by Alexis Angel
"Yeah, but you said you wouldn't, right?" she asked.
I nodded. She smiled and came closer. "Great!" she exclaimed and then sat down basically on top of me, wiggling her body until she found every nook and crevice and somehow wedged herself into me. I wrapped my arms around her and she nestled in. I could fucking feel her ass rub up and down on my hard cock until it settled between her ass cheeks. Ashley didn't say anything, except look at me and give me a sly grin as she asked, "You going to be okay, Mister?"
"I'll be fine," I lied. I didn't know what the fuck I was going to do.
The movie started and pretty soon I felt Ashley clench and unclench her ass cheeks, squeezing my cock. Classic stripper move.
That was the fucking last straw! I was cool going to dinner and seeing her in that get up. I was okay not having sex. I was even okay watching a fucking chick flick that was three fucking hours long with her hot fucking body pressed up against me. But this was just too much.
I began to thrust up against her, but after the first one, I stopped myself. I had promised Ashley. And fuck me, I honestly would trade not having sex with her as opposed to not being around her. It wasn't easy, but I actually fucking liked being on the couch with that fucking romance movie as long as she was there.
And then she wriggled her ass against me again and my thoughts went crazy. Again and again. I'm thinking I'm going fucking crazy, not being able to move or do anything. I might as well just have passed out right then and there it felt so good. But even had I passed out, I’d be waking up right there just because her ass felt so fucking good.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, she stopped.
She turned over and pressed her body to mine, bringing her face inches from mine.
"This is hard for you, isn't it?" she asked with a cute looking pout and blinking eyes.
"Very hard, babe," I grunted, not knowing what else to say. I was beaten down.
All of a sudden that cute pout turned into a wicked grin. She gyrated her crotch on my cock a little bit as she said one word. "Good."
I looked at her in surprise as she continued, "Consider it payback. For keeping me awake till 6:30 am this morning when 5 hours earlier you said just the tip. And then leaving me in a sex haze all day."
And that's when her smile turned sultry and I realized Ashley Lane had been playing me the whole day, getting me all hot and bothered and leaving me no recourse but to take it. I brought my hands and grabbed her ass. Hard. She squealed and we fucked hard again that night. I may have ripped off that camisole of hers trying to get at those tits and get my mouth on them. We used that sofa in ways that the Scandinavians who designed it would never have imagined in their wettest of fucking dreams. And I know for a fact that that romance movie was done a fucking long time before we finally fell on each other, exhausted and happy.
At least that’s what I’m thinking and I realize that I have a fucking smile on my face. But fuck it, I don’t care at this point.
I go up the elevator to my condo and find Ashley waiting for me standing in front of the door in a trench coat.
“Surprise!” she yells at me and I literally jump. “I had the concierge downstairs give me a ring when you started on your way up.”
“Your surprising me by waiting for me in front of the door?” I ask.
“No, silly!” she says with a pout. “This is how I’m surprising you!”
And she whips open her trench coat to reveal her oh-so-sexy body clad in nothing but black stockings, a black lace thong and matching black bra. The material was supple and left just enough to the imagination that I could feel my cock harden instantly. If I didn’t get it out of my pants soon it was going to tent and then fucking claw its way out.
“I got them for you today,” she says with a shy smile. “Do you like it?”
But I don’t answer. And she doesn’t press me further. Because I’ve already bounded over and taken her in my arms and thrown us onto the same sofa that saw so much action yesterday. Half my clothes are off and I pause to look into her eyes.
“You are so fucking gorgeous,” I whisper to her, as if confessing.
She doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me closer to her for a kiss.
You know, I take it back. If the old Arsen tries to come over and call me a pussy for what Ashley’s done to me, I’ll kick his ass for being an idiot.
Because this is fucking Heaven with this girl.
Ashley
Seventy-five.
That’s how many days it’s been since Arsen first met me when I was still a stripper outside of Scorcher's. I don’t know if you remember, but that was the night that he got into my cab and got off at the Plaza. If he hadn’t taken the cab in that direction, I would have never gone through Times Square and gotten out to find Peter cheating on me. Peter would have never attacked me outside of the Simulated Pleasures offices, and I would have never had sex with Arsen, and King Henry would be all I would be thinking about.
Sixty-nine.
That’s the first time Henry called me. He was, and still is, referred to in the Simulated Pleasures databases as Client 5, but to me he’s King Henry. This job was never supposed to be a permanent operation. It was supposed to be like stripping. Something I do to tide me over for money until I start putting my Art History degree from Yale to use. Lately, I’ve come up with a newer plan that you may not like. That plan is to have as much phone sex with Henry and as much real sex with Arsen as possible, because I won’t be able to hang on to both forever. That much is clear. I have to come clean to one of them.
Sixty-two thousand three hundred and ninety one.
Otherwise known as $62,391. That’s how many dollars Client 5 has been billed in the last month. Charges start at $9.99 a minute and out of that $62,391, I’m getting big bonuses, that’s for sure. Just from Client 5. Who I’m starting to fall in love with. When I’m not feeling guilty because I'm also falling in love with Arsen. The only positive about all of this is that I’m making more money for less effort now than what I was doing at the strip club. It gives me more time to go to the gym, start paying off student loans, and start laying the foundation for my future. But every time I get a call that shows Client 5, my future comes crashing down. Every time I see Arsen, along with the excitement comes the crushing guilt at how this is all going to end.
