Betrayal

Cartoon from Gaping Void.

You know a guy likes you when he also sends flowers to the three other girls in your working social group so no-one will notice that he likes you…or at least, that’s how things work in Lying Cheating Slut – I mean “Open Relationship” Land. Deutschefuck. Yemeneverywhere. Ivory and Lots of Other Colors Coast. Secret Scientist tells me later that he felt his original impulse to send me flowers would be noticed. I did, in fact, notice the subterfuge, and was stroked that he effectively bought me some damn expensive roses.

It’s the last night he’s along on our sort-of-tour, and for the past three nights I’ve been sleeping in his bed, nothing dirty or even naughty, no touching of bits, waking to his gentle hands smoothing my hair away from my face, sneaking back to my own room past The Gossip’s room between us. The lack of solid sleep – every rollover is a new surprise, there’s a man next to me? where am I? I didn’t pick these awful sheets did I? – is a trade off. Back on the other side of the hall, the spider crack in the ceiling mocks me until exhaustion claims me as a bedfellow, sleep mask tight across my eyes to keep from waking at first light, generally unsuccessfully. At least in bed with Secret Scientist, I can sleep by two, wake at six, and avoid both calling ex-Lover and agonizing over whether to call him.

Group dinner tonight, a nice local place, local specialties, local waitress waiting past kitchen close and waiting again as we sort out a seven hundred dollar check between three cashes and five cards. Sometimes sharing a table with rock stars is more trouble than the comps are worth. We go home. We narrowly evade a game of Never-Have-I-Ever that starts with “Never have I ever had a (slang for member of my work team) in my bed,” and go for a walk on the shore. A pang – ex-Lover’s probably doing the same five hundred miles away, bet he’s not alone either. Another pang – I’m still in my best suede boots and I’m not sure wet sand is doing them any good.

Secret Scientist tells me how he ended up here, the journey from a European sport to sociological research to music. (No, Tom, he does not play the guitar. It’s a bass.) We admire the moon on the water, we comment on the stars and light pollution and projects our respective teams should work on together. And then we go home.

I’ve told him I want to feel his skin on mine, no tshirt and shorts between us. When I come to his room (my roommate finally snoring) his dark skin glows in the low light, the curve of his ass into the lines of his thighs a sculpture for my patronage. I have condoms in my pillowcase. He comes to me and gently takes off my shirt, drawing it over my head, kissing my bare breasts. His hands on my back pull me towards his mouth, warm and wet, his lips firm on my nipples. He slides his fingers into my waistband, taking down the thin jersey of my jammie pants, and as I step out of them, he gathers me in his arms, sets me on the bed. It’s cold, and that focuses my attention on his mouth on my pussy, his tongue broad and flat and taking me back to a moment in line at the theatre bar I want to lick your pussy until you scream…. He must remember, too, and his hand slides up my body to cover my mouth. There is wet and heat and soft tongue pushing slightly too far while my body catches up and my brain checks out. I don’t come, I rarely come from oral, but I come damn close, mouth open under his hand, the taste of his fingers in my mouth.

I pull his face to mine and lick his mouth, tasting myself and him on his lips, sucking me off his tongue. He kneels close to my side and I see his cock in the dim light, thick and black and long enough that at dinner one of my workmates looked down at his jeans with no underwear and said half-shocked-half-amazed, “Well! There it is!” I cannot take him fully in my mouth, I lick and suck the head, no taste but clean skin and salty arousal. I wrap my hand around the base and urge him further into my mouth, pulsing my tongue along the bottom, feeling him lean into me, his cock in my throat, gagging me as he gently thrusts. “Sorry, carried away,” he says into my ear, and I take him from my lips long enough to tell him, “Fuck my mouth.”

