Do it like Magic Mike (Regular Sex Issue 3)

by Kitty French

  Regular Sex 3 ~ Do it like Magic Mike

  By

  Kitty French

  Welcome to the third issue of Regular Sex, the brand new series of sexy half hour reads guaranteed to make sure your weekend starts with a bang!

  Enjoy, and remember to check out issue 4 next Friday.

  Happy reading,

  Love Kitty x

  Regular Sex 3 ~ Do it like Magic Mike

  I fuck for a living and I fucking love my job.

  Some say that makes me sleazy.

  I say it makes me lucky.

  You decide. Hire me.

  Wait up, wait up. I can practically see you frowning at your e-reader. It’s all well and good for me to shout about my job because I’m a guy, but if I were a woman I’d be hung, drawn and quartered for being so brazen about being an escort, and you’re totally right. You’re right and it sucks big hairy balls, but hey, I didn’t make the rules. I just live by them, okay?

  But for the record... you should totally think about hiring me. I promise you, you want sex with me because I’m officially the world’s best fuck. Ask my very happy clients if you don’t believe me, or read the testimonials on the back of my business cards. I don’t make this shit up, you know; I’ve worked hard to get my reputation. Really, really hard. Like as hard as it fucking gets. Check this out...

  ‘Finn is my perfect man. He’s got the manners of a prince, the cock of a donkey, and jeez, does he know what to do with it.’ Ms. J, age 32

  ‘Finn made me laugh in the restaurant and scream in the bedroom. I swear I didn’t walk straight for a week.’ Ms. Y, age 47

  ‘Finn was a birthday gift from my girlfriends - let’s just say I know what I’m putting on my Christmas list! Send me Finn, Santa, I want to be a very bad girl again!’ Ms. S, age undisclosed.

  The list goes on. I love women, and women love me back. What can I say? My life is pretty fucking perfect.

  Take tonight’s booking. I get a lot of repeat work, but this is someone brand new. Newbies are my favourite bookings of all; I get off on the excitement of not knowing what, or should I say who, is coming. Perhaps they see my card or my website advertised somewhere, or maybe I come recommended by a satisfied girlfriend. Sometimes I escort people to a work function, sometimes I’m a fake boyfriend at family weddings; I’ve even been a husband once at a school reunion. I make my ladies look good in public, and then behind closed doors, I make them feel good. Better than good. Book me and you have my cast iron guarantee that I’ll make you feel fan-fuckin-tastic three times over before I leave you bow legged and in need of twenty-four hours straight sleep.

  A girl told me once that she couldn’t orgasm.

  Listen; don’t throw the gauntlet down at me unless you have the chops to at least put up a decent fight. Less than five minutes later she was singing the hallelujah chorus and bucking like a bronco on my cock. That girl came so hard she gushed as if she’d peed herself, and then she paid me double for my trouble. Believe you me - it was no trouble at all.

  I just get the female body. I’ve made it my life’s work ever since I was old enough to get inside a girl’s knickers.

  You know what my favourite thing in the world is? A woman’s clit. I’ve seen more than my fair share, and there isn’t one I haven’t loved. So secretive, so coy, peeping out of its hood, beckoning to me. Do you ladies realise how lucky you are to have an organ designed purely for your pleasure? You’re all so fucking beautiful down there girls, it’s like you were created by a world class sculptor. And that sound you make when I lower my mouth and start to lick you? It’s pure fucking music, man.

  I’m a diligent student. I’ve read the books, I’ve studied the art, and I’ve practiced until I’m perfect, but that doesn’t mean that any other guy could reach my standard if he puts the hours in. Sure, I’ve done my homework, but that’s not the thing that sets me apart. It’s an instinctive thing; when I have a woman in my hands, I just know what she needs. It’s an intuitive talent, and it’s the reason both my diary and my bank account is bursting at the seams.

  Anyway, about tonight. This girl contacted me by email, recommended by a friend of a friend, she said. Calls herself Laurel, tells me she works in a bank and needs someone to break her man drought. I tell you all of this with a healthy dose of caution, because my customers often tweak the version of the truth they share with me.

