by Poppy Romero
His pace was quickening, his grip on my hips getting tighter. My head was spinning, like I was drunk on fucking.
I’d never felt like this before. So turned on by the thought of the hot load I wanted him to shoot inside me. If my body kept responding like this I was going to come soon, but I was damned if I was going to do it alone or give either of our minds a chance to get lucid enough to back out.
“I'm yours, Dean. I need you. I fucking need you.” I gasped, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, “And I need your babies in me.”
The orgasmic moan in my voice as I admitted it was the perfect thing to send us both over the edge. Dean’s face was bright red as he thrust into me harder and faster than ever, and I felt the heat rising inside me.
“Fuck…” He groaned, “Gonna come…”
It was all I needed to tip me over the edge. “Oh fuck Dean yes! Fucking come in me! Come inside me! I’m coming! I’M FUCKING COMING!”
I felt the wave of orgasm rising, along with a hot, slick feeling deep in my pussy. I knew he had come inside me, and it tipped me over the edge, sending me crashing and yelping into an orgasm. His hips bucked, and for the second time I felt him unleash his virile sperm inside me.
I was still gasping, coming down from the orgasm when Dean shook his head and laughed, looking in my eyes.
“Well… You want to explain what just happened there?” He said, still gasping for breath.
I shrugged, still flushed from my orgasm and from how dirty I'd felt. “Hell Dean, we both passed Biology, I think we both know what just happened.”
“You know what I mean. That was incredible, I never realised...”
I shushed him and leaned in for a kiss, feeling him slowly pulsing and softening inside me. His hands were still wrapped around my waist, as I pulled away and smiled, his eyes flicking back and forth across my face, searching.
“I don't think either of us knew how much we wanted it, I just never realised I could take whatever I wanted. Not until you.”
He looked me in the eyes, concern on his face. “This ain't much of a life, Poppy.”
I shrugged. “And this is? Working for some pervert just to scrape by?”
He looked at me, concerned. “I mean it. It's tough.”
“Then we'll tough it out,” I said, looking down, “Just the three of us.”
“Well I like the sound of that.” He kissed me again, running his hands up my back and stroking all the way back down to my hips. I just sat in his lap, kissing him and feeling him still pulsing inside me.
We loaded his truck with the contents of the safe, a few pieces of farm equipment and some stuff he could sell at a few bars nearby. He really knew what was valuable, I'll give him that. Turns out he'd been setting himself up for a while, and had just been passing through town to hit up J&J before moving on. Never the same place twice.
Like I say, I was lucky to have run into him when I did, just the right place at the right time.
And as for the other discovery we made? Well, he never did tire of coming inside me either. After he discovered the joys of filling me up, we soon ended up with a whole trailer full of babies, and never did get bored or want for more.
When you live life outside of the rules the 9-5ers set, you discover you don't have to be secure. All you need is each other, and lots of fucking to be happy. You don't need a 401k, or a pension plan, or a fancy car or a big-ass TV.
Because frankly if you do, people like me and Dean are just gonna try and steal it from y'all anyway.
The Billionaire's Hooker
Camille’s hand hovered over the door, her heart in her throat.
For a second, she thought of turning back. She wanted to sprint back downstairs, past the sniggering cleaning staff and judgemental eyes of the reception staff. She could imagine her heels clattering against the marble as she ran back down to the cheaper floors and threw off this dress and this idea; naked, alone, but herself once more.
But her curiosity was stronger than any embarrassment or the fear. She felt a powerful desire to see him again, see if the offer was for real. Even the money wasn't the most important thing. She just had to know.
She closed her eyes, gulped, and knocked on the door.
The whole thing had been Helen’s fault, of course.
It had been Helen who obsessed over going out, getting dressed up and checking out the night life in the city that never sleeps. And it had been fun, to start with. Starting in the hotel bar downstairs, they'd enjoyed the stares they were getting from the staff and the patrons alike. They'd drifted, sticking to hotel bars until they ran into a couple of cute guys who proved worth staying with for the rest of the evening.
By the end of the night the guys had talked their way back to the hotel, and up into their suite. It hadn't been anything notable for Camille, but Helen had, of course, noisily made clear she was having much more fun in the next room.
So when they woke up the next morning to find the safe open and their cases and valuables gone - along with their new-found friends - Camille went mad at Helen. She accused her of not being careful enough, of thinking between her legs instead of between her ears. Helen went mad back, accused Camille of being a prude, and stormed out.
Camille's holiday had - so far - been a disaster.
For most of the evening she’d been in the bar trying to drown her sorrows - or at least lightly soak them – with what little she had left from last night. The stares of the businessmen around her seemed a lot less fun when she didn't have a choice in what she was wearing.
She looked down at her dress, sighing at the cleavage that stared back at her. Not that it wasn't impressive – the dress was certainly doing its job in that respect. Shiny, red and attention grabbing. Perfect for a night out, but less so for just trying to hide away in shame and get on with her evening.
