“CLOSING THE DEAL”

By

B. J. Frazier

Copyright 2020. All rights reserved

Published by B.J. Frazier at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This book is a work of fiction

Adult Reading Material

Table of Contents

Author's Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

About B.J. Frazier

Books by B.J. Frazier

Connect with B.J. Frazier

Author's Note

This book contains erotic fiction with graphic sex and is intended for mature readers only.

My sincere and devoted thanks go to Thomas Antonson for his editing acumen and his uncanny ability to understand which word I really meant to use.

Please visit my website: bjfrazier.com

I know there are a lot of books for sale, and I thank you for choosing mine.

Happy reading,

~B.J.

Severe Content Warning: B.J. Frazier books contain *plots* and *well-developed characters*

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Hi, I’m Teddy, or simply “Ted” to my friends.

Well, Theodora, but I’ve actually never been called Theodora.

As a child, I hated Teddy because people thought I was a boy. As an adult, and a businesswoman, being thought of as a man is an advantage.

Sorry, all you feminists out there, but it’s just fact: A great businessman is respected, and a great businesswoman is presumed to be a bitch.

When I walk into a sales meeting where a doctor is expecting a male pharma rep, he becomes instantly flustered.

Not just because I’m attractive. I mean, sure, that has something to do with it. But it’s more because he was ready to give his dismissive speech about why he can’t accept any more samples.

In that moment when he forgets his speech, I zoom in for the kill.

It’s a rush.

I’m amazing at what I do, and I make a fuck-ton of money. Most of all, I’m in control.

It’s the way I am in the bedroom, too; amazing, rich and in control.

I didn’t start out that way, though.

I was much more demure at first.

It’s what I was taught. Women are subservient. Women don’t know anything about business. Women shouldn’t like sex.

When I was fresh out of college, the entire sales force was comprised of older, white men. If I hadn’t started as deferential, I would’ve wound up married to a douche and pregnant with my fourth child by the time I was twenty-two.

Thank fuck that didn’t happen. I don’t believe in marriage, and I sure as shit don’t want to be tied down by any rugrats.

Not to mention what pregnancy does to the female body. I have a smattering of female friends. They’ve all gone soft in the belly and ass, and I won’t even tell you about their mushy brains.

They know me as a cutthroat saleswoman. They pity my single life.

Secretly, though, they’re envious.

And if they knew about my sex life, they’d freak.

I told you that I started off subservient. Don’t confuse that with dumb.

Being an attractive female, I learned from a young age that I could get things if I sugar-coated my requests with sex. A flip of my hair, a well-placed giggle, an innocent but pointed stare; each of these actions gave me whatever I wanted.

What I wanted changed as I matured.

It began with an ice cream cone, a Barbie doll, a puppy. No, I wasn’t molested, but I did have Daddy wrapped around my pinkie.

With boyfriends and high school, I got better grades, clothes and concert tickets.

It didn’t take much. Men so easily want to fall at the feet of a pretty woman and do whatever she asks.

Naturally, I employed the same tactics in sales. The stakes were bigger, and I had to put out, but it wasn’t too much to pay.

I like sex.

Using sex helped me become the first female to reach salesman of the month at my company.

I was congratulated with the caveat: “You’re terrific for a woman.”

Hearing something repeated eventually takes its toll. Somewhere along the way, I internalized the message that my only specialty was being female.

As such, I let men fuck me. As in, have sex with me. Put the moves on. Dominate me, if you will. But I’m not talking whips and chains. I mean, they led the way.

They took my clothes off. They positioned me on the bed. They decided how long the foreplay was going to last. They were there for their ejaculations and, when they came, I was excused.

It didn’t matter if I was satisfied.

I was always the secondary participant in these encounters.

It wasn’t until someone made a comment that woke me up and changed my thinking by a hundred and eighty degrees.

I went out to a bar to celebrate with my co-workers. The company had reached its goals, and we had all received huge bonus checks. I had been the top seller that quarter, and my percentage was commensurately larger.

After a few drinks and good cheer, the claws came out.

Theirs.

“How much more didja get, Teddy?”

“Yeah, how many clients didja hafta fuck this month?”

Murmurs moved through the group while I smiled good-naturedly at their jibes.

“Yer nothin’ more than a high-priced prostitute.”

“No, man, they call ‘em escorts.”

“Oh, yeah. Yer jis a fancy escort.”

I’d had a couple too many, and I was so fucking sick of the hooker commentary. I’d heard it for years, and it was a trigger.

The guys knew. I had cut them new ones, so they only pushed that button when they were drunk. Plus, their egos were hurt to be beaten by a female.

As I said, though, I was drunk and not thinking clearly, so I engaged.

