Names Have Power: Tim's Magic Voice Makes A Harem (2 page)

Chapter 2
Telling Off Susan

This was my first day to come to the dealership,
ready to own it. Even so, it felt wrong to park in “my” space—I felt like I
were trespassing on Dad’s spot. I walked past Ms. Cooper into my inner office;
she, as usual, was dressed like a Vassar grad who was working at a brokerage
firm.

My father had held a Morning Meeting of senior
managers, every day at eight; I continued that tradition. So five minutes after
I arrived for work, gathered in my inner office were Mike, my horndog general
sales manager; Albert, the always-serious service manager; Bobby, the parts
manager; Betty Jane, the finance manager; Kathy, former student-council
president and now my sales manager—and of course Ms. Cooper, who was taking
notes.

I read from my scribblings on a legal pad. “First,
it’s time to film a new sales ad. But I’m not going to shoot a standard `We’re
having a sale’ ad—”

“Why not?” asked Kathy. “After all, this weekend we
are
having a sale.”

“Oh, I’ll
mention
the sale. But
business-as-usual seems—well, ghoulish right now. So what I’m thinking for the
ad is that I talk, but the visual is old video of Big Tim. Ms. Cooper, please
go through our old video and film, and find ads that show my father’s nature.”

“Certainly, Mr. Hanson,” Susan said. Surprisingly,
she didn’t get all huffy at being asked to do hours of extra work.

“Second thing,” I said. “I’ve hired an accountant
from Detroit to audit the dealership. Please cooperate with him. This is
not
a reflection on any of you.”

Mike raised a hand in a “stop” gesture. “So why do
it, why have an audit?”

“I love my father, but he was never a good man for
record-keeping. His records here are pathetic.”

Mike frowned. “I feel like my honor is being
questioned. I’ve kept a lot of those records, and if you’re thinking, Tim, that
those records are no good, then maybe you and I can’t work together.”

“Are you telling me that if this auditor walks in,
you’re walking out?” I said, eyebrows raised.

“Please, let it be so,” Susan murmured.

Mike nodded, looking martyrish. “I feel that my
honor is at stake.”

“And
I
feel that I have a right to know the
finances of my new dealership. Michael, we
will
be audited; accept that
and go on.”

I expected Mike to keep arguing then. But instead
he said, “Sure, you need to start with clean books. I saw that, but I was
hoping I could make you think you owed me a favor. I guess I can live with an
auditor.” His face and body were relaxed now, and he looked 100 percent
sincere.

That statement sounded fishy for a hundred reasons.
But I let it pass—why argue with someone who’s just agreed with you?

I turned my eyes back to the legal pad. The rest of
the stuff written on it was routine. The Morning Meeting went another fifteen
minutes.

After Albert and Kathy left, Mike came over to me,
leaned over, and murmured, “Make plans for tonight at the Nimfo Club. You, me,
and Albert. My treat!” Then Mike left my office.

Which put me alone with the Ice Princess.

I hadn’t slept well, and now that I was coming down
from the adrenaline high of my first-ever Morning Meeting as the Boss, I was
feeling sleepy. I didn’t think things through, and so I looked at Susan and
said, “Get me a cup of coffee, please. I’m desperate.”

She glared at me. “No, Mister Hanson, I will not.
My agreement with your father was that coffee was
not
—”

“Oh, cut the crap. He’s dead, so you could claim
that he promised you a million dollars a year.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with haughty voice.
“But he and I
did
have an agreement about coffee, and
you
are
breaking it. This is almost Inappropriate Behavior.”

For five years I’d put up with her treating me like
a cockroach, but
no way
was I going to
pay her a salary
to treat
me like a cockroach! I came
thisclose
to firing her that instant, even
knowing that she’d try to sue the pants off me afterward.

Instead, I growled, “Susan Gloria Cooper, if I want
to ‘Inappropriate Behavior’ you, I’ll ask you to live in my house with other
women and to serve in my harem. Believe me, short of me asking you to join my
harem, nothing I do with you is inappropriate behavior, you got that?”

