"The Contessa Pimpessa Tales"---Chapter One
A First Client, and Many Journeys
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Polymorphous Perversity’s Propensities
DAUNTING DIFFICULTIES OF DISCOVERING LOVE AND EROS NOW
Many days over the past year, since Ivana---my Yugoslavian goddess-assassin---abandoned me, I have wondered if I would ever love again. One by one, I have left my other lovers, or they have cast me aside. I am at work on my fourth screenplay---full of improbable trysts and all the impossible gender hostility that percolates today like an out-of-control coffee pot---called “THE LYSISTRATA MOMENT.” It dissects and ridicules and upends the celibacy that has not been a familiar condition in my life. Right now, however, the erotic chill that has descended on me feels as unthawable as the men and women of Greece swore it would be for them, in the midst of the wars and rumors of wars that inundated their existence as Aristophanes’ tale of sad hilarity unfolded.
Occasional connubial connection occurs even in the context of this awful desert of unfulfilled desire, of course. Janice finds a quarterly dose or so of Jimbo irresistible, for example. And despite all contradictions and contraindications to the contrary, I still find my heart longing for love. I would, just as I told sweet Diane twenty years ago, take up with any woman who offered her loving out of an honest desire to share those moments of light and heat and sweat and come, which the planless design of time and nature have built into our beings at the level of our sinew. I have not lost my way--- nor my heart or cock---in other words; instead, the way of my time and place has lost touch with this most ineffable and ineluctable of the human appetites, the source of everything that is for us---the life force itself.
Other than fantasy, or recollection, I have no antidote either. Any conjunction of the commercial and the coital so much dampens the delight, for me, that I’d rather love my fingers than any purchased purchase on another’s flesh. So which is it to be today? Fantasy or recollection? I’ve been delving the byways of ‘Memory Lane’ recently, from which the supply of luscious moments is thankfully close to inexhaustible.
Today, so as to flavor my stew with variety’s spice, let us consider a different sort of proposition. Did I say that the commercial nexus held no allure? In one direction, that is true, but what about a turning of the tables? Many of my feisty companeras, in jealous jest, have suggested I should hire myself out, teasing me, but not without serious worship of my inclination to provide pleasure to girls with a wanton and wanting and wayward wandering lust in their blood.
I’ve never been charming; I’ve never been a ‘type-A’ sort who could sell anything or sweet talk anyone; but I did have a special friend once, a story for another day, I promise. And she liked to act as a go-between, to watch the interplay of flesh and fire and flood, and to create a sense of debt among her many acquaintances. I just never collected anything for the effort, except for the rewards of belonging to that moment when time stops and anything is possible, when a woman’s opening is the genesis of everything again.
What if I were to encounter such a one as this mistress again? Only, greedy girl, she not only wants to watch and profit tangentially, she literally inists on being a “conversational agent,” so to speak. Like any pimp worth a shit, she informs me, she’ll take half. I could countenance such a commercialization, perhaps, a high-class call-boy operation, so to speak, without much of a social component. Snce I am the original “social dangereuse”---as Angie would tease me, lo these many years ago---I wouldn’t do as an opera companion at first, even if I do “clean up nice, for a hippy.” Maybe after some “training” at Monica’s ‘school for scandal,’ I might be the occasional dinner escort as well. I’m sold. It might all start as follows.
******************************************************************************
.”I’m gonna charge $250 per hour, no tip required.” Monica was through the door and speaking her mind before I had a chance to kiss her. When I pressed my lips to her throat she ground her crotch against me but continued in a level voice, “That way, a $1,000 a night will feel like a bargain.” I had her shirt unbottoned and was massaging her belly with my lips. She groaned and laughed. “You follow me on this?”
I laughed too and made ‘kissy lips’ at her as I dropped my shorts to liberate my prancing happy dancer. “You’re crazy, baby. Just because you love it...”
