Sex in the City - New York

by Maxim Jakubowski

  For the purposes of the job interview, Meadow had spent that year since college travelling. She’d pieced together moments from her year abroad in Hungary with crap she’d read from tattered Bill Bryson books and Wikitravel. Asked if she liked European men, Meadow said innocently, “Oh, they seemed nice enough.” Jeanette bought it hook, line and sinker.

  In reality, Meadow had spent the twelve months between college and Parnell Communications working three to five days a week in a moderately classy Upper Market Street brothel called Luxury. It was the best job she’d ever had by a factor of about ten zillion. Why she’d decided to leave it for the corporate world ... Meadow occasionally groped after a reason, but lately could never seem to remember, especially when Jeanette was being a raging bitch.

  That disconnect had seemed suddenly more acute to her when, at the faculty dinner, the six-foot-four, lantern-jawed, salt-and-pepper-haired, devastatingly handsome and powerfully charming New York native, now Chicago-based Jeremy Cosgrove, MD, and one of the ‘thought leaders’ at the meeting, had slyly manipulated the seating chart so he could sit next to Meadow.

  She’d been staring at him dreamily the whole weekend.

  Dr Cosgrove said to her, midway through the appetizer course: ‘Is this just a sideline, or did you retire from your other work?’

  She just barely didn’t pass out in her crab cakes. ‘Have we met?’ she asked, puzzled.

  ‘To my endless regret, no,’ he said, speaking softly so that no one else could hear. ‘I booked an appointment once, but I had to cancel my trip to San Francisco that week.’

  Meadow was still trying to grasp the import of the revelation. God, he had the most amazing eyes. Meadow liked brown eyes. She liked tall men. She liked doctors. She liked, in fact, just about everything about Jerome Cosgrove.

  Her eyes did filthy things to him, and she smiled wryly.

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is really too bad. Really too bad.’

  ‘You’re not still seeing clients?’

  It all came together in a rush: her photo on the website was password-protected; you had to buy a membership even to see her. He really was a Luxury client.

  Truth be told, she’d been coming on to him, not fishing for a client. But at that moment, Meadow didn’t care how she got Dr Cosgrove into bed; just that she did.

  So she’d said, ‘I might be persuaded.’

  ‘Are you staying Sunday night?

  Meadow had nodded.

  ‘I can never sleep before a morning flight,’ he said.

  Meadow had done some quick maths in her head: faculty flights, Towncar pickups, Jeanette’s ride to the airport.

  ‘Nine-thirty?’ she had asked.

  Cosgrove toasted her.

  At the end of the meal, she’d found a shiny black key card tucked under her dessert plate. The guy had a surgeon’s hands.

  ‘VIP,’ the key card said in raised gold letters.

  The weird thing is, when she was a prostitute, she’d always kept a clear line between clients and dates; she would never, ever have seen a client outside of Luxury or taken money from someone she met elsewhere. But Dr Cosgrove, she would have eagerly done for free without thinking twice. It had been most of a year since she’d gotten any, and she was vastly more than horny.

  So, she asked herself, is this a client or a booty call?

  The elevator dinged at the thirty-fifth floor.

  Meadow undid another button on her blouse in the instant before the bright brass doors slid open.

  Booty call, she thought, and almost sprinted.

  It would have been polite to knock, but not as slutty. Not nearly as hot.

  She slid the black key home and watched the light blink red-to-green. She entered, breathing deeply, trying not to feel her heart pound. She used to do this sort of thing all the time, but it had been too fucking long.

  She entered the room. She could smell the soft ripe aroma of a fresh shower on the air. She could also scent his body; she reacted instantly. It had been too fucking long.

  The mammoth room was dark, cavernous. It was a corner suite: much of one wall was taken up by a picture window, beyond which blinked the million lights of Manhattan. Great skyscrapers crowded beneath them; below those the bright rivers of headlights and taillights headed uptown, downtown, uptown, downtown. Lady Liberty in the distance was illuminated by lights below, the moon above. Outlined against the skyline was Dr Jerome Cosgrove, six-foot-four and suit-clad, sipping at a highball glass.

