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Charlie


Previously…

An almost inaudible sound came from his throat when I did it, and I knew I had him. I felt his cock straining against the fly of his pants, but when my fingers pulled his zipper down, he moved out of my reach. His fingers slipped out of me once again, and his other hand left my breast. My body felt absolutely bereft from the loss of his touch, and I couldn’t help the whimper that happened to come. I should have known better.

Charlie demands complete control- during fucking and everything leading up to it. Not that he’s into S&M, though he isn’t above a playful bite or spanking every now and then. I mean that every move, every act no matter how small, must be his decision. He will allow me to undress him, but I am only permitted to once he decides it is time. To so blatantly disregard this rule sets the mood for everything that follows. I’ll tell you a secret: I didn’t forget on accident.

I watched his face in the mirror; I saw him struggling with the thought of breaking his own rule, and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t. I felt a moment of relieved anticipation when I saw his jaw firmly set, but I was not expecting what happened next.

His hands were on the neckline of my dress, and the next second, a bold ripping sound filled the silence as he forcefully tore my dress from neckline to hem. My Urban Decay’d lips formed a surprised “o” as I and Charlie looked at my now mostly-nude body in the mirror. I felt gooseflesh run up and down my skin in the split second before Charlie’s hand pushed my upper body down against the table in front of me.

He entered me roughly, but I was ready. So ready. His very first thrust left him so deep inside that I cried out, from pain or pleasure, or maybe a little bit of both. He withdrew, then again thrust himself into me. His hands gripped my hips, not gently, and I felt the familiar pleasure already beginning to rise in me. My right hand pressed against the mirror, causing it to fog there, and I pushed my rump ever so slightly into Charlie. I was immediately reprimanded with a welcome slap on my rear, warning me to stay still. His cock buried so deeply inside me, and the thrill of his spanking heightened my excitement; I wriggled against him, inviting another smack. The second one stung, and Charlie drove himself into me again and again, not waiting for me to further taunt his itching hand.

With every thrust, he reached the end of me, and my pleasure blossomed. I tried to move in such a way to prolong it, but my lover held me firmly in place, and was unrelenting. He knew what he did as he repeatedly pulled himself out of me and then pressed himself in again, hard and at an unwavering pace. It was clear he meant to punish me for my slip with his zipper, and I relished every moment until he pushed himself into me once again and pressed my hips harshly to him. He was as deep as he could go, and he filled me so completely that my growing pleasure exploded, and I let out a heartfelt moan. Charlie shuddered, and spent himself inside me. From my bent-over position, I could feel every throb of his cock. I used my inner muscles to squeeze him, and he moaned loudly before pulling back.

“Damn you, woman.” He said it because rough sex hadn’t been what he was in the mood for, but I couldn’t help giggling when he said it, because of the irony of his words. I made eye contact with him in the mirror, and when I saw the amused sparkle there, I knew he wasn’t really pissed.

I stood up as Charlie put himself back together and assessed my torn dress. There was no saving it. Damn. I hadn’t even gotten to wear it out in public yet.

Charlie eyed me, reading my thoughts. “I’ll call Nina and get you another dress, ” he assured me, and I smiled, because it amused me that not only did this man know who the designer of my dress was- he also knew her well enough to call her up out of the blue. Yet another reason to adore Charlie.

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Client Privilege


In the beginning…

You might wonder what makes me any more special than Candy or Blake or any other Dial-A-Whore you might find on the back side of the local entertainment pages next to the ads for sperm banks and penis enlargement pills. To be honest, Candy is gorgeous, and the dickheads down at Winston’s refer to Blake as the “Hoover” when they know she’s not around to kick them in the balls. But have they ever been the Angel of Lust? Think about it- take every carnal desire you’ve ever had, every animalistic sensual hunger, and multiply it times a thousand , or ten million, or a billion, and you wouldn’t even have begun to scratch the surface of the chaste shell of God that’s encasing an eternity of wanton emotions. He gave you those yearnings on purpose; He created me on purpose. Everyone knows God doesn’t make mistakes. Maybe He just realized all that passionate voracity blinds people to almost everything else, so He told a few disciples and prophets it would be best to tell people to restrain themselves a little. Who knows.