Her cell phone interrupted, and she shushed me when she saw the number. “Hey, babe!” She paused. That’s right, 7:30: the apartment on Ninth Street.” She laughed. “Oh yeah! Ba bye!” She eyed me, nodding at my sex, dropping to her knees as she approached to swallow as much of me as she could for a few teasing seconds. Her slurp followed her as she retreated, like my cock wanted to follow her. “Enough of that now.” She stood up, her ‘closer’s grin’ big on her face. “That was your first client. We’re meeting her in two hours. I told you I was going to figure out a way to pay for that apartment.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Do I have to explain that my relationship with Monica was complex? It’s not just the fact that she’s married, that her husband’s political---albeit in Ari-fucking-zona, thank God, I don’t want to get shot. It’s that she sees me as her own Pygmalion project, more or less. She hates to see my “talents” going to waste. When she first pitched me on the idea, she said, “So you’re having trouble selling your writing. All writers have trouble selling their writing. It’s why it’s a profession for losers and saints. If the market doesn’t appreciate one part of your product line, give ‘em another.”
The idea was a turn-on, of course. Every man dreams of being the object of worship, especially if the basic nature of the relationship practically guarantees no messy emotional baggage. When women fall in love with their escorts, they shower them with gifts, not with subtle hints about matrimony. The concept just didn’t seem practical, is all, nor to fit with the world as I understood it. Then again, Monica wasn’t exactly the typical suburban wife with two boys who acted as Vice President of .marketing for an agricultural biotech firm. She didn’t exactly fit, either.
“It’s ‘Sex in the City,’ baby,” she assured me. “These things really do happen.”
Not to me, they don’t. Again, however, I admit that until Monica I had never had a woman whose tire I helped change seduce me. That’s how I met Miss M. Returning home from the Midtown Art Cinema one fine Fall night, where I had again failed to induce a foxy cohort from one of the NGO’s to which I rent my brain now and again to accompany me further, I came upon a Beemer half off the street, flashers winking expensively. I hesitated, then saw the black dress, strapless shoulders, coifed head bobbing up and down as she spoke into her cell phone.
“I don’t need any help!” She was about as approachable at first as a drill sergeant, whirling on me like a fighter. Beta Maximus Jimbo backed right down. Laughing at her kick-boxer stance, I extended my hands to plead for my life, “No problem, I just...”
She liked me, what can I say? “You seem safe enough,” she said dismissively.
I took a step toward her, cocked my head campily, and exploded in my best faux-Transylvanian rant, “Don’t be too sure!!” She jumped back, then squealed with laughter as I continued in the same tone, “I might be a creature of the night.”
“I could use a creature of the night now and again, especially if he didn’t mind helping me with a tire right now.”
She didn’t sleep that night until light was close at hand, the fire we shared bright enough to launch a star. I’ve always loved women who loved to come, and Monica---my God, she’s the only woman I’ve ever met who comes close to my energy AND really gets off on me AND doesn’t expect an engagement ring---or at least a hint of a proposal---within twenty four to forty eight hours of the first honest-to-goodness, ear-splitting multi-orgasmic exchange.
That’s one delightful thing about being fifty, being able to orgasm but not spill. Monica and I lapped each other up like we were a Sahara-bound camels last chance for water. Her clitoris, the last time I let my lips loose, was as bright as the candles we were burning and the size of a cherry tomato. When I slipped on the fifth or sixth condom of the evening, I had already come, and come close to ejaculating, so many times I never thought I would pop inside of her. But she was a tricky one, she had a way of holding on, and before we finished she had a part of me, albeit encased in latex.
We had screamed like panthers at the end and laughed like madmen after. She rented the apartment on her next visit. “I’m in and out of Atlanta---CDC shit, Emory, you know!!---twice a month; it really makes sense anyway.”
She started dropping hints about ‘friends’ who’d enjoy my company, and pretending she wanted to be “your pimpessa contessa, baby!” pretty quickly. I figured she was just being sweet; I’m always open to threesomes or whatever, but I definitely expected not a thing to come of it other than nice fantasy.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
“My first client?” Whoa!! was all I was saying to myself. “But it’s my low phase, baby, she may...”