My hands cup his ass as he leans over me, twisting his hips as he slides in and out, over my tongue, back in my throat, me sucking as best I can while he takes my mouth. He pulls my hair harder than he means but not as hard as I like, pulls me off him so as not to come yet. There’s more he wants, more I want. I roll the condom on him, it’s from my whorebag, I’m thankful to always buy extra-large, the clients like it. He’s over me and though I seldom come from mish, I want this, I want to look into his eyes, watch his face watch mine as he slides in. He is the second-biggest cock I’ve ever felt, and when the head is in me it’s already pushing me apart. He gently swivels, opening me, making room for him, and with each turn he thrusts gently a little deeper, pain following pleasure following pain following pleasure, and when he’s nearly halfway in I grab his hips and thrust onto him, feeling his skin catch mine on the way in, feeling the rawness of having come, having closed up again, the delicious forcing of the gates. The size of him pushes against my cervix I’ll be bruised there tomorrow, but right now that tiny trigger of pain is enough to bring me to the edge again. I am open and raw and needy and vulnerable and it is easy for him, even unknowing, to touch the right place to make it happen, hard and often.

He slides in and out, we watch each other’s eyes, I recall holding off on missionary with ex-Lover, too intimate, too personal, wait and see. But now that part of me has been split open and I think, once a cheater always a cheater, how’s this for cheating now? Each time he thrusts I feel my cervix yield, my insides lengthen to hold him, push my clit against his body until I have to hold him to me, circle on him, rub and rub and rub until I come, the warmth rising through the little pain, my head arching back then forward to put my lips on his, murmuring into his mouth, so good, so very good..

He hasn’t come yet, and he eases out and rolls me over. I come halfway to my knees, lift my pussy for him, feel him part my flesh and bring his mouth to my rear end. He kisses me there, on each cheek, then brings his mouth to my ass. Panic shoots through me, this is cheating and then I think of what ex-Lover is probably doing now and still the urgent voice that tells me, “this isn’t yours to give.” It is now. Secret Scientist licks my ass, probes his tongue around and around and then inside, licks his own finger and presses gently. I press back, push, push out to let him in, feel the gentle suction draw his finger forward. A second finger slides into my pussy and there is that feeling of full, doubled, pinched, possessed. He takes the finger from my pussy and adds it to my ass, my own wetness easing him in. Do I want this? Perhaps, perhaps, and then the third finger slides into me and makes the answer yes.

Secret Scientist and I have talked about anal, he knows I love it, he knows it’s not been mine to give before. Maybe he also knows more than I do about what I need right now. This flashes through my brain and at the end of thought there is the tip of his cock against my pussy, pushing into me again as his fingers still stretch my ass. For a few thrusts, I am full to oblivion, unable to do anything more than try not to cry out, wake the house with this sharp joy. And then I’m empty, disappointment succeeded in an instant by the feeling of his cock gently set against my ass. I reach my hand back, pull my ass open for him. His hand on my wrist, he leans over my body and whispers in my ear, “Are you sure?” I do not say yes, I only push back on him, trying to make an involuntary muscle draw him in by choice. The tip passes into me, that first gasp of what am I doing? This doesn’t go here! and then he slides and swivels, slides and swivels and I am more full than I have ever felt, his cock so large inside me that all the pain is pushed away with pain and there is no room for ex-Lover in this inn. He can’t fuck me quickly here, there is barely enough room for him to be there at all, and I pull his hand to my head to push my face into the pillow so I do not scream. Six long slow thrusts, every one a sacrifice I never thought I’d make to another, and then I feel him shudder, silently, and the condom fills.

He pulls out, unwraps, and we lie together, his hand on my breast, his arm around me, his other shoulder under the pillow and under my neck in the way I always worry makes their arm fall asleep. He kisses my hair, my ear, my cheek, and I think about what we might have done, what I imagine we did instead of his voice in my ear, “I’m not ready.” Well, I am ready. Ready for his mouth on me, his hands on me, his cock in any part of me he wants to take. But he is right, that is wrong, and too big a burden for any man, even one whose lineage was bred to bear.

I call him the next week. “Thank you. I know it’s hard to turn down a naked girl. I wasn’t offended.”

“Yeah, I was hoping I wouldn’t upset you.”

“You were right. We’re not ready, and I wasn’t in a good place to make that choice. It was wonderful just sleeping naked together. Thank you for being my friend first.”