She’d been considering just leaving the rest of her drink and heading back to her room when she’d turned around, and there he was.
She hadn’t seen him come in, despite watching a string of tired looking men wandering in to sit alone in silence. She was sure that she would have noticed him among them though. He wore an expensive looking designer suit, and sat looking at her, a curious expression in his pale blue eyes.
“Can I help you?” She asked.
“I was wondering actually if I might be able to help you.” There was a slight European inflection to his accent that she couldn’t quite place. A soft lilt in his pronunciation spoke of Mediterranean origins.
Camille turned to him. “Are you with the police, about my bags?”
“Police? No, no. I’m a customer.”
“Of the hotel?”
His eyes narrowed, confused. “Of… you. At least I hope to be, if you’re available?”
He looked down at her clothes, and she followed his eye. It took a second for the implication to sink in, and she almost spat out her drink as she realised.
“Oh, I’m not… No, I… I’m not a... you know.”
She laughed light-heartedly, but he just sighed and turned in his seat, taking a sip of his drink. “A pity.”
Camille blushed, and turned back to the bar. At first she’d thought he was hot - in fact exactly the kind of hook-up she and Helen had giggled about on the flight over. Sharp suit, a little grey around the temples, and a stunning pair of eyes. But finding out he was in the bar to hire a hooker for the night? And the arrogance of not even apologising for calling her one?
She shook her head, doubting the night could get any worse. She looked up to see the barman standing in front of her. “What can I get you?”
“Oh, I…” She looked down at her almost empty glass. “I don’t think I have enough for another, sorry.”
The stranger beside her slid a few notes across the bar. “Let me get it.”
Camille shook her head and went to push the notes back toward him. “No, I don’t…”
He put his hand over hers and looked into her eyes. “Please. By way of apology.”
She felt her pulse quicken at his touch, but neither of them pulled their hands away. She looked into his eyes, and could see he was sincere.
She realised she was staring, and got the impression they’d have been stuck for a clear minute if the barman hadn’t coughed politely. His smirk annoyed Camille.
“Something expensive then.” She sighed. Let’s face it, she thought, If this drink is payback then it had better be a big one. “Something tells me he’s got the cash on him.”
“Our most expensive champagne costs in excess of $900.”
She almost spat her drink out again. “Whoah, no no no! Hey, I was only kidding!”
She looked pleadingly at her benefactor. He merely smiled, and took a card out of his pocket. “Bring us two glasses as well.”
Both Camille and the barman stared at him for a moment. The barman recovered first, taking the card and heading off through a side door.
Camille looked at him. “Are you crazy?”
He just smiled, playing with his cuff-links. “What is money for, if not for pleasure?”
Camille snorted. “Easy for you to say. Rich people always go on about how money can’t buy you happiness, but it’s because they’ve never had to do without it.”
He shrugged. “Is anyone ever really happy?”
“I was happy. I was on holiday until yesterday, and now I’m stuck alone in a city I don’t know with just enough clothing to be mistaken for a hooker.”
He frowned. “Prostitute. Not a hooker.”
Camille laughed, and looked at him questioningly. “There’s a difference?”
“There’s a world of difference.” He shrugged, taking another sip of his drink. He turned to face her. “I could have someone go out and pick me up a common streetwalker any night. Why do you think I came in here?”
“Because you’re lazy?”
He shook his head sadly. “Because I saw you from the window. Look.”
He gestured over at a mirrored column by the dining area, and Camille noticed her reflection. Since all she had was her going-out clothes, she’d made herself up as well as she could, mostly out of boredom. She’d even used a handful of Helen’s leftover designer cosmetics just to spite her for ditching the holiday.
The overall effect was impressive though, even she had to admit. The dress flowed around the bikini body she’d worked for over the last few months, hoping to show it off at the pool. The shimmering scarlet material had been fine at the club, but here it stood out like a sore thumb.
He put a hand on her shoulder, and leaned in, meeting her gaze in the reflection. “There are few women who would have the audacity to come to a place like this dressed like that. Fewer still who would be able to stay long enough without getting kicked out. I knew if you could stay here this long and be selective enough about your clientèle to still be unoccupied, I knew you would be a rare and expensive delicacy.”
She shook her head, and laughed. “You've got some nerve.”
“For comparing you to a prostitute? Why? A prostitute is a woman who is beauty personified. She has to be. Any... whore can prey on the desperate, sell her body for a few dollars an hour, but a prostitute wields her beauty like a weapon. She makes herself a thing men desire, a thing for which they would pay dearly.”
Camille blushed at the veiled compliment. Something about the way he almost whistled the first letter of the word whore before breathing the rest of it had an effect on her. She’d felt a shiver down her spine when he’d said it - or maybe it was his hand on her shoulder. His thumb gently caressed the top of her shoulder blade.
Or maybe the drinks, she thought to herself.
As if reading her thoughts, the barman returned with the bottle and a small slip of paper. She turned away from the mirror to face him as he signed a small piece of paper with a flourish.