  Meadow came toward him. He turned slowly. He looked good in silhouette.

  ‘Care for a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘I guess,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bourbon OK?’

  Meadow felt her Meeting Planning self suddenly return. ‘Is that the Four Roses?’

  ‘Twenty year,’ said Cosgrove.

  She cleared her throat.

  ‘You know that’s ...’

  ‘Expensive?’

  ‘I was going to say ‘gourmet’.‘

  ‘Like so many things I’m partial to,’ he said with an up-down look so filthy Meadow could feel the heat inside her.

  Cosgrove’s glance toward the opulent antique sideboard was barely discernible, but Meadow got it; he had done this a lot. Even in the darkness, she knew it was there; she could smell the money.

  Tucked beneath the $120 bottle of bourbon was a sheaf of bills. She’d gotten very good at fanning, rolling and counting without looking like she was counting; there were ten Ben Franklins stacked, and it was all Meadow could do to keep her cool.

  That was a lot of fucking money; more than she’d ever made from a client.

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiled.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  She tucked the roll into her purse, zipped, wrapped the shoulder strap around the purse and tucked it on the sideboard, feeling the hum of money, the potential energy now in her possession like a big fat chunk of nuclear material waiting to go fucking critical.

  Now that that was finished, she felt like she could forget about the small talk. After four days of making nice with medical VIPs from all over the world, she felt very ready to shut up and fuck.

  Meadow fished out ice, poured bourbon, and went to the window. She melted into Dr Cosgrove’s warmth. She could feel his body heat, smell his freshly-showered body.

  He put on a suit for me, she thought. His arms went around her. He kissed her; his hand went into her hair and she shivered as he pulled it gently.

  ‘What do I call you?’ he asked. ‘Misty or Meadow?’

  Misty had been her whore name, emblazoned in pink girly script beneath her photo on the cheesy ‘Meet our hostesses’ page at the Luxury website. She hadn’t heard it in a year. The fact that he’d remembered it was hot and somewhat frightening. But mostly it was flattering.

  The word seemed to set her off, making her remember how fucking good she’d been at this.

  ‘Meadow,’ she said. ‘And you’re ‘Dr Cosgrove.’‘

  ‘Or Jerome,’ he said. ‘If you like.’

  Meadow smiled wickedly and shook her head. ‘You know, ‘Dr Cosgrove’ is kind of kinky.’

  She arched her back, her breasts just touching him; her nipples, hard, brushed his chest.

  She didn’t sip; she gulped. Ice tinkled in the glass. She set it on the windowsill.

  ‘How do you want me?’ she said in her dirty voice.

  His eyes went wide. Her eyes went languid; bedroom.

  ‘Up against the window,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ she asked.

  ‘Isn’t that on your web page?’ he said.

  She felt a hot rush of mingled excitement, embarrassment, shame, pride, arousal. Yeah, that was on her web page, or it had been, when she worked at Luxury:

  FAVOURITE POSITION: Bent over and taken from behind, a
gainst a window on the top floor of a high rise, looking at the gorgeous City skyline.

  Something that had never happened; it had just sounded good at the time, and guys always seemed to like the idea of it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t fucking hot. Which made Meadow remember something else on that stupid profile page, which she’d written before she’d ever turned a trick:

  TURN-ONS: When you fuck me from behind and pull my hair.

  ‘You’ve got quite a memory,’ she said.

  She put her hands on the broad windowsill. She tucked her ass back against Jerome Cosgrove, the moderately short businesslike navy skirt riding high, her abject lack of underwear feeling suddenly shameless, blatant, wicked, brazen.

  He came up behind her and kissed her neck. His arms went around her.

  His fingers found buttons. He undid her blouse.

