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"Because these shoes are like walking on stilts that crush your toes. So you can either admire the view or—"
"Kick them off and get over here."
Stepping out of the contraptions, I sashayed over to him, appreciating the lust in his eyes before he pulled me into the warmth of his embrace. I practically crawled up his leg, excited by the feel of it between my thighs. But before I could attack him, Ben said, "There are condoms on the bedside table. If he asks your name, you don't give it. You can tell him it's Candy. Candy Kane. Or whatever. And see that door on the wall? It connects to the room next door. When this guy shows up, that's where I'm going to be. So if you change your mind, or if anything happens that you don't want to happen—even if you just get scared for a minute—you knock on the wall or call out and I'll bust in here before you can finish saying my name."
Oh. Oh, wow. Whereas I was in total denial, he'd thought it all out. I hadn't allowed myself to really imagine what it might be like, but now that he was talking to me about the particulars…
"You can't stay and watch, Ben?"
His eyebrow went up. "Do you want me to watch?"
"Would that be…I was going to say weird, but I guess this whole thing is weird. I guess you wouldn't really want to watch me fuck some guy, and given what you told me about Maureen sending you that picture—"
"This is not that," Ben broke in. "This is nothing like that. This is something we're doing together. Your fantasy is now all tied up in mine. Seeing you this way, sharing this secret between us, it's a fucking rush. And knowing that you'd want me to watch you give yourself over to a dirty fantasy…that's beyond hot. It's just that it wasn't discussed with—"
"The John? How'd you find him anyway?"
Ben's eyes slid away. "You don't want to know the unsavory particulars."
I did want to know about the particulars, but Ben's hands caressed my hips, rocking me a bit against his erection, and I writhed like I was giving him a personal lap dance. And just as our lips met in another kiss, there came a knock at the door.
~~~
"Right here," Ben mouthed from the adjoining room before closing the door. When it clicked closed, I was faced with the reality of my situation. I was in a cheap hotel room, dressed like a slut, about to have sex with a stranger for money. And as I slipped the too-tight lucite shoes back on, I wondered what kind of guy would pay for sex? Not that I had any right to judge, since I was the kind of girl who wanted to get paid for it…
Would it be some old guy? Heavy-set, bald—
As the door swung open, I got an eye full of a guy who was neither old, nor heavy-set, nor bald. There stood a beautiful black man wearing a wool cap, shades, and a leather jacket. I stared at him, my mouth agape.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
Insta-lady-boner that was only made worse when he slowly removed his shades. "Dayuuuum, baby. You are hotter than advertised. You are smokin'."
A puff of air escaped me and sent steam into the night as if to punctuate his point. But I just stood there, frozen on the spot, unable to make my tongue work.
"I'm Lance." He pulled a folded C-note from his jacket pocket and held it up between two fingers. "Gonna let me in?"
I was going to fall off my stilettos. That's what I was going to do. But I was also totally going to have sex with him. Because Ben had already worked me into a state, and now every cell in my body screamed for sex. Then screamed for more sex at the sight of the money.
"Sure," I said, stepping back from the door.
Smooth, really smooth, Becca.
But then again, that was the beauty of this arrangement. I didn't have to be smooth or seductive, because everyone knew what was expected. Lance pressed the cash into my palm, nearly scorching me in the handoff. Then he kicked the snow from his boots, took his gloves, scarf and coat off, and put his keys on the bedside table.
With distressingly little hesitation, he unzipped and wrapped his ebony hand around his dick. "A half-hour, right? Let's get on it. Come get a taste of my big black cock."
My heart thudded in my chest, even as the college girl in me worried how that phrase played into racist stereotypes of hypersexuality—but that girl didn't exist inside this room. There was no place for anything but pure sexual instinct here. I was unmoored here of every limit, so I went down on my knees in a flash, crawling to close the space between us, dying a little when he pressed my cheek against his hardening erection.
Cruelly, the stranger asked, "Or is cock-sucking extra?"
Ruling out any entrepreneurial future, I shook my head. I slid my nails up his denim-clad thighs, licking down his six pack abs under his sweater, then sucking the head of his cock between my lips.
I tasted salt and soap, smelled a manly cologne, and marveled at the way his tool pulsed and expanded, filling my mouth to bursting. As I flattened my tongue along the base of his admittedly big and beautiful cock, it hit me. My god, I was doing it. I was totally blowing some guy for money. He was a stranger; he hadn't even asked my name. This was about sex and nothing else. And the freedom of that—the feeling that I was as dirty as I could get—felt so good that it made me cream myself on the spot.
He seemed to like it too. "Look at that cotton candy pink tongue of ours working my shaft. Suck it." Fisting my ponytail, which gave him a good grip, he thrust the length of himself into the back of my throat, triggering my gag reflex, which he didn't seem to care much about. Unnecessarily, he added, "Take it, Hooker."
That kind of talk should have pissed me off. But in this situation, I loved it. He was a stranger, so his words couldn't hurt me on the inside. And Ben wouldn't let him hurt me on the outside. Which meant I didn't give a shit what this stranger said to me. But it made me shake with arousal.