Monica howled her happy howl. “You and your low phases.” She came close to me again and cupped my scrotum very suggestively indeed. “You got more going on asleep than any man awake I’ve ever met.” She gave me that look, the one which indicated she hadn’t been a nun, after all, and had actually met a few fellows. “And besides, I’ll be there; they installed the video surveillance system yesterday.”
Now I howled. It was a happy howl, too, a disbelieving, this-shit-isn’t-really-happening, breath-snatching belly laugh. She kissed me, hard and purposeful, a woman used to commanding men with her tongue. “Now go and shower.” I nodded and exited to scour and scrub and ponder perdition and ecstasy. “Don’t put anything on, either. She’ll like the smell of YOU!”
Saralyn, Monica assured me on the drive to Midtown from Decatur---whizzing along DeKalb Ave. doing sixty in that Beemer she rented or leased or blow-jobbed from the dealership in Buckhead---was “totally cute, totally Jewish, totally sixty, and she has breasts just like you like,” which isn’t to say that I’m choosy---I like women. It’s only an indication of how thorough Monica was at extracting information; she’d ask when I couldn’t withhold or dissimulate, even had I been so inclined. She always inquired about my dispositions when she had me, right on the edge, deep in her thrall, about to let fly with the flow of the geyser she liked to elicit at least once each visit. Saralyn’s boobies were “perky, pointed, and prominent,” I guess, since that was the response I conveyed when Monica had interrogated me, in extremis, when she was in town at the first of the month.
They were, too, exactly like that. “How can she be sixty?” I thought. “She’s way too cute to be sixty” drove my loopy smile, which probably made my glasses look even nerdier and more cockeyed than they already were.
“I am SO nervous!” were the first words she spoke, the clipped accent and diction of a Seven Sisters grad apparent immediately.
I pulled the hand she had given me to shake and brought our bodies close enough together to sense the heat we held. “Don’t be; we’re just like Binobo’s, right? Out for a little stroll, a little tryst...”
“I know!” She chuckled. “Didn’t Monica tell you? I’m a primatologist, Yerkes and everything.” I laughed, leaning in to inhale her tightly curled mane and run my nose along the line of short hairs just below the cut-line of her ‘do’. “Oh my God,” she breathed softly, and then she bit me, hard.
She came on me standing up, in the living room, a few minutes later. I had moistened her a little with my hungry drool, and then she had simply climbed up my legs, like she was mounting a ladder, her skirt still on, her blouse opened wide, her happy nipples bobbing in invitation to my tongue. One thing I’ve always appreciated about Jewish girls, they make themselves heard. Yum!!!
I knew Monica wanted to see, though, so I pulled Ms. Sara’s trembling nether lips and rocking hips off my loins and my penis, and I carried her into the bedroom, where Monica’s light show was in progress, humpbacked disco throbbing from the sound system. I lay her down---all of 105 pounds tops; I had carried piles of book boxes twice her weight when I worked as a mover to support my writing habit, up and down stairs too---like the bouquet of nectar she was, and proceeded to strip her aged and yet girlish body down, happy to see a bastion of bush below her belly, like a hiding place for wild things, like an invitation to a picnic.
She came so fast again, I barely had a chance to taste---I certainly didn’t have the opportunity to tease her along until she came apart like a machine pushed to the limits of its function, screaming for mercy as she spun out of control in my mouth. But she liked what I offered, nonetheless, pulling my face into her, forcefully, once, and again, and again, as she climaxed, before she panted, “No! No! It’s too...” and pushed me away to bring me atop her on the bed.
Somehow in all this, I managed to get the Trojan on that I neglected to apply before answering the door, a tactical error I would never make again, and she wanted me to plunge, immediately. I held back, however, her body telling me to play even as her voice begged me, “PLEASE!” and her hands clawed at my cock to pull me into her.
She was so open, she was a spread on the bed, all molten syrup and treadmill muscles, princess-power push and womanly give combined. I teased her at the edges of her pleasure pit until she practically spit at me, “Fuck me, you!!! Fuck me hard.” Her volume dropped to a plea as her eyes implored me, her hands buried in my hair.