  I get that. I could be a stalker, or a psycho, or god knows what else. Truth told I don’t need their real names or their information; it’s not relevant for me to do my job. In fact, I’m not a big sharer when it comes to personal details, theirs or my own.

  We’re meeting in a restaurant downtown, I’ll pick up the tab, and then well... it’s down to Laurel where we go from there. Hers? A hotel? Or I could just see her safely to a cab. That happens every now and then, someone genuinely just needs a fake date and doesn’t want the optional extras. I don’t take it personally; I’m a big boy and I get laid often enough to not be needy.

  I don’t know which way it’s going to go with Laurel yet; she hasn’t given me much to go on. She might be anything from eighteen to eighty. Actually, scratch that. She works in a bank, so she’s likely to be sub sixty. Hey, I can see you sitting there now with your brow furrowed again, but let me tell you something. I’ve had several dates with older ladies and they have been pretty darn interesting. With age comes experience; that’s all I’m prepared to say. A gentleman never tells.

  Right. I need to hit the shower. I’ve got a hot date.

  It’s a few minutes after eight and Laurel hasn’t turned up yet. That’s another occupational hazard; clients sometimes get cold feet. Call it fear of the unknown, or call it fear of being upfront enough to pay for sex rather than coyly dressing the situation up as a first date with some guy from Tinder. I kind of like the clarity of doing things my way.

  I pour myself some water and eye the door, even though I don’t really need to; I’ve used this restaurant often enough now for the ‘maître d’ to know me by name, give me a secluded booth, and escort my date over when she arrives.

  Speaking of which... a woman has just come in alone. I watch her speak with Alfonse, and then he glances my way. Game on.

  I’ll give it to Laurel, she has me intrigued. She’s pretty in an understated, classy kind of way; nude makeup and a simple black dress that holds her curves the way I hope I’m going to get to hold them later. She’s pulled her dark hair back in a clip at the nape of her neck; that has to go. I might even hurl it across the room when I take it out to make a point of how fabulous I think her hair is. Girls like that macho stuff. I’ve listened to her talk over dinner, and ninety-nine percent of that time I’ve looked her in the eye rather than the rack, which is pretty fucking angelic of me given that she looks like she’s packing a mighty fine pair. Okay, maybe ninety-eight percent of the time. And yes, I admit to checking out her ass when she went to the bathroom a couple of minutes back, but that’s to be expected, right?

  I wish she wasn’t wearing wedge heels. Why do women do that? You may as well tie hay bales to your feet. I’ve yet to see a pair of legs that wouldn’t look a million times better for a decent pair of heels.

  Truth told, Lauren’s got me on the back-foot. She’s hot, and she’s smart, and she’s pretty funny too.

  Why is she suffering a man drought? She’s a tough cookie to read, but for me, that only makes her all the more interesting.

  I watch her walk back across the room, and see more than one guy discreetly check her out.

  Not tonight boys. She’s with me.

  ‘Back to mine?’ she says quietly as I hold her jacket for her to slip into. I’m glad sh
e can’t see my face because I can’t keep the grin off it.

  ‘Hers’ turns out to be the ground floor flat of a tall terraced house decorated in the same low-key sexy style as its occupier. It screams middle of the road, and I sense that beneath all of this light, polite facade there’s a bad girl itching to get out. I think Laurel is silently screaming for a bit of kinky fuckery; she’s probably read Fifty Shades and fantasised about painting her bedroom red. I bet she’s even trailed a brave finger over the fluffy handcuffs in Ann Summers and imagined herself buying them before leaving the shop to buy sensible knickers in M&S.

  Oh, I see you, Laurel. I see the sex goddess within you, hiding beneath your conservative dress and your practical, short french polished nails. I glance around the bland lounge, wondering if I can improvise for her before she gets back from the kitchen with the coffee.

  ‘I slipped into something more comfortable. I hope you don’t mind.’

  I hear her words before I see her, because I’m standing by the fireplace with my back turned for an added air of mystery. Maybe that’s why I’m so fucking shocked when I turn back around.