  He peeled back the silk, not even bothering with the jacket first. He was hungry for her, and tall enough that when she tipped her head back he could kiss her hard, his tongue feeling alternately rough and slick, upside-down as he opened her blouse and his strong surgeon’s fingers traced belly-to-breasts, teasing her breasts out of the lace-top bra. He fingered her nipples, feeling them hard; he unfastened her front-clasp bra, peeled the lace over her tits, eased her blouse back, took it all away in a tangle with the blazer. He tossed it unceremoniously somewhere, far away. She was naked from the waist up. His hand went into her mussed jumble of blonde hair; he gripped it tight but tipped her head gently forward. She caught her breath; she fucking loved it when guys pulled her hair. But only if they knew how to fucking do it ... and Dr Cosgrove had a surgeon’s hands.

  He began to kiss her neck.

  Her eyes fluttered closed, open, closed, open, closed, open; the cool glass of the window close to her face, with Manhattan brilliant beneath them, alternately in focus and out of focus as her eyes went swimming in cascading waves of pleasure. She loved this more than almost anything, more than fucking, more than getting head: kisses on the back of her neck. She could almost fucking come from this; sometimes she thought she would, and this was one of those glorious times. Her eyes opened wide and she gazed out into the sky of Manhattan, luxuriating in the feel of his full, wet lips on the back of her neck, his teeth just grazing, his hand in her hair, tight, holding her, while his other hand went up under her skirt and found her bare, naked, smooth shorn, shaved. And fucking wet.

  He started fingering her.

  God, he had fucking incredible hands. There was a special way really good fingers felt going into her; an expert’s fingers. Cosgrove was trained at Mount Sinai to do something very different from this, but sometimes knowledge translates. Apparently surgical instruments and Meadow’s cunt had more in common than she ever would have guessed.

  He didn’t linger on her clit, at first; he just went right inside, fucked her with two fingers, curving in and touching the slowly swelling firmness of her G-spot while his mouth kept working on the back of her neck. She moaned. She moaned louder. He eased his fingers out of her smooth-shaved cunt, dripping with her juice. He brought them to her clit. He started rubbing. She slumped forward, hands flat against the window sill, face against the glass. Manhattan far beneath, an ocean of lights. His fingers moved in circles. She surged against the glass, against his body, her ass wriggling on his cock as it tented the slacks of his Armani. His fingers went from clit to cunt, then clit again, circles, strokes, circles, strokes, unpredictable and teasing. Meadow cried out. He slowed, stopped, eased his fingers out of her.

  He brought his fingers to her mouth; they always did that. She always licked them eagerly, or ‘eagerly’, but she had to be really fucking turned on before her cunt actually tasted good to her, before the musky flavour of her juices on a man’s fingers or cock actually sent her into overdrive, made her dizzy with wanting it.

  She had never tasted so good.

  He slipped his fingers deep into her mouth and she sucked, slurped, moaned, wanting more. It wouldn’t have been quite so fucking hot if he hadn’t kept his other hand in Meadow’s hair while he fed her her cunt; he gripped it, pulled it just a little, not enough to hurt, quite, not really, but enough to make her melt inside and slurp his fingers deeper. He watched her with a growing rapture, and when his fingers came out they were glistening, a faint string of spittle snapping in the city-light from far below.

  Cosgrove’s cunt-wet, spit-wet hand went down to her skirt again, this time not under it but to its side; he took her zipper down like the professional he was. The businesslike skirt pooled around her ankles, shrouding her high-heeled shoes. She stepped out, kicked it away, and spread her legs.

  She bent far over, pressing her face against the cool window. She could see the shadow-reflection of Jerome Cosgrove behind her, tall and glorious, and looking out at the glittering lights

  Her cunt was naked, its wet and tight potential energy tucked in the exquisite frame of her most expensive garter belt, the lace tops of the white stockings with their saucy little red slutty schoolgirl bows on front and back. She’d shaved and dressed for him this morning; she’d spent the whole day with this juicy package hidden under the businesslike skirt. His hand slid up her thigh and over her ass, caressing, feeling the contour, the swell and dip of the sweet spot. She wondered if he liked to spank.