One hundred.
That's how many times I've cum in the last seventy-five times Arsen and I have had sex. And it keeps getting crazier and crazier. It’s like a drug. I can’t get enough. Every time I have him, I cum. And every time I start to normalize, the first thing I want is more. I would be fine if you took away food, water, and sleep from me, as long as you left Arsen and his cock. We’ve done it in every room and surface of his apartment and mine. He’s taken me in public—not just near Southwest New York, but other areas as well. One afternoon we went for a walk in Central Park. I was teasing him about his shirt. He ended up slapping my ass playfully. I was wearing yoga pants and I could feel the slap of his hand on my ass cheek. It reminded me of when Henry had me slap my own ass. Arsen saw the look on my face and I brought my hand to his crotch and felt his cock thicken in my hand. We ended up having sex on a bench, hoping that no one would discover us. A week later, I gave Arsen a blowjob in a taxicab coming back from dinner. The next morning he returned the favor and used his fingers to hit my G-spot enough times in a come hither motion that he brought me to a giant orgasm underneath the table of Le Cirque. I’m not lying when I say I’m addicted to sex with Arsen. I would shuck myself on his cock all day if I could. The only thing that would draw me away would be having to take a phone call from King Henry.
Forty-two.
That’s how many times Henry's made me cum. If I have to be honest, I never thought that working as a phone sex operator would mean I would be having regular orgasms. In fact, I think most people would agree with me when I say that I was pretty convinced I would have to up my faking game. I mean, it was already pretty good—remember, my last job was
at a strip club, but still, over the phone people can tell when you’re not into something based on your voice. But every time he calls, my heart starts to beat faster. I pick up and hear his confident, commanding voice asking me what I’m wearing. Then he tells me what he wants me to do to that will please him. In that moment, I exist for his pleasure. To service him. He owns me. After he’s done with me, my mind stays in a fog of lust and confusion for several hours afterward. I can still go about my day, but it’s as if I’m sleepwalking. Because the day feels empty without the large presence of Henry in my heart.
Five.
That’s how many times I’ve tried to tell Arsen that I love another person in addition to him. But I can't do it. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I haven't even told Arsen that I love him, so we’re a long ways away from me telling him I love two people. And I can’t honestly say I love him when my soul aches for someone else as well. I know I’m going to have to choose one day. Never mind how crazy it sounds that I’m giving myself to someone I haven’t ever seen. Whose only interaction with me has been through his voice over a phone sex line. I can tell that King Henry—Client 5, feels the same way about me, from the snippets that he tells me of his family or of him growing up. The sighs I hear when we talk. Even the silences are things that I pay attention to. With Arsen, his very presence is stimulation enough. And I have so much more with him. I can see him. I can touch him. Taste him. The impact he has on me is spread out over so many senses. Henry's impact is just based on what I can hear.
One.
That’s how many other people know about my dilemma. Remember Yasmine? From Scorcher's? Figures that she should be the one I go to with all my troubles. But believe it or not, ever since I left, she and I have been getting close. We meet up for coffee or go to yoga together now on a regular basis. I’m happy to spend time with her because she understands the problems I’m facing.
“I think you need to tell Arsen what’s going on,” Yasmine advises me one afternoon after yoga. I had come to yoga after an appointment with Client 5 where I literally shook and convulsed as my fingers on my clit brought me to a mind-numbing orgasm. “You can’t keep going on like this. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
“I know,” I agree with her. “But it’s already been so long I don't know how I get out of the hole I’m already in.”
“The longer you stay silent, the deeper that hole gets to climb out from though, babe,” Yasmine says and I know she’s right.
The only problem isn’t sitting with Arsen or Henry. It’s sitting with me.
Twelve.
That’s how many hours ago I texted Arsen, telling him that I needed to see him. He seemed okay and we made plans to meet at the Central Park Boathouse.
I got there before him and ordered a dirty martini from the bar in the Main Lounge, looking at the Lake in Central Park as it surrounded the veranda of the Boathouse outside.
I’m sitting here now, as I see Arsen approach. He must have entered the park from the 81st Street entrance to the Park. I can hear a piano from the far corner of the Lounge and I wonder if this will be the last time that we have together at the Boathouse.
Arsen comes up to me and comes over to kiss me but I shy away. He takes a step back and looks at me with concern.
“What's going on?” Arsen asks, and I wonder if he can imagine what I’m about to tell him.
My Dad always says to rip a band-aid off as quickly as you can instead of prolonging the misery. And if I’m going to do this, I might as well get it over with. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I look at Arsen.
“I love you,” I say to him, and look at his eyes.
To say that there is surprise going through them is an understatement. What he doesn't understand is why I look so sick.
“Well, Ash, I lo…” I don’t let Arsen finish because I don't want him to say something that he’s going to have to take away so I interrupt him.
“But I also think I’m falling in love with someone else,” I say. I pause to give him a moment.
