Paid for Every Dance
I get the call in the middle of my third set of hanging knee raises. My abs and obliques are on fire, so I'm only too glad to drop to the floor and stagger over to my phone. I grab the bottle next to it and take a huge gulp of water before jabbing at the screen to answer it. "Amalia my love, how can I be of service today?"
"Got an open-ended outcall booking for you, Johnny boy. Saturday night, so you've got a few days to prep. You're gonna like this one."
Wiping sweat off my chest and arms with a towel, I drain half the bottle. I've never actually met the agency's coordinator, but she could work as a phone sex operator, her voice is that hot. Kind of like Kathleen Turner's back in the day, only with a trace of a southern drawl. For all I know she's plain as a barn door, but as long as she kept talking to me I'd totally do her. "Yeah? Wait, what the hell kind of prep do I need for an outcall?"
"You'll see. The client is a D. Cormier. Sending the contract and specs now."
I scroll through the email attachment, feeling my eyebrows climb. For one thing, the address is in Rosedale Park, not exactly my usual stomping grounds. Most of my clients tend to cluster around the downtown area — hotels and gyms along Queen, coffee shops on Church. For another, the client is a woman. I certainly don't have any objections but for a woman to request my particular skills is... unexpected. My interest is definitely piqued. "I just got tested a couple weeks ago. She really wants all this labwork done?"
"That's what she says. She's paying for it, so what do you care?"
"Yeah, I guess. Thanks, sweetheart."
"You got it, sugar tits."
With that, she disconnects the call. No further excuses, so I go back to my workout routine. Body, temple, all that shit. Besides, I get paid top rates to stay in a certain kind of shape. This job looks to be even more lucrative than most; no way am I going to start slacking off now.
After a long shower, taking care to exfoliate and moisturize thoroughly, I get dressed and drive over to the Dyad Institute. Big ugly glass and steel slab of a building. I've passed by it before plenty of times but never had a reason to go inside. As the client had specified, I give my name to the receptionist at the front desk. He hands me a visitor tag and a printout with directions. I thank him and start to head toward the elevators but stop, peering over the counter. "Brioni?"
He looks surprised, then pleased, smoothing a hand over his suit's lapels and fussing with the lavender statice boutonnière over the left breast. "Yes."
"Nice tailoring. And I've never been able to tie a Trinity knot that perfectly symmetrical."
The guy's practically preening now. I give him a wink and get out of there before he gets any ideas. Not that I mind a little harmless flirting, but just because I appreciate when someone pays attention to details doesn't necessarily mean I want to go any further.
At the lab, a tech hands me a specimen jar and a sterile swab and points me toward a small bathroom. I'm a pro at peeing into plastic cups; I don't spill or splash a drop. As instructed, I wipe the tip of my cock with an antiseptic pad out of a little packet and then carefully insert the swab a couple of centimeters into my piss hole, holding it in place for a few seconds before sliding the swab out and inserting it into a plastic sleeve labeled with a number but no other identifying information. I leave the jar and swab on a shelf behind a sliding metal hatch in the wall and return to the lab.
The tech draws what seems to be quarts of blood. "Do you really need all that just for an STD panel?" I say, watching tube after tube get filled via the vacutainer jabbed into the big vein inside the bend of my elbow.
"This is what Dr. Cormier ordered, so yes."
So my mystery client is a doctor. Interesting.
I shrug and put it out of my mind. I'm shown to a separate little sterile cubicle, where I meet a tall skinny kid whose name I forget nearly as soon as he introduces himself. Certainly hope he's actually a doctor, since he gives me a full physical, including a rectal exam. Returning home, I get ready for my appointment this evening. Married salesman in town from the States for a convention. Business as usual.
On Saturday evening, I arrive for my outcall in plenty of time to park at the farthest corner of the visitors' level of the garage, well away from all the other cars. Someone might, I don't know, breathe on the R8 or something. I find the elevator and take it to the lobby. The concierge has been notified to expect me and directs me to a separate elevator that's obviously for the private use of the residents. He slots a keycard into the control panel's reader and steps out with a nod. In a few seconds the elevator takes me straight to the top floor of the 10-story building.
