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She turned over and pressed her body to mine, bringing her face inches from mine.
"This is hard for you, isn't it?" she asked with a cute looking pout and blinking eyes.
"Very hard, babe," I grunted, not knowing what else to say. I was beaten down.
All of a sudden that cute pout turned into a wicked grin. She gyrated her crotch on my cock a little bit as she said one word. "Good."
I looked at her in surprise as she continued, "Consider it payback. For keeping me awake till 6:30 am this morning when 5 hours earlier you said just the tip. And then leaving me in a sex haze all day."
And that's when her smile turned sultry and I realized Ashley Lane had been playing me the whole day, getting me all hot and bothered and leaving me no recourse but to take it. I brought my hands and grabbed her ass. Hard. She squealed and we fucked hard again that night. I may have ripped off that camisole of hers trying to get at those tits and get my mouth on them. We used that sofa in ways that the Scandinavians who designed it would never have imagined in their wettest of fucking dreams. And I know for a fact that that romance movie was done a fucking long time before we finally fell on each other, exhausted and happy.
At least that’s what I’m thinking and I realize that I have a fucking smile on my face. But fuck it, I don’t care at this point.
I go up the elevator to my condo and find Ashley waiting for me standing in front of the door in a trench coat.
“Surprise!” she yells at me and I literally jump. “I had the concierge downstairs give me a ring when you started on your way up.”
“Your surprising me by waiting for me in front of the door?” I ask.
“No, silly!” she says with a pout. “This is how I’m surprising you!”
And she whips open her trench coat to reveal her oh-so-sexy body clad in nothing but black stockings, a black lace thong and matching black bra. The material was supple and left just enough to the imagination that I could feel my cock harden instantly. If I didn’t get it out of my pants soon it was going to tent and then fucking claw its way out.
“I got them for you today,” she says with a shy smile. “Do you like it?”
But I don’t answer. And she doesn’t press me further. Because I’ve already bounded over and taken her in my arms and thrown us onto the same sofa that saw so much action yesterday. Half my clothes are off and I pause to look into her eyes.
“You are so fucking gorgeous,” I whisper to her, as if confessing.
She doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me closer to her for a kiss.
You know, I take it back. If the old Arsen tries to come over and call me a pussy for what Ashley’s done to me, I’ll kick his ass for being an idiot.
Because this is fucking Heaven with this girl.
Ashley
Seventy-five.
That’s how many days it’s been since Arsen first met me when I was still a stripper outside of Scorcher's. I don’t know if you remember, but that was the night that he got into my cab and got off at the Plaza. If he hadn’t taken the cab in that direction, I would have never gone through Times Square and gotten out to find Peter cheating on me. Peter would have never attacked me outside of the Simulated Pleasures offices, and I would have never had sex with Arsen, and King Henry would be all I would be thinking about.
Sixty-nine.
That’s the first time Henry called me. He was, and still is, referred to in the Simulated Pleasures databases as Client 5, but to me he’s King Henry. This job was never supposed to be a permanent operation. It was supposed to be like stripping. Something I do to tide me over for money until I start putting my Art History degree from Yale to use. Lately, I’ve come up with a newer plan that you may not like. That plan is to have as much phone sex with Henry and as much real sex with Arsen as possible, because I won’t be able to hang on to both forever. That much is clear. I have to come clean to one of them.
Sixty-two thousand three hundred and ninety one.
Otherwise known as $62,391. That’s how many dollars Client 5 has been billed in the last month. Charges start at $9.99 a minute and out of that $62,391, I’m getting big bonuses, that’s for sure. Just from Client 5. Who I’m starting to fall in love with. When I’m not feeling guilty because I'm also falling in love with Arsen. The only positive about all of this is that I’m making more money for less effort now than what I was doing at the strip club. It gives me more time to go to the gym, start paying off student loans, and start laying the foundation for my future. But every time I get a call that shows Client 5, my future comes crashing down. Every time I see Arsen, along with the excitement comes the crushing guilt at how this is all going to end.
One hundred.
That's how many times I've cum in the last seventy-five times Arsen and I have had sex. And it keeps getting crazier and crazier. It’s like a drug. I can’t get enough. Every time I have him, I cum. And every time I start to normalize, the first thing I want is more. I would be fine if you took away food, water, and sleep from me, as long as you left Arsen and his cock. We’ve done it in every room and surface of his apartment and mine. He’s taken me in public—not just near Southwest New York, but other areas as well. One afternoon we went for a walk in Central Park. I was teasing him about his shirt. He ended up slapping my ass playfully. I was wearing yoga pants and I could feel the slap of his hand on my ass cheek. It reminded me of when Henry had me slap my own ass. Arsen saw the look on my face and I brought my hand to his crotch and felt his cock thicken in my hand. We ended up having sex on a bench, hoping that no one would discover us. A week later, I gave Arsen a blowjob in a taxicab coming back from dinner. The next morning he returned the favor and used his fingers to hit my G-spot enough times in a come hither motion that he brought me to a giant orgasm underneath the table of Le Cirque. I’m not lying when I say I’m addicted to sex with Arsen. I would shuck myself on his cock all day if I could. The only thing that would draw me away would be having to take a phone call from King Henry.
Forty-two.
That’s how many times Henry's made me cum. If I have to be honest, I never thought that working as a phone sex operator would mean I would be having regular orgasms. In fact, I think most people would agree with me when I say that I was pretty convinced I would have to up my faking game. I mean, it was already pretty good—remember, my last job was
at a strip club, but still, over the phone people can tell when you’re not into something based on your voice. But every time he calls, my heart starts to beat faster. I pick up and hear his confident, commanding voice asking me what I’m wearing. Then he tells me what he wants me to do to that will please him. In that moment, I exist for his pleasure. To service him. He owns me. After he’s done with me, my mind stays in a fog of lust and confusion for several hours afterward. I can still go about my day, but it’s as if I’m sleepwalking. Because the day feels empty without the large presence of Henry in my heart.