“Not really, because I don’t work for anyone. So I’m the one calling the shots.”

“Y’think so, do ya?”

“I know so.”

“What about the company? Yer sales? The bonus? Tha’s money, toots, for sex. Maybe no one’s givin’ ya th’order t’go’n have sex, but it’s all the same in the end, ain’t it.”

“It’s not the same!”

“Oh? Yer tellin’ me insteada the guy payin’ for the sex he wants, that you tell him what sex he’s gonna have?”

“Nuh-uh!”

I’d like to tell you how I gracefully ended that conversation, but I was drunk. Unfortunately, there were many more sophisticatedly intelligent “nuh-uh’s.”

I remember having a hard time getting to sleep that night because I was hurt.

It carried over to the next morning. I couldn’t figure out why their typical ribbing affected me so much.

Then, it hit me.

I was in control of absolutely every single thing in my life except for sex.

The more I pondered it, the more irritated I became. I didn’t understand how I could have allowed it to happen.

Then, it hit me.

I thought I’d been in control of sex, too!

If that were true, then I would’ve been staring down a trail of thousands of orgasms. In reality, I became bitter about all the ones I’d missed.

I was hell-bent on taking ownership of my sexual encounters and demanding to be served, but I couldn’t rock the boat with my current customers. So, I took advantage of the next sales convention to put my new attitude into practice.

Mind you, this realization took place some twenty years ago. Recently, however, I’ve been reflecting on the past and seeing how far I’ve come.

There were several guys in the industry who I normally hooked up with at various conventions. Some were at that first one after my awakening, and they greeted me with entitlement and excitement. I knew if I didn’t partake, at least a little, I’d be questioned. So I suffered through a couple of hookups but then feigned sickness on the third night.

I left the hotel area and went to a local bar.

It was important to me to not be discovered. I didn’t want the guys to know just how much they’d affected me. I think, too, I didn’t want them to know that I hadn’t been controlling in the bedroom.

The bar was several miles away, and I took a cab. I wanted to make sure I didn’t bump into any of the convention-goers.

It was dingy and smelled of desperation. That’s what I get for taking the advice of a bell boy. Before I could think about leaving, I saw the cab speed away. I was stuck until I could get another one. That was back in the days before internet and cell phones.

I walked around the bar once but didn’t see any prospects. Horny and disappointed, I resignedly slumped onto a stool.

“What’ll ya have, hon?”

“Whatcha got on tap?”

Nothing foreign; all just piss-water.

“Just gimme a screwdriver, please.” They’re hard to fuck up, even with rail vodka.

I sipped and scanned, hoping to find someone I’d overlooked before. No such luck. Then, the door opened and a new group of people entered. With hope, I turned to scrutinize the batch of new prospects.

Realizing every person had a partner, I turned back to the bartender. I was about to ask him for the house phone when I noticed a guy sitting one seat over from me. He wasn’t there when I had walked in, and no one was with him. The liquid in his glass was brown, and he stared at himself in the mirror as he drank.

I took the opportunity to scrutinize his fuckability. He was decent looking; not a model but not disgusting.

At that point, I didn’t want to find another bar and do another walk-around. I was itching to put my plan into action. So I swivelled myself into a fake drunken fall onto the stool between us.

“Oops, sorry, din’ mean t’invade your space there.”

“Hey, it’s a free country, and that stool’s not mine. Invade away.”

He turned to look at me as he spoke. If he had any reaction or opinion of me, he kept it to himself. His face was kind, which made him more attractive.

“Yer mighty kind.”

He smiled at me and took another sip. I wasn’t dismissed, per se, but I knew he wasn’t going to initiate anything more.

“Guess I’m jis not used t’these spinny chairs,” I flashed him a drunken smile.

“Yep, they’ll getcha every time. That’s why I keep my feet on the foot rail for balance.”

“Wow, that’s some great insight. Thanks for the tip.”

“Oh, it’s something that I learned after years of practice sittin’ and spinnin’ on ‘em,” he smiled again.

I gave him a real smile that time as I realized that he was going to work out perfectly. I continued to chat with him, and he eventually moved to the stool next to me. He was witty, intelligent and easygoing. I couldn’t have asked for a better fly to land in my web.

After a half-hour of chit-chat, though, I became worried. I’d never been the one to pick up someone at a bar. I’d always been picked up. As we drank and talked, I wondered if I could even do it.

But then he asked me a simple question.

“What brings you in here tonight?”

And I slowly smiled until my teeth showed.

“Do you want the truth or a lie?”

“I’m not one for lying, so gimme the truth.”

I looked him square in the eye and said perfectly deadpan:

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