  Playfully, he drew back and gave her a sharp smack; enough to send a shiver through her.

  Check, she thought, going wet to the knees. Mister fucking Right.

  His hand went around her and he began to caress her again, sliding exquisitely manicured fingers from her clit to her cunt, fingering, rubbing, building her closer, his hand moving up every half-minute or so to caress her perfect tits and gently pinch her nipples. He was teasing her until she couldn’t fucking stand it. Most guys would have been finished twenty minutes before, but Jerome didn’t seem ready to stop any time soon; he already had her at his mercy. She needed to come so bad she could scream.

  He put his fingers deep into her again, pulled her hair, kissed her neck, leaned warm and tight against her as she blinked out into the blackness and the lights, and Lady Liberty glowing like a lascivious beacon. Cosgrove kept fingering her.

  As he did, his other hand stayed in her hair, tight, and his lips worked against the back of her neck. She leaned forward against the window and lifted her ass for him; he followed her every move. She reached back and groped for his belt. She couldn’t see what she was doing; it wasn’t easy, but he didn’t move to help her. He was too busy with her sex, her hair, her neck. She got his belt open and her hand on his cock. She could feel the outline through his boxers. It was good-sized, smooth, and thick-headed. She swooned.

  She had to work, to grope, to stretch and arch her back and press her ass against him to get the necessary purchase to bring his boxers down over his balls. She brought his cockhead up between the swollen, shaved lips of her cunt, and he met her there. His hand guided him in.

  She moaned and shuddered as he entered her.

  She straightened and lifted her ass, pressing as much of her body back against him as she could. Perched on the moderately high heels of her businesslike pumps she felt unsteady without the hard press of Jerome’s firm body against her. He kept holding her hair and his other hand roved across her body: tits, belly, neck, thighs, clit, belly, tits, clit, the tight-stretched place where he was fucking her, his cock sliding smoothly into her in a rhythm that left juices sheened on her lips and dripping down her thighs. He tipped her head back, still holding her hair, and kissed her hard; tongues always felt rough and strange upside-down, but the taste of him set her off: salt, spit, bourbon.

  He put his hand on her clit while he fucked her, and she understood at once that he intended to make her come.

  She hadn’t come but, maybe, once, in this position, or a position like it; she loved it, but it was always so fucking hard to come while standing. Whenever she tried it with a client, she a
lways ended up faking.

  This time, though, she went off like fireworks.

  She came so hard she surged forward against the window and the whole thing shuddered; she froze, terrified she was going to break it. Then all of a sudden she was soaring on a hot rush of pleasure coursing through her naked body, rhythmic pleasure in her cunt clenching tight around Jerome’s cock and coaxing him to fuck her harder. She came hard, fast, white-hot flashes suffusing her body as she looked out through the window, saw Manhattan, saw the rivers and seas of lights; still panting from her come, she turned, pulling against his hand tight in her hair. She looked at Jerome and told him, ‘Come for me.’

  He stroked in deep; she moaned and lifted her ass, and he fucked her with a steadily mounting rhythm.

  It was always different, once a man knew you had come and was fucking just to finish or maybe for the pleasure of the moment, the soft slick bliss of every stroke. It’s a different kind of fuck; a different depth, a different angle, a different motion entirely. Meadow fucking loved it, and it made her pussy spasm all over again. She let him fuck her till he cried out; she moaned with him, watching as he shuddered, as his face was glossed with bliss. Then she was slick with him, and he slid out, half-soft and spent.

  He let his hand out of her hair; he pulled back just enough that she could turn and put her arms around him.

  He was panting.

  She had been so deliciously lost in getting fucked that she had no idea how much time had passed. She felt a sudden stab of anxiety.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked softly.

  Still breathing hard, Jerome said: ‘Why, is my hour up?’