“Yes, Mister Hanson, I—”

I went for broke, I was that mad. “You don’t work
for my father now, you work for me. Unless you quit. And maybe you should.”

“Now just a minute—”

“Your attitude stinks. We are in the `friendliness’
business, my queen.” I gestured toward the showroom. “The men and women on the
floor, they have to be friendly and helpful. Say it’s Thursday night and the
salesperson is way behind quota, because it’s been raining all week? Too bad,
he has to be friendly and helpful to the customer who does walk in. Say the
customer has never heard of soap or a toothbrush? The salesperson still has to
be friendly and helpful. You wouldn’t last
five minutes
out on the
floor!”

“So? I am not a sales whore here, I have a
good
job,” Susan replied.

“You don’t think
what you’re doing
is sales?
When a customer says, `I want to talk to the dealer,’ and he winds up on the
other side of your desk, or talking to you on the phone? If you treat
him
like you treat
me
, he’s going to storm out of here and tell everyone he
can talk to, `Don’t buy a car from Tim Hanson Ford.’”

“I don’t treat customers like that,” she said
stiffly.

“So why do you treat
me
like that?” I
yelled. Before she could speak, I said, “Susan Cooper, you shall be friendly
and helpful around me from now on, so that you’ll be by-god in practice when
you talk to customers. And Susan Gloria Cooper, the friendlier you are to me,
the more helpful you are to me, the better. Got me?”

She smiled at me.
Smiled!
She said, “You’re
right, and I thank you for showing me how to do my job better.”

Something is weird here
, I thought. But what
I said to my secretary was, “Then I’m glad we had this talk, Ms. Cooper. I don’t
want to fire you.”

“Oh please, Mr. Hanson, you know my name. Call me
Susan, or better yet, I’m Susie. How do you prefer the cream and sugar in your
coffee?”

At 3 p.m., Susan had film and videotape ready to
show me. As I was looking at old images of my father (and of me), Susan asked, “Mr.
Hanson? Suppose I gave you a thousand dollars of my money, and a list of all my
clothing sizes. I took you to a mall, and asked you to buy work clothes for me.
What would you buy me?”

“My lawyer would advise me not to answer that
question. No comment.”

“Please, Mr. Hanson, I’m sure that you answering my
question isn’t sexual harassment. Please answer, I need to know.”

I thought,
Let’s yank her chain and see if she’s
really changed her attitude.
Aloud I said, “I’d buy dresses that would show
off your chest. Plus really sexy blouse-skirt combos. All with a hemline that
is well above the knee. Plus the highest heels you could walk in, a garter
belt, and sexy stockings.” To make the joke even more jokey, I added, “Ribbons
for your hair, and a nail-salon gift certificate for a full set of top-grade
long nails.”

“No pants? No pantyhose?”

“Hey, if I’m spending my evening buying you clothes,
instead of watching ESPN? No pants, no pantyhose, forget it.”

I was expecting Susan to be screaming at me by now,
threatening lawsuits and EEOC complaints, loudly enough that she could be heard
in Hawaii. Instead, she nodded. “I see. When would I wear this clothing? Casual
Friday?”

“
What?
I give up my hypothetical evening to
buy you clothes for work, and you wear them one day a week? That’s not
friendly.”

She gasped. “You’re right, that is so wrong!” She
squared her shoulders and looked at me. “I will go shopping tonight so that
after today, I’m dressed friendly. Garters, stockings, and very high heels, the
whole shebang, every day.”

“Don’t forget the long nails and the hair ribbon,”
I said. “Every day.”

Susan eyed me. “You can count on me, Mr. Hanson.”

This whole talk had turned strange. Why hadn’t
Susan realized I was joking? Why wasn’t she mad at me and lecturing me about
“inappropriate behavior,” like in olden days?

Mike and Albert came to my office at five, to take
me to the gentleman’s club. As they were walking me out, Susan asked, “Mr.
Hanson, Mr. Hanson! How long should my fingernails be?”

“Say what?” I said.

“If I go to a nail salon to get long nails, and the
nail tech asks, `How long?’, what should I say?”