  ‘Who are you and what did you do with Laurel?’ I almost splutter, shoving her discarded silk scarf into my pocket. I’d picked it up to slide playfully around her wrists and gauge her reaction, but there’s no space for it beside the MASSIVE LEATHER CUFFS she’s now wearing.

  Holy fuck! I couldn’t have read this girl more wrong.

  The black dress has gone in favour of a PVC catsuit that looks as if she’s just sprayed it on; frankly, I’m baffled how she’s got herself into it so quickly. Practice, I assume, a thought which sends prickles of unease down my spine. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to be the one in charge and Laurel suddenly looks like she isn’t going to take kindly to being told what to do.

  Oh god. I want my mum.

  ‘Did you make coffee?’ I squeak.

  ‘Did I tell you you could speak?’ she growls.

  I swallow hard. She looks a lot taller than she did in the restaurant, probably down to those skyscraper thigh-high boots she’s wearing. I try not to look at the rows of lethal looking studs running down the sides of them. Bring back the wedges, all is forgiven!

  Is it hot in here? I’m breaking out in a sweat.

  ‘This way,’ she says, then turns and extends her arm for me to walk ahead of her down the hallway. I shuffle forward, shooting a hopeful glance towards the front door. Belatedly I remember her turning the key after we arrived. At the time, I marked it down as another sign of how organised and practical she is, but now I see it for what it really was.

  I’ve been kidnapped.

  I consider telling her that my parents don’t love me enough to pay anything over twenty quid as a ransom, but then she boots me up the backside to hurry me up and I can’t help but be struck by how high she just got her leg. Man, she’s bendy. I’m torn between being turned on and terrified, which is a novel combination even for me.

  ‘In there,’ she says, close behind me as I hover in the bedroom doorway. I squint through narrowed eyes, but I’m relieved to see it looks relatively normal. Well, it’s not red, so that’s a start. Maybe she’s not so scary after all, I think, grasping at straws. Perhaps she just watched those Cat Woman movies and fancied the outfit.

  Oh shit. She’s just locked the bedroom door, and when I turn to look at her, all I can focus on is the strap system on the back of it. God, I hope it’s some kind of extreme exercise she does.

  ‘I’m going to strip you naked now.’ She strides towards me purposefully.

  ‘I can do it myself, no trouble,’ I whisper.

  She narrows her eyes and yanks my tie until we are nose to nose.

  ‘My house, my rules,’ she breathes, and I swear her eyes flash red.

  I nod. I want to please her because I fear she might actually kill me if I don’t. She could rupture my windpipe with one of those spike heels without even breaking a sweat. The words praying mantis run around unhelpfully inside in my head.

  She makes short work of my tie, sliding it off and then hanging it around her own neck like a trophy, not dissimilar to the way a warrior might wear fresh scalps.

  ‘Do you like my outfit?’ she asks, raking her nails down my chest before she starts to unbutton my shirt.

  I nod.

  ‘You look sensational,’ I whimper because it’s true. She’s got rid of the clip holding her hair back, I’m presuming she probably hurled it across the room herself far harder than the way I’d imaged I might earlier. Her raven hair falls in big soft waves all the way down to her waspy waist, and that catsuit is fighting the good fight to contain her tits. Despite the fact that I’m petrified, I’m surprised to find that I’m still keen to slide that zipper down and peel her out of the PVC. God, I’m professional.

  I see pleasure register in her crazy eyes at my compliment.

  ‘You bet your sweet fucking ass I do,’ she says, abandoning her mission to remove my shirt so she can execute a slow twirl in front of me. She reminds me for a second of the ballerina in a music box my sister had as a kid, graceful, her hair fanning out from her body as she moves.

  I finish the job with my shirt myself and chuck it on the floor while she spins, and she bangs her hands down on her hips like Mae West when she comes to a stop.

  ‘Do something without my permission again and I’ll make you pay,’ she purrs, then prowls around me.

