet themselves and scribble obscene numbers down on contracts to get us to work for them.

We've been working together three years, and we've gone like a storm that whole time. London didn't know what hit it when we realised what we could achieve together. We've gone from going-nowhere juniors to the Next Big Thing – and that's not me boasting, that's what all the trade mags (and some mainstream ones too) say. Normally followed up with a description of Howie as 'notoriously reclusive' and me as 'brash and vulgar', as if that's a bad thing.

Vulgar's just another way of saying 'richer than me, and not afraid to show it'. This is the City, and if you don't show what you've got – and how you're willing to spend it – then you're nobody. So yeah, I'm vulgar, I'm brash, and I'm currently ordering several bottles of champagne that each cost more than any of those journalists earn in a month. Sticks and stones, kids, sticks and stones.

The pitch is tomorrow morning, 11am sharp, but right now I couldn't care about that. I'm showing a bunch of traders just what conspicuous consumption is all about. I'm showing them – and making up the rules at the same time – a game that finds out whether an expensive watch or a magnum bottle breaks first on contact, and at the same time I'm getting some definite attention from a hot blonde at the bar.

This is how I relax. I'll drink and fuck and snort and eat all I want tonight, crash for a couple of hours, knock back some ridiculous-strength espresso and then give them the pitch of their lives like I'd been tucked up in my pyjamas at nine pm. You couldn't live like that, but I can, that's why I get the headlines calling me Jason Connor, London advertising's new

wunderkind.

That's the sort of dedication you need to get ahead in the City. It's not about how much work you do from nine to five, it's about how well you fill the time after it. Work hard, play harder, and use the cash you earn to employ a personal trainer to make you look as good as I do.

You can clock off at the end of day, get the train home, curl up in front of the telly and be fresh-eyed in the morning, but then you'll never know what's really going on. You'll have a long, dull and safe career with a nice pension at the end, but you'll always be envious of guys like me. We're the ones who fill those bars you walk past on the way to the station, the ones full of chrome and glass, the ones where there's no menu, no price list, because they'll get you whatever you want and if you have to ask the price you can't afford it.

That's my territory. That's where I'm alive and filling myself with the energy to blow their minds tomorrow. I'm checked over Howie's ideas, and they're dynamite, the sort the clients have flown all the way from California to see. They've come to London because they know this city boils with the creativity they need. Sure, they're seeing other firms, but as far as I care, that's a formality. We're the ones they want, and even if they don't know it yet, I do.

The blonde's coming over, and that's good, because the traders are boring me now and I need something new. I can feel myself getting hard just watching her walk. Her body's tall, slim and tight, the product of hours in a gym every week, and even if she's not completely dressed to kill, you could put her in a sack and she'd still be able to severely maim you. Tight black skirt over black silk stockings and four inch heels she knows how to move in, topped off with a black jacket over an emerald green shirt that's unbuttoned enough to show wisps of black lace as she moves.

Me? I just make it over the six foot tall line, my hair's all my own and still naturally black, brown eyes, sharp smile and a body that earned my personal trainer a five-figure bonus for getting me to it.

She leans over as she comes to the table, her long straight blonde hair falling forward as she gives me a quick glance at her perfectly firm lace-clad breasts. "Jason? I'm Carrie. Howard Rose told me I'd find you here."

Oh, nice one Howie.

He knows just what I need and I'm sure this girl's going to fit the bill perfectly. "Did he now?" I say. "Then I guess I should offer you a drink."

She takes the champagne with a wink. "Only a drink? I thought you had more to offer than that."

"I do. Let me show you." As she polishes off the glass, I grab her hand and escort her across the bar. No one blinks as we disappear into the toilets together – anyone surprised by that sort of behaviour wouldn't step in here in the first place – and they make a point of telling you there are no cameras in there to catch what goes on. We each do a couple of lines, then she grabs me and drags me into one of the spacious cubicles. I go to bend her over but Carrie shakes her head and says "no", dropping to her knees instead.

"You get that later. This is just the starter."

I'm rock hard already, and my cock springs out as she undoes my trousers. She kisses the tip first, then circles it with her tongue, teasing me. I reach out and stroke her hair, fingers playing down to her neck, coaxing her but not forcing her. She's the professional here; I'm just enjoying the show. She slowly moves down, head bobbing back and forth, tongue and lips combining fantastically. I'm not in the mood for holding back and she's looking up at me with wide eyes that look almost hungry for me. One hand is resting on my hip, the other working the base of my shaft in time with with her lips. My balls are throbbing, and she doesn't stop even when I let out a long guttural moan, my hands gripping her tight. Instead, she takes more of me in her mouth, her tongue almost milking me as I climax, shooting into her mouth.

"I hope there's more for later." She says as we clean up before we head back into the bar.

"Oh yes, lots more of everything." The traders are still sitting at the table where we left them, staring wide-eyed in awe at me. It's good to be the best.

Where did you find this one, Howie?

I mean, I've had girls all round the world, and they're rarely as keen as Carrie is. It's like she's on a mission to kill me with sex, and I'm not intending to stop her trying. She's all over me in the bar, would probably have broken several laws against public nudity in the cab if the ride to my hotel was any longer, and as soon as we get in the lift, she's undone my belt and has her hand inside my trousers, working me back to hardness.