The doors open directly onto the entranceway of the unit, which reeks of quiet but serious money and understated good taste. Music plays over the sound system, something with a steady thumping beat like electronica but not loud enough to be obnoxious. The long wall opposite the elevator features a huge painting that takes up most of the space. It looks like some graffiti mural you'd see in the alleys along Rush Lane, but then what the hell do I know about art?
Following instructions, I go down the hall past the kitchen and living room and pause at the first room on the left. The door is open but I knock on it anyway as a courtesy. And come to a dead stop.
The lights are low but I get a good look at the blonde sitting propped against the headboard of the enormous bed. Definitely not the middle-aged spinster I'd been picturing. She's a knockout. So is the little brunette perched on her lap, whose arms are draped around the blonde's neck. I catch a tantalizing whiff of sex and sweat. From the flush on both their faces and the swelling of their lips, they seem to have made a good head start on getting this party going.
Guess I'm not going to need the Viagra spray in my pocket after all.
"Hello, Michael," says the blonde in a soft, slightly accented voice, using my agency name. Not really my pick, but I had to admit my employers were right that no client would take me seriously if I went by my given name, John. "I'm Delphine, and this is Cosima." Oh, man. I do have a thing for voices but this woman is the whole package. Huge doe eyes, gorgeous oval face, hair tumbling past her shoulders in loose golden waves that I immediately want to run my fingers through. Her cream silk dressing gown clings to every curve of her slender body and is short enough to leave her legs mostly bare. Really fucking nice legs. Down, boy.
"Hey," says the brunette, waving as she breaks into a smile so genuinely warm and friendly that I find myself smiling back. Small and compact but really toned. Probably into yoga or Pilates, judging by the lean, non-bulky definition of her muscles and the taut flatness of her belly. Nice tits, high and rounded. Her hair is in long neat dreads; not usually my thing, but it works for her. She seems to be perfectly comfortable wearing black rimmed cat-eye shaped glasses and almost nothing else.
My eye focuses on the "almost," a thick purple dildo rearing from a soft looking black leather harness that's perfectly fitted to the brunette's hips. Hard not to stare, since the blonde's hand hasn't stopped stroking it since I walked in. I can't help feeling a twinge of anxiety. Not because of the size of the thing, which is respectable but easily manageable; handballing is my specialty calling card and I can take a man's arm past the elbow, after all. But in my years in the trade, every time I've gotten torn, it's been by a woman with a strap-on and more enthusiasm than experience. Usually nothing that won't heal with some antibiotics and time, but it puts my asshole out of commission for weeks, which is tough on the bank account.
A closer look at the nightstand makes me feel better. Large pump bottle of Maximus and a brand new can of Crisco. A metal bowl on a stand set over a votive candle. Boxes of gloves, both latex and nitrile, in varying lengths. My favorite brand of condoms in my preferred size. Someone knows her shit, or anyway did her research. Bless you, Amalia.
"The agency informed you about what we want and expect?" says the blonde. I look at her sharply. Despite the softness of her voice and eyes, she's clearly in charge.
"I did a full clean-out this afternoon and took a shower right before I came over. No fluid exchange. No kissing. No drugs. Double condoms on at all times. And I don't touch either of you unless you tell me to."
Their eyes smile at each other. No sign of nervousness or embarrassment, just excitement and an electric current of attraction that makes my cock surge. This is no bored couple looking to spice up their monotonous sex life — the heat coming off these two could spark a forest fire. "Not me, only Cosima. I will be present but not participating."
"Understood."
Those big doe eyes turn on me, suddenly hooded and flatly unreadable. "I hope I don't need to remind you that discretion is of paramount importance."
I refrain from mentioning that that's what she's paying me for, among other things. "Of course. I take it you were satisfied with my test results?"
"Very." Her expression thaws. "You're in admirable health, Michael."
"Thank you. May I see your hands?" I say to the little brunette.
"Sure." She beckons me toward the bed and lets me inspect first one hand, then the other. Small hands, nicely kept and manicured. Short nails filed to perfectly smooth bevels, no sharp edges or snags anywhere. Couldn't have done better myself.
