Authors: Eden Bradley
If only that were true.
I am in shock. No money on the counter. Just Joshua in my mind, and as good an orgasm as I've ever had with a client.
But my body is still vibrating, small frissons of pleasure hot on my skin. It really did happen.
And I realize that as triumphant as I feel about this lovely, solitary orgasm, the first I've ever had this way, I am still as alone as ever.
IT'S SATURDAY AND I'VE
slept in. Again. I took all of Friday off, skipping my yoga class, my facial, canceling on a client. I couldn't seem to face getting out of bed.
Joshua called yesterday morning. He left a message, his voice deep, certain, telling me he wants to see me again. Asking me to please call him. So polite, yet commanding at the same time. I didn't call. I can't do it.
I cannot do it.
Fucking torture, frankly, how badly I want to simply hear his voice. Pathetic that I played his message half a dozen times during the day. I finally made myself erase it around ten o'clock last night.
I hate when I brood, not that I do it often. I spent all of yesterday pretending not to: not to brood, not to be obsessed with Joshua's voice over the telephone line. I stayed in bed, drank tea, read magazines, watched a few movies on television, as though I were sick. Maybe I am, on some level.
One of the stations was running a marathon of eighties flicks:
Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club.
I have a secret love for these films. They're so innocent. Nothing is ever truly ugly, even the hard parts. Total escapism, which is exactly what I needed. But I can never indulge myself for too long. Today I'm
hoping for a client. Either that or I'll be reduced to cleaning out my closets simply to prevent myself from picking up the phone.
I get up and shower, being careful to shave, exfoliate, moisturize, in case I get a call. But I don't stay in the shower for too long; something about the steam, the heat of the water, is too tempting.
I am pretending not to think about Joshua. I did a lousy job of it yesterday. I fought the need to masturbate all day and all night. I'm fighting it again today. I'm too afraid it was just a fluke, that it won't work again. I'm too afraid of being disappointed. And today he is with me, just behind my eyes. As half invisible as this vague sense of need that is heavy in my chest, that has nothing to do with my intense physical attraction to him.
I can pretend all I want, but I'm still thinking about him, every moment. I love that he's so honest, how truth slips from his mouth without him really thinking about it; that's just
I love the way my body responds to him, am shocked by it. I am every bit as shocked at how I respond to him emotionally, and I'm not happy about that at all.
He is a danger to me.
One more reason never to see him again.
I slip into my silk robe, a short kimono-style in a deep plum with cranes flying across the hem. A gift from a client who had just returned from a business trip to Japan. It's the finest quality, like everything else in my life. Except for my actual life, of course. I'm still a prostitute. I'm still a girl from the Valley. From a totally fucked-up family. Still a girl who would have had no life at all if it weren't for this faux glamorous job of mine.
Why am I thinking about these things suddenly? I've
gone years simply floating along, enjoying what I have without question.
Yes, I need to stop thinking. I need to get out of the house, out of my own head.
Moving down the hall into the living room, I check my orchids, my babies, then go into the kitchen to start tea and grab my watering can. I take care of the orchids on the kitchen windowsill first, then go back to the living room, water each of them carefully, sparingly. One of the most common mistakes people make in raising orchids is overwatering. They need a good amount of water, but not too much. Too much and it will kill them.
Too much of a good thing is always dangerous.
And suddenly I am thinking of him again. Joshua.
The kettle whistles and I go back to the kitchen, make my tea. I am just adding a small spoonful of sugar to the cup when my cell phone goes off.
My heart is pounding. Could it be him?
Bad idea, Valentine.
Yes, I know. And he doesn't even have my cell number. My cell phone is only for work. Why am I being so ridiculous?
I pick it up, look at the caller ID.
It's Colin Harper. Movie producer, gorgeous bad boy turned good, married to a beautiful young woman. He is a golden boy with a golden life. But he likes to have anal sex with prostitutes because his golden wife won't give it to him. And it's really a fetish for him. He likes it dirty, loves to call me a whore. I don't mind. I even like it. I can be a bit twisted when it comes to sex. Or maybe I'm just jaded. I think the more sex you have, the more stimulation you need to make it exciting.
I've had a
And I'm here to serve, aren't I?
I pick up the phone, take a breath, plaster a smile on my face.
“Colin,” I say, making my voice deep, sultry. “So nice to hear from you. What can I do for you?”
“Ah, Val, you know what you can do for me. And you do it so well.”
He chuckles at his little joke, and I am going warm with need already. Yes, this is what I need. Sex. Sex for money, to be more exact. Everything simple, clean, straightforward.
“Tell me when and where, Colin.”
He loves the cheap little motels that rent by the hour. No Beverly Wilshire or W or Roosevelt for him. His hooker fetish must include the proper setting. So he gives me the name and address of some crap hole off Sunset. Fine with me. I don't really care today, although normally I must admit this bugs me a little. What can I say? I'm a snob about good hotels. I've been trained to be. I would never go anyplace without room service on my own. But this isn't about me, is it?
Or is it?
I could swear I'm about to come just knowing I'm going to see a client today. I'm burning, swollen, throbbing with desire as I hang up the phone.
I slip into a slutty dress, a tight, hot-pink number that pushes my small breasts together, forcing cleavage. I skip the underwear. Not my usual fare, but this is Colin's fantasy, not mine. And I always have wardrobe on hand: the black leather dominatrix gear, the little plaid schoolgirl outfit, the nurse's uniform, the gray pencil skirt and a pair of black-framed glasses for the hot-for-teacher fantasy. The wardrobe, the toys. An enormous supply of condoms and lube. I am as prepared as any good Boy Scout. This is my job.
