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My own secret life 
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Taped to the door of a brothel in Chinatown, a sign in black magic marker:
Closed for election day, 11/2 7AM - 8PM Open 9PM {NA}
Juicy goodness
"Again, I stand," John said, "projecting calm for the surveillance camera, ears cocked for sounds behind the inner door off from the street, catching my breath; as always, I sidled in, then mounted the stairs quickly. I came at my usual time; but will she be here? Will she be free? Must I break in a new girl? Will the mama-san give me a girl that I like? Will the new girl be worth it? The back of my neck feels hot. The deadbolt clashes once: once more: And again the mama-san cracks the door, peers up at me, opens the door wide, and ushers me in, bolting it now; my regular mama-san, not last week's substitute. "Again, I wait, bending close to study the exhibits taped on the hallway wall: Receipts, group photos, bread-and-butter letters from the Policeman's Benevolent Association, each inserted into a protective cellophane sleeve. Baseball uniforms; retirement roasts; Thanksgiving turkeys; meals for the homeless. Who would shut down such a civic-minded small business? "Now, I hear a rustle on the other side of the door to the street. Paper? No steps, no sound from the doorbell, no knock: Who's waiting there now? Another client? Must I prevent a contretemps? Pointing straight up to the waiting-room, I lift an eyebrow to the mama-san, but she shakes her head No, and Clash Clash opens the door again. "There she is! In street clothes. "She, Angel, carries a grey pin-striped shopping bag with goldleaf logo. Somebody stole all my underwear! The mama-san, a benign grandmother, smiles to see us embracing. Taking my hand now, Angel leads me upstairs to her cube. "For Her: A silvery top with tiny zircons round the armholes. "For Her: A white skirt with Hello Kitty-esque applique detailing on the pockets. Tight Tight—almost not too tight. You might ogle her, but you wouldn't think she's a whore; you would sense, though, that she's not from round here. Already, she's gathered her long hair up into a black crest with a spangly clip: away from the fluids to come. "How I long to undress her! But she undoes me: She unbuttons my shirt: Cotton cloth tugs rough down my arms, down my torso; coolth strikes my bare skin. She kneels, slips my socks off, unbuckles my belt, takes down my jeans, plucks at my live cock through my briefs, tugging them down now, and as I stand on bare legs, my jeans pooled at my ankles, bobbing free, she takes me in hand and plants a sly kiss on my tip. I need to change into my uniform. "Now I lie, stretched out on my back on the freshly made bed in her cube, waiting for her to come back, in uniform, waiting to embrace her again. Why not lie on my belly, as usual? I want Angel to see me, not my back, when she opens the door and looks down to the bed. I want her to see me, straining, heated, pointed right at her. "The door opens. Now I am ready, and quick off the bed, standing, I've slid my hands under the tawdry uniform cloth, slithing it up her flanks: cupping, molding, caressing, smoothing her efficiently pantiless cheeks: kneeling, rumpling the slippery cloth higher, freeing her belly and pelvis, nuzzling her deeply cleft belly button, pressuring, rubbing her motte stubble with the heel of my hand. She reaches her hands down, pulls the uniform over her head, tosses it: "Unclothed, raw, about to be taken: What any whore's used to being, under the eyes of a client, in the moment before the real service begins. I stand: Swoop my hands down, cup her cheeks, lift up and back so her legs splay either side of my torso. She grasps onto my arms, lets her head flop back, as if she were seated on a playground swing: I let her safely back down on her feet. 124 pounds! "We begin. I've lain back on her bed again, and she sits on my belly, then scunches forward, bends down, and, with both hands, squeezes her left breast, feeds it into my opening mouth. Her nipples stiffen, gain grainy texture against my fluttering tongue: She pulls back as I noisily suckle; her breast flops from my mouth. Did I hurt her? The nipple above me is slippery, distended: I brush it Again Again with parted lips. You did not get enough milk as a baby!