We stagger down the hallway and into the room. It's one of the best in the place, of course, but we don't stop to admire the view across the city or any of the furnishings other than the bed. Carrie pushes me on to it, and I begin undressing myself as she starts shedding her clothes, parading at the bottom of the bed. The jacket drops first, then the last few buttons on the blouse come open, revealing a flat, taut stomach beneath perfectly firm and round breasts held by a delicate lace bra. I'm still fumbling with the buttons on my shirt, watching intently as she unzips the tight skirt, a seductive wiggle of the hips helping it drop down those long slim legs. Her whole body is a marvel, the lace panties she wears covering enough to be tantalising, but revealing enough to ensure I'm rapidly undoing my trousers to free my stiffening cock.

She teases me with the bra, undoing it but taking her time fully removing it, her hands dancing and concealing her breasts until it finally drops down, then her hands slide down to her hips to tug at her panties, revealing stiff brown nipples on beautifully pert breasts. With a last bend and wiggle, she's out of the panties and climbing onto the bed, still in her stockings and heels.

"Is that for me?" She says, reaching out and stroking my cock.

I shudder as I nod, she's gripping me just tightly enough to feel incredible. "Oh yes." I say, my mind well beyond the capability of uttering anything beyond the obvious.

"Mmm, that's good." She says, and she lifts herself up, straddling me, holding herself over me for a minute, her hips rocking, her wet lips teasing the tip, barely touching it. Then she moves down, and in one movement, I'm deep within her. We move together then, both of us rocking up and down, back and forth, her gripping me inside her and then releasing with each movement. I'm glad for the coke and the champagne and whatever else we did, otherwise I'd be over and done quickly.

As it is, I've got the chance to run my hands all over Carrie's fantastic body, feeling the tight curve of her hips, watching her gasp and moan as I play with her nipples.. She's gripping me with her thighs as she moves and grinds against me, her hands balancing herself on my chest. She leans forward, changing the angle, working me harder and I can't resist any more. My climax is like an explosion rocketing through me as I groan loudly, my back arching as I thrust as deep into her as I can.

I'm woken by the phone ringing. Images of the night before flash before my eyes, and I remember taking Carrie in lots of ways, in lots of positions, in lots of parts of the room before we finally collapsed, unable to do any more. There's an empty champagne bottle somewhere round by my feet and just a few grains of my coke left on the mirror.

"Good morning, Mr Connor. This is your 8 o'clock alarm call. Will you be wanting your usual breakfast order?"

I glance around. Carrie's not in the bed, and all her clothes are gone. Guess Howie didn't pay her enough to stay for breakfast.

"Yeah, enough espresso to drown an elephant, soon as you can."

By the time I've caffeinated every internal organ and spent half an hour in the bathroom, I'm ready for the pitch. I dress, and go to grab my case from where I left it by the door. For a moment I panic, as it's not there, then realise it's resting to the left of the door, not the right where I thought I'd left it. I stride out of the hotel and wave at the concierge, letting them know I'll be back in a couple of hours to get the sleep I missed last night and it'll need to be properly clean by then.

The cab ride's long enough to run over all the details of the pitch in my head, get it absolutely clear before I have to give it. The documents are all in my case, hard copies for me to run through and commit to memory one last time. Howie's waiting for me in the lobby.

"Bit of a delay. The pitch before us is over-running. Got here late." He tells me

"Shouldn't have let them pitch then." I say.

"They need the experience. New firm, bunch of women, never seen any of them before. Anyway, you have a good time last night?"

"Classic. Fantastic find, Howie, where did you get her from? I'm going to have to book her again."

"Eastern Angels. You'd been talking about Japanese girls all week, so I thought that's what you'd like."

Something screeches in my head. "Japanese? This girl was English. OK, maybe Swedish, but nowhere further east than that. Tall, blonde, definitely not Japanese."

"Must have been some cock up at the agency. But she was good, yeah?"

A cock-up. Yeah, I tell myself, that's what it was, but something feels bad, something feels wrong, and then my stomach hits the floor as I look over the lobby and see a group of three women being escorted across it, all looking very pleased with themselves. There's a short one with a mop of red hair, a big one with short dark hair, both of them flanking a very familiar tall blonde in a sharp suit. She's smiling as they walk over towards us.

"You must be Connor and Rose." She says, with a smile that looks professional and eyes that tell me I'm completely screwed. "Caroline Davison, DTK Media. I hope your pitch isn't too similar to ours." I remember the case not being where I expected it to be, her determination to screw me until I crashed to sleep, her eagerness to get me out of the bar and back to the hotel.

Getting me out before the girl Howie had really booked turned up.

All that, just to get into my case and see what we were pitching and take it for themselves. I was about to go in and deliver the pitch of my life, for ideas she'd have been giving them fresh an hour before. London's brightest and freshest ad men are about to look like the two most unoriginal chumps in the world.

The assistant who was escorting them looks to us. "We're ready for to hear your pitch now." It's too late, I want to say, you've already heard it. As we walk off towards our humiliation, I look around and see the three women, laughing with each other as they walk off. Carrie kisses each of them in turn, each of them holding one of her hands. They look very happy, then she looks round and gives me a wink and a grin before turning back and heading off.

Despite everything she's done to me, I still feel myself getting hard.