Sunset People. Herbert Kastle

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ looked up. “Now?”

      She nodded.

      “In my jacket. Breast pocket.”

      She got the wallet from the jacket draped over the chair. He gave her his card and she ran it through and explained that the charge was twenty dollars for a basic massage. “The rest is between the two of us. The free-enterprise system.”

      “Let’s wait and see if I’ll want more than a basic massage.”

      She put the wallet and machine away and spread lotion on his back and began to knead the flesh. Some of the girls barely stroked their clients, getting down to the genitals as quickly as possible, raising the question of masturbation, or more, for a price. The price varied with the girl, the client. You tried for as much as you thought the traffic would bear. For masturbation, anywhere from an additional ten on up. For fellatio, or “head” as the girls called it, an additional twenty on up. For coitus, if the back room was free, whatever the traffic would bear, but often the same as for head.

      Diana gave head only when the spirit, and the man moved her.

      She could count the times she’d laid a client.

      She had lean, delicate hands. Most times the client reached orgasm before he could ask for anything more. She had a list of regulars who preferred masturbation with her to coitus with other girls. She made between eight hundred and a thousand dollars a week, working seven days most weeks. Except when she took a “vacation” on the late shift.

      She was now stroking his waist, reaching under the towel to brush his buttocks. His face remained in the pillow, but he sighed a little. She pushed the towel down, and felt him tense. He had long buttocks that were still hard to the touch.

      She probed them, stroked them, massaged them.

      He sighed again, and relaxed.

      She ran a little lotion down his legs, kneading the calves. She went back up and did the same to his arms, his biceps—big biceps, but much soft flesh before she could find strength, hardness.

      She asked him to turn over, and was pleased to see that there was strength and hardness where it counted. The towel, which she’d arranged as he’d turned, tented high.

      She smiled into his face. He wet his lips. “What was your name again?” the deep whisper asked.

      “Diana.”

      “The huntress. What are you hunting now, Diana?”

      “Pleasure.”

      The ruin of age was far more evident in front, despite that erection. She kept her eyes from the looseness of pectorals, the sagging of fleshy breasts, the weak flab of stomach. She looked at his face, liking it, the vestigial handsomeness of it, the questioning need of it. She slipped her hand under the towel, and lightly touched his penis. “A beauty,” she said, without artifice or whorish guile.

      “So they used to tell me.”

      “Bet they still would, if you gave them a chance.”

      “No. My wife died last year. Don’t want her friends, my friends, those widows and old ladies. I’m a dirty old man . . .”

      She grasped his penis to stop the negative talk. Also because she was curious and excited.

      She bent over him, brushing the towel to the floor. She kissed his mouth, stroking his penis, a big one, perhaps eight inches and thick, though not really in full erection; not gorged and rigid with blood; not yet sensitive enough to make him lose all pain, all care.

      She decided to change that. She decided to forgo the business preliminaries, the dealings. She held his organ with her right hand and touched his face with her left and kissed him, eyes closing, smelling the whiskey and tobacco and maleness, dreaming of this man as he once had been, as he might have been for her: the right man, the great love that she no longer believed in but yearned for as much as any schoolgirl.

      Then she moved her mouth to his penis. She knew she was supposed to wash it first, in the hospital-aseptic manner of prostitutes, but she felt a turn-on, a passion, a need to suck it . . . and did so. The smell of him was the smell of man, of genitals. The taste of him was salt, which disappeared and left a non-taste, an erotic feel in her mouth.

      When she paused, he said, “God, Diana, more.”

      She gave him more. She gave him whatever she had to give, which was considerable though she wasn’t a brilliant head artist like some of the other girls.

      And finally felt his hand running along her thighs, under the little toga, grasping her bottom through the panties. Felt his other hand fumbling for her breasts. And liked it.

      “Can you get on here with me?” he panted.

      She liked that too. She removed the panties and climbed on top of him and rode him and bent for his kisses and heard the explosion of breath and cry of near-pain that was his conclusion. She rode him a little longer for her own conclusion, which she marked by a sobbing sound vented with head back.

      The first thing he said was, “It really happened for you?”

      She was off and heading for the bathroom. “Yes.” She pointed at the ledge under the table. “There are moist towelettes.”

      She took her time douching, wondering what he would do. He could rush and leave. It would save him money.

      But when she returned, he was waiting, fully dressed, sitting on the chair.

      “It was great,” he said, voice quiet now. “What do I owe?”

      She could say a hundred. It had gone that well.

      She shrugged. It had gone too well. She couldn’t price it. “Do you live in town?” she asked.

      “No. New Mexico. I’ll be here another three days. I’m staying at that little motel a few blocks east on Sunset. I forget the name. I forget most things lately. Don’t seem important. But I’ll remember Diana.”

      Which made her smile, though it was all over and her natural cynicism, her need to withdraw, was on her.

      He handed her a bill. It was a hundred. He wasn’t that well off if he was staying at the Sunset Strip motel. A hundred was important to a retired insurance man from New Mexico. It put a seal of truth to his words.

      She walked him to the door. She said, “Come back,” and had to add, “I can’t promise it will be as nice again,” because it never was.

      When he’d gone, she returned to the desk and her book. The Breast seemed frantic and thin now. But it would fit right in with the world in an hour or so, when the glow wore off.

      She had another customer, a young Oriental, who carefully reviewed the prices and dickered for a “hand job” for ten dollars over the twenty. She said, “Why not?” and gave him a leisurely massage, concentrating on brushing his testicles and penis for perhaps five minutes. Then she grasped his organ and with a few quick strokes brought him to climax.

      He was disappointed at not lasting longer. A lot of young men were, which was why she’d been especially СКАЧАТЬ