“I’m glad it’s ok.”

“We’ll get there someday.”

“Yes.”

Yes.



***
Photo from Hectik.com.

Further Adventures in Tourism

Part One is here.

Tourist takes me to a restaurant so yummy I take Lover there a week later. Mediterranean, a little pile of something to dip bread in that is neither hummus nor butter but tastes like the good parts of both. I have caprese salad with fresh, soft mozzarella that has a tang to it beyond balsamic, and a pasta dish with mushrooms and cream sauce. He has shrimp cakes, like crab cakes and with a spicy remoulade. I am reminded of my old dating policy: if you have bread and salad and dessert then you can take your entrée home and it’s two dinners, and you don’t have to make conversation for the second one.

I slip my foot from my shoe and press it into his lap, ignoring it while he gives my order to the waitress. I tease him under the table while we talk about my work and his work, my life and his life. He is interested, if not all that interesting. Midway through the meal, I excuse myself and visit the ladies, walking slowly and perhaps a little oddly while trying not to stagger out of my shoes. The ladies is out the back door, through a hallway, into another part of the building, enough distance to call Lover and check in with Tourist's name and my hotel information. I take off my panties, rub them on myself for scent, and bring them back to the table, balled in my hand. I had already planned to do this when Tourist asked me to – I’d rather just do it than be asked, it’s more fun to surprise and honestly, I need to be the one in control here.

Back in the car, he presses my panties to his face while I lean over, unzip his pants, pull out his cock and flick my tongue over and around, teasing as much as I can while avoiding drops of liquid. “Don’t come” I whisper in his ear, and with my hand wrapped tight around the shaft of his cock, he shakes again, his whole body gripped by spasms even without the telltale pulsing in the base of his penis.

We return to the hotel, I let him into my suite. In the living room, we sit in soft chairs facing each other, and again he licks my leg propped up on his shoulder, licks my shoes. It was a hot day, but not enough that I’m worried about sweat, and he removes my right shoe and stocking, and begins to suck my toes. This is always an odd feeling for me. I’m nervous about smell, it tickles rather than arousing, and I think it looks funny. But he’s paying, so I’m into it. In fact, the casual observer might note that apparently, nothing pleases me more than to recline in a chair with my legs in the air and watch my toes disappear between his lips. Fortunately, he does this with his eyes closed, because I’m not quite a good enough actress to contain my shock when he takes all five toes into his mouth. I’m not a huge-footed girl by any means, but they aren’t flitty pixie feet, either, and the sight of his mouth around a largish third of my foot is a little freaky. This goes on for nearly an hour, and I realize, what you’re buying is often my boredom. Yes, sometimes whoring is fun and sometimes it’s good dirty and sometimes it’s awful dirty, but mostly what it is is boring. And if we were to take a forty-hour workweek’s worth of intermittent boredom and cram it into one six-hour spell, this would be it. I bet my therapist feels this way.

I spend my time reminding myself of his fantasies in emails and phone calls and plot my next move. When, evidently, all possible enjoyment has been sucked from my toes, I remove my other stocking and tie his wrists to the table behind his chair. I pull out the new toys I’ve acquired, which I’m genuinely curious about, and spend the next hour masturbating in front of him, skirt hiked up, no panties, blouse open to my white lacy corselet. The toys are fun, but sadly, not good enough to make me actually come. I fake it two or three times, and it starts to become genuinely frustrating not to be able to come. On the up side, if we do fuck, at least I’ll want to.

I release his wrists and he kneels before my chair and licks my pussy. He’s decently good at it, at least it’s not irritating or painful, and remembering his fantasy to make a girl come over and over while eating her pussy, I do the best I can to make his dreams reality. Or at least, a purchased facsimile thereof.

More tomorrow…

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.

Unclear on the concept 2

Non-listening reaches new heights.

Text from Sexual Athlete: about the ice cube :)

Me: What about the ice cube?

SA: did u like the sensation?