  ‘Stand fucking still,’ she whispers when I twist from the waist to follow her progress with my eyes. As she speaks, she drags her nails down my back. I feel the skin ruck and my cock twitches in response.

  Then she presses her body against mine and slides her hands down my chest, pausing to twist my nipples sharply.

  ‘You like that?’ she says.

  No, I don’t. It bloody hurts. ‘Would you like it if I did it to you?’ I say, then realise I’ve said the wrong thing because she twists them even harder.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I yelp, scared to look down in case she’s ripped them off. ‘Don’t hurt me! Yes. I do. I like it... mistress.’

  I chuck that in because I’ve seen enough porn to know that she’ll probably love it. She pauses, and I can feel her breath tickling my ear.

  ‘Say that again,’ she says softly, and her hands slide to my belt buckle.

  Is it me, or did her voice just shake the tiniest bit?

  ‘Mistress,’ I whisper, and this time I’m brave enough to lift one of her hands to my mouth and kiss the back of her fingers. ‘Tell me what you want from me. It’s yours. Anything.’

  I can feel sudden indecision radiating from her, even though she’s behind me. It’s dawning on me slowly that Laurel isn’t entirely sure what she is or what she wants, and I feel the balance of power shift a little back in my favour.

  Right. I’ll play her game. For now.

  She slides around to stand in front of me again, and I don’t miss the flicker in her eyes as she stares me down. Oh, Laurel. She’s trying so very hard to be brave, and I really do admire her for it. She’s ballsy, and she’s absolutely fucking mesmerising.

  ‘What do you want me to do next?’ I ask softly.

  Her gaze shifts down my body and then slowly back up to my face again.

  ‘Strip.’

  I wonder what happened to make her this way as I reach for my buckle. I unbutton it and slip the belt from my body, whip-quick so that it slashes and cracks the air. A flash of naked horror crosses Laurel’s face before she catches it and rearranges her features back to unreadable. Too late, Laurel. I see you, and now I know exactly what you need, and newsflash, it isn’t what you think it is.

  I drop the belt and reach for the button on my trousers. She holds up a hand to pause me while she takes a seat on the edge of the bed, crossing those long legs of hers and licking her lips. She clicks a button on a remote on her bedside table and music fills the room, a low pulsing dance beat, the kind you can fuck to.

  ‘Make it look sexy,’ she says, folding he
r arms delicately beneath her tits.

  ‘You want me to give you a show?’ I say, back on safer territory now. I’ve received plenty of lap dances, I know how this goes. Admittedly, I’ve never given one before, but hey, I’ve seen those Magic Mike scenes on YouTube. If that’s what the lady wants, she better make sure she’s got some cold water at hand because I’m a fucking sex professional and she is going to get HOT in that PVC over the next few minutes.

  She doesn’t answer my question, just stares at me speculatively.

  Fine. I lift one shoulder, a shrug, and then I slide my hands down my abs slowly and reach for the button of my trousers, rolling my hips suggestively to the beat.

  She flicks one eyebrow up, and I swagger slowly closer, locking her gaze as I move. She swallows, and when I come to a halt in front of her, my slowly thrusting crotch is level with her eyes.

  Is that amusement I glimpse there? She’s turning out to be such an enigma. I can’t tell if she’s scared, or amused, or turned on. She seems to be juggling all three emotions at once.

  Me, I’ve got the raging horn now, so I turn my back on her and put my hands behind my head as I thrust some more, really giving it some as I reach down and let my trousers drop. Oh yes, baby.

  She slaps my ass when I bend down to remove my clothes, and I just soak the pleasure in and give her a little twerk for good measure before I turn back again, standing only in my black Calvin’s. Her gaze is everywhere, and I know that horny is now the primary emotion sitting firmly in her driving seat.

  I take a chance, dropping on my knees in front of her in time with the music, shimmying my shoulders for her pleasure as I lean back on my heels. My cock is rock hard, and I could come on the spot when she reaches out the pointed toe of her boot and runs it down the very evident curve of my erection.

  ‘I like the way you dance,’ she says, massaging me with the sole of her shoe. ‘Now do as you’re told and strip naked.’