“Oh,” Arsen says after a moment. “Well, fuck.”
Despite myself I allow a brief smile. It wouldn’t be Arsen without an F-bomb.
“Who is it?” Arsen asks. “Anyone I know?”
I close my eyes and sigh to myself. This is the hard part.
“I don’t think so,” I say to him. “It’s going to sound silly Arsen, but it’s someone I work with.”
“But you work as a phone-“ Arsen starts but then lowers his voice. “As a phone sex operator. You don't work with anyone except for the people that call you.”
I look at him, hoping he understands. After a moment of matching my gaze, it dawns on him. “Oh,” he says. “You’re falling for a person that’s calling you?”
I nod. A single tear starts to form in my right eye.
“I’ve been talking to him for some time now and he’s single too,” I say, rushing the words out. “He lives in New York City also and he’s in real estate.”
Arsen looks at me like I just slapped him with a glove. His eyes are stricken. I can't imagine what he must be going through right now. How betrayed he must be feeling. I take a sip of my drink.
“Does he go by the name of King Henry?” Arsen asks.
What the fuck?
I don't think neither of us notice as my martini glass drops to the floor.
Arsen
“Does he go by the name King Henry?” I ask with a smirk and Ashley freezes in time. It’s like her muscles seize up, and not the good kind of seizing like when I make her cum. This is the bad kind, as if she's having a fucking stroke.
The martini glass falls to the ground, the olives from her drink rolling toward my shoe. I’m vaguely aware of the elderly couple next to us at the bar turning to look at us.
“Oh my God,” Ashley whispers. Whisper is a strong fucking word actually. It’s more like she croaks it out, like her mouth has just gone dry. Her skin is starting to look pale and I can see her eyes widen and narrow, as if she’s trying to figure something out.
“You…you’re…” but she stops and doesn’t finish.
I nod my head at her, hoping it’ll calm her down. “King Henry,” I say to her trying to smile but wondering if I’m fucking smirking instead. “Thought it was an appropriate name, don’t you…”
I don’t get a chance to respond because her hand reaches out at the speed of fucking light and slaps my cheek. I wince. I wasn’t fucking expecting that; that’s for sure.
I taste a tiny trickle of blood on my lip and I can tell that the immediate people around us are all staring now. The people beyond them are pretending they don't know what's going on but trying to look anyways. Fuck ‘em all, anyways.
“You fucking bastard,” Ashley says. Her voice is cold, low, and gravelly.
I’m about to say something but she doesn't even fucking care anymore because she just turns around and walks away, clutching her purse.
I look at the bartender who comes by to serve drinks and I look at the olive that rolled close to my shoe.
I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into me, but I bend over and grab the olive and the glass and hand it to the bartender. He nods to me.
Fuck it. This is fucking insane. I need to go after her.
I race out of the Boathouse and scan the surrounding area looking for Ashley.
She’s not hard to miss. Cute girl, shoulder length blonde hair, curvy body, fantastic ass. Dressed to kill in a black casual dress with a pair of black heels that are making it difficult for her to storm off across the up and down sidewalk of Central Park.
I run toward her.
“Ashley!” I yell to her, hoping she sees me, and stops. She doesn't. A few passers by stop and look at me as I race past them, but I don’t have any more fucks to give no matter what they do. “Ashley, stop and fucking listen to me.”
“Stay away from me, you fucking asshole!” Ashley shouts and stops walking. But instead of turning toward me, I see her pause a
nd take off her heels. She’s going to want to walk fast and she’s getting ready.
But by then I’ve caught up to her.
Hey, give me some credit here, okay? I may drink and fuck all night long, but I have a body made of steel. Genes that are fucking blessed. I used to play football in high school and college and I still got the moves. Of course I could keep up with Ashley. But there’s a fine fucking line between having her say no and it being cute and then forcing my presence on her. And I never, ever, ever, fucking do that.
“Just let me explain,” I say to her, trying to buy some time.
“There’s nothing to explain, Arsen,” she says, still not looking back at me. “This whole thing was a big fucking joke to you. You’re a sick, perverted creep.”
“No I’m not, Ashley,” I reply as I match her stride. She’s walking toward the gates to the park on 72nd and 5th. Fuck, she’s going to hop into a cab or a bus from there and I won't be able to do a goddamn thing about it. I can’t force her to stay. “Just let me explain. I love you.”
Well that fucking gets her to stop all right.
And why wouldn't it? I’ve never, ever, said it to another girl before. I’ve never felt it for another girl. I’ve never even contemplated anything remotely close to it with another woman. The very thought of falling in love with someone three months ago would have me getting on a fucking plane and getting as far away from her as possible.
But now? Now, I’m standing there like a fucking kid, watching Ashley turn around and stare at me.
“I love you, Ashley Lane,” I tell her, not sure why I’m so fucking nervous all of a sudden.
Ashley smiles for a moment, and that’s when I know I’m fucked.
“You love me?” she asks and takes a step forward on the balls of her feet. “That’s why for basically the entire time you knew me, you pretended to be someone else?”
“I didn’t pretend to be someone else!” I yell, but she answers right back and I can see the fire in her eyes.