Clearly, Charlie didn’t get the memo.

Charlie’s my most loyal customer. You’d think he was in his twenties, if you based his age on the amount of money he’s paid me in the last few years. Luckily, his twenty-two year old libido is matched up to his fifty-two year old perfectly- practiced gift for fucking. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do him for free.

He was here earlier. Normally, I don’t accept clients at my own place, but Charlie, well, he’s Charlie. Of course, he couldn’t teach me anything I wasn’t already designed to know, but after I knew Charlie for awhile, I kinda started wondering if Charlie wasn’t God’s male duplicate of me. Or maybe he’s just sexed his way through enough women that he’s got nothing else to learn. Thus his captivation with me.

When he gave his habitual rhythmic knock on my door, I was applying my Urban Decay lipstick in F-Bomb (my favorite). He opened the door without waiting for me to reply, and leaned against it after he closed it, just watching me. It’s my job to unnerve people, and I’m still not sure how Charlie can do it, but I watched him watching me in my mirror, and his intense ice-blue stare made me on edge enough that my lipstick slid right off my bottom lip.

“Fuck!” I whispered under my breath, hoping Charlie hadn’t seen, but knowing he had.

Before I had a chance to wipe it off, Charlie pushed his tall body off of the door and he strolled over to where I was standing. He said not a word, but continued to watch me in the mirror. His eyes never left mine as I felt the soft pad of his thumb trace my jawline before running along the outline of my lip, wiping the red stain away. Even with my peacock blue, five-inch heels on, he was a good nine inches taller than me, and I watched in the mirror as his hand slid from my face, down my neck, and under the neckline of my silk dress. Before his hand even touched my left breast, I felt it all the way south of my belly button, and I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped my rouged lips.

Ok, so let me explain a little bit about Charlie. He’s been married, numerous times, in fact, has enough money that he never has to work, and gets off on getting women off. A lot of guys don’t give one shit about whether their woman is turned on before they stick their dick in them, and couldn’t care less whether she orgasms or not, and probably wouldn’t be able to tell either way. Charlie is not one of those guys. I’m convinced he wouldn’t even be able to get a hard-on unless the woman he intended to fuck was dripping wet. Don’t ask me why he pays for sex, because even after all these years, he won’t tell me.

When he heard that sound, his fingertips squeezed my nipple, and my eyes slid shut, relishing the tingle that was running down my body. I leaned back against him, his toned body taking my weight easily, and ran my hand up his tailored pants, rubbing his cock through the fabric. As I did so, his hand enveloped my breast, squeezing just hard enough that it hurt. Another little squeal escaped me, and his grip tightened even more. My eyelids flew open, and my gaze met his in the mirror; his eyes had never left my face. His breath was on my neck, on my ear, and sent little shivers of pleasure across my skin. I looked into his eyes as he ran his free hand up my leg and under my skirt, and I noticed his dimpled smirk when he realized I wasn’t wearing any panties. His face in the mirror looked like a young man’s- a young man with a dirty secret- as his experienced fingers explored my most intimate places, as he discovered what his fingers and his eyes and his breath on me had done. I was encircled in his grip, and couldn’t move as he moved his fingertips achingly slow  in and out of me, in and out, in, and then out before bringing them up and sliding them between my F-Bomb-ed lips. He watched as I tasted the salty musk of myself, and broke his trance-like stare when I ran my tongue over and around his fingertips, and then sucked ever so gently.

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The Paid Companion


Today shall be the day I confess what I consider to be my biggest fault, and how it almost turned me into a prostitute.

