Dallas Mayo - For women only

Her voice twanged upon my taut nerves. I clutched at my purse and marched into the bathroom. For a long moment I peered at my reflection in the mirror, scowling darkly even as my heart increased the pace of its excited thumping. Always glad to turn a trick. The woman was a whore. Business. Money. A common prostitute. Did I want her? Should I stay?

The scowl softened, turning my expression sexy. No wonder she had noticed my lips; they seemed even thicker than usual, almost lewd now, with the suggestion of a pout. I couldn't bear to look into my smoldering eyes. It was all there, a physical manifestation of the mysteries of my mind, all there in the glass.

I tore my gaze away. The woman's clothes were neatly folded on a hanger. I liked that. She was clean, at least. I liked the fact that she had taken a shower for me. And I remembered how her body had looked downstairs in the lobby – those slithery haunches! – en route to the elevator. I remembered the attractive flesh revealed by her rustling negligee, just out of the bathroom. I remembered the coarseness of her, the coarse sensuality. And the memory gave way to a sudden fierce urge, too strong, too powerful, too much for me to control. I undressed hurriedly, avoiding any further contact with the telltale mirror. Naked now, and still carrying my purse, I went back into the bedroom. I fished out two ten-dollar bills and tossed them on the dresser.

Inez's eyes were bright. "So you decided to stay." She stretched seductively. "I'm glad. I was a little worried when you walked off like that."

I moved toward her. In a hasty maneuver, she slipped her arms out of the negligee sleeves and tugged it free of her body. The fabric billowed, floating to the floor. Then she fell back on the bed again, her big breasts like heaped-up mounds, her heavy limbs lax and inviting. I stood there momentarily, wishing she would show a bit more appreciation. I wanted her to admire me, to notice my body, to say something nice about it. But that wasn't what I was paying her for. And anyway, there was something I wanted even more than compliments…

"Honey?" She reached up for me.

Overwhelmed by my need, I shuddered and sagged to the bed in a surge of lusting desire. Lust dominated me, a lust that I knew to be shameful and yet was too deep-rooted to deny. The woman was a prostitute. I had paid her for this. I felt humiliated, painfully conscious of the disgrace, the degradation, the debauchery – and worst of all, so help me, the thrill! Because I was already wallowing in sensuous excitement, crazed by that alluring flesh and stepped in my own subservient worship of it. Subservience to a whore; was that an added fillip to my self-abasement?

Uh-huh. Only a small part, though, a fragment of the whole, not much of a clue to my true character. No, there were other reasons for my enravished senses, my intoxication – and they lay inside myself, not this paid prostitute. And yet, much as I might feel condescending toward her profession, there was no condescension in me now. In a way, she was actually helping me make my decision. The all-important decision that preyed on my mind. I know what I am now. Well, no, not exactly, I'd still have to think it through later. From the beginning. But right this minute, well, I had other things to stew about. Her thighs were hot against my cheeks, the soft thighs, hot and deliciously inescapable.

The scent caught my nostrils. I breathed deep and drew it into my lungs, the familiar but uniquely exotic smell of woman. Cunt. I lost my head in sweet frenzy, burrowing into the depths, the slimy darkness, letting instinct dictate my movements, the elongated thrust of my tongue. And the gasp that sounded from above came as no great surprise, an expected response to the unexpected force and magnitude of my plunge, my unseen soul-kiss. A gasp and then an ecstatic shriek, the height of sincere flattery…

"Hey, is that your tongue? Impossible. How could a little kid like you have such a big one? I've been deep-tongued by lezzies before, but never like this. Is it for real?"

"Ummm…"

"Big as a stiff prick. Most of 'em, anyway. Oh shit, whatever it is, gimme more. Gimme, gimme. Yeah! Like you're fucking me, you know? Fucking my twat with a tongue-hard cock. Oh, do it, baby, fuck me, fuck the life out of me, fuck me into an early grave – this is one hooker who'll die happy. Talk about getting fucked!"

High praise indeed, and rightly so. I basked in it. Tongue aren't considered objects of beauty, subject to appraisal and measurement like a bouncy pair of tits. No bikini doll ever won any Miss Universe-America crown by sticking out her tongue. At least not up there on the open stage. (Judges are only human; who knows what goes on behind the scenes?) But I've always taken an understandable pride in mine, just the same, certain of its superiority in size and power if not in skill. The extra length, the extra thickness, the extra development that came from hours of dedicated stretch-practice – all worthy of commendation. And I was grateful as well as proud, of course, grateful to my heredity – hot genes and chromosomes! – for having given me such a fine natural advantage. So let her praise my most precious asset, let her praise me to the skies, let her show some appreciation for this soul-stirring performance of mine…

"Some tongue! Some fuckin' tongue! You're a real stud."

Soul-stirring and body-stirring, how about that? Her hips were pumping now, the bedsprings creaking, the mattress rumbling, all echoing the lurid "fuck" phrases that streamed from her babbling lips. Such language! Lovely, lovely as obscene as any ardent lesbian's serenade to her busy bed-bitch. I struggled valiantly to cope with the hot demands. Until, almost abruptly, the overheated peak moment arrived and practically exploded in my mouth. Wet flesh lurched to engulf my face, suffocating me and yet bringing all the scents and taste of sex. I went on kissing. Kiss-fucking. And in the anxious void of my own untouched body, I felt the hoped-for response, an orgasm on the rise, a twisting spiral of intolerable pain turning to infinite pleasure. Helpless as it made me, I continued to lick and suck and swallow nevertheless, a trained cuntlapper to the end, the bittersweet end. Sipping my ration of puss-cream! And waiting, naturally, just waiting around till those deeply buried sensitive membranes of hers would stop twitching and start tingling again. Oh yes, I'd be getting my money's worth this day. Wasn't it a stud she wanted?

There was no shame left, only a languid contentment. Maybe that important decision wouldn't be so tough now. Although I'd still have to think about it, just to play safe. Think it through from the beginning – no short-cuts, no snap judgments. After all, maybe I did have more to offer than just my thick sexy lips and my big long sexy lips and my big long sexy tongue…

It was my lips that first got me into trouble. And then later, well, it roust have been my tongue. Not its words, just the size of the damned thing. Or the blessed thing, depending on how you look at it. Anyway, I really hadn't meant to be bitchy, coming between husband and wife like that. The blame was mine, of course, but only in a kind of blameless way, strictly a quirk of nature. Oh shit, is it my fault if the boss of the company turns out to be freaky about thick lips?

Freaky about mine, at any rate. The boss, the head man, Mr. Simon Beresford himself, the guy who kept the corporate gears oiled and meshing; what a catch for a kid like me! I was new there, too, a lowly trainee in the Consolidated organization. When it happened – a chance brush-by in the cafeteria corridor – I didn't even know who he was. An executive with a roving eye – married, no doubt – but that couldn't dampen my girlish enthusiasm. I liked his looks. A trifle ancient for me, somewhere in his forties probably, but impressive nonetheless, ruggedly handsome, a manly male under that Ivy League veneer. Better yet, he seemed to like mine – and I had never been the type of charmer who could stop traffic with a rucked-up skirt and a dazzling toothpaste smile. Was the guy really interested in drab little me?