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Subject: {ASSM} The Anti-Climax <*> (MF) ~ A first story by Lane Boyd
Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 06:10:04 -0400
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THE ANTI-CLIMAX (MF)
By Lane Boyd
(laneboyd@newsguy.com)
There's nothing I hate more than a client who can't
come. As a professional `sex worker', a john who
can't blow his load is a personal insult. After
all, the whole thing about hiring a prostitute is
titillation - if you're not ready to get your rocks
off, what in the hell are you doing here in the
first place?
Usually guys with this problem were long-term
clients with whom I'd reached a level of intimacy
that their wives probably couldn't even imagine. I
used to ask them why they didn't find another girl
to get the spark going again? But most of them
preferred to stay with me anyway - strange really,
especially when it cost them at least three hundred
bucks per `consultation'. I wondered if they'd
developed a similar comfort level with me to what
they had with their wives and partners and found it
just too complicated to find another girl. I could
have recommended someone to them - and quietly
received a percentage of the take for the new
custom, too. We high-quality girls tend to be
scrupulous about paying our debts to each other.
I only ever lost one long-term client who couldn't
get it off with me any more and that was an out-
and-out relief. He was into spanking and
scratching, and the longer it went, the sorer I
got. Losing the five hundred bucks a week was less
painful than my bum after the doubtful pleasure of
his company. And having a red backside and welts
across your lower back was not exactly a good
advertisement when you're catering for a more
refined (read `timid') class of client. Most of
them wouldn't recognise an STD if they saw one, so
they jumped to all kinds of conclusions. One of
them even asked me if it were AIDS. Stupid prick.
Literally.
Quick bio of Natasha Bjornsdottir. Okay, so it's
not genuine but neither are your tits, I bet.
We're all trying to improve the way others see us
and having an exotic image is essential for a high-
class hooker. I'm twenty-eight but can make myself
look younger. Tall for a woman - almost five foot
ten - with natural dark-blonde hair, fair skin and,
surprisingly, brown eyes. When pushed, I spin a
line about being descended from a Slavic peasant
worker who escaped the communist net into Norway,
then married a local girl, and emigrated to
Australia, etc, etc. I've even perfected a light,
sort-of European accent. It's not perfect, but the
new clients are too nervous to notice and the
regulars don't care. They know what they want and
are scrupulous about getting it. And within a
specified timeframe. It can be exhausting
sometimes, but it's always lucrative and, above
all, safe - when you're working from your own
premises with your own contacts, you're a lot less
likely to be stiffed on payment (a little `in' joke
there) or slapped around (except for the odd kink,
who pays extra and only if I have no clients booked
afterwards).
I'm a long way short of being beautiful but, as a
woman, being slim, blonde(ish) and having long legs
can really take you places. My bum's a bit big
and, if we're going to be honest, starting to sag.
But my tits are great - a real gift from God. Not
particularly large (Oh, how I used to envy those
bitches in high school who looked like they could
feed half the babies in Ethiopia by the time they
were fifteen), but my breasts have stood the test
of time and countless lips and tongues as well.
Still upstanding with small, cherry-red nipples.
My feelings of inferiority in the gymnasium showers
quickly evaporated after my first couple of sexual
encounters. And the effect never lessened when I
moved into this trade. New johns were unlikely to
last more than a couple of minutes. Quick and
easy. But definitely not cheap.
But I digress. The cause of my present problem was
nderneath me. One of my longest regulars,
MacDowell Campbell - `Mac' for short - is a big man
in many ways. He's chairman of a mining company
with interests scattered from Western Australia to
east Africa. Physically, he's around six-foot-six
and built strongly with it. Vigorous white hair,
shaggy white eyebrows over a patrician nose and
clear, green eyes. He has a big booming voice,
heaps of energy even though he's nearly sixty, and
boundless confidence.
A lot of his confidence is probably because he's
one of only two men I've ever encountered with a
genuine eight inch cock. Lots of guys like to
think they're well hung, but the reality is a lot
different. Some are thick, some are thin, but they
almost all reach between five-and-a-half and six-
and-a-half inches. Trust me on this; I've done the
on-the-job research.
The interesting thing is that dicks can be all
kinds of shapes and sizes when flaccid, but they're
nearly identical when they're ready for business.