I remind myself of that as I drive through the underbelly of Hollywood, south of Sunset. This is exactly the reminder I need, I think, as I pull into the parking lot of an old motel with peeling blue paint, half the yellow lights on the neon sign burned out. There's a homeless guy curled up on the sidewalk, his eyes closed. I don't even know if he's asleep or if he's dead. And I feel sort of distant from the whole idea. This is how people like me protect ourselves from the ugliness of our own truth.
But despite the shabby building, the homeless guy, the stench of dirty pavement, I can hardly wait to get to the room with the inevitable worn seventies decor and let Golden Boy fuck me.
I make my way upstairs, and Colin opens the door even before I have a chance to knock.
He's hot. Classic Hollywood good looks, with his perfectly groomed wavy blond hair, chiseled jaw, piercing blue eyes. He looks a hell of a lot like Jude Law. But that's not what turns me on. And he knows it.
Smiling, he grabs my wrist, pulling me into the room. He shoves a wad of hundred-dollar bills into my hand at almost the same moment he unzips his fly, and I'm wet instantly. Then he's pushing me up against the chipped dresser, bending me over, lifting the hem of my dress. I can see him behind me in the mirror, pulling his cock out. He's hard as iron already. I shiver. Lick my lips. Spread my legs wide for him.
He rolls a condom over his dick, spreads a good gob of lube on it, then between my ass cheeks.
Using his fingers, he slips a hand between my thighs from behind, over the slick folds of my pussy. Pleasure ripples through me, and I spread a little wider for him.
I love knowing what he's about to do. I love that he loves it. I love the feeling of the rolled-up hundred-dollar bills clenched in my left hand.
He's rubbing my clit now, tugging on it, and I groan. He's great with his hands, this one. He knows just how to get me there. He knows to bring me almost to orgasm before he puts his cock in my ass.
“You are a dirty little bitch. You love when I fuck you with my hand. Just like this. Don't you, Val?”
His voice is harsh, low, as he pushes two fingers inside me, pleasure shafting deep into my body, and I grind against him.
“Oh, God, I'm going to come,” I tell him.
“Not yet. Not until my cock is buried in your ass.”
“Do it now. Please.”
I mean every word of it. I can hardly hold back. I need to come so badly.
He uses his free hand to spread my ass cheeks, and slips the tip of his cock into that tight entrance. I push back against him.
“Come on. I can take it,” I tell him. He's still got his fingers deep inside my pussy, but I need more. And truthfully, Colin isn't very well endowed, so taking him is easy. “Please, baby.”
“You're such a whore, Val.”
He pushes in an inch. I bear down, opening for him, accepting the head, then the rigid shaft. There is that exquisite sensation of being filled, even by his less-than-impressive dick. And then he pushes a little deeper.
Joshua's face invading my mind again. Beautiful.
And I'm coming, onto his hand, his cock in my ass,
Joshua's, not Colin's. I'm coming so damn hard it hurts. But I don't care. Even in between spasms I whisper to him, “Really fuck me now. Please.”
And he does, sliding his cock in, slowly, deeply. I hear his breath quicken behind me. He's still playing with my clit, and the tension is building again already.
“Yes, that's it. Oh, God, yes …” I'm moaning, gasping for breath.
He moves a little faster, rubbing my clit hard.
“Make me come again, baby. I need it,” I tell him. Beg him.
Yes, so honest. And I know he'll give me exactly what I ask for, what I need.
He's really fucking me now, slamming into my ass, hurting just a little. But I like it. Need it. And his hand doing its magic, pleasure ramming into me with every stroke of his fingertips, every thrust of his cock.
My legs are shaking. I'm coming again, long, hard waves washing over me.
And he goes tense, absolutely rigid all over, yells, “Fuck!” as he comes, shuddering. His hand slides up into my hair, pulling hard, and I'm still shivering with the last ripples of my own climax.
Colin pulls out as soon as he's done coming. There's no lingering for him. But that's fine. I'm not his lover, after all, am I? I don't need the cuddling.
Pulling my dress down, I stuff the wad of cash into my purse, give him a wink in the mirror as I go to the bathroom to clean up.
I don't look too carefully in the mirror as I use a wet washcloth to clean myself. I don't want to see myself looking back at me, questioning anything. Not now.
When I come back out Colin has disposed of the condom and is reclined on the bed, fully dressed, not a hair out of place. You'd never know he'd just had sex, except for the glow in his pretty blue eyes.
“That was great, Val.”
I smile at him. “Yes it was,” I say, meaning it.
I feel good. Better than I have in days. Colin was exactly what I needed.
“How about another round?” I ask him.
He glances at his watch. “I have a meeting in thirty minutes. Can't do it. You really are a dirty little whore, aren't you?”
I smile at him. This is our usual game. And while we're having sex it's fine. It's part of the thrill. And I know he likes it. But for some reason it bothers me when he says it now. I try not to let it show.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Be a pro, Valentine. Get it together.
“So, same time next week?” I ask him playfully.
“I have to be in Vegas next week,” he says.
“Ah. Well, plenty of hookers in Vegas. You should be in heaven.”
He gets up, comes and sweeps a hand across the back of my neck. “Never as good as you, Val.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some more cash. “I'm feeling generous today.”
Smiling, I take the money. Of course I do. “I should almost be paying you today, Colin,” I tell him truthfully. “Almost.”
I pat his cheek, my good mood back. I can really feel how loose my body is now.
He looks at his watch again. “Gotta go.”
He pats me on the ass as he sweeps past me, opens the door, and walks out.
I stand for a moment in front of the mirror, reapplying my
lip gloss. My brown hair is a little mussed, my green eyes as on fire as Colin's. I don't want to see.
I look down at the bills in my hand, bring them to my face, to my nose, inhale the scent of money. Lowering my hand a little, I press my lips to the paper. And feel that thrill race through me, as it always does.