Well, SA...you popped an ice cube into your mouth, went down on me, I shoved your head away while shrieking and jumping back and said "that's too cold!" Then I told you to go spit it out. So what do you think - did I like the sensation?

He's had his last appointment. And now I know why he has to pay for sex.

Why Are There...

...so many battered women in America?

Because the bitches don't listen.

It happens that I have an affinity for sick humor, particularly anti-woman sick humor. I enjoy shocking people with the jokes I tell - childish, I know. The joke above came to mind for me during this afternoon's frolic. Sexual Athlete genuinely likes me. He sent a sappy card. He texts and emails me nearly daily. And yet, I keep liking him less and less, and today I wanted to hit him for not fucking listening. The play-by-play:

Sexual Athlete is through the door! His coat is off! Now the tie! He hands off the 50 pages of material on SEC filings, he shoots, he scores!

Or rather, he jams his tongue down my throat - again - his fingers into my pussy - again - and demands that I come after about 2.5 minutes of strictly average oral. I fake it. Twice. I go down on him, his cock is decent, a good size, smells clean, he's clean. He comes almost immediately. We chat. I make sympathetic or indignant noises, as the case may be, while trying not to drift too far into the DayQuil haze.

Cowgirl, I come for real. He tells me he wants to fuck me in the ass. I'm taken aback - I've been very clear about this - and I say "Not today." He looks astonished: "You said 'no' to me!?" I briefly become very dominant and tell him to come. He switches to mish, the moment passes, and he does. Again, he chats, I listen and fight the fog.

More oral for him, he comes again. It's a tight hour and a half, he tips me $5 (more a function of not wanting change on a twenty), he's out the door. And I blissfully waft into my other hotel room, brush my teeth, and shower until I'm pruney.

Activities with Clients, Ordered from Least to Most Off-Putting:

Intercourse
Back rubs from them to me
Oral on them
Cuddling
Oral on me
Kissing
Being called by my real name
Being called by my real name while being urged to come

After - well, during - I decide this is it. I got a fat paycheck from my other job today, I have enough for what I was saving up for, Sexual Athlete's cash is going to be a lovely trip to the used bookstore and inexpensive lunches out for the next few weeks. I text Lover "Done Whoring". I tell Power Girl this is the last one.

Then tonight I get a lovely email from a client I've been phone-tagging with...

Please call me when you get back, I would still love to share some time with you and explore those things we would like to mutually consider, chew over, reflect, percolate, ponder, deliberate, mull over or ........... muse about.

I've been asking what he does, and he attaches a drawing. He's in urban design. I love urban design...

Merde.

Water, Water Everywhere…

Semi-public shower facility. Divided: Men, Women. Reasonably clean floor, but I still wear flip-flops. Women is often out of hot water. I stride into Men, knock-knock, “Girl!” not even bothering to check. I know three of the four guys there, anyway: a man I love in a fatherly way (if you’re the father of Electra), Lover, and Boyish Dimples, a strapping round-headed Dutchman with whom I’ve been flirting for some time. The man I don’t know is on the way out. The fatherly man is wrapping up, powdering his crevices, donning a bright flowered shirt, khakis, his own flip-flops, kissing me “Goodnight, honey,” as he heads out the door, I’m already stripping down.

Lately I’ve been eyeing Boyish Dimples. We flirted on and off, mostly as a function of showering at about the same time. He joked that I should join him sometime. When he performs (yes, yet another musician, although I don’t think drummers really count) I watch him. When I dance, he watches me.

We weren’t speaking for a day or two – I made a remark in a group that he took as more cutting than teasing. I suck at playing the girl game. Women shouldn’t be smartly mean, whatever. I made up, because I wanted him. Sent a card via a friend, “I know people usually send flowers to make up, but anything sold here would be fraught with symbolism. Have this instead as an apology,” tied to a fat soft pretzel crusted with salt. I figured if he didn’t know “fraught” the context would probably explain it. Making up without bowing down. He smiles when he gets it, signals to me across the room that things are ok, he’s finally over it.

The shower. Lover – stall number three, carefully pretending we’re no more than public friends. Boyish Dimples, stall number two. Me, stall number one. Me, stall number two.

