Madame B - Ecstasy

And that did it. Finally, Mark's impassive face broke into a frown, then a smile, and he let out a whimper that told me just what effect I was having on him. Once he'd started, there was no stopping. His hands were all over me, one finger on my tits, the other between my lips. I sucked on his finger, and he moaned a little louder. Then I bit down on it. He grunted, emitting an animal sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

With that, I forgot about client/call-girl etiquette, and I let my body tell me what to do.

Now that Mark had lost control, he totally abandoned himself to the rhythm of our fucking. His pubic bone was grinding against mine. The rasp of his bush grinding against my swollen clit was too much for me to bear, making me cry out. "Fuck me!" I screamed, forgetting that Mark was supposed to be the one giving orders here. "Fuck me! Fuck me!" I almost sobbed the words. Mark did fuck me, harder than ever. His body bucked, pushing his dick deep into me. I knew what I needed to get there, but it would mean putting my own pleasure before his. I forgot all about working for Mark. I forgot all about everything but the climax I needed, and I placed his thumb on my clitoris for a couple of seconds. That was all it took. I felt the familiar electric current starting in my pelvis and radiating through my body, white-hot points of light erupting in my clit, my ass, my tits, and sending a telltale blush across my cheeks and chest. I closed my eyes, riding out the last few seconds of my orgasm. My pussy continued its rapid contractions, a series of tiny squeezes as fast as the flutter of butterfly wings around his cock.

Mark came seconds later. Eyes flickering, he lay?????? the hotel bed, his whole body seized by one, two, three huge tremors as he lost control of himself at last. "Oh, God! Oh, God!" he shouted. His hair remained immaculate, but his deadpan features were twisted and sweat had become beaded on his forehead.

As my orgasm subsided, I remained frozen to the spot, appalled by what I'd done. I'd broken the golden rule and put my own pleasure before that of my client. I eased myself off Mark's diminishing erection and removed the condom, using a tissue to wipe him clean before disposing of it in the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and examined myself in the mirror. Disheveled hair, pink cheeks, sparkling eyes-the climax I'd just had was written all over my features. "You fucking fool," I said to my reflection. "You've blown your big chance to get out of debt," I told myself. And there was another voice in the back of my head, saying "And you'll never fuck Mark again now, either." But that was the least of my worries.

I wrapped myself in a hotel bathrobe and returned to the bedroom, where Mark had draped a sheet over himself. He had also raided the minibar and handed me a glass of champagne. On the pillow was a fold of fifty-dollar bills. I counted them: two grand. It must be a payoff.

"To cover your expenses for the evening," he said. And then, just what I was dreading, "Time for your debriefing. You do know what went wrong there, don't you?"

I hung my head. "I'm sorry," I said. "I tried to keep my cool, but you felt so good…" I bit back the tears.

"I've been doing this for fifteen years, and you're certainly the most remarkable first fuck I've ever had," he said, with the detachment of a man mulling over a business decision. "Most of my girls take weeks of practice to develop the sensual confidence that comes naturally to you. Annabel, for example, had to take lessons from some of my more senior girls just to get her oral skills up to par. But you, Kerry, you're different. You just enjoy sex too much. You're not a natural escort, and with that attitude, you'll never be the working girl I'm looking for. It's a shame, really. You're very attractive, and clearly extremely skilled, but I just can't trust you not to put your own satisfaction before that of your client."

"So I'm not hired because I'm too good?" I said, fingers closing around the cash Mark had given me before he demanded it back. I was bitterly disappointed, but at least I had enough money to pay my rent for the next month.

"I didn't say you weren't hired," said Mark as he topped off my champagne. "Just that I couldn't trust you with my clients. I have another position I'd like to offer. The arrangement I have in mind is rather more exclusive. You will be fucking one specific, very exacting customer. He'll want you for two nights a week, plus the occasional weekend. He pays very well."

I was confused but intrigued. "Who is he?" I asked. Mark leaned forward and kissed me for the first time, peppery stubble scratching against my cheek. He tasted of champagne.

"Didn't I say?" he said, eyes twinkling. "It's me."

This confession about a beautiful stranger has a fabulous twist. I'll never forget gasping with shock-and arousal-when Nina told me the story of the night she picked up a stranger who was not all he appeared to be.

The moral of this story? Sometimes the unexpected can be even more delicious than the anticipated. Put me in a room full of men of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and I'll go for the pale and interesting skinny boy every time. Why do willowy, androgynous men get me weak at the knees and wet between the legs? Time and time again, the men I draw to me, the men to whom I call across crowded bars with nothing more than a smile, the boys whose lips wrap around my nipples, whose heads rest in my lap, and whose cocks I crave, are beautiful, delicate, finely chiseled creatures. Apart from their looks, they have one thing in common. They have the stamina to go on, and on, all night. They might look reedy, but these slips of manhood can fuck for hours, and they're always eager to learn more about making me happy.

And what do they see in me? I couldn't be less androgynous. I'm proud of my big, round tits, which are still pert. My nipped-in hourglass waist which looks as if I'm wearing a corset. My generous ass and wide, sensual hips. Add those to long, dark hair that reaches in snaky curls down my back and olive skin that gives me a year-round tan, and it's no wonder my last lover called me his Spanish guitar and worshipped my curves.

I know where to find my boys. Dingy little gigs at indie clubs, at university and college bars, hanging around in grimy dives, they come out at night, social vampires who don't surface during the day. They're usually too shy and sensitive to come and talk to me, so I smile sweetly and fix my eyes on them. The double barreled assault of brightly lipsticked pillowy lips and mascara-lashed eyes never fails. Once they know that they'll get a warm welcome from me, they'll approach. And I don't let them go until I get what I want-and I always get my man.

Ash checks out all the usual boxes. There's an unsigned band playing in a town-center club. As soon as I walk in, I see him standing in the corner near the bar, nursing a neat whisky and dressed in a sharp pinstriped suit teamed with battered cross-trainers and a baggy shirt and tie. The trousers hang loose from his snaky hips. I like that a lot. He's tall-about six foot-and his dark brown hair is teased and slicked, forties-style. He has dark, straight eyebrows, not too thick, framing pale green eyes. His delicate jawline and high cheek-bones make him look half-boy, half-cat, and his upper lip pouts slightly over the bottom one. There's a slight sneer about his mouth. I like that, too. A challenge, I think.

But I'm wrong. For once, the guy looks at me, making it clear that he's the one making the decision here. I hold his gaze. I don't do demure. For the length of an entire song, our eyes are locked. In that two-and-a-half-minute period, I run through a string of sexual positions I want to force his skinny little body into. That sulky lip wrapped around my nipple, that bony back arching in pleasure as he clambers on top and fucks me. Oh, yes. I've got lots of ideas about what to do with this one. I decide to move matters along a little. Maybe he's too shy to make the first move after all.