And they really do all taste the same, too. At
least in my place they do, because anyone who wants
to be blown has a shower first - with me helping.
It's all part of the service and you'd be amazed
how quickly a gentle hand with the lavender-scented
soap can start things moving. It speeds things up
no end and the worst I have to worry about when I
start is the occasional soap bubble in my sinuses.
The finish is always a bit messy, but I'm prepared
for that. Although I have say that getting a
facial isn't all it's cracked up to be - I've
started having trouble with my skin lately and I'm
beginning to wonder if it isn't work-related. Not
the kind of thing you can put in a Worker's
Compensation Claim for, though.
You may wonder why I can think about all this stuff
while on the job? The answer is experience. I can
keep my body moving and moan realistically for any
period of time while I think about anything from
what's for dinner to my overdue tax return. My
eyes are always half-closed and they look a little
glazed. Men like that because they think it's
because of the pleasure they're giving me. It
flatters the male ego to think he's so good in bed
that he can make even a pro feel pleasure. In this
case, I'm really wondering how long the KY Jelly
will last. Like I said, Mac's a big man and
there's not much room to manoeuvre when he's well
inside. I can feel that he still hasn't hardened
up that last bit which would indicate approaching
orgasm. I've already had two clients today
(carefully spaced two hours apart) and if this goes
on, I'm not going to be able to walk in the
morning. Time to take executive action.
I looked down at him and realised with a start that
he was staring attentively at me, and probably had
been for a while. It was a considering look,
passion and desire had nothing to do with it. It
made me nervous.
"What's the matter, Lover? We just don't seem to
be making it tonight," I asked, careful to add that
deep tone of affection to my voice. And it's not
all put on. Mac's been a client for nearly four
years, now, and I can't help but feel he's part of
my personal life even when I'm trying to keep a
professional outlook.
"I've just been trying to work out how long you can
keep up that act." It was a statement, not a
question.
"Act, Big Boy?" When in doubt, try flattery. Guys
love it. But the little laugh I gave sounded false
even to my own ears. Change the subject, girl, get
on with it! "We've been doing this position for a
while now. How about we change positions and get a
bit of spark goin'? How about doggie style?
You've always loved that." Yeah, he loves it but
you don't, I cursed to myself silently. Mac's so
big that when he mounts me from behind, I feel like
my lower intestines are being rammed up through my
stomach. I have indigestion for hours afterwards.
And when his weight comes on, it drives me half-way
across the bed, especially when he gets on to the
short strokes. He gets his rocks off and I get
fabric burn on my nose. God, we women suffer in
the line of duty!
He gave me a half-smile and moved sideways from
underneath me as I lifted myself off him. The
condom was pulled half off, indicating that the
lubricant had almost all gone. No pain - yet - but
I'd have to use some more before we started again.
Clients hate to see that - it destroys that glowing
image they've built up about their own prowess.
Hence the number of pros who need to `just pop to
the loo' before they get into it - there's usually
a large tube of lubricant stowed discretely nearby.
As I watched, Mac's penis drooped visibly,
loosening the condom even more. Shit, I thought,
if I didn't act soon the whole evening would fall
flat. Pardon the pun. One thing about Mac - he
believed in getting value for money. If he didn't
get off, I didn't get paid and that was a problem -
now an urgent problem. It was going to have to be
an impromptu blowjob and without delay. Shit,
shit, shit! Wrapping your lips around a mouthful
of condom lubricant was not a happy taste
sensation. I always imagined the taste as being
similar to sump oil, myself, and I'd never gotten
used to it. Still, it was now or never.
With a practised hand, I quickly pulled the condom
off and took Mac into my mouth. He gave a grunt of
surprise and I felt him harden inside my mouth. I
began to gently slide my hand up and down his
shaft, sliding my hand around his testicles and
squeezing them gently on the down stroke. He
sighed deeply and I felt the tension drain out of
his large body. Well, well, I thought smugly,
another victory for the workers. Taste-wise, I
felt like a sea-bird caught in the spill from the
Exxon-Valdez.
