Madeleines

Hotel room. Nice hotel room. Cable, though we're not going to turn the TV on. I've booked it, like always. I'm wearing: nothing as nice as I'd like to be.

He takes off his jacket, folds the tie into the pocket. The tie was a gift (my gift).

He does not leave the money on the dresser.

He does not check the closet or the bathroom or put on the chain lock or draw the blackout drapes. He likes how I look in sunlight, I love light coming softly through thin white curtains.

(I said on the phone, please don't urge me to come)

I’m shy, my tummy feels big, my lips feel clumsy, I don’t know what to do with my hands and then I remember I don’t do anything with my hands. There is talk, unrushed, unhurried, funny, all the time in the world, the clock unwatched, minutes uncounted.

His body is strong and sit-upped and nearly hairless, the flats of my hands on his chest, his hands on my back, my waist, my hips. Shyness rises in my throat to choke me and we look at pictures for awhile. It’s been some time, he’s been gone since March, two months making his living, finally not “the support,” finally the act. And then in the middle of the West Coast, San Fran harbor, LA skyline, Sonoma curving away in yellow-green swathes, he takes out his cock and takes me by the hair. The smell of him and I’m back in our time, he does not hold too hard, it takes time to remember.

My mouth on his cock, he never hardens immediately, with new girls sometimes not at all. I like this, I like taking his length into me, pressing down until I gag, his hand holding me a fraction long enough, his half-erection strong enough to cradle with my lips around the base, my tongue pressing rhythmically against the underside of his cock, them sliding up to have him enter and re-enter my lips. His hand is harder on my head, tighter on my hair, the ones who pay are gentle, reluctant to take and that’s best. But this is nursing at his cock and being forced to what I want and having pleasure taken, taken from my mouth and hands gently pinching his flesh, nails softly digging his scrotum.

He pulls me over him, kisses my breasts, pinches my nipples hard. I ride him in my panties, his pants still up but open, pressing into him, the edge of rawness starting from the seams rubbing into the insides of my labia, and just when I think I’ll have to stop or I’ll be too sore to go on, orgasm comes in waves, starting from my bent knees, from the vise grip of his thumb and finger on my nipple, meeting in the middle of my spine, sacrum, sacred in a way I haven’t had in months.

(I’ll pay for the hotel, I say, since you’re flying out here. Are you sure, he asks? I insist, he tells me later he gave in because it seemed less like a client. Clients always pay for the hotel, I book it and they pay me back.)

He rolls me over, his shirt open, I slide it down his arms and toss it to the chair. He takes my shirt over my head, pulls my panties to the side. His cock is in his hand, he holds it to enter me, leaning over me, he gasps and ducks his head, it feels like genuflection every time.

We fuck.

There is clean sweat. There is missionary, cowgirl and me coming again at medium intensity as he watches intently, refamiliarizing with my face, mouth stretched wide, eyes closed tight. He rotates me firmly and I come again in reverse cowgirl, the flesh of his scrotum rubbing into my clit, squishy and nice to press, the short stubble of his shaved pubic hair rubbing my perineum, a winning combination. I’ll have one from Column A, one from Column B and oh yes, off the menu, some anal penetration please, pushing back, the double feeling of one hole pulling out the other pushing in and back the other way.

He hardens right before he comes in mish again, as always so hard that I am grateful it’s only in those ten strokes. I’d never do anal otherwise. The feeling of his come inside me, the feeling of no latex no reservoir tip no painfully rubbing ring at the base of his cock, well, I’d pay for that. Pay in love and kisses.

We rest.

I ask him to fist me, perhaps a bit much for a first time back, but he already knows I’m on my period (I forgot to mention, the bleeding when he took me from behind alarmed him, possibly turned him on, too, I didn’t ask but he was awfully hard, blood and my filthy fuck-me mouth usually do the trick) and it makes me want. His fingers inside me, farther than before, I’ve been fucking all afternoon, it greases the wheels, so to speak. I push against him, bullet on my clit, writhing at rollercoaster speed and trying, trying, trying to have the release, I’ve come three times already plus a half when easing past his knuckles, and each time I’ve stayed up, tight, E-string tuned high and not unwinding, the kite line stuck on the paper towel tube.

I push, I will never reach his wrist, I’m too tight for his fingers to curl inside, his hands too long, but there’s another quarter inch that makes me think “How bad can childbirth be?” and then there is release from knees, thighs, the vibrations from Doc Johnson spreading through my chest, the top of my head, my face goes numb and red and unpretty, shrieking and gasping. Blood is everywhere, pooled on the bed below me, under his nails, his hand leaves a print on my leg.

He kisses me.

(It’s not different because of who pays for the hotel, it’s different because it’s you.)

We leave $10 for the maid.