And I gave her the ride she wanted, she traveled the length of the land of Jimbo, she blessed me with the gift most precious short of children, produced in the same clutch of fluid, contraction, and noise as any new life enters the world. We dallied in vocal intercourse for a time after this first interlude. How can so much happen in a half hour? I thanked God that most of Monica’s friends and clients and pals were scientists, researchers, corporate climbers. I’m all for all kinds of conversational connection and end up unintentionally merciless with all creatures who lack the wit to engage life fiercely.
Saralynn put her hand over my mouth, however, after she felt my erection return, and followed with a deep kiss. What a hoot! She was on the clock and wanted her fill, good God almighty I might never tire of this drill. I shifted her position so that we could address each other classically, her scent woodsy and spicy in my mouth, not at all sweet until she came again, my cock against her cheek, her fists pounding the bed as her thigh muscles compressed around my face and then released me from their vise.
She rode me, after, like an equestrian with a rebel pony---deep in the saddle, face to the flank of her steed, focused and relentless in staying horsed. She rocked like a washer on the final spin before she crashed through the sound barrier one last time, taking me with her on the trip. She leaned into me, then, as my cock pulsed its stream forth, lips engorged with my ears, her whisper the rasp of heaven. “Thank you!”
Her cell phone alarm blurted then, just as our blurting organs were finishing. She jumped off, laughing, a primatologist again instead of just a horny primate. She was half dressed before I could register my bemusement. “Monica said 75 minutes, tops, if I didn’t want to pay for two hours!” She reached into her blouse pocket as she finished buttoning up, me laying there half stunned and fully befuddled, and pulled out Mr. Benjamin Franklin. “It’s not much,” she looked at me, as serious as a school girl. “You’re worth a dozen of these!”
“My God!!! I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I thought. She put the bill right under my scrotum, and I stirred again, no shit. That was a good thing, too, low phase or not, since Monica had plans for me for the next little while, and they didn’t require clothing or talk.
But that, dear reader, is another story, another chapter of The Contessa Pimpessa Tales, with which I will regale you fully, in the fullness of time. “THAT’S MY STORY, AND I’M STICKING TO IT!!!”
DAUNTING DIFFICULTIES OF DISCOVERING LOVE AND EROS NOW
Many days over the past year, since Ivana---my Yugoslavian goddess-assassin---abandoned me, I have wondered if I would ever love again. One by one, I have left my other lovers, or they have cast me aside. I am at work on my fourth screenplay---full of improbable trysts and all the impossible gender hostility that percolates today like an out-of-control coffee pot---called “THE LYSISTRATA MOMENT.” It dissects and ridicules and upends the celibacy that has not been a familiar condition in my life. Right now, however, the erotic chill that has descended on me feels as unthawable as the men and women of Greece swore it would be for them, in the midst of the wars and rumors of wars that inundated their existence as Aristophanes’ tale of sad hilarity unfolded.
Occasional connubial connection occurs even in the context of this awful desert of unfulfilled desire, of course. Janice finds a quarterly dose or so of Jimbo irresistible, for example. And despite all contradictions and contraindications to the contrary, I still find my heart longing for love. I would, just as I told sweet Diane twenty years ago, take up with any woman who offered her loving out of an honest desire to share those moments of light and heat and sweat and come, which the planless design of time and nature have built into our beings at the level of our sinew. I have not lost my way--- nor my heart or cock---in other words; instead, the way of my time and place has lost touch with this most ineffable and ineluctable of the human appetites, the source of everything that is for us---the life force itself.
Other than fantasy, or recollection, I have no antidote either. Any conjunction of the commercial and the coital so much dampens the delight, for me, that I’d rather love my fingers than any purchased purchase on another’s flesh. So which is it to be today? Fantasy or recollection? I’ve been delving the byways of ‘Memory Lane’ recently, from which the supply of luscious moments is thankfully close to inexhaustible.
Today, so as to flavor my stew with variety’s spice, let us consider a different sort of proposition. Did I say that the commercial nexus held no allure? In one direction, that is true, but what about a turning of the tables? Many of my feisty companeras, in jealous jest, have suggested I should hire myself out, teasing me, but not without serious worship of my inclination to provide pleasure to girls with a wanton and wanting and wayward wandering lust in their blood.