Much of my conversation with Susan today had been
strange, and this conversation was even more strange. Worse, Mike was giving me
a look that said,
What’s going on? Are you fucking the Ice Princess?
So,
annoyed with her, I answered, “Hell, Susan, make the length what’s wildly
impractical, and that makes every guy think you’re easy.”

Susan nodded her head, then Mike dragged me to his
car.

Chapter 3
I Learn Strippers’ Secrets

Albert, Mike, and I had been celebrating at the
Nimfo Club for an hour when the night turned strange.

Mike gestured a circle to mean all the strippers. “See
one you like?”

I pointed to a big-breasted blonde. “Her,
definitely. Platinuma.”

“Oh yeah,” Mike said, “with that body she’d be fun
for a few fucks, for sure.”

“Well, I’d want to date her too, not just fuck her.”

Mike snorted. “`Date’? As in, `Buy her dinner and
chocolates and roses and shit’? Hell, Tim, all the women here are whores—except
for the dykes, of course. Just hand ’em folding cash and you won’t need to
worry, `Will she or won’t she?’
Fuck
the roses!”

“I hear you, Mike. But I’d still like to date her,”
I said, and I meant it. Yes, she was gorgeous—gorgeous babes were apparently
standard equipment at the Nimfo Club. But there was another thing: When she
danced, sometimes there would show sadness in her eyes—but then a second or two
later, that sadness would be masked again. She was
human
.

Mike said, “Tim, I’m gonna do you a favor.” He got
up, walked over to Sad-Eyes Girl, and basically
dragged
her to our
table.

Up close, I saw that under filmy lingerie, she had
enormous tits (swear to God, they looked real). She also had long legs,
platinum-blond hair (probably fake), and pale blue eyes (which I hoped weren’t
contacts). She turned her eyes on me and—I blanked out.

Lesson One of selling cars is: Learn the customer’s
name, then say the customer’s name. Lesson Two of selling cars is: Say the
customer’s name often. But when the sad stripper looked at me,
I couldn’t
remember what to call her!

So I said, “Please, tell me your name.”

She leaned down and murmured in my ear, “My real
name is Sarah Elizabeth Buchanan.” She stood up and, at regular volume, then
said, “But here I’m `Platinuma.’”

“Thank you, Sarah—I mean Platinuma.”

Mike whooped. “Damn, Tim, you are da man! Strippers
never
give out their real names.”

Albert nodded. “I thought giving out your name was
against club policy, Platinuma.”

Sarah/Platinuma shrugged. “He looks like I can
trust him.”

Mike said, “`Trust him’? Platinuma, or Sarah, take
a look at Tim Hanson here. He’s the new owner of Tim Hanson Ford.”

She looked at me with funeral-face. “I liked your
dad. He was funny to watch on TV.”

“Hey, no sadness tonight,” Mike said, “the funeral’s
over! Platinuma, tonight you be
very, very
nice to Tim here, because now
he’s a rich car dealer.”

I nodded and smiled shyly at her. “Yes, Sarah
Elizabeth Buchanan, from this moment on, I’m your boyfriend. Well, for tonight
just pretend to be, okay Platinuma?”

She gave me a warm smile. “Not a problem. You’re
cute.”

Sarah started moving her body to the music, as she
eyed me and smiled. At first I thought she was going to give me a standard
table dance, but then she came even closer. Within seconds, she was grinding
her pussy against my leg.

“Isn’t that against club rules?” I heard Albert
say.

Mike said, “
Supposed
to be. Damn, she looks
hot!”

Sarah’s dancer legs had power. Sarah could hold
herself up so that her pussy lips would just brush the cloth of my pants,
moving down my leg, then she would lightly move back the other direction, which
again made my pants caress her pussy lips. Her nipples got hard, and she bit
her lip.

Down my leg—rub. Up my leg—rub. Down my leg, up my
leg—rub, rub. Sarah dragged her pussy all the way up my leg, then she grabbed
my hand. “Touch me,” she murmured into my ear. “Please. I’m wet for you.”

Boy howdy, she was. To a thump-thump bass beat, I stroked
her clit and slowly pistoned her with a finger, and she shook like she was in
an earthquake. I’ll swear she had an orgasm every fifteen seconds. If the sound
system hadn’t been so loud, I think her moans would have gotten us both
arrested.