—but how could she do more than guess? She feeds me her right breast. What she permits, that she has granted: The pose she's adopted permits this: Working the blood up into her right nipple's tissue with my tongue, sliding both hands down her flanks, cupping her cheeks, working my right index down into her asscrack to access her cunt from behind: Checking for seepage. "She has a soft spot for me; she's squelchy, but not with lube: She's made her own sauce, slithy, tacky, and clotted: Not KY or AstroGlide. Still cupping her cheek with my left hand, letting that index finger rest on her dry little anus to keep her alert, I slither my right index through her lips into sponginess: find, press home, press flesh against bone. Angel arches, then pushes her ass back, driving my finger more deeply up into herself, whimpers in the back of her throat: Then her cunt clenches my fingertip. I worry her tit, clamping my mouth round it from nipple to base, suctioning, shaking my head back and forth. She greets me again—My little ferry: moaning at dusk while she transports me across her shallow inlet. "Angel has started to suck my right tit, but she's still earning her wings. Annie would harden a nipple, sting me sweetly by rolling it between her incisors, then apply suction. I push Angel's head down, arch my right breast up, dig my left shoulderblade into the mattress, to let her know by pressure and sound what I want More More and, by increasing my breast's surface area, give her big flat rough tongue more skin to cover. "I pull my thighs back. Now, on my back with my legs in the air, showing my round heels, I am open, exposed for Angel to feast on. She kneels at the end of the end and slathers my peach-fuzzy, beardless balls with her big flat tongue, now this way, now that. Eyes closed, I slowly relax myself down into her licking warmth. I feel safe as she tenderly laves me; I feel safe to hear her daintily slurping, feel safe as she trails her tongue down my perineum. I give it up: Tiny cries, mmms, sighs, and More More reward her as I opening myself further, pulling my legs further back now: canting my ass further upward: fully exposing my anus; but she's not willing to rim me. Getting ready, she hardens me: The latex, alas, makes her tongue feel far away, dull. I put two hands to her head and lift her up off me. "Angel presents, while I crouch behind her, bending close: She exhibits her cheeks, fleshy pale in the dimmed light: tenders her anus, tiny at the apex of her cheeks' jointure. Has she showered? Thoroughly? She offers her twat, graypink, plumplipped, engorged: Coarse crinkly littoral hairs point every which way, thin out near her slit. So very not air-brushed. Still crouching behind her, I bend down my head, start kissing her succulence, licking along the smooth glutes, smacking my lips, sucking vociferously: Then when I'm mouthing my way from Angel's right cheek to her left, a whiff from her seeping twat hammers my backbrain: Crams my nostrils with the rank, gamy scent I so relish: A specimen of Angel's foxed cuntal exudate. Crouching still, I inhale her. She patiently waits on all fours, hanging her head down. I rock back on my heels: kneel: mount her. "Having spasmed, still spasming, up her, kneeling, eyes closed, head thrown back, clutching her cheeks, I hear Angel's small voice from beneath me: You may lie down on top of me: and still up her, she still on all fours, feeling her greet me again, I lay my belly, my torso, my chest flat down along the length of her moist back, bend my head down, nose through her hair, and nuzzle her neck: reach under her with both hands, and cup her pendulous tits, fondle them, feel her greet me, reach index and middle fingers to both of her nipples and, finding them hard, scissor and tug them. She clenches again. And again. "My sole task in the third bout: Staying hard. Angel knelt over me—this, after the missionary—reached under herself, aimed me at her, and easefully squatted. I arched up, just to let her know I was conscious, watching her post now: methodically, knowingly, unhurriedly pumping herself to another Ah Ah clenching come, pausing, spasming, grinding herself, starting over: A quick thwacking flurry, a combination: I'm her pronged stable platform: Keeping my pelvis, my whole body still I reach for her breasts, then try cupping her cheeks, then rest my palms at her reciprocating muscular thighs but all briefly: Angel is fully engaged. She knows what she wants, knows my cock, knows my cock is there for her taking. All I need do is endure and stay hard. I'm used, but Oh Oh to be used so. Doggy? "When she pulled off the condom, she could see my deposit: the tip held just pre-come. I fucked her doggy, missionary, cowgirl, but though hard for each service, only came once. Must I give up my expectations for coming? Given the one flesh I've made with Angel? Why can I only come once with her, but with other whores two or three times? "She comes in by the same door that I do, the front door. And they use the word uniform too." {290} NOTE Thanks to DTG for feedback. All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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