You would think a girl raised in a strict Baptist church and sent to a Baptist school would be appalled at the thought of prostitution. And you would be right. I was that girl, once upon a time. I would not say that my life has been filled with great adventure, but I WOULD say that it’s been filled with enough whatever to completely change the way I look at things.

Long before I married my husband, I promised myself that I would never have sex with someone until I was married. No, I wasn’t a virgin when I got married, in case you were wondering. Now I would tell you that I would never marry someone I HADN’T had sex with. According to the Bible, that’s a sin, but hey, nobody’s perfect. And as far as prostitution goes, my thinking has changed enough from that Baptist girl that I once was, that I in no way judge a person who will perform sexual acts for cash.  I’ve not quite decided on whether it should be legal or not, though I can see the many benefits of making it so. Anyhoo, I’m getting off-track.

I know, you’re all chomping at the bit to find out what my greatest fault is, since it’s so obvious that I have none, right? 😉 Kidding. I believe that any cell phone that takes pictures is the invention of Satan himself. Because, really, who can resist sending nudey pics to horny boys everywhere? I certainly cannot. Yes, you all now know that I am a cell-phone exhibitionist. Perhaps it’s my histrionic personality disorder, or the secret desire I have to pose for Playboy, but ever since I’ve had a picture phone, I have made it a habit of sending nudeys to anyone who requests one. Surprisingly, for not being very photogenic, I’ve taken quite a few nice pics with my phone- maybe because the screen is so small one can’t notice the size of my ass. This in itself is perhaps not a great fault, but the fact that I do this sometimes when I’m in a relationship is. I’m not proud of that fact,  but I have promised to tell the truth in this blog. It may be a surprise to you to find out that this little habit has gotten me in some strange situations.  Moving on.

Once upon a time, I received a text from a random unknown phone number, asking who I was. Being the friendly person I am, I started a text conversation with this person. It turned out this person was a massive, body-building black man who had spent 13 years in prison for shooting a man when he was 17. Yes, I know. I should have been done right then. For the purposes of this blog, we shall call him Darkness, because that’s what I called him. (Taken from a simple-minded series of books by Laurell K. Hamilton I had been reading at the time.) Anyway, the man seemed highly intelligent (from his texts) and I found out it was because he spent his 13 years in prison reading. We sent occassional texts back and forth, and from what he could tell (from my texts) I was a classy lady who knew her shit. To make a long story short, I ended up sending one of my lovely nudey pics to him, which turned his attentions from intelligent conversation to trying to get me to do him.

One thing I must point out here. I have no shame in sharing unclad pictures of myself, but that in no way means I want to screw every guy I send them too. I just like to be appreciated….

After many weeks of dealing with texts from Darkness telling me what he wanted to do to me, (which I ignored) he asked me if I wanted to make some money. This intrigued me, since I was broke at the time (what am I saying, I’m still broke) Darkness informed me that he was the owner of an “escort” business, and thought I could rake in the cash because of my tremendous talent to converse on any subject, as well as my other…assets. I asked him how much his clients paid, just because I was curious, and he said $500 per time and his cut was $350. I pooh-poohed his offer, saying that I would never let a pimp (because that’s really what he was) take that much of my earnings, and anyway, I would charge 3 times that for my services. He said ok, nevermind.

A few days later, he texted me and told me he had a potential client that had been shown one of my pics, and was willing to pay my exhorbitant prices. He said he could set it up for the next day if I was willing, and to let him know.

The idea of making $1500 an hour appealed to me greatly, but the reality that I was in a relationship stopped me. Perhaps it is because I have known so many people that fuck so many people that they’ve just met in bars, or go home with people on a first date, but screwing a stranger for money makes more sense to me than doing it for free. Wouldn’t you say? Anyhoo, I never did become an escort, and I no longer hear from Darkness, but I will always wonder, “Am I really worth $1500?” Because that makes me feel kinda good.

P.S. My cousin says prostitutes have no souls. I think he has no soul for saying so.

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