I realised abstractly that this was almost a repeat
of the first time we had done business - minus the
suspicions of course. Until then, I'd only kept
standard sized condoms on the premises (an economic
decsion based on my `studies' that I mentioned
before). I'd deftly slipped one onto Mac before
he'd got fully hard and it fit fine. But when he
got completely erect, the condom was - to put not
too fine a point on it - too small. Quite a bit
too small, really. The lip around the end had
pressed into his penis about an inch-and-a-half up
from the base. It must have impeded the blood-flow
back down the shaft because his penis just got
harder and harder and deeper and deeper purple.
I'd heard about similar problems with guys who wore
straps around their penises to delay ejaculation
for too long. I knew of at least two cases where
the Fire Brigade had been called. Not exactly a
life or death situation but I'm sure the firemen
had the right tool for every occasion.
Mac and I had a lot of fun with his engorged penis
for a while (hey, he's a very imposing guy and I'm
not above enjoying myself in the line of duty).
But then the pain started and I ended up having to
cut off the condom with a pair of nail scissors.
Very, very carefully, and he was in a cold sweat by
the time I'd finished. There's nothing like waving
a cutting implement around a man's most precious
organ to command his full attention.
My attention returned to the present as Mac's penis
hardened further. He was about to come (At last, I
thought uncharitably). I held him firmly and
stiffened my tongue to press down underneath the
head of his penis. He groaned as I pushed down
across the glans and along the base of the penis.
Again, then a third time, and he was coming -
shooting into my mouth for what seemed like forever
as I squeezed his penis with one hand and his
testicles with the other. I'm not big on
swallowing but I thought it was time to make an
exception. My apologies to the readers of
Penthouse, but I didn't find it necessary to insert
a finger into his anus. I still have a tendency to
bite my nails, so I've never been a fan of that
technique - and, for the record, I've never met
anyone else in the trade who is, either.
Afterwards, Mac lay like a dead man on the bed, his
eyes closed, the shock of white hair tousled,
barrel chest heaving like a bellows. That will
teach you to say I was acting, I thought
rebelliously, as I went into the bathroom to wash
and, above all, to gargle some mouthwash.
I was shocked when I came out of the bathroom to
find him fully dressed. He had moved out of the
bedroom into the dining area and was laying the
money onto my white dining table, as he always did
just before leaving. One of my younger friends in
the trade had once asked me why I had a unit
furnished entirely in white. `Surely something
darker would have been more practical than this
high maintenance stuff?' Richelle had asked in her
matter-of-fact tone (which didn't change even when
we were acting out a lesbian fantasy for a well-
heeled client). `I mean some wood tones would have
broken things up and hidden the dust at the very
least.' `Ah yes,' I'd replied blithely, `but I'm
more interested in hiding the semen.' She sighed
deeply and shook her head. Richelle was always
shaking her head at me.
Mac looked across at me. He started to say
something, then hesitated. "Do you have to leave
so soon?" I asked. "Usually, I give you a
massage."
He sighed, then took a deep breath as though
preparing himself for something distasteful that
had to be done.
"Natasha, I'm afraid I have to tell you that this
is the end of our ... our liaison. This was the
last time. I'm sorry it wasn't more happy and
relaxed for both of us."
I couldn't take in what he was saying. "I don't
understand, Mac. The last time this week, this
month ... what do you mean?"
"I mean the last time, ever, Natasha," he said, his
voice very deep and definite. "I've been
approached to stand for preselection for the
Federal Parliament. It's been made clear to me
that any little irregularities in my business or
personal life must disappear. I'm afraid that
means the complete end to our relationship. We
can't see each other any more. I'm sorry. I want
you to know I enjoyed your ... company..."
A roaring had started in my head, I couldn't hear
clearly. I was seeing him through a haze. I knew
I was babbling like a child, but I didn't know how
to stop. Where was the professional Natasha when I
needed her? Why did I revert to plain Joanne
Robinson in times of high stress?
"I don't believe this, I don't. There's got to be
someone else. That's it, isn't it? You've taken
up with Richelle since we did that twosome for you.
She looks seventeen without make up -- you're just
after the younger model, I know. . ."
He approached me suddenly, cutting off my stream of
argument. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was
going to hug me and the thrill of relief through my
body was painful. Then I found myself sideways on
the floor, the breath knocked out of me. It took a
couple of seconds to realise he had hit across
the side of the head. Not in the face, thank God,
there was no blood. Carefully planned like all his
actions.
