Kiss Me Hard; Damn You!
Love me tender.
Sometimes, I wonder, if I really am the one most stupid person on the face of Earth. I had been doing fine, being at home. Money was more than enough.
But no. I had to call him.
His answer came two days after I left that ridiculous message. I swear, he must have known when I wouldn't be able to answer and called right then, just to "talk" to the answering machine instead of me.
Depressed. Considering my call obnoxious. Lugubriously cold tone. Silent words.
"'Morning, Rose. Tomorrow night at the Hilton Palace, 9 o'clock, room 1329."
And then my phone again did its regular, annoying beep. Simple as ever, but as plastic as never, I might say. No tingle in his voice. No trace of any slight affection, which, in mock or not, he always shows.
This time, I cant picture him on his balcony, in front of his laptop, looking carelessly beautiful. It's how I've always pictured him. How I've been used to him. How it is. Was.
Just words, spoken in a low voice, apparently forcefully, plain, cold. Words barely muttered, words said to please me somehow.
Dressed up, though still with a heavy head of the call yesterday, I go to my "date". The man, younger and more handsome than I hardly ever get. Silent, quite shy. I cannot get myself to understand why would a guy like him need a whore for making love. He seems the type of person that would say "making love" instead of the anatomy, pretty damn ugly, "sex".
As he slides me slowly from my clothes, my thoughts still linger on Sebastian. This young man is certainly arousing me, certainly having me feel like I do actually want him. I do, why deny? It's been a month, all in all.
Still mind fixed upon my manager, I manage to concentrate well enough on the actions that this young man is doing. He squeezes, gently, every inch of my body, groping my breasts and my bottom, transferring me into a complete state of ecstasy. He goes rather slow, but well enough, caressing my body by barely touching it. His humid breath accompanies his warm mouth all over my body.
Now why wouldn't I be a whore? I receive plenty of money for allowing people to love my guts. Optimistic, this time...
As soon as he is into me, we start a gentle dance that stimulates each and every spot we have, like we know them by heart, like we have been doing this for our entire lives.
The climax of our sensations came unknowingly, in the same second for both of us. I bit into his arm, screaming into it, as he released several manly, adorable moans.
After a few minutes of after-lude, a thing I hardly ever cherish, he mumbles a few words, words that I do not pay attention to.
Later, two hours later to be exact, which is very very much for me to linger in the hotel rooms of where I work, I'm still nude, but covered in the sheets, enjoying a few cigarettes on the edge of the bed. I feel like meditating about him. Not Sebastian.
The client. The young man. The timid guy. The guy that gave me after-loving. The guy that managed to stop me from thinking about other things while we made love.
Wow. I made love. Not fucked. With a complete stranger.
And I didn't think about anything else.
But no. I had to call him.
His answer came two days after I left that ridiculous message. I swear, he must have known when I wouldn't be able to answer and called right then, just to "talk" to the answering machine instead of me.
Depressed. Considering my call obnoxious. Lugubriously cold tone. Silent words.
"'Morning, Rose. Tomorrow night at the Hilton Palace, 9 o'clock, room 1329."
And then my phone again did its regular, annoying beep. Simple as ever, but as plastic as never, I might say. No tingle in his voice. No trace of any slight affection, which, in mock or not, he always shows.
This time, I cant picture him on his balcony, in front of his laptop, looking carelessly beautiful. It's how I've always pictured him. How I've been used to him. How it is. Was.
Just words, spoken in a low voice, apparently forcefully, plain, cold. Words barely muttered, words said to please me somehow.
Dressed up, though still with a heavy head of the call yesterday, I go to my "date". The man, younger and more handsome than I hardly ever get. Silent, quite shy. I cannot get myself to understand why would a guy like him need a whore for making love. He seems the type of person that would say "making love" instead of the anatomy, pretty damn ugly, "sex".
As he slides me slowly from my clothes, my thoughts still linger on Sebastian. This young man is certainly arousing me, certainly having me feel like I do actually want him. I do, why deny? It's been a month, all in all.
Still mind fixed upon my manager, I manage to concentrate well enough on the actions that this young man is doing. He squeezes, gently, every inch of my body, groping my breasts and my bottom, transferring me into a complete state of ecstasy. He goes rather slow, but well enough, caressing my body by barely touching it. His humid breath accompanies his warm mouth all over my body.
Now why wouldn't I be a whore? I receive plenty of money for allowing people to love my guts. Optimistic, this time...
As soon as he is into me, we start a gentle dance that stimulates each and every spot we have, like we know them by heart, like we have been doing this for our entire lives.
The climax of our sensations came unknowingly, in the same second for both of us. I bit into his arm, screaming into it, as he released several manly, adorable moans.
After a few minutes of after-lude, a thing I hardly ever cherish, he mumbles a few words, words that I do not pay attention to.
Later, two hours later to be exact, which is very very much for me to linger in the hotel rooms of where I work, I'm still nude, but covered in the sheets, enjoying a few cigarettes on the edge of the bed. I feel like meditating about him. Not Sebastian.
The client. The young man. The timid guy. The guy that gave me after-loving. The guy that managed to stop me from thinking about other things while we made love.
Wow. I made love. Not fucked. With a complete stranger.
And I didn't think about anything else.
♠ ♠ ♠
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