Honey

by Jenna Jameson

  Unbidden, her thoughts switched back to her last time with Drew. The sullied soles of those expensive, bespoke shoes gagging her. The sharp, thrusting cock crammed down her throat, stealing her breath, her self-respect—her soul. Not satisfied with her kneeling, he’d had her squat instead, her legs open wide with muscles straining, his two fingers rammed up her ass, impaling her in place, prepared to punish her the second she ceased sucking him. None of what he’d done to her that time had left any discernible marks, and yet he’d scarred her as surely, as permanently as if he’d taken a knife to her.

  She snapped her thoughts back to the present, this moment, and the beautiful near-naked man kneeling at her feet. At his own volition. For her pleasure! Even though she never once uttered, or even hinted at the dirty little ritual that Drew put her through, he seemed to know instinctively what she wanted—needed.

  To be serviced.

  “Lie back and let me take care of you.”

  No man had ever said that to her before, let alone come close to doing, that. Being an escort was the modern day equivalent of being a geisha, and geishas didn’t receive pleasure. They gave it without conditions or complaints. Whether sucking cocks, licking balls, or tickling prostates, sex had always, always been work for her. Putting her personal preferences aside, she accommodated nearly every kink. Wall Street bred a tightly wound bunch—and when men like that gave themselves permission to let go, they didn’t just unwind. They unraveled. She’d given enemas to those so desperate for release they were poised to implode and peed into the open mouths of those craving humiliation as though it was a new flavor of infused vodka. Still others she’d spanked and sodomized, flogged and “force” fed as they stood stripped down to their birthday suits or diapered as babies.

  But what she’d never done before Drew was come. Once their honeymoon phase was over, he’d rarely gone down on her. In the early days he sometimes got impatient—Babe, you’re killing me. Haven’t you made it yet? Later on, he’d become petulant—I work fucking hard all day. I don’t have time for this shit. Can’t you just buy a vibrator? And of course in the last year, he’d become flat-out mean—You have all fucking day to play with yourself. Now get down on your knees, or else!

  Regardless of his mood, the message was clear. Her body—her pussy—was for his pleasure, not hers.

  But with Marc, she sensed things could be different and stay that way—good. If only she could manage to stay with him in the moment.

  Honey lay back, stretching her arms above her head, dragging one of the pillows down toward her. Her vagina was the one orifice Drew hadn’t in any way breached. Thankful for that, she tented her knees and let her legs fall open, waiting.

  She didn’t wait long.

  Marc rose up on his knees, bracing his palms on either side of the mattress surrounding her. Suddenly his mouth was nowhere and everywhere—her tits, her belly, her mound. He slipped a hand beneath her. A dallying finger circled her anus. She tensed, not with pain but with … remembering.

  “Stay with me,” Marc whispered. “Forget him.”

  “I am. I want to.”

  “Easy, then, let me help you. Is it okay if I help you? Is that what you still want?”

  As always, with Marc the choice was hers. Honey didn’t doubt that, despite how far they’d gone, one word from her—no—would see him backing away from the bed and putting on his clothes. Only she didn’t want him to go away. She didn’t want him to go anywhere. She wanted to be with him, to feel him inside her. She wanted him to fuck her until she forgot she’d ever known a man named Drew.

  Honey bit her lip, willing herself to forget the gagging taste of shoe polish and leather and city streets. “Yes, I want it.” I want you.

  Seemingly satisfied, he dipped his head once more. He sipped on her nipples. He stroked her ass. A teasing finger toyed with her anus, this time tracing tiny rings. He glided the finger of his other hand inside her front. A second and finally a third digit followed. It was that day at the IFC all over again, only better, so very much better. Heat pooled. The tingling built to a deeper tension. Flexing brought her bucking hard against his hand. He could have stopped there and coaxed her to coming, only he didn’t. Instead, he dropped his head, brushing his unshaven cheek along her inner thigh. Spreading her wider, he blew on her clit. Hot shivers bolted through her. Her toes curled. Her pussy pulsed. Deft fingers sank inside her again, all three at once. A tongue’s point probed her channel, touched the hood of her clit, swirled lavish circles around the kernel.

