Roger Hornsby - The sex procurer

They never gain control again once they've been faced with that question, though, and you needn't worry about their anger. They want to know an answer only to put themselves at ease, not really to hurt you. That's why I said, according to the formula, "Well, in my business, a girl performs best if she's experienced sex." It's straight flattery.

But it works every time. Girls want to be experienced nowadays. They want to feel "in" on things. Though they would like you to think their pee doesn't have a urine odor, they still want to be experienced; so they'll confess that their pee really stinks, if it helps their cause as they see their cause to be.

"Oh?" she said. "I didn't know that." And I could see she was fishing on a new situation.

"Sure," I answered. "If you've known sex, you know how to handle a situation. For instance, you know how to put into your pose all the charm that only an experienced woman can show. I noted that right away with you, the way you walked everything about you. But I just had to know. Please excuse me."

"Oh, think nothing of it," she said with a feeling of being in control again. But, of course, she wasn't.

And I made sure she wasn't when next I said to her, "Tell me, what's your favorite position?"

It floored her again. She gulped, and then laughed, and tried to make it a big joke, saying that I surely was nosy and all that. But she answered, nevertheless, telling me that she liked "all kinds of positions". Big deal. She probably hadn't done anything except the missionary one, on her back, and that was all.

But I said, "That's great. It helps in this business. You'll be able to convince anybody then in any pose."

So it went. She was turned on. We discussed all kinds of things about her beauty and about sex and everything right down the line, but not making it supposedly dirty and all that. For instance, I hinted at the fact that she excited me, but I never descended to an outright statement of fact. Oh no; it was all very professional.

So our relationship began, and we started seeing each other regularly, discussing other aspects of her future career. Naturally I didn't bring anything directly into play about when or where she would start that career, and that gave her a sense of freedom from pressure which permitted her to be the big deal without taking any risks; in other words, she didn't have to put her money where her mouth was – yet.

Then we went into a courtship, and it passed beautifully that way, starting at first with a few afternoon dates that lingered into the evening and ended with dinner somewhere before I took her home, finally went into late dates before she got back to her house, and then became a steady night diet of courtship. It wasn't that we had forgotten our first purpose; rather I was juicing her all the way, making her dependent on my attention, making her go the full route.

And then one night she said, as she had said various times during our time together, "Well, when are you ever going to ask me to take my clothes off, anyway?"

I hadn't even put the make on her sexually until then, I should let you know. This was to be a masterful seduction, one that would pay off all the way. So I hadn't done a thing besides a few well-turned kisses. Oh, we had talked enough about sex all the time, in some way or other, to keep her turned on, but nothing more. I was working a time schedule, trust me.

That was why I then told her, "I can't, Lucy. I'm sorry, but I can't. I love you too much to share you with anybody else."

She looked at me in the car where we were parked on a rise high above the city. Below and away from us sprawled the plain, and it was strung with lights, like a Christmas tree turned on its side and blazing forever. "What do you mean, Ace?" she asked in that hesitant little voice that girls always have when they think they're hearing something they very much always want to hear. There's nothing that gets to a broad faster and more solidly than the thought on such a victory!

I played out the game. I led her down the path. I told her how much I cared for her. And then I said I was going away because I couldn't face even bringing myself to doing anything to her.

Between a sudden fright at the thought of my leaving and a certain intrigue at what I might want to do with her besides professionally posing her, Lucy bit the bait I strung out for her, and it wasn't long before she was pleading that I stay and do anything I wanted to do with her. I was sure she would have let me undress her in that vehicle right then if I had wanted to do so, if only to feast my eyes or do anything else I wanted to do with her terrific body.

But I had other plans, and I played my cards close to my chest, and finally left her with the promise to call her the next day and let her know if I was leaving or staying. She parted tearfully and in a fright. And I measured the situation and was sure she was ready for the next step.

It came with the phone call the next afternoon I set up a date for us to meet, and said it was the last time we probably would see each other. She pleaded with me that such not be so, consented immediately to see me as planned, and then came tearfully for the get-together. It was then, casually, when the time was ripe and we were into the session awhile, that I suggested she go away with me if she really cared for me.

Naturally she hesitated. In the past I had moved conversations in that direction, and we had mentioned the prospect in passing most briefly, but never had confronted its likelihood thoroughly. Now I worked it to that point. She hesitated, and then finally said she was willing. I withdrew the offer immediately. She insisted that I take her along. I said we couldn't get married. She hesitated again, but finally said she would come with me regardless of whether we married. We batted that ball back and forth across the conversational net several minutes, her insisting, me declining. And finally I accepted her bid. She became frightened when she saw how far into the trap she had fallen. But not knowing it was a trap, and being involved with her pride, she ran it out all the way and we made plans to leave the same night.

There was, of course, the problem of her mother; but we surmounted that when we lied and said we were going away to get married. I knew it was a weak ploy, and mothers don't like the idea often of seeing their daughters heading for a shack job. But sometimes mamas will yield if they think their daughters are making a good catch; her mother was the grubby kind and always had thought I was a good deal once I appeared on the scene. So it played right into my hands again, and we got the hell out of there that night with the old lady's profound wishes for our happiness and early return.

Together we slept at a motel that night, and still I didn't do anything to her. Though I had insisted we stay in separate rooms, played the gentleman all the way, she wanted us to register as man and wife. I did, and she actually undressed for me. She was a beautiful thing, believe me. She wore the same outfit, for sentimental purposes, that she had worn the day we met. I watched her slip off those tennis shoes; saw her raise her skirt as she sat at a vanity table, turned away from the mirror; and saw her unsnap her garter belt from her stocking tops, and I wanted to go through the ceiling.

Then she rolled down those stockings, pulled them off, and dropped them to her shoes. Standing, she began unbuttoning her blouse, and revealed a black lace bra. Her white crests were full and big in that cloth, and I wanted badly to hold them, to suck them, and love them. She was a terrific prize, I assure you. And when she zipped down her skirt and stepped from it after removing her blouse, and revealed herself in black nylon panties that matched her bra, I wanted to cream my drawers. She was a marvelous thing, something the Greek sculptors would have slit each other's throats to have pose for them. She put Venus de Milo to shame, but definitely.