I’ve never been charming; I’ve never been a ‘type-A’ sort who could sell anything or sweet talk anyone; but I did have a special friend once, a story for another day, I promise. And she liked to act as a go-between, to watch the interplay of flesh and fire and flood, and to create a sense of debt among her many acquaintances. I just never collected anything for the effort, except for the rewards of belonging to that moment when time stops and anything is possible, when a woman’s opening is the genesis of everything again.
What if I were to encounter such a one as this mistress again? Only, greedy girl, she not only wants to watch and profit tangentially, she literally inists on being a “conversational agent,” so to speak. Like any pimp worth a shit, she informs me, she’ll take half. I could countenance such a commercialization, perhaps, a high-class call-boy operation, so to speak, without much of a social component. Snce I am the original “social dangereuse”---as Angie would tease me, lo these many years ago---I wouldn’t do as an opera companion at first, even if I do “clean up nice, for a hippy.” Maybe after some “training” at Monica’s ‘school for scandal,’ I might be the occasional dinner escort as well. I’m sold. It might all start as follows.
******************************************************************************
.”I’m gonna charge $250 per hour, no tip required.” Monica was through the door and speaking her mind before I had a chance to kiss her. When I pressed my lips to her throat she ground her crotch against me but continued in a level voice, “That way, a $1,000 a night will feel like a bargain.” I had her shirt unbottoned and was massaging her belly with my lips. She groaned and laughed. “You follow me on this?”
I laughed too and made ‘kissy lips’ at her as I dropped my shorts to liberate my prancing happy dancer. “You’re crazy, baby. Just because you love it...”
Her cell phone interrupted, and she shushed me when she saw the number. “Hey, babe!” She paused. That’s right, 7:30: the apartment on Ninth Street.” She laughed. “Oh yeah! Ba bye!” She eyed me, nodding at my sex, dropping to her knees as she approached to swallow as much of me as she could for a few teasing seconds. Her slurp followed her as she retreated, like my cock wanted to follow her. “Enough of that now.” She stood up, her ‘closer’s grin’ big on her face. “That was your first client. We’re meeting her in two hours. I told you I was going to figure out a way to pay for that apartment.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Do I have to explain that my relationship with Monica was complex? It’s not just the fact that she’s married, that her husband’s political---albeit in Ari-fucking-zona, thank God, I don’t want to get shot. It’s that she sees me as her own Pygmalion project, more or less. She hates to see my “talents” going to waste. When she first pitched me on the idea, she said, “So you’re having trouble selling your writing. All writers have trouble selling their writing. It’s why it’s a profession for losers and saints. If the market doesn’t appreciate one part of your product line, give ‘em another.”
The idea was a turn-on, of course. Every man dreams of being the object of worship, especially if the basic nature of the relationship practically guarantees no messy emotional baggage. When women fall in love with their escorts, they shower them with gifts, not with subtle hints about matrimony. The concept just didn’t seem practical, is all, nor to fit with the world as I understood it. Then again, Monica wasn’t exactly the typical suburban wife with two boys who acted as Vice President of .marketing for an agricultural biotech firm. She didn’t exactly fit, either.
“It’s ‘Sex in the City,’ baby,” she assured me. “These things really do happen.”
Not to me, they don’t. Again, however, I admit that until Monica I had never had a woman whose tire I helped change seduce me. That’s how I met Miss M. Returning home from the Midtown Art Cinema one fine Fall night, where I had again failed to induce a foxy cohort from one of the NGO’s to which I rent my brain now and again to accompany me further, I came upon a Beemer half off the street, flashers winking expensively. I hesitated, then saw the black dress, strapless shoulders, coifed head bobbing up and down as she spoke into her cell phone.
“I don’t need any help!” She was about as approachable at first as a drill sergeant, whirling on me like a fighter. Beta Maximus Jimbo backed right down. Laughing at her kick-boxer stance, I extended my hands to plead for my life, “No problem, I just...”
