Whore Diaries II: Adventures in Independent Escorting (2 page)

BOOK: Whore Diaries II: Adventures in Independent Escorting
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“Oh, nice cock,” I say, and I mean it this time.  It's the perfect size with the perfect curve.

 

I climb up between his legs and pet his cock softly with my fingertips.  How sweet.  I make some sexy “mmm” sounds and punch him in the balls.  Lots of stroking and petting and lube and punching and squeezing and twisting.  I wrap the rubber bands around his cock and snap them up and down the shaft, tie up his balls and shoot them with rubber bands, and put rubber bands on his nipples and slap them.  Between all that, I lick my way up and down his stomach, nibble on his ears, pretend I'm going to kiss him and laugh instead at the last second.  In between groans, gasps, and breaths, he tells me how beautiful and creative and sensual and dominant and amazing I am.  He wants to take me away on a vacation, he says, and serve me for a week or a weekend.  I tell him that's a lot of my time and he would first have to prove himself worthy.  Really I'm thinking that would save my ass with the IRS and a few trips like that would pay off the land.  Maybe if I had money I could figure out what to do with my disabled auntie.

 

He hyperventilates, and I tell him to breathe.  Guide him into that grounded space at his core.  This is the only time he feels real, really feels.  Sometimes when people tell me nothing is real and reality is an illusion, and therefore, nothing really matters, I want to tell them that I could make them feel real.  I could show them a place so deep and true inside themselves, they could never deny it.  I think Viktor Frankl said something like that, but he was an intellectual, a survivor, not a sadist for hire.

 

“You don't deserve to cum,” I tell him.  “You haven't earned shit.” 

 

I climb up to sit on his face and punch him in the balls while he eats me out.  I cum sweaty and hard, pushing myself down onto his nose, and tell him to move down to the bottom of the bed with his face down, ass up, and balls hanging over the edge. 

 

“Don't move,” I say, and I get into drawers and rustle things around mysteriously while I count his money and send my friend a text to check the dog's capillary refill rate again.

 

I grab my little whip out of the drawer and swat it lightly across his ass.  Draw it ever so lightly back and forth, swat, tickle, stroke, knee in the balls.  I make him say, “Thank you, Goddess” every time I knee him.  It's only been 45 minutes, and I have to figure out a way to stretch this out, so I stick a toy in his ass.  That's something that takes up time.  Now I can kick him in the balls or ass twizzle-stick dildo.    Then he has to pee, and I make him hold still for a while again afterwards.  An hour and 20 minutes.  I tell him he's not allowed to cum, and I climb on his cock and make him hold a vibe on my clit while I ride it.  I love my life.  I wish this guy would tip.  He never does, and since he's Mister Healthy Communicator when not in scene, I'm not sure how to prompt him without being rude.  Too bad my friend Mac isn't here with her advanced hustle skills; she'd know how.

 

An hour and 35 minutes.  He likes to take a shower after.  I climb off and punch him in the balls again.  “Your challenge,” I tell him, “is to get yourself off while I'm punching you in the balls.”

 

He does.  Perfect timing, too.  Then he takes a quick shower and tells me I'm the only kink game in town and to let him know if I ever need any legal advice and he worships me.  I ask him about Dream's SSI applications, but that's not his kind of law.

 

Then he leaves and I'm $500 richer and there's another guy coming in an hour, a guy who will need to touch my skin and find it soft, so I find my volcano rock and jump back in the bathtub.

 

SEX FAIRY
 

 

For these people, I'm making an exception to my rule about not doing outcalls.  They live in a fancy neighborhood far out of the city.  Not fancy enough to overlook the ocean, but fancy enough for spaced out cookie cutter mansions. 