Suddenly she stood up, grabbed my other hand,
pulled me to my feet, and said “C’mon!”

“Where we going?”

She nodded toward a part of the room enclosed with
dark-tinted glass. “V.I.P. Area.”

“
Damn
, Tim!” I heard Mike laugh, as Sarah
dragged me away as fast as her stiletto-heeled feet permitted. “She thinks Ford
dealers are rich,” Mike added.

Inside the V.I.P. Area, we were lucky to find an
empty booth. (Hell, we were lucky to
see
an empty booth. The place was a
cave with loud music.) Sarah insisted that I order a drink.

“What kind of drink?”

“Doesn’t matter, but club rules are, you got to be
invited by a dancer to come to the V.I.P. Area, and you got to order a fresh
drink to stay here.”

So when the cocktail waitress came around, I
ordered a Coke. (I’d already reached my two-beer limit.) I had to explain to
the waitress that “Mike Brown” would be paying for the drink, but
fortunately(?) she knew who Mike Brown was. When I tried to buy Sarah a drink,
she turned it down. “It would be only ginger ale,” she explained, “regardless
of what they charged you for.”

The cocktail waitress left. Sarah said, “Good, now
the rules are met.” She groped in the dark for my belt, which she then
unfastened. Sarah was on her knees, and had my cock exposed to the dark air,
before I realized what was going on.

I can’t recall now, what her cocksucking technique
was like. But I recall very well that I had never before enjoyed a woman so
hungry
to suck me off and to swallow me. When the cocktail waitress returned with my
Coke, Sarah didn’t pause an instant. Sarah stopped milking me only after I
patted her head and then I shook her shoulders, trying to get her attention.
(The cocktail waitress, meanwhile, had stepped around Sarah and had continued
with her business, which told me a lot about life in the V.I.P. Area.)

By the time I was no longer seeing stars, and had
put my cock back in my pants, Sarah was sitting next to me in the booth. I
kissed her. I couldn’t see her face, but I think she was surprised. “Thank you
very much,” I said. “I’m grateful, Sarah.”

The cocktail waitress was walking by at that
moment. Sarah grabbed her leg and said, “Hey Betsy, do you have a cocktail
napkin in your pocket? Let me borrow a pen and your flashlight.” Betsy gave
those things to Sarah, who said, “Turn your head, Betsy, so you can’t tell Yuri
anything.”

Sarah then wrote her phone number on the cocktail
napkin, which she jammed into my pants pocket.
Whoa!

After Betsy the cocktail waitress left, Sarah said
to me, “I’ve given you an X-rated dance, I’ve sucked you off, I stopped you
from buying me a watered-down drink, and I’ve given you my phone number. How
else can I make your night wonderful?”

I put my arm around her shoulders. Damn, her skin
felt nice. “Hmm, you told me your real name, which I guess is supposed to be
secret. What are other secrets of this club that customers aren’t supposed to
know?”

Sarah pointed through the glass to a gorgeous
redhead dancing the pole. “That’s Sunset. Hair color is real, tits are fake. No
surprise, right? But that pretty pussy, that’s fake too.”

“No shit?”

“Hm-hmm. The manager doesn’t care, but Sunset’s
legal name is still Robert.”

“Wait, I’m confused. Isn’t the surgeries the
expensive part, and going to name-change court the cheap part?”

“Sunset’s sugar-daddy got arrested for
embezzlement,” Sarah replied. She shrugged (I think) in the darkness.

Sarah continued, “Going the other way, there’s
Gothika.” Sarah pointed to a black-haired woman, currently table-dancing, who
was wearing black lipstick, black nail polish, a skimpy black bikini, and black
leather high-heeled boots. Each cup of Gothika’s bra was covered with a picture
of a flaming skull. Instead of filmy lingerie to cover her stripper clothing,
Gothika was wearing a knee-length black-leather coat. Gothika’s tits were gigantic,
beyond even the pretense of being real.