She liked me, what can I say? “You seem safe enough,” she said dismissively.
I took a step toward her, cocked my head campily, and exploded in my best faux-Transylvanian rant, “Don’t be too sure!!” She jumped back, then squealed with laughter as I continued in the same tone, “I might be a creature of the night.”
“I could use a creature of the night now and again, especially if he didn’t mind helping me with a tire right now.”
She didn’t sleep that night until light was close at hand, the fire we shared bright enough to launch a star. I’ve always loved women who loved to come, and Monica---my God, she’s the only woman I’ve ever met who comes close to my energy AND really gets off on me AND doesn’t expect an engagement ring---or at least a hint of a proposal---within twenty four to forty eight hours of the first honest-to-goodness, ear-splitting multi-orgasmic exchange.
That’s one delightful thing about being fifty, being able to orgasm but not spill. Monica and I lapped each other up like we were a Sahara-bound camels last chance for water. Her clitoris, the last time I let my lips loose, was as bright as the candles we were burning and the size of a cherry tomato. When I slipped on the fifth or sixth condom of the evening, I had already come, and come close to ejaculating, so many times I never thought I would pop inside of her. But she was a tricky one, she had a way of holding on, and before we finished she had a part of me, albeit encased in latex.
We had screamed like panthers at the end and laughed like madmen after. She rented the apartment on her next visit. “I’m in and out of Atlanta---CDC shit, Emory, you know!!---twice a month; it really makes sense anyway.”
She started dropping hints about ‘friends’ who’d enjoy my company, and pretending she wanted to be “your pimpessa contessa, baby!” pretty quickly. I figured she was just being sweet; I’m always open to threesomes or whatever, but I definitely expected not a thing to come of it other than nice fantasy.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
“My first client?” Whoa!! was all I was saying to myself. “But it’s my low phase, baby, she may...”
Monica howled her happy howl. “You and your low phases.” She came close to me again and cupped my scrotum very suggestively indeed. “You got more going on asleep than any man awake I’ve ever met.” She gave me that look, the one which indicated she hadn’t been a nun, after all, and had actually met a few fellows. “And besides, I’ll be there; they installed the video surveillance system yesterday.”
Now I howled. It was a happy howl, too, a disbelieving, this-shit-isn’t-really-happening, breath-snatching belly laugh. She kissed me, hard and purposeful, a woman used to commanding men with her tongue. “Now go and shower.” I nodded and exited to scour and scrub and ponder perdition and ecstasy. “Don’t put anything on, either. She’ll like the smell of YOU!”
Saralyn, Monica assured me on the drive to Midtown from Decatur---whizzing along DeKalb Ave. doing sixty in that Beemer she rented or leased or blow-jobbed from the dealership in Buckhead---was “totally cute, totally Jewish, totally sixty, and she has breasts just like you like,” which isn’t to say that I’m choosy---I like women. It’s only an indication of how thorough Monica was at extracting information; she’d ask when I couldn’t withhold or dissimulate, even had I been so inclined. She always inquired about my dispositions when she had me, right on the edge, deep in her thrall, about to let fly with the flow of the geyser she liked to elicit at least once each visit. Saralyn’s boobies were “perky, pointed, and prominent,” I guess, since that was the response I conveyed when Monica had interrogated me, in extremis, when she was in town at the first of the month.
They were, too, exactly like that. “How can she be sixty?” I thought. “She’s way too cute to be sixty” drove my loopy smile, which probably made my glasses look even nerdier and more cockeyed than they already were.
“I am SO nervous!” were the first words she spoke, the clipped accent and diction of a Seven Sisters grad apparent immediately.
I pulled the hand she had given me to shake and brought our bodies close enough together to sense the heat we held. “Don’t be; we’re just like Binobo’s, right? Out for a little stroll, a little tryst...”
“I know!” She chuckled. “Didn’t Monica tell you? I’m a primatologist, Yerkes and everything.” I laughed, leaning in to inhale her tightly curled mane and run my nose along the line of short hairs just below the cut-line of her ‘do’. “Oh my God,” she breathed softly, and then she bit me, hard.