I was too shocked to cry or speak. I had never
been struck by a regular client, especially since I
had got out of the bars and off the streets into
the high-quality game. Being hit by Mac of all
people was emotionally shattering. We'd been close
for four years and I couldn't pretend he was
just another roaming prick with money. When he
spoke again, his voice sounded as breathless and
strained as mine. But he was implacable. "I'm
sorry for that Natasha, but I can't have you
getting hysterical and screaming. You do have
neighbours, and I can't afford a public row. You
must understand that I'm serious. This is the end.
I can't see you again. Ever. I'm sorry."
Mac bent over and reached out to me, but I recoiled
from his hand. "Don't touch me again! Never!"
For a moment Mac glared at me, his normal reaction
to having his will crossed. Then he sighed and
half-smiled regretfully. He walked across the
lounge room to the front door of the unit, then
turned back to look at me. "I want you know that
you're wrong. There is no other girl. There never
has been. It's just an unavoidable change in
circumstances."
My voice was thin, but very clear. "You already
sound like a politician, you bastard. Try telling
all that to your wife. Poor trusting bitch. Will
she whore for you, too?"
Mac's face turned blank and hard and he took half a
step back into the room. Oh shit, now he's going
to kill me, I though desperately and began to slide
backwards along the carpet. Maybe I can reach the
phone, dial 000 before he gets to me. But Mac had
stopped after that first step, and we stared at
each across the lounge room. A little expression
came into his face and his voice, when it came,
carried only resignation. "No, my dear, my wife is
certainly not trusting. And with good cause, as we
both know. She certainly is a bitch, though, and
there's nothing she wants more than to be a Federal
Minister's wife. In addition to being a colossal
snob, Lucia has visions of using my office to find
out nasty information about her so-called friends.
In her own way, she certainly will do her best to
whore for my election, as you so eloquently put it.
I'm sorry we couldn't have parted friends, Natasha,
I'll miss you."
Mac turned and walked briskly out of the door,
closing it firmly behind him. The door's thud into
the jamb had the sound of complete finality about
it. I heard the sound of his BMW starting, then
turning around the useless roundabout in the unit
carpark, then fading into silence as it travelled
away. Out of my unit, out of my street and out of
my life.
I used the edge of the table to pull myself up. I
walked calmly into the bedroom, then collapsed
across the bed as my legs turned to jelly. I could
smell the strong scent of his body on the sheets.
For a girl who prided herself on being modern and
independent, I had turned into a real sucker for
a man of the old school. I realised belatedly that
Mac had become a fixture in my life who meant far
more to me than I had realised. Not exactly a
father-figure - I really wasn't into images of
incest, even when I was dressed up in a school
uniform with my hair in pig tails. But he'd been a
strong, masculine constant in my life for four
years who I had come to trust, and who I
subconsciously believed had also depended on me.
So why did he have to hit me if I meant something
to him, I asked myself bitterly? Why didn't he
just say goodbye and leave? Rational thought
intervened. You know why, I told myself firmly.
To make sure I knew it was real, that there was no
point chasing him, hanging around his home and
work, embarrassing him in front of his colleagues
and family. To make it end here and now. And to
show me I'm a hooker, pro, sex worker, whore,
whatever you want to call it, and not to be taken
as seriously as a wife even if she's an untrusting
bitch.
I cried silently for a long time. Partly from
pain, partly from shock, but mainly from sorrow.
Sorrow for losing him, sorrow because the bastard
had shown me who I really am in today's society,
sorrow for the lost self-esteem and pride that I
knew I'd never fully recover.
He needn't worry, I thought distractedly. There'd
be no attempt by me to get back in touch. No
telephone calls, no hanging around outside his
house or in the lobby of his office, no anonymous
contact with the media. He was back on his path
and I was back on mine. He was a business leader
and pillar of the community; I was a sex worker who
supported the cash economy. We were where we'd
always really been, even when our paths intersected
twice a week. I was strong and I knew I could get
over it. Enough to keep my `career' moving and pay
the bills, anyhow.
I guess the whole evening had been an anti-climax,
really. Thank God I didn't have another client
booked tonight.
ends
Contact author at laneboyd@newsguy.com
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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