Lip Service – By CJ Warrant
LIP SERVICE
BY CJ WARRANT
Ava
Don’t pee your pants, Ava. Hold it a little longer.
I should have gone to the bathroom before I left the house, but it wasn’t urgent then. Despite Ms. Taylor’s insistence on an immediate meeting, I’ve been sitting here for over thirty minutes. My bladder is begging for relief as I squirm on the black leather chair.
I try to distract myself by studying the red and black velvet couches in the reception area, the signature colors of the most illustrious company in the United States—and possibly the entire world. The Red Lips Society, Inc., or RLS, the brainchild of Guinevere Webb.
I love their lingerie—though I don’t have the body or the confidence to wear them. And the way they market their products is beyond genius. Their romance guides are practically required reading, and their sensual products for lovers are highly touted.
Their matchmaking service has a success rate of almost a hundred percent. But what I love most about RLS is what I’ve heard about the parties they throw for their clients.
As an event coordinator, working for RLS would be a dream come true—if I’d been brave enough to dream about it.
I still don’t know why Ms. Webb, a smart, business-savvy woman, wants to see me.
When her assistant called me this morning, out of the blue, I was stunned.
Especially since Ms. Taylor wouldn’t go into details.
As if on cue, Ms. Webb’s image flashes across a television screen to my left. But what grabs my attention is the deep vibrato of the man doing the voiceover. It’s all male, with a hint of brogue adding to its sensual allure.
I forget about my bladder and listen so intently to the hypnotic voice that I don’t hear my name being called.
“Ava Lange?” A woman’s sharp voice calls out from behind me. I jump out of my seat and spin around, spotting a tall, red-haired woman sauntering toward to me.
Whoa. My jaw goes slack, but I snap my mouth shut before she catches me gawking at her. I hope.
This woman is gorgeous with a capital G, and she knows it too.
She exudes self-confidence with every click of her black heels on the polished floor.
Her high-collared, white blouse enhances her full, high, DD breasts and her black pencil skirt emphasizes her slim waist and perfect hips.
I can imagine her as one of those Forties pin-up models—all glossy red lips and sultry eyes.
Speaking of eyes, her sharp green gaze is assessing me.
My attention drops to the ballet flats peeking from beneath my long, flowy bohemian skirt, which I bought at a secondhand shop for fifteen dollars, and my baggy blouse, which hides my fake C cups.
I then glance at the people around me, and they too are dressed in high-end, brand name clothing.
I suddenly feel so out of place. Maybe I should have worn something less casual… put on makeup… curled my long, brown hair.
Snap out of it, Ava.
I was in the corporate world before life gave me lemons.
Since my breast cancer diagnosis nine years ago, my mindset has changed, along with my body.
It’s survived a war. And after the weight gain caused by steroids, chemo treatments, and a host of other medicines, there’s no comparison between her body and mine.
There’s no comparison between our wardrobes, either. Since the double mastectomy, I’m careful to avoid wearing tight shirts. I wear what I want, not caring who looks at me strangely. So, I won’t regret my clothing choices, because it simply wouldn’t be me otherwise.
“Ms. Lange.” The redhead approaches with a smooth, graceful gait that reminds me of a gazelle. Those heels—which I assume are Christian Louboutin—are killers, and way beyond my budget.
“Yes?” My left eye begins to twitch, which happens whenever I’m anxious.
I grab my patchwork-quilted purse, sling the strap over my shoulder, and smooth my hands down my skirt to wipe the sweat off my palms. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It isn’t like I applied for this job. RLS called me .
What could Ms. Webb possibly want from a simple, transplanted mid-western event coordinator?
No matter, I’m here and might die of bladder failure soon, if I don’t get to a bathroom.
“I’m Jessica Taylor, Ms. Webb’s personal assistant. She’s expecting you. Follow me.” The woman’s heavily lined eyes show no hint of emotion, but her full lips are slanted into a tiny smirk.
The word bitch comes to mind. Instead of saying so, I smile and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Jessica cuts her calculating eyes to my hand, then turns on her heels. “This way.”
I talked to this woman on the phone two hours ago, and she was as aloof then as she is now.
I agreed to this meeting, but the moment I got off the call, I started having second thoughts.
But this is thee Guinevere Webb after all.
Besides, Ms. Taylor was insistent that she wanted to meet with me, so I couldn’t say no, could I?