“You promised you’d wash my back.”

Boyish Dimples is slightly astonished that I’ve made good, also that I do actually expect my back washed. His hands are huge, fingers spreading wide enough to cover my entire shoulder blade as he rubs the soap up and down, shying near the top of the cleft of my ass, then rubbing down both sides, my flesh soft in his hands. I press my ass into his cock, slide him between, then turn around.

“Now the front.” I’m speaking softly, but I know Lover knows I’m here, is stretching out his own hot water to stay as long as he can. Boyish Dimples rubs across the top of my chest, my skin tanned there, down my sides, across my stomach, until I take his hands and place them on my breasts. He pauses there, feeling the weight in his hands, then soaps my breasts, rubbing the nipples between his fingers and thumb. I reach up and kiss him, gently drawing his tongue into my mouth and sucking the tip. He’s unshaven yet, the bristles against my cheek feel like man to me.

“Your turn.” I take the soap from his hands, kiss him again, pressing the length of my body against him, breasts against chest, hips against hips, stomachs touching with the slick of soap between us. I do his back first, rubbing hard on the muscles, sliding the length of his spine, rounding over his ass, noting the clench that tells me not to pry too far. I turn him, do his arms, his armpits soft with hair (clean, freshly showered armpits are an unsung joy for me) rub over his pectoral muscles, just under eye level. He’s a big man. Used to play football. Or maybe rugby – I can’t remember, but one of those sports where guys run at each other and make piles. I take my hands down over his stomach, now softer but still decent, under the slope, take my hand beneath his testicles, soap the spot behind them, rub them carefully, then firmly take the base of his cock. He’s been hard for a while.

His eyes roll back a little and he closes them as my hand slides up and down his cock, ring my thumb and first finger around the head, slide back and forth letting the ridge pop through my fingers. He reaches for my pussy, slides a finger inside me. I enjoy it, the way he beckons inside me, but that’s not what I’m here for. I rinse his cock and sink to my knees, take him into my mouth. Lover is out of his shower, toweling off, Boyish Dimples hears a footstep and says “Ummm…?” and gestures with his head.

I smile and give the “I don’t care” headshake, difficult with my mouth full of cock. I’ve been teasing Lover about this for days, wondering if I could actually make it happen, hoping to be able to get Boyish Dimples alone, and the fact that Lover happened to be here at the same time is an unlooked-for bonus. The sound of the water has changed now that I’m kneeling, I hope Lover notices. I suck BD, his cock is medium long, medium thick, respectable but not too big to slide into my throat. I take my tongue around the head, slide my mouth down, arch the point of my tongue against the underside and slide back up. Lather, rinse, repeat. Recently Guitarist has taught me something he likes, a twisting motion with hand and mouth combined, coming all the way up and back down, each time the sensation of reentry. BD taps the back of my head, I’m confused enough to take him out of my mouth and he comes all over my face. I lick off what I can reach, suck the head to get the rest, he reaches down and wipes my face – always a sign of class. I come up and kiss him, he asks if there’s anything he can do for me.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” He persists, which I appreciate. But I don’t come from fingering, and really, it’s more powerful not to this time. I like having given the gift, not wanting in return. Besides, I’ll get mine later.

As we dry off, alone in the room, he tells me he doesn’t usually come standing up. I’ve heard this from a number of surprised men. Turns out the head-tapping was the Universal Sign for “I’m going to come.” Guess I missed that day. I tease him, asking if he’s sure he forgives me. His gratitude is exactly what I need.

We leave the showers, walk away, hug goodbye. I go to Lover, call into his room, he comes to the door and takes me in without a word. Lover kisses me, his mouth deeply in mine, his tongue searching for the other.

“I missed most of him in my mouth.”

Lover does not care, BD can still be tasted, his come distinctive in the hollows of my mouth. Lover takes me, mish, looking into my eyes while I tell what happened, telling me he could hear the sound of BD in my mouth, it was wrenching to walk away, he’s been rock-hard imagining the rest. He comes inside me, sex with condoms can never be as good as this, the sudden extra hardening, the warmth, the wet that will drip out of me for the next hour.

