Call Girl. Jenny Angell

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СКАЧАТЬ handbag into my jeans pocket. Nice work. Unobtrusive as hell. Hey, what do you want, I’m new at this.

      And it was still feeling like a first date.

      The room was illuminated only by the open door to the living space. I could see a bed and little else. It didn’t matter; the bed was really all that we needed. I slid out of my jacket and vest, pulled off my t-shirt and bra. I did it slowly, as seductively as I could manage, unhooking the bra behind me and letting it drop to the floor. Bruce was watching me. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed again, and I smiled and extended a hand to him, suddenly confident of my power, of my attraction. “Come here,” I said, my voice as low and husky as I could make it.

      Marlene Dietrich, eat your heart out.

      We ended up sitting on the bed, next to each other, kissing deeply. Later, I learned that some callgirls won’t kiss, that they consider their lips the only part of themselves that they can withhold. Even now, I disagree. Maybe the pretense of romance is better than no romance at all. Or maybe I just like to kiss.

      He pushed me back on the bed, gently, his head going down to my breast, his mouth on my nipples. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

      I had thought it was going to be terrible. I was still dealing with the confusion of it being – if anything – pleasant.

      I was struggling with the buttons on his flannel shirt, pulling at them, my own breath sounding ragged. I pulled the sides of the shirt apart, ran my hands against his chest, up to his neck, pulling him up to kiss me again, more demanding this time, murmuring something as I did.

      There was a moment of awkwardness with the jeans, both his and mine, and then they were off and we were lying next to each other, our hands groping, our bodies pressing together. I could feel his cock hard against my leg, and I sighed again as my fingers crept down and touched it; I could feel the excitement pulsing through it, through him.

      He was kissing my neck, running his tongue along my collarbone, his hand holding my breast. I stroked his cock, gently, firmly, feeling all of his body straining against me. I moaned softly, my fingertips light on him, his inner thighs, his curly hair, his cock, his balls. I felt myself getting wet, felt my pelvis straining to be closer to him, and it was he who, to my surprise, pulled himself up on an elbow. “Do you have any protection with you?”

      Wow. Either this was the nicest man in Boston, or else Peach really did have him trained. “In my pocket,” I said, gesturing at the clothes on the floor.

      “Do you mind?” He picked my jeans out of the pile and handed them to me, immediately going back to kissing my neck. I fumbled for the condom package, and he took it from me.

      I sat up then and leaned down to touch his cock with my lips. Yeah, I know, I know, you shouldn’t do anything without protection, what can I say, he wasn’t all that close to coming, and I was trying to show him that I liked him. Even then, I was thinking about repeat business.

      I was already understanding, if only at an intuitive level, the credo of every callgirl. Regular clients are our bread and butter, the reason that we can keep doing what we do. Finding someone like Bruce and making sure that he asks for us, over and over again.

      I hadn’t thought about how Peach had gotten him so easily for me, for my first night. Later, I found out that she had an arrangement with Bruce, that he saw new callgirls. Instead of him calling her, she called him. Everybody won: Bruce got the thrill of initiating a first-timer, the girl got an easy call. At the time, however, I was just feeling lucky, feeling like this wasn’t going to be so awful and tedious a job, after all.

      All the questions – is it wrong to like my work? Am I supposed to hate working for a service? – came later. At that moment, I was just glad that I could do it, that it wasn’t unpleasant, and that I was good at it.

      I licked up and down his cock while he opened the condom package. He paused from time to time to pull my hair back from my face so that he could watch me, watch his cock sliding in and out of my mouth, between my lips, and he sighed. “God, you’re good.”

      I moved back so that he could slip on the condom. He kissed me while he was doing it, our tongues touching; he was still sighing with pleasure. And then I was leaning back on the bed and he was on top of me, his big body over mine, his hardness sliding inside me, and I opened my legs to him, wrapped my legs around him to pull him in deeper, and he sighed again, even louder.

      I kissed his neck as he started to thrust inside me, and then I gripped his shoulders and took his thrusts, his cock big and hard inside me, his beard rough against my cheek. At one point I thought I heard him say “Tia.” I wasn’t quite sure, but I said “Bruce,” and that seemed to please him. He moaned again and thrust even harder.

      I could feel us both sweating, even though it was only March, and I had been chilly when I got there. The portholes were open, but it wasn’t the lack of air that was making me so hot, making us so hot together. I slid my hands up over the hair on his chest as he continued to move inside me, and tightened my hands around his shoulders again – they almost slipped off from his sweat.

      He came suddenly, just as I was grabbing his hair and pulling his face down to kiss me again. He groaned and his whole body shuddered; I pulled him against me and held him tightly. “I’m here, baby,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

      Can I tell you this now? It was better sex than I’d had with the rat bastard boyfriend. Ever. And – best of all – I was getting paid for it.

      And it got better. There was none of the postcoital abruptness I usually associate with one-night stands. He rolled off me and pulled me over to him, my head on his chest, listening to the thudding of his heart. I continued to caress him, gently, my fingertips playing lightly over his chest. I blew gently on the sweat, and he shivered and tightened his arm around me. Better, on the whole, than any other one-night encounter I’d ever had.

      Bruce disappeared into the bathroom and was dressed first, but had wine waiting when I emerged from the bedroom, and he kissed my cheek as he handed it to me.

      The telephone rang. He picked it up, said, “Yeah, Tia’s here, hang on a minute,” and passed the receiver over to me. “For you.”

      I was puzzled. “Hello?”

      It was Peach. “All set?”

      “Yes.” I had no idea what she meant.

      “Okay, good, call me when you get out.” She must have sensed that I didn’t understand. She sighed. “I always call when the hour’s up. Some guys play games. Sometimes they try to make you stay longer. He pays for your time, and I make sure that he gets what he paid for. And that you get out safely, that you’re not stuck or stranded or anything like that. So leave now, and call me from a pay phone.”

      “Okay.” I handed the telephone back to Bruce. He obviously knew the drill: he had the money in his hand already. “I really liked meeting you, Tia.”

      I smiled as I slid the bills into my jacket pocket. “It was nice meeting you, too, Bruce. I hope I can see you again.”

      “I’d like that a lot.” He even sounded like he meant it.

      He escorted me off the gangway, kissed me again on the cheek, gave me a brief hug. “Good-night.”

      “Good-night, Bruce.” And I walked away toward my car; I felt like singing, or skipping, something joyous СКАЧАТЬ