 

June emailed me a couple months ago, a long email that went on and on like water explaining how after 10 years of marriage, she and her wonderful husband had begun exploring sexually and she'd always wanted to be with a woman, but she wasn't sure how she'd react, and would it be okay if she smoked pot because she gets really nervous?  Also, her husband is kind of fat but he's a very good man and takes such good care of her and her son, and she loves him.  They'd been watching porn, smoking pot, reading books, and gaining communication skills, and now they wanted to try an encounter with another woman.  But it had to be real!  They couldn't be with someone who would fake it!  And they must smoke pot or they will be nervous!  I was supposed to meet them last month, but then June started bleeding early. 

 

At first her emails were sweet.  I was excited to be part of their sexual education and exploration.  I'd been thinking about posting a casual encounter ad for a couple before I got their email, which made the prospect of a paying couple even better.  Get paid to explore your fantasies!  My life is the best! 

Over time, her emails started to wear on.  She asked questions upon questions, and had to describe the details of every sex documentary she had ever seen, like a phone sex customer who tries to get off by emailing about what they want instead of calling.

 

Now, after all these emails, I'm finally pulling into their driveway.  Henry is waiting outside for me, waving.  Of course.  Inside, there's an envelope with my name on it right on the bench where you sit to take your shoes off.  I shove it in my pocket and hang my coat in the closet.  The closet is full of coats.  If I had a closet that size, it would be an eighth of the space in my cabin, I think, and an eighth of my possessions would be coats.  Their golden retriever is in a crate, whining and writhing with excitement. 

 

“Oh, you don't have to crate her for me,” I say, and Henry lets her out.  She wags her whole body up to me and sits to be petted, which is hard because she can barely restrain herself from leaping for joy at a new person.  I kneel to let her kiss my face and wiggle around, and then I join June on the couch.  June is cute.  Cute like apple pie with long, permed hair, a dutifully toned body, and cheerful smile.  She says she's nervous.

 

We drink wine and they smoke and they ask what they are supposed to do.  Should they go away so I can count the money? 

 

“Oh, I was just going to trust you,” I say.  “But I can use your restroom and check it?”  I have this philosophy that it turns guys off when I count the money, so I don't.  I smile at them and tuck it into a drawer as if I trust them completely and am too classy to double check.  Really, it's not that I trust them, but that I take a longer view.  If they short me, I can just not see them again, but if I offend them, I probably can't undo it, and I potentially lose $500 per month per guy.  So I go to Henry and June's bathroom and I count the money.  Five crisp hundred dollar bills and two fifties.  I text my friend, who's back at the hotel room, that they are cool and we are still drinking wine and talking about sex.

 

When I come out of the bathroom, I'm naked, and I curl up closer to June.  She is so nervous, and I don't want to scare her, but I do feel a sort of responsibility to get things going.  She tells me again that sometimes Henry's dick goes soft and we should just ignore it, it's just a thing that happens, we definitely shouldn't call attention to it.  Then Henry says again that they want me to understand there are no goals for the evening.  Nobody has to cum, and if we don't do anything it's okay.  Then she tells me again that it's really the marijuana that's opened her up to her sexuality, explaining, “but sometimes it makes me paranoid.”  I want to laugh so much, but I don't.  I tell her she has nothing to be paranoid about and she's 10 times hotter than me on the dominant culture's scale.  Then he tells me again that there are no goals and she tells me again that we should just ignore it if his dick goes soft.

 

Maybe I need to be more creative with questions, to keep Henry and June from repeating themselves all night.  So I ask and they tell me that Friday nights are their thing, the one night a week they have to themselves when they lie in bed and watch the porn channel and do things that nobody who really knows them would ever imagine.  They are thinking about getting matching tattoos that say, “Living For Friday.” 

 

Finally, I suggest that we climb in their bed and snuggle, watch the porn channel, and see what happens.  They agree.  Progress!  She strips down to her underwear, and he keeps his shirt and boxers on.  Soon June and I are kissing, and she is the best kisser, soft and sucking and nibbling without being invasive.  She says I'm the best kisser too.  We rearrange ourselves for the male gaze and kiss some more, and I run my hands up and down her back and the sides of her breasts and she asks if she can kiss my breasts.  Fuck yes.