Furthermore, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work for a Fortune 500 company, and it’d be a huge boost for my career.
If I get a position here, I can handle a little bitchiness, especially if more money is involved.
It would certainly help with rent on my apartment, since my next job is still three weeks away.
“May I ask you a question?” Jessica’s voice oozes condescension as she leads me through a set of doors.
“Sure.” I keep my tone light, refusing to be bated by her snobbery.
“Did you come from the beach?” She turns her head slightly and glances at me.
“It’s ten in the morning,” I say with some puzzlement. Then I get it. Instead of responding further, I keep my mouth shut. It wouldn’t benefit anyone—especially me—to snipe back at her.
Apparently, Jessica isn’t bothered by my silence and continues down a corridor lined with reminders of the company’s accomplishments.
I follow her through a single glass door, watching the rhythmic sway of her hips.
Does she think she’s on a catwalk? Despite my snark, I envy her sexy gait and wish I could afford those gorgeous five-hundred-dollar red-soled heels.
Actually, I’d settle for some symmetrical boobs instead.
One of mine is slightly larger than the other and both implants have shifted, making them look wonky and misshapen.
My friend Georgia calls them franken-tits, and she’s not wrong.
To fix them would cost more money than I have, even if most of the cost would be covered by insurance. No, I decided a while ago that I’m not going to worry about them.
“Ms. Webb asked me to apologize for the delay. She’s having a busy day.” Ms. Taylor’s stride doesn’t falter even though she’s looking over her shoulder. Yeah, very graceful, and definitely not me.
“That’s okay. Ms. Taylor, I’m still wondering why Ms. Webb wants to talk to me .”
“It’s not for me to say,” she says with a wave of her hand.
I blow out a short huff at her response. Yet, I have a bigger problem: My excessively full bladder wants to burst. “Um. Ms. Taylor, is there a bathroom I can use before seeing Ms. Webb?” Heat creeps into my cheeks. Bodily functions are never a comfortable topic, especially with a stranger.
She glances over her shoulder at me again. “This way.” Jessica leads me toward an adjoining corridor and points at two doors. “I’ll be at the desk we just passed. When you’re… finished, join me there.” She then strides off.
I let out another soft huff, watching her disappear around the corner. I try mimicking her seductive walk, but in total Ava-fail, I end up feeling like a stumbling baby giraffe. I stop immediately.
Turning my attention back to what I need to do, I walk up to the two doors, one right next to the other, and my mouth drops open in surprise.
Above each door is a large, gold placard, which reads BATHROOM . Not girls/women, or boys/men, just bathroom .
I quickly look around the hallway and spot no one. I choose the door on the left, tentatively push it open a foot, and peer inside. “Hello?”
Silence meets my ears. Good. No people, and no urinals. Unable to ignore the strain on my abused bladder, I rush inside the pristine bathroom and slip into one of the stalls. I gather up my skirt, sit and let out a soft groan of relief.
I finish and am pulling up my panties, when the bathroom door opens and the voices of two men fill the space. My eyes go wide as I stand there in the stall, with my skirt bundled in my arms and my panties at my knees.
What the heck am I going to do now?
You’ve done it this time, Ava.
I do not want to be caught in here, so I hike my skirt higher, and carefully slide my undies up with my free hand. Then I balance one foot at a time on the U-shaped seat, and press my hand on the wall for leverage.
I calm my breathing and remain silent until the bathroom is empty again.
I peek through the crack between the walls of the stall to see who they were. Granted, I can’t control what I’m seeing, but… I can’t make myself look away either.
Brodrick
The instant I’ve shut the bathroom door, I lock it and pull John to me with a firm grip around the back of his neck.
“I’ve been dying to have your lips wrapped around my cock all morning.”
I hiss as he yanks on my black tie and draws me close for a deep, heady kiss. “Same,” John utters against my lips.
“But we only have time for a stroke or two.” The twinkle in his beautiful, dark brown eyes ramps up my salacious mood. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, Baby?”
“We have time for more than a stroke.” John leans back, undoes my belt and zipper, and pulls out my hard-as-fuck cock. With greedy eyes and a lick of his bottom lip, he gets down on his knees and swallows me whole.
I clamp down on my groan as his talented mouth works me while his other hand fondles my balls. John’s vigorous sucking has me about to blow a load down his throat. But I don’t want that—not yet, anyway.
“John, I want to touch you.” I grit my teeth to stave off my impending orgasm.