Sarah continued, “Gothika, it turns out, is honey
blond, the only true blonde here. She is known here in the V.I.P. Area as a
true champion of cocksucking; I’m told that her deep-throat is wondrous. That
pink Lexus in the parking lot? She paid for that
herself, cash
, six
months after she started here. But she parties only with girls.”

“So what is Gothika’s real name? Bertha? Zelda?”

“Are you ready for this? It’s
Ashley
. And
Gothika says that Ashleys drive only pink cars.”

“She sounds fascinating. I’d like to meet her.”

Yes, Reader, I know Gothika was a lesbian whore.
But I had to admire someone who made choices and took chances and pursued
goals, rather than drifting through life, and who succeeded in life as a result
of taking charge of her future. No big car dealer got that way by winning the
lottery.

After I said that I’d like to meet Gothika, Sarah
was silent for several seconds. When she spoke, her voice sounded resigned. “Well,
I have to leave in two minutes to dance my set, but stay here and I’ll bring
Gothika when I come back.”

Sarah danced on stage for three songs. When
somebody gave her a cash tip, she looked at him and gave him a dick-hardening
smile. But most of the time she was looking in my direction, even though the
V.I.P. Area’s dark glass meant that Sarah couldn’t see my face.

True to her promise, when Sarah returned to the
V.I.P. Area, she brought Ashley/Gothika with her. “This is Tim Hanson the car
dealer,” Sarah said to the black-haired stripper. “He wants one of
your
blowjobs.”

“How much money do you have on you, Tim?” Gothika
asked.

“Whoa, halt, stop,” I said. “I said only that I
wanted to
meet
you, Gothika, not
get a blowjob
from you.”

“You are big-league shitting me now. I’m gone,”
Gothika said.

“Ashley, I’m telling you the truth, I’d love to
talk to you for several hours over wine and find out how your mind works, and
Sarah’s already told me that I’m not getting in your pants! As for your
blowjob—believe me, Ashley, I’m curious about it, and I’d love to receive it.
But I won’t ask you for it. Number one, Sarah has just given me a world-class
blowjob. Number two, Mike Brown made me lock my wallet in his glove compartment.
Number three, since you’re really good at giving head, Mike probably doesn’t
have cash enough to cover your fee.”

“It was `world-class’? Oh honey,” Sarah said.

I thought,
“Honey”?

Gothika laughed. “Damn, you’re the first nice man I’ve
met since eighth grade, and Sarah already claims you.” Gothika turned to Sarah.
“How much time since you blew him? Half-hour, at least?”

“At least.”

“He’s recovered,” Gothika said. So saying, she
dropped to her knees, and then
Ashley/Gothika
unfastened my belt.

Meanwhile, I was pulling Sarah’s head down to my
face. As Ashley was sliding her mouth down my dick, I was kissing Sarah’s lips.
Sarah kissed me like she meant it.

Sarah had been passionate in her cocksucking.
Ashley sucked me the same way that an ace body-and-paint man hammered out a dent:
Every second, she was thinking about what she was doing, and planning what to
do next. The results of Ashley’s thinking and planning were wondrous indeed:
Whether she was sucking the base of my cock, tonguing my wrinkled spot,
slurping my head, or tonguing my dick hole, every moment was perfect. The
blowjob was as intense as it could possibly be, without ever being
too
intense—it was what a blowjob was
meant
to be.

Mike, Albert, and I were headed for the Nimfo Club’s
front door. Mike said, “I have to say, Boss, you’re a cheap date. Your cover
charge, then two bottles of beer and a Coke, that’s all I bought you? Shit, I
once dated a girl who was planning to enter a convent, and
she
drank
more than that. Guy, I had all these five-dollar bills for you to tip the girls
with, and you never used any of them. Don’t bother telling me that you had fun.”

As Mike stopped talking, Gothika strode up to me,
pressed a cocktail napkin into my hand, grabbed my head between her hands, and
gave me an eyeball-melting kiss. In my ear she murmured, “You won’t get to fuck
me. I won’t let you lick me. But who knows where wine and conversation will
lead?”

“
Fuck
me,” Mike said.

“To tears,” Albert added.