She came on me standing up, in the living room, a few minutes later. I had moistened her a little with my hungry drool, and then she had simply climbed up my legs, like she was mounting a ladder, her skirt still on, her blouse opened wide, her happy nipples bobbing in invitation to my tongue. One thing I’ve always appreciated about Jewish girls, they make themselves heard. Yum!!!
I knew Monica wanted to see, though, so I pulled Ms. Sara’s trembling nether lips and rocking hips off my loins and my penis, and I carried her into the bedroom, where Monica’s light show was in progress, humpbacked disco throbbing from the sound system. I lay her down---all of 105 pounds tops; I had carried piles of book boxes twice her weight when I worked as a mover to support my writing habit, up and down stairs too---like the bouquet of nectar she was, and proceeded to strip her aged and yet girlish body down, happy to see a bastion of bush below her belly, like a hiding place for wild things, like an invitation to a picnic.
She came so fast again, I barely had a chance to taste---I certainly didn’t have the opportunity to tease her along until she came apart like a machine pushed to the limits of its function, screaming for mercy as she spun out of control in my mouth. But she liked what I offered, nonetheless, pulling my face into her, forcefully, once, and again, and again, as she climaxed, before she panted, “No! No! It’s too...” and pushed me away to bring me atop her on the bed.
Somehow in all this, I managed to get the Trojan on that I neglected to apply before answering the door, a tactical error I would never make again, and she wanted me to plunge, immediately. I held back, however, her body telling me to play even as her voice begged me, “PLEASE!” and her hands clawed at my cock to pull me into her.
She was so open, she was a spread on the bed, all molten syrup and treadmill muscles, princess-power push and womanly give combined. I teased her at the edges of her pleasure pit until she practically spit at me, “Fuck me, you!!! Fuck me hard.” Her volume dropped to a plea as her eyes implored me, her hands buried in my hair.
And I gave her the ride she wanted, she traveled the length of the land of Jimbo, she blessed me with the gift most precious short of children, produced in the same clutch of fluid, contraction, and noise as any new life enters the world. We dallied in vocal intercourse for a time after this first interlude. How can so much happen in a half hour? I thanked God that most of Monica’s friends and clients and pals were scientists, researchers, corporate climbers. I’m all for all kinds of conversational connection and end up unintentionally merciless with all creatures who lack the wit to engage life fiercely.
Saralynn put her hand over my mouth, however, after she felt my erection return, and followed with a deep kiss. What a hoot! She was on the clock and wanted her fill, good God almighty I might never tire of this drill. I shifted her position so that we could address each other classically, her scent woodsy and spicy in my mouth, not at all sweet until she came again, my cock against her cheek, her fists pounding the bed as her thigh muscles compressed around my face and then released me from their vise.
She rode me, after, like an equestrian with a rebel pony---deep in the saddle, face to the flank of her steed, focused and relentless in staying horsed. She rocked like a washer on the final spin before she crashed through the sound barrier one last time, taking me with her on the trip. She leaned into me, then, as my cock pulsed its stream forth, lips engorged with my ears, her whisper the rasp of heaven. “Thank you!”
Her cell phone alarm blurted then, just as our blurting organs were finishing. She jumped off, laughing, a primatologist again instead of just a horny primate. She was half dressed before I could register my bemusement. “Monica said 75 minutes, tops, if I didn’t want to pay for two hours!” She reached into her blouse pocket as she finished buttoning up, me laying there half stunned and fully befuddled, and pulled out Mr. Benjamin Franklin. “It’s not much,” she looked at me, as serious as a school girl. “You’re worth a dozen of these!”
“My God!!! I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I thought. She put the bill right under my scrotum, and I stirred again, no shit. That was a good thing, too, low phase or not, since Monica had plans for me for the next little while, and they didn’t require clothing or talk.
But that, dear reader, is another story, another chapter of The Contessa Pimpessa Tales, with which I will regale you fully, in the fullness of time. “THAT’S MY STORY, AND I’M STICKING TO IT!!!”