The next year, I see Boyish Dimples again. I’m making time with someone else, he has a new girlfriend, and we do no more than smile, chat, see each other at the fringes of groups. Our schedules are tighter this time, and the hot water’s been fixed on the women’s side. He does catch me, one day, as dusk is falling.

I say, “It’s a shame they fixed the hot water.”

He says, “That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. I hope you’re not offended by this, but whenever I need that extra something to get me over the edge, that’s what I think of.”

I am not offended. Not at all.

After

After he comes in my hand, aiming for my breasts but missing, there is no more time. We feed each other bits of fruit until I get up and start handing him his clothes, hoping it reads as sweet that I’m turning them right side out. He tells me the nipple clamps are mine to keep, but asks that I only use them with him or in my personal life, not with another client (no fear). When he walks out the door it’s goodbye to Leonard Bernstein and I put in Bif Naked and turn up the volume. I take a tub bath, hot as I can stand, watch the pale winter skin on my thighs turn red.

While I’m waiting for the bath to fill – this hotel has hot water, thank heavens, but is afflicted with low water pressure, what is it with me and hotel showers? – I enter my latest receipts in an Excel sheet, totting up what I’ve taken in from clients, spent on hotels, gas, condoms, lube, mouthwash, stockings, cell phone top-up cards. I’ve set aside about a third in cash in a little box, I’m saving up for something, and another third has gone to expenses and personal treats – massages, cashmere sweaters, nice face wash, sushi, Thai, the upscale salad bar at Nature Yuppie Foods. The remaining third has gone to the maintenance of my household. Oil changes. Groceries. Breakfast on the way to Husband and my mutual work engagements, we're working a lot but haven't had a check in awhile. Gas. Cat food.

I’m not sure where he thinks the money is coming from.

Bubblegum/Peppermint

Wow. Girls. They’re just so soft.

I spent the time before my second appointment in a state of mild agony. All the myths and fears about the vagina came up. Would it smell funny? Would it taste bad? Would it reach out with horrible tentacle teeth and suck me in like the Sarlac monster? (I freak out my gay friend S. by making my hands into a jaw with finger-claw teeth and making biting motions). I call Lover and a male friend for advice.

“You know what feels good to you, which is a huge head start. All girls are different, but it tends to be variations on a theme. And you pay attention to your lovers, which is the rest of the battle. If she makes a noise when you touch her that way, do it again. Then do it harder, softer, and in circles, then on to a different part but coming back later.”

And

“Just let her know that you love being with her and want to make her feel good. Really love her before you ever go down there. The more she feels like you really enjoy being with her, the better it will be.”

My day of mild mishaps continues as I drive to meet Shortish Guy and Hot Bi Chick. I leave a little late, my phone is still out of minutes, I get off at the wrong exit and have to turn around. But I do, eventually, make it to the Midprice Hotel, and there they are. Room 234. King-size bed, Jacuzzi tub, Shortish Guy smiling nervously as he opens the door, and Hot Bi Chick lying on her stomach on the bed, tight jeans, tight low-cut t-shirt, bronze spike heels with thin chains along the instep.


She is, in fact, hot. A little heavily made-up for my taste – I’ve heard Pam Anderson is gently lovely minus a few layers of spackle – but tall, shapely, pouty-lipped, multiply pierced and visibly tattooed. When there's ink on your wrists, it’s a pretty solid “f--- you” to Corporate America. I think, I’m sure she’s got more piercings…and I’m about to find out exactly where they are.

I stay focused on her, wary of any jealousy issues. I’ve taken off my leggings from under my long brown suede skirt, taken off my shoes, and I sit by the bed, resting my arm on the spread, my head near hers. We talk about shoes – always safe. They give me a glass of wine. I don’t drink, at all, but it’s clearly special to them, her favorite wine, and I wet my lips with it and hold the bowl in my hand. She complains that it “needs to open up,” which gives me an excuse to wait.