"Thank you," I say again.
One corner of her mouth curls. "No problem."
"Shall we begin?" says the blonde.
I nod. "Just to be clear, the clock started running as soon as I got off the elevator and walked into your place."
"Of course. Undress, please. Slowly." She wraps her arms around the little brunette, who tucks her head against the blonde's neck. They're both watching me expectantly.
My cock is leaping like a tarpon. Damn, I like a woman who knows what she wants and isn't shy about asking for it. I take off my jacket and hang it on the valet stand she has provided. It's a nice thoughtful touch — most of my clothes are bespoke from Garrison's and clients usually don't consider that I might not want to toss them over a chair. Shoes and socks next, and then my shirt, which I hang beside the jacket. I take off my pants, then ease my boxer-briefs down past my already rock-hard cock.
"Very nice," says the little brunette, giving me a thumbs up. She tilts her head to kiss the blonde and then clambers off her lap to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Just what the doctor ordered," I say flippantly.
She snorts and tosses me a box of condoms after pulling one out for herself. Quickly I take out two and put them on, one after the other, before she can open hers. I hold out my hand. "May I?"
One eyebrow arches above her glasses and she smiles again at the blonde. "Knock yourself out."
Kneeling in front of her, I tear open the packet with my teeth and place the condom in my mouth, gently holding the edges with my lips. Resting it on the head of her cock and pressing my tongue against the tip to keep air out of the reservoir, I roll it all the way down.
She leans back on her hands, watching me slowly swallow her entire length. "Dude. That's fucking hot."
Fuck, her pussy smells good. Careful not to touch her anywhere except with my mouth on her cock, I lick and suck at her until she is pumping her hips to drive herself down my throat.
"On your hands and knees on the bed, Michael," says the blonde. Her voice is thickened and her eyes are dilated. I get it now: she likes to watch. Fine by me.
Pulling my mouth away with a wet pop, I move smoothly but quickly to comply. I hear the snap of a glove, then feel the little brunette settling behind me. Her bare hand strokes and kneads my buttocks while her gloved hand spreads warmed lube over my taint. "A little more firmly, chérie. It's not as intense as it will be once you're inside him, but you can still stimulate his prostate this way."
Clever fingers circle and rub, tentatively at first, then with more confidence when she can tell I'm really getting into it. Most clients don't give a shit about my comfort or safety, much less my enjoyment. It's a revelation.
Her hand abandons me, but only long enough to coat itself in more lube and start to rim my asshole. "Press with the pad of your finger right at the entrance, gently but steadily. He should let you right in — yes, just like that." I can hear them kissing, which is making me almost as hot as the finger sliding in and out of me.
A trickle of lube pours between my cheeks. The brunette's fingers are so slim that I barely notice when she slips a second one inside, accompanied by a lot more lube. "You should feel it a few centimeters in, on the anterior wall. It's about the size of a walnut."
She finds my P-spot almost immediately, making me grunt. "Kinda feels like a ripe plum, firm but just a little squishy."
"Yes. Lightly and slowly at first, he'll be very sensitive."
Her fingers stroke me in a "come hither" motion, sometimes circling, sometimes moving side to side. Unable to stop grinding my hips, I groan, letting my head hang between my shoulders. Not needing any prompting, she gradually increases the speed and intensity. Tension builds from my ass inward, spreading tingling warmth throughout my belly and up my spine. Without really meaning to, I drop down to my elbows, raising my hips higher as my lower back, thighs and buttocks tighten and shake until my entire body is flooded with heat and an incredibly powerful sensation of release. "Fuuuuuuuck."
"Uh, Michael?"
"That," I manage to say into the sheets, sweating like a whore in church, "would be a prostate orgasm." Please don't stop oh god please dont stop...
As if she can hear my thoughts, I feel more lube pouring over and inside me. She's four fingers in now, twisting and plunging, and I am going out of my mind with how good it feels.
"Can you take her hand now?"
"Yes!"
