It came as a surprise.
AAA Delite was closed for the holiday, but Zsa Zsa's was open:
"Who do you have working today?"
"Amy, 5'6", 110 pounds; Sarah, 5'8", 120 pounds."
"Too tall. Sorry!"
"After supper, we have Elaine, 5'4", 105 pounds."
"When is supper?"
"Her first appointment is for 5:15."
"I'd like to make an appointment with Elaine for 5:15, then. For an hour and a half."
"What is your name?"
"We are at 6586 Ste Agathe. Call to confirm at 5:00."
Her rack was enorme: All I could think was how her life must have changed when she got them, and what a strain it must be to haul them about. I closed with her, put my arms round her, reached back and down, starting: caressing her cheeks.
When I got her onto her back I confirmed: She hadn't gone saline: Mouthing and suckling and lapping: her flesh was unresistant, soft: but her tits were so big that her nipples barely emerged from their areaolas: erecting them was impossible, though I tried all I knew of suction, thrumming, making and breaking a vacuum.
She rubbed my chest, belly, balls with her breasts: The feel of her flesh on my flesh wasn't hard enough to be unpleasant, wasn't soft enough to be pleasant—or warm, or juicy—but nevertheless:
"A new sensation."
And nevertheless, I stood stiff: She sheathed me, and blew me.
"It's complicated, and I don't want to insult you."
"How good is your English?"
"I can understand."
"But not speak so well?
"This world, the world of...escorts, is not new to me. I have been in these rooms many many times. Before there was AAA or Zsa Zsa's, there was Secrets, and they used apartments near here, so I have many happy memories"—la tortue "of rooms just like this one."
"And all my life I come the first time—boom! Like first. And then I come the second time, not so fast. But a few times before this I could not come twice. Now, twice!
She'd climbed over my belly, reached down her right hand to take me then matter-of-factly angled me to her and squatted. Her pelvis was really too broad for my taste so my dick felt un-Shunga-like, too small in proportion, and despite being short, she was really too heavy to lift:
Granted she didn't do too much grinding, so I could feel penetration; and granted she calibrated her angle so I could hear her cunt splurch; and granted, when she upshifted, at each downstroke she gave me a whimper, and the simultaneous thwack of her cheeks on my thighs was first-rate; but I thought back to Angel and said to myself: "This won't work":
Just when I realized that, in fact, it was going to.
"What's that smell?"
A faintly medicinal scent.
She'd loaded her palm for the third flight; and as she started to pump me I thought of halting her, and getting her up on all fours—Would the flesh of her ass give me good sound? Would she vocalize for me again?—but I decided to respect her professional judgment: lie back, relax, and enjoy; closing my eyes.
Her technique was expert—Saliva dries, and baby oil, heated by friction, thins out and feels runny, but the KY stayed smooth, so my focus could stay on my shaft.
She didn't play with my head, my balls, or my anus: she just worked my dick, which makes for a longer build and more volume.
Just sound engineering principles: Her curled fingers formed a tube which, being straight, transmitted friction and pressure to the slightly curved, flexible shaft force-fitted within.
Never pausing, she tightened when she stroked her fist down to my bush, then loosened on the way up, then tightened, a bit more emphatically, on the next downstroke: always in motion:
'Til I felt I was flying: a wingbeat, a glide, then a wingbeat: I broke through the clouds and felt warmth hit my face:
And she upshifted, stroked me once, twice, tightened her grip, and pumped pumped pumped pumped pumped my come out of me.
Spooge pooled on my belly, coated my shaft, matted my bush, stung slightly as it ran down my inner thighs.
Already she's standing by the side of the bed.
"Do you want to take a shower before you go?"
But Angel: our labors, conversation, our grappling and coupling: These last times, could I not come with her, exactly because she is now in my head?
She had seen Little Nemo babysitting her friend's child.
Fortunately, there are no new liens on my paycheck and so, ignoring:
I take a cheap room on the Plateau with the extra money; not enough, alas, for four hours: so three whores, for variety, or two whores, for thoroughness, though not, I think, one: my endurance is not quite up to that.
The opportunity cost of this weekend of whoring—what I risk by paying for that which I am about to take—is the interest and penalties the next entity to seize me by the throat will demand.
Then again, doesn't the concept of opportunity cost assume a future world tolerably like the present? A future world where entities balance the ledgers of gratification deferred? A future world that once seemed more likely than not?
Do I rationalize? Very well then, I rationalize.
Art may live, though I will not.
—September 11, 2004
G is for Good, which all girls once were;
H is for How Much, though it could be for Her.
With Brenda on top (new to me, then) I, still all the way up her: fully penetrated: my hands on her hips: having just come, using her generous (overweight) roommate's actual bed, with headboard, clean sheets, and boxspring:
still hard, pulsing fitfully in the aftershocks—
looking forward to where we were joined saw her bush at my underbelly, raised my eyes, smiling:
She gazed down, smiling:
"I love you," she said.
And I felt my face fall.
I'd loaded and set the automatic drip machine just before bed; now I hear the first steaming and gurgling and dripping, just when, clutching her tiny hips, I ease splurchy Lan down the engorged length of me: Opening her lips, splitting her entire body, she's so petite: The coffee smell tickles me fully awake, as I commence pushing her almost off me, pulling her onto me, all the way down me:
Like clockwork. Like yesterday morning.
The corner. Whistling Jersey Girl on my way home from the train, having paused, to have an excuse to pause, at a newspaper box: Squatting to read the headlines, I look up, left:
The blind is down.
I cross the street, turn, pause at the curb: Then look up again:
There she is, the blind up: In her niche.
I wave, cross the street toward her then look almost straight up, meeting her laquer-black eyes:
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All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."