Hot Bi Chick takes the lead.

“I’m wearing too many clothes,” and with that, we all get naked. I try to step in and help her take off her shirt, but we all just shuck. She’s lovely. Completely shaven, soft little tummy, gorgeous breasts in a boring white bra – after all, she doesn’t have to impress, I’m here for her pleasure. She wants implants. I think she’s crazy. “I want them to be more like each other, and more in the middle.” Symmetrical and centered, says the writer in my head, realizing that no, honey, you don’t want implants, you want $10,000 of corrective surgery, Lindsay Lohan style, “$10,000 breasts are worth $10,000 because they look free.” Nevertheless, they are lovely. And the other piercing is clitoral hood. At least it will be easy to locate.

I kneel between them on the bed, him I could take or leave, she’s looking more appetizing by the minute. I lean in and kiss her lips, soft, gloss-coated, her tongue darts into my mouth and I gently suck it. I kiss her eyes, the corners of her forehead, the tips of her ears, licking the outer folds, her earlobes, moving down her neck and smelling her perfume, something I recognize but I can’t put my finger on. She’s responsive, enough that I wonder if she’s faking, but I’m the hired help, why should she bother? We’ve already talked about hey, if it’s not working, let’s laugh and do something else. I move between her breasts, the valley smells of more perfume, she says she put it on since it’s a special occasion. They are so soft. They overflow my hands, the nipples small for her size and gently pointed, very pinky-brown. I do the thing that men do to me (some women must like it or they wouldn’t keep doing it, right?), holding her breasts together and moving my mouth from nipple to nipple, sucking, licking, biting the amount I suspect a pierced girl would like. She moans. Shortish Guy talks dirty – he has checked in advance, can he talk dirty, can he slap her ass, my answer was yes, just don’t call me c--- or whore. She leans up and sucks my nipples, dark red-brown lip gloss rings my nipples. I kiss her neck again, licking with the tip of my tongue up one side and under the curve of her jaw. And I can feel it’s time to head south…

Her belly yields under my hands, I hold her hips and lick her navel, there’s a hole where she used to wear a 2-gauge ring. It’s a big hole. I kiss the inside of her thighs and lick her hip creases, she’s moaning and wiggling under my hands. She tastes, first, of deodorant – girls who shave completely use it to keep down razor burn. I make my tongue a point and slip it between her labia, first sliding upward, then returning to my starting point and using my tongue flat. She tastes like me, that slightly sharp taste from inside, and like nothing – like skin that’s been washed. Once I lick away the sharp, there’s no taste at all, just the slight sense that it’s not the inside of my mouth I’m licking. I think of all the times I’ve lain on my back and wished for a broad tongue doing something repetitive, firmly, and aim for below the piercing.

“Oh, God, she’s so good…” Hot Bi Chick moans. “Guys just want to eat the whole thing, girls know you have to stay on the clit…” Shortish Guy talks dirty some more. He’s not really relevant at this point, but I look up from her pussy and smile with my eyes so he won’t feel left out. She comes remarkably fast. I wonder if she’s faking, but she’s shaking and moaning. Feeling her legs convulse around my head is incredible, it’s one thing to bring off a man, but this is like discovering fire, so far minus the liver-eating bird part. We rest.

“Think there’s another one in there?” looking up at her, my head resting on her thigh. Shortish Guy says, “You want her to eat that hot little pussy again? You want that, don’t you?” Hot Bi Chick nods. I’m thrilled. It’s like Christmas morning the year I finally got a bike instead of a letter from Santa explaining how many older boys and girls were ahead of me on the list, thanks for the cookies, see you next year.

This time, I slow down a little, if I’ve made her come (or care enough to fake it), it’s ok, I didn’t suck. I toy with her clit ring in my teeth, gently tugging it while sucking softly. When I slide my finger inside her, she’s tighter than I expect, and I make a mental note to compare at home. I make the beckoning motion to hit the front wall, if the G-spot exists, I’m there for it. Her eyes half-close, she starts to moan again, and she spasms around my finger, she’s definitely not faking. (I realize as I write this, I want to fist her.)