 

She sucks a nipple into her mouth, and I groan and grind against her knee.  It is one part real and one part demonstration.  Soon we are kissing and groping each other above the waist and grinding against each other's legs. 

 

“Honey,” she says, “come over here and watch.”

 

Soon June goes down on me, he kisses my breasts, and I'm in heaven.  Then I go down on her and she lies back against him and he plays with her breasts and she screams and pants ever so responsively.  Every once in a while she gets what they call “too much in her head,” and they have a little routine they do, laugh about it, and then start again.  All of this is facilitated by huge amounts of marijuana, which seems to wear off every few minutes so they start getting nervous and have to hit the bowl again.

 

On the teevee two young girls are being fucked by an older man.  First they talk about the boys at school, but next he shoves them down to their knees and fucks their mouths, bends them over, and fucks them, and then they both rushed and dived down to have him cum all over their faces.  I can definitely see how some people hate porn.  I just try not to look at it, and then something better comes on, two adults having real sex.

 

Real life is the best, though.  In reality, June starts fingering my clit, Henry puts a couple fingers inside me and his other hand is on my breast.  June's other hand is moving all over me, and I think this is what I've always wanted.

 

Later we suck his cock, movie style with our tongues intertwining. 

 

“Fuck,” he moans, “I feel like there's a porno happening on my cock.” 

 

Then she lies back and watches me suck him off.  She claims to be submissive, but I think there's something sadistic about this.  Suck my man's cock, she'd said.  It was a question, but asked in the kind of acting voice that threatens that you have to go along with it.  So I do.  Soon he is too much in his head again.  We stop for another smoke break and then we kiss some more, and then it is time to leave.  They say thank you, thank you, this is better than our fantasies, this is the best thing that's ever happened to our sex life. 

 

I hide the money while I'm driving away.  I love being the sex fairy.

 

JUST TRY IT
 

 

 

We've been emailing for months.  He lives in a little town a few hours from the big city, and he emails like clockwork every month to see when I'll be in the big city and if I might come to his little town.  I do go to his town sometimes, was there a couple months ago even, but it was bad timing for him.  He is old, retired.  Google told me his and his wife's address and gave me minutes from the zillion different boards he serves on.  He had no job verification, but that was when I was a little less paranoid.

 

He coordinated his trip to the big city this month right around my trip.  Now I'm rushing to do my makeup, because he just called from the parking lot and said he's here.  I told him to come on up but give me a couple minutes because I just got out of the shower.  It would be funny if he showed up right when I put eyeliner on one eye but not the other. 

 

He doesn't.  I'm all ready and he's still not here.  This is the worst part, waiting.  No matter how many times you double- and triple-check the room, there's still nothing to do but sit and worry that he's a cop.  Finally I stubbornly arrange myself on the chair next to the dildo display and wait.  You can make your mind empty, but I'm not really into that.  Finally he knocks.  I look through the peephole, and he's old.  That fits so I open the door, hug, and say it's so nice to meet him.

 

He puts the money by the teevee and goes into the bathroom while I hide it.  Good boy.  Then he comes out and very slowly takes his clothes off.  He carefully folds each garment and stacks undershirts on top of overshirts on top of pants.  I used to lounge in some stripperific pose at times like this, but lately I'm into letting it all hang out.  It feels sexier to just be natural.

 

Finally he comes to the bed, I kiss him, and he says I'm a horny little lady.  I don't tell him I'm not a little lady, or that really he's taken so long getting undressed I'm trying to rush our encounter to make up for it.  He keeps trying to stick his tongue all the way down my throat, but I make my lips small so that only a little of his tongue can come in.  Already I don't like him, and I think maybe I shouldn't take guys who only want an hour for their first appointments anymore.  Two hour guys only after this, maybe.

BOOK: Whore Diaries II: Adventures in Independent Escorting
12.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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