  Honey bit her bottom lip, straining for release before he might tire and want to stop. “I’m sorry, I’m so close. This … I shouldn’t take much longer.”

  He pulled his head up to look at her, his expression incredulous. “Take as long as you want. I could do this all night.”

  Boast though that no doubt was, he didn’t seem to be suffering. Taking in his darkened eyes and wet mouth, she admitted he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “All night?”

  “Okay, maybe not all night—I suspect you’d start to get pretty sore, and I do have morning rounds, so I’ll have to sleep eventually—but how does the next forty-five minutes to an hour sound?”

  “That sounds … ” Honey broke off. Beyond amazing, she wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You want to spend that time talking or—”

  Her clit fluttered. Her skin skittered. She was about to come. Marc sucked her into his mouth—and Honey imploded. Her buttocks clenched, her clit buzzed. Waves of dizzying release rolled over her.

  Marc eased himself upright. In a moment of panic, she thought he might be headed for the sofa after all. She whimpered and reached for him, wondering what she’d done to turn him off or, worse, disgust him, relaxing only when she saw that his retreating steps took him no farther than the nightstand. A drawer slid out and then back in. He returned, tearing open a gold foil condom packet. She almost stopped him to say she was on the pill, but then she thought of all the times she’d been with Drew and held her peace. Who knew how many women besides his wife he’d been with over the years? Until she got tested, they’d better play things safe.

  He sheathed himself, the condom gliding over a cock that wasn’t only full and thick but beautifully, exquisitely shaped. Positioning himself over her, he fitted himself against her. Impatient, Honey lifted her hips, driving him inside her. Still wet from her orgasm, her body seemed to inhale him, welcoming him into her sticky heat. She groaned. She thought she was done with coming but suddenly she wasn’t so certain. Wanting to take him as deeply as he could possibly go, she lifted her legs higher, wrapping them about his torso. Marc pulled out and thrust into her again—and again. Every time he left and reentered her, she was certain it would be the last, only it wasn’t. He had amazing stamina, greater control than any of her previous partners. Perspiration filmed the backs of her knees. A bead of sweat slid between her breasts. She looked up into his eyes. Male pride shone from them, but she thought she saw something more there, too. Holding his gaze, she contracted and then released her inner muscles, cinching him tightly inside, squeezing him as if with a gentle, milking fist.

  The sensation sent both of them over the edge. Marc groaned. Penis pumping, he released himself into the prophylactic. Honey wrapped her arms about his big, shuddering body and held him tight. The contractions ebbed, and he relaxed against her. Neither spoke. Other than their breathing and the occasional car driving by below, the room was silent. Honey stroked his back, her fingers slipping down his sweat-slick spine to his taut butt. With each caress, gratitude flooded her. Despite all that Drew had done to her, she wasn’t ruined. She could still orgasm—multiple times, in fact. Her only regret was that Marc had to wear a condom. Now that they were finally lovers, she wanted him in every way, no holds barred. Having him spray inside her, going about her day leaking his essence, were primal pleasures predicated on her test results coming back clean. If
they didn’t, if she was positive … She couldn’t let herself think about that, not now.

  Instead she coaxed him to move with her to the top of the bed, where a bounty of pillows awaited. Light filtering through the window had them turning away onto their sides. Skin to skin, they tucked up together, their bodies fitting like two happy spoons. More content than she could ever remember being, Honey closed her eyes.

  And fell almost immediately asleep.

  *

  Later that morning, Marc propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Honey. Makeup-free and hair a glorious mass of brown and butterscotch-colored tangles, she’d never looked more beautiful. “Okay, ‘fess up. Honey Gladwell isn’t your real name, is it?”