We turn to him. Either they use condoms for everything, or her “I make him by non-lubricated, they taste better” is to make me feel less like the help. She sucks him while I lick his nipple. I suck him while she kisses him. We both lick his cock, kissing each other around it, I make a mental note to tell this to Guitarist, whose number-one fantasy is two mouths, one cock (his). Shortish Guy talks dirty some more. He’d be fine but for the money on his own. With her, I’m having a great time. It’s fun! It’s sensual! It’s hot! Go Team! She mounts him and rides until she comes again, I kiss her and hold her from behind, “you’re so hot, so beautiful.” I change places with her, I hope I’m close to as tight. She kisses my neck, she rubs my back, she kisses him. “You know,” I say after a few minutes, “Normally I’d just fake it at this point, but I really do want to come.” Shortish Guy talks dirty, Hot Bi Chick kisses me and holds my breasts from behind, it’s a lot like the thus-far-all-male scenario involving a pool table that is my sure-fire ‘come now’ fantasy. I do. Loudly. It’s a big one. They like it, they are only mildly surprised.

“Let’s let her rest a little,” he says about me. She straddles him again in reverse cowgirl and I watch her ride him, tell her how hot it is, how beautiful she is. She says she was watching the same thing while he fucked me. “Your turn to do the work,” she tells him, and he folds her in half and takes her on her back, fucks her hard while I whisper in her ear, hold them both. We end up finishing him by hand, Hot Bi Chick kissing him while I stroke him hard, minus condom. “That's the most I've ever seen you come” she says.

She runs the shower for me, I leave it running for them, my money’s on the TV, it was easy to earn, almost a bonus. They talk together in the shower. I muse on how it’s better to get my money at the end, then I’m not as worried about hiding it. Before I leave, she asks if I would ever do an overnight with them.

Damn straight.

First time for everything

So J met me - 30 minutes late after he moved our meeting time up an hour - at a coffee shop. I decided in about five minutes that he wasn't a psycho, was struck by his height (6'4") and his amazing brown eyes - I know, I know, brown is boring, but his were amazing.

We adjourned to a local suites hotel - bad neighborhood, but a nice room - and I couldn't help but think about a comment I heard when sharing a hotel room with a platonic roommate a few years ago - "Always take the bedspread off first thing, it's covered in hooker juice." We did not remove the bedspread. I had phoned in J's car make and license plate number to my Safety Friend along the way.

We made out a bit, J cautiously touching my ribcage, then getting bolder. His lips were soft, and he'd thoughtfully popped a mint prior. I asked for one, too - my first Altoid (no shit). He fingered me a little and I briefly wondered if he was having a hard time finding my clitoris - it's pretty small, and past lovers have had to exercise more than due diligence. He asked how this all worked, since it was his first time with a... I told him I didn't collect until the end. We both used careful don't-arrest-me language.

Off came most of my clothes - I kept the garter belt and panties on on the theory of gradually unwrapping the gift, and headed downhill. He was soft and gentle and his cock was not too big to take completely into my mouth. After about a minute, he had me stop so he wouldn't come right away, and asked about how much he was entitled to - I said, it's not a certain amount of time, it's not a certain number of acts, I'm happy to hang out and enjoy chatting until you're ready for round 2 and in the meantime would you like to come in my mouth? Or on my body?

3 minutes later, the marines landed. He tasted fine, so I swallowed. I hadn't planned to, but he seemed so sweet, and probably under-satisfied at home. He was pleased with the quality of the service.

10 minutes later, he got up and put his pants on. Didn't want a backrub, didn't want to wait for another shot - "I honestly don't think I have another one in me". I suspected that the guilt reflex was kicking in - either oh god, my wife, oh god, my kids, or oh god, this girl is surprisingly sweet and nice and I feel all weird about it. He told me I'd definitely been worth while, which I think he meant.

So - 275 in 45 minutes. When you factor in hotel, he paid about $100/minute for head.

I'd like to think I'm worth it.