Madame B - Ecstasy

T J stroked up and down my spine with his oily hands, kneading the small of my back with his fists. His voice drifted through the vapor. "You have a beautiful, beautiful ass, Helen," and as he poured warm oil between my cheeks, I let out an involuntary sigh, realizing what was coming next. He slid a smooth finger inside my ass and circled it around, loosening me up. I'd never been penetrated in the ass and pussy at the same time, but I knew it was the only way to satisfy my craving for the ultimate completion. Rubbing my clit harder than ever against the base of Adi's dick, I raised my derriere a little, giving TJ a better view. He took my hips in his hands, and in a split second he was inside me, spearing his way into virgin territory. I held two men inside me, snug and tight. It was the most intense sensation I'd ever felt in my life. Finally, the tension I'd been holding in for the last six months melted away. Adi was still thrusting powerfully into my pussy while TJ probed my ass more gently. I was acutely aware of each dick inside me, competing for my attention. I felt my climax welling up and could tell from the increasingly frantic rhythm of Adi's and T J's movements that they were close, too.

Adi reached his hand up to my breasts and held gently on to one nipple, twisting it gently. That tiny sensation, a sharp contrast to the huge feeling in my pelvis, was all it took to bring me to orgasm. I let go, and wave after wave of spasms washed over me before secondary contractions made me tighten around T J. Both men shot their spunk into me, finally losing their professional cool as they abandoned themselves to their orgasms. When we were done, I squeezed my whole pelvic floor tightly, letting them know that although it was over, I wanted to keep those cocks inside me for as long as possible. When they eventually withdrew from my body, my whole being felt fluid, alive, released. T J and Adi discreetly backed out of the room, leaving me facedown on that stone slab in a pool of oil, water, soap, and come. As they left, T J gestured toward another door that was twice as tall as I was.

I pushed my way through and found myself back in the relaxation area, now empty save for another woman reclining in her towel. Her confident posture and expression told me it wasn't her first time here. After taking five minutes to compose myself, I returned to the changing area, where I showered, taking care not to wash away the oils from my skin. I dried myself and got back into my clothes. My skin, which had been dull and unresponsive for so long, was finally alert to every different sensation. Even my clothes seemed to caress me, the silk of my blouse against my skin, the lace thong that parted my ass cheeks and stroked my clit, reminding me of the pleasure administered in the hammam. I tidied myself up in the mirror. My complexion had a healthy, youthful glow, and my hair had fallen into soft waves in the steam. I left through a side door. My body was made of milk and honey, and the cold, gray afternoon couldn't bring me down. I looked at my watch; I couldn't believe it had been only ninety minutes.

On my way back to work, I passed a young woman in the doorway of an austere office building. Expensively dressed, she was juggling a mobile phone with a cappuccino and a copy of the Financial Times. The crumpled, stressed-out expression on her face mirrored that of my own less than twenty-four hours ago. I waited for her to finish her phone call. I had another number to give to her.

There are a lot of things nice girls aren't supposed to do. Being paid for sex is one of them, but you'd be surprised how many women I speak to who have tried on the world's oldest profession for at least a night or two. This is by far the most orgasmic account of a woman's experience of prostitution I've ever been told. It takes a lot of money to look like me: the red-gold highlights that I never allow to grow out, the always-matching underwear, the bikini line that's freshly waxed, the must-have bag, sky-scraping heels in this season's color, plus cab rides everywhere because I can't walk in them. You name it, I've gotta have it. From my personal trainer to my weekly massage. I'm a regular Park Avenue princess.

Shame, then, that I'm a magazine assistant struggling on a salary that barely covers the basics of food and shelter here in Manhattan. The difference between my champagne lifestyle and lemonade budget came to a head last year, when I finally sat down and looked at my finances, confronted the credit cards I'd used to pay off the store cards, the overdraft that grew every week, and the loan I couldn't pay back. I was over my head to the tune of about fifty thousand dollars, and I had no way to raise that kind of cash.

I couldn't tell anyone at work about my predicament. At the upscale magazine where I work, we have a weird attitude regarding money: We don't talk about it. Probably because it's never an issue for most of my coworkers. The staff consists almost exclusively of pampered white girls who've had money since the day they were born. Their Upper East Side apartments have been in their families for generations, and if they run out of cash, they can call Daddy, and he'll have his accountant wire a few hundred dollars to keep them going till the end of the month.

But when you're losing sleep over your debts, something's going to give, and one day Annabel, my senior assistant, found me crying in the ladies' room. She's the last person I wanted to see me in tears. Blond, sleek, upper-class, she's the embodiment of perfect poise. For her to see me lose it like this meant I could kiss my chance of promotion at the magazine good-bye.

"Kerry!" she gasped when she saw me, mascara running down my face. "What's happened?" I blurted it all out: the mountain of debt, the pressure I'd been under to maintain a perfect glossy exterior. I knew that letting my guard down like this would result in my becoming a social outcast, but what the fuck? At this rate I'd have to leave Manhattan within a couple of weeks anyway, and it felt so good to finally confess to someone about my double life. The relief was immense, like taking off a layer of clothing on a sweltering day. To her credit, Annabel didn't judge me or tell me off. She didn't say anything. She just let me talk and fetched me a tissue to wipe away the tears.

"Poor Kerry," said Annabel when I'd finished. "It doesn't have to be like that. There's always something you can do."

"Yeah right," I said, looking at Annabel's Diane von Furstenberg dress, this season, hundreds of dollars' worth of stretch jersey cotton that showed off a flat stomach and pert bottom. (She'd been whipped into shape by the same personal trainer I used.) "This salary's just pocket money to you. For those of us without rich parents to back us up, it's all we've got. I can't just pick up the phone and ask for a handout." As soon as I'd made the dig, I felt bad. Annabel was a lovely girl. It wasn't her fault she came from money, and I was sure she hadn't meant to be insensitive.

"Sorry," I said. "That wasn't fair of me."

"No," said Annabel, and she looked deep in thought. "No, I can see why you'd think that. I felt the same way when I was in your position. But the truth is, most of the girls on this magazine make their own money, me included."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "No one can live the kind of life that we do on this salary."

"You can take on extra work on the side," said Annabel.

"When? I'm here eight a.m. till eight p.m. every day. I only have about four free waking hours every day. The only extra work I could take on would be as a goddamn escort!"

But Annabel didn't laugh at my joke. She looked me in the eye and nodded, slowly. It took a minute or two to realize that she wasn't joking.

"Christ, Annie!" I said, my mouth falling open as I realized that my cool, classy coworker was the features assistant by day and a whore by night.