  Lying against the banked pillows, she hesitated. “Why do you say that?”

  They’d had amazing sex, the mind-blowing, soul-melding sort. The least she could do was to tell him her real name. “C’mon. Honey Gladwell and Holly Golightly are too similar for even a strictly action-adventure movie guy like me to miss.”

  She drew a long breath and blew it out. “Hortense Gustafson.”

  “Get outta here.”

  “I know it’s not terribly lyrical. Hortense was my grandmother’s name, and as for the surname … I’m mostly Scandinavian with bits of Polish and German thrown in.” She lifted her face. “What about you?”

  He got the question so rarely that he actually had to take a moment and think about it. Most people labeled him as African-American and left it at that. “My father’s people were from Cuba. My great grandparents on my mom’s side came from Barbados. At some point, everyone met up in Spanish Harlem and, well, here I am.”

  “That makes you—”

  “An Ancestry.com nightmare?” He laughed.

  She swatted at his arm. “I was going to say exotic.”

  “Exotic, huh? I like it. It sounds a lot more upscale than mutt.”

  She rolled her lovely eyes, puffy no more, though a few hours’ sleep was all they’d gotten. “Well, don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Which one?”

  He grinned as she got the joke—and cut her eyes downward. Seeing the erection tenting his part of the sheet, she lifted her gaze to his and gulped. “Already?”

  His short refractory period was nothing special, given his young age, but having spent the last six years with an alcoholic she probably wasn’t used to quick comebacks. “Yeah, but if you’re not … I mean that’s cool. It’s not a contest—or a race. We have time now.” The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was some kind of sex addict, especially given all she’d been through.

  She hesitated, moistening her mouth. “Do we … have time, Marc?”

  Not really sure what she was asking, he nodded nonetheless. “Sure we do. I mean now that you’re staying here—”

  Her face lit. She pushed back from the pillows and sat upright. “I’m staying? Really!?!”

  Granted, he might not be the greatest of communicators, but Marc had thought that much was settled. Honey was his girl, or at least after last night he hoped she would want to be. They’d spent months growing a solid friendship, fighting the sexual tension pulling at them. Now the stars were finally aligned, the timing right. Winterthur was history, a dark cloud already relegated to Honey’s past. Finally free and clear to come together, they’d made love—not some furtive fondling in a darkened movie theater, but honorably, properly, leisurely in his home and bed. They’d even adopted a kitten together—well, sort of.

  “Of course you’re staying for as long as you like.” Forever had a nice ring to it, but he feared saying so might well frighten her off.

  “Are you sure? Because, I mean, I have some friends I could probably stay with.”

  As if after last night he was going to relegate her to spending weeks, maybe even months, couch surfing. He opened his mouth to say as much when it struck him. Other than the window dresser for Ralph Lauren, she hadn’t mentioned any friends.

  “Of course I’m sure. But you know, you’ve never told me about your friends. Maybe I could … meet them sometime.” Although if they’d known about her living situation and the abuse she was taking, they didn’t sound much like “friends” to him.

  Her face took on that wary look he’d hoped last night might have banished. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “Why not? Ashamed of me?”

  The question, though jokingly posed, was grounded in past hurts. She wasn’t the only one who’d made herself vulnerable last night.

  “Of course not! It’s just that … I’m not sure you’d have all that much in common.”

  “Why is that?”

  She bit her lip. “Well, for one, you’re a doctor and you’ve always seemed like a pretty … straight arrow.”

  “And they’re not?” He hesitated. She barely drank and he’d never seen any indication that she did drugs. Still, had he missed something?

  “It depends on the definition.”

  He sat up straighter. “Why don’t we start with your definition?”

  “Well, they’re not into drugs, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  That was a relief. “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking.” He reached out, stroked a finger along her jaw, stopping at that sweet spot he couldn’t seem to get enough of kissing. “Baby, we didn’t just go to bed last night. We made love. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to think that meant something.”