I force myself to hold still, deepening my breathing and willing my ass to relax. Her hands are tiny compared with what usually gets shoved up there so this will be a piece of cake, but I find myself enjoying the process in a way I haven't in a long, long time. Withdrawing enough to tuck her thumb against her palm, the wedge of her fingers slowly, slowly works me open again. Gradually I stretch to accommodate the width of her hand, feeling it fold in on itself inside me as my ass slides down to close over her wrist. My entire body sags with gratitude, slavishly happy to place all my trust in this incredible girl.
"Dude," she says, her voice filled with wonder, "I can feel your pulse. Are you all right?"
Unable to speak, I nod, hoping she can see.
Slowly, she twists her fist within me, rocking it back and forth and bumping her knuckles over my prostate with each pass. Another wave of orgasm hits me unexpectedly, so overwhelming I can't even process what I'm feeling. Shit, when I'm finally allowed to touch my cock I am going to shoot like a geyser for days.
Lost in a haze of arousal, I dimly realize that warm lube is pouring all over my ass. "You sure it'll fit?" she says dubiously.
"Your wrist is much smaller than your hand. If you open your hand slightly and curl your arm around a bit, you should be able to slide your cock inside him alongside it. Michael?"
I say something that probably comes out completely garbled, but my ass ain't going anywhere and they know it.
My eyes close reflexively when the little brunette's hand shifts and the smooth, firm head of her cock nudges at my asshole. I can feel her leaning her slight weight into me as she pushes gently and steadily inside me until her hips mold themselves to my buttcheeks.
I hear them kissing again. "Now, chérie. Fuck your cock into your hand. Tighten it if you want more resistance but keep your movements slow and small — you can very easily tear him like this."
"Holy fucking shit," she says, echoing the scrambled thoughts dribbling from what's left of my brain as she starts to twist and grind and pulse her hips. Even the slightest, subtlest motion sends a ripple of pleasure shuddering through me. "Breathe, dude," I hear her gasp into my ear.
But I can't. I can't breathe, I can't think. Some part of my consciousness recognizes that after a good long while the rhythm of her hips is getting jerkier and more frantic, but all I can do is feel and willingly give in to the full-body tremors that roar through me again and again, getting closer together until they just don't stop.
Someone is screaming. Might be her. Might be me.
After what seems like hours of nearly constant, brain-melting pleasure, I've lost count of how many times she's come inside me. Finally her free hand closes around my cock, which is hard as a diamond and leaking pre-cum like a faucet. Every muscle in my body tenses and swells and throbs with heat, and after just a few strokes of her hand I start to come so hard I see little sparkling lights dancing behind my eyes.
I don't actually black out but it's pretty damned close. "Gently, now. Pulling out of him needs to be just as slow as going in." When her cock and then her hand finally slide free I feel so empty I almost want to cry.
In the bathroom across the hall, I slip off the condoms and tie them in a knot, tossing the sodden little package into the trash. The toilet has a built-in bidet function, which makes washing my cock and ass so much easier and more civilized than doing it in the sink. Back in the master bedroom I get dressed while my client and her girlfriend cuddle and kiss. Mechanically I bid them goodnight, trying to ignore the stab of profound envy at their obvious intimacy and passion.
While I'm waiting for the elevator, I can't help overhearing their voices as they drift down the hall.
"Happy birthday, chérie. Did you enjoy your present?"
"Oh, yeah. Like, mind equals blown. Have I told you lately how much I love you, Dr. Cormier?"
"Yes, and I love you too, Cosima. But if you don't fuck me right now I am going to go mad."
I'm so preoccupied with my thoughts and the images playing on a loop in my head that I nearly forget to do my routine check-in with the office until I'm back at my car, which unlocks automatically as I approach. "Nice to hear from you, Johnny boy, I was beginning to worry. Have a good time?"
Getting in, I flop heavily into the firm leather seat and shut the door, leaning my head back with a groan. "You have no idea."
"I might have an inkling. You should see the size of the tip she left you."
I check my email for the final receipt and whistle.
"That was my reaction, too. Another customer satisfied, I take it?"
"She's not the only one. Let's just say, if she books me again, I'll do it for nothing. Shit, I'll pay her."