  “Of course it did—does. It’s only … ”

  “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

  “Liz, Peter, Brian, Sarah—they’re all former adult entertainers.”

  Wow. Whatever he’d braced himself for, it wasn’t that. “Okay. How um … did you meet?”

  “Online.”

  Shit! “Like in a … chat room or something?” If so, what was she into?

  She shook her head. “Not in the way you’re thinking. FATE is a weekly meet up. We get together on Monday nights, have coffee, and talk about what’s going on in our lives.” She blew out a breath.

  “But if they’re all into … adult entertainment—”

  “Retired from adult entertainment.”

  “Okay, retired, but then how do you fit in?”

  For what should be a fairly straightforward question, she hesitated just a little too long for comfort—his. Finally she answered, “What do you think being a mistress means? You have an audience of one, but it’s still an audience, and your livelihood depends on keeping him entertained.”

  Marc wasn’t sure what to say to that. Instead he asked, “What do they think of Winterthur?”

  “They only met him once, at Peter’s wedding. I brought him as my date, and I think it’s safe to say they all hated him.”

  That, at least, was in their favor.

  “They think I’m a stylist.”

  “I’d still like to meet them—when you feel ready, of course.”

  “O-okay.” The next several seconds were taken up with her plucking the pills from the worn blanket. “It’s just that they don’t know that Drew was ever anything more than my ‘boyfriend.’ They think I’m a stylist.”

  Few stylists Marc had ever met dressed like Honey did. Rather than burst her bubble and say so, he held his peace and let her talk.

  “The group is for people who’ve left their pasts behind to live and work in the mainstream. Being … taken care of in that way is a major breach of the rules.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” Marc said, skeptical that Honey’s “secret” was all that. If her friends had a brain between them, they must know. He reached for her hand. Carrying it to his lips, he turned it over and pressed a kiss to the soft palm. “You’re safe with me, too, Honey. This apartment is your home for as long as you want it to be.”

  Big brown eyes searched his. “And Cat’s, too?”<
br />
  So much for returning the kitten to the rescuer in Union Square—like that was ever going to happen. “Yes, and Cat, too,” he conceded, knowing it was useless to even try to appear to hold any lines with her. He was mush in her hands, and they both knew it. “Just be sure that whatever decorating you decide to do is kitten-proof.”

  “I get to decide!”

  If things played out the way he hoped, in the future Honey would be deciding a lot of things to do with the both of them, starting with what kind of engagement ring she wanted. But for now …

  “Of course you get to decide. I want you to decide things. I want you to feel like you have a say. So, are we good?”

  Jubilant, Honey launched herself at his chest. Wrapping her arms around him, she angled her face upward and answered with a kiss. Drawing back, her brown eyes beamed into his. “Yes, darling, we’re better than good. We’re divine.”

  *

  Midway through their monthly Friday night supper, Marc’s mother looked up from pouring more sweet tea into his glass and asked, “So when are you planning to fill me in on this new girl you’re seeing?”

  Marc froze in forking up his food. He’d known the question would come eventually, even soon—just not this soon. Stalling while he gathered his thoughts, he popped the bite of cornmeal-battered cod into his mouth even though he wasn’t a seafood fan. Friday night suppers at his mother’s always meant fish for the main course. A devout Christian, she’d been serving fish on Fridays since he could remember, long before “Meatless Mondays” had come into vogue or even been heard of. Thankfully she also served sides that he really liked, such as today’s au gratin potatoes, creamed spinach, and sweet cornbread. Judging from the aroma wafting into the dining room from the open kitchen, he’d lay down odds that the pie she’d baked, from scratch, of course, was either sweet potato or rhubarb. The comfort food, invariably fried, doused in heavy cream, and drenched in butter, wasn’t heart-healthy fare—he’d never in a million years recommend it to his patients—but it had an undeniably soothing effect on his soul.