She smirked. “And what makes you think that I wouldn’t have been selective about you as clientèle?”
He smiled, sliding his old drink to one side. “If there is one thing that I am good at, it is negotiating.”
Camille nodded, and watched the barman twist the cork of the bottle against the neck. $900 was about to pop open for her.
Her night had definitely gone from boring to interesting in a hurry.
She ran her finger around the base of the champagne flute. “So is that what you do for a living? Negotiate?”
“I do not make a living.” He snapped, before softening and looking sadly at his hands. “I made a living a long time ago, in another life. Now, I do what makes me happy.”
“And is that what makes you happy? Prostitutes?”
“No.” He looked up at her. “Enjoying the finer things in life.”
He held his flute out to her, offering a toast.
She looked into his eyes. He was greying a little around the temples, but for the most part his cropped black hair was still dark. A few lines were beginning to creep in around the edges of his eyes, but she couldn’t place his age any more than she could place his accent.
She picked up her glass, and lightly tapped it against the rim of his. “To the finer things in life.”
He smiled. “Just so.”
She sipped her champagne. It tasted terrible, but in the unique way that expensive drinks had of seeming both disgusting and refined at the same time.
A little like her companion, she thought, watching him drink the champagne. He tipped his head back, breathing through his nose to savour the experience. Camille had sipped hers like a cheap cocktail. For a moment she thought to ask him if there was a particular way to best appreciate it, but thought better of it.
“So is that why you are in New York?” He asked, “A weekend of the finer things in life?”
She shook her head, sighing. “Supposed to. Now I’ve got to last a week on last night’s drinks money and whatever freebies the hotel throw me. Hardly the greatest night of my life.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” He shrugged, “You’re sitting in a nice hotel, dressed beautifully and drinking terrible champagne.” He raised his hand to halt the barman’s protest. “Oh no, it is as it should be, you have not done anything wrong but list an overpriced drink I bought to try and impress this woman.”
Half of her was flattered. Unfortunately it was the other half that spoke up.
“Impress me? Maybe you should try a chat-up line instead of calling me a hooker.”
He chuckled to himself. “You would prefer me to lie to your face?”
“I would prefer not to be called a prostitute.”
Her new friend sighed. “Look around you, at these men. What do you think they will say when they come over - and they will - as the night goes on? What about the men at the nightclub I presume you dressed for?”
Camille looked round. The last few diners had left their tables, and the small groups of businessmen had left or dispersed. A scattering of middle aged patrons remained, nursing various drinks and glancing across at her occasionally.
“They all wanted the same thing from you. I’m sure last night you had fun watching them literally dance for your attention, feigning interest in what you were saying or pretending that they could even hear it. All the time playing a game, wondering if their efforts would get them what they really wanted.”
“I only approached the issue directly. You have value to me. I tell you this. I can see now that is not the case.”
She snorted. “How flattering to be so valued.”
“Money is just a place-holder for value.” He picked up the glass and swirled its contents round. “This champagne took time to create and mature. The price reflects that time and effort.” He took another gulp, draining the glass. “And yet the end result is disappointment. A shame.”
He stared at the glass, and then looked back at her. “I have a desire for you, I will not deny that. I have money; and you, apparently, are lacking it. But what I do not have is time, Camille. Any man in this bar could spend the whole night talking to you, never knowing if their t
ime and effort would pay off. If their polished words and attempts at flattery could break through to the part of you they really wish to see.”
“I know exactly what part of me you want to see.”
He snorted. “That is not what I meant. Damn your language, I meant the animal part of you. The side of you that chose this dress, that wanted to be beautiful and powerful. ”
With that, he straightened his lapels. “I am simply direct about the value you have to me. I apologise for misreading you, miss…”
“Camille.”
“Camille.” He smiled, and took a deep breath before sighing her name, again in that wonderful Mediterranean lilt. “Camille. Of course. I apologise for thinking you were to be purchased. If I am not able to, then I will take my leave as you have quite ruined my palate.”
Camille flushed, this time with anger. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, I do not mean you have spoiled me with distaste. I apologise. In my work I weight each word and it is exhausting; so much that when I engage in pleasure I speak openly and without conceit. This can offend easily. I mean to say that in this city, on this night, there is nothing finer I could discover than you. If I cannot have you, I will not have anyone - not tonight at least.”
She blinked, surprised at the speed that – once more – his apparent insult had turned to a compliment. “Oh.”
“Then you understand me.” He took her hand in his, and kissed the back of it with a gentle caress of his lips. Camille barely felt the touch but for the shiver it sent down her spine. “I at least have that.”
He leaned in and kissed one cheek, then before leaning in to kiss the other, he lingered a moment. From the neck of his shirt she could smell a musky scent of fresh shower gel and body oil. His breath was hot on her neck.
“If you change your mind later, I have left my card with the barman. ”
He pulled away, but held her gaze. There was something powerful and longing in his eyes - not desperation, but of desire thwarted, almost of loss. “I apologise once more, I had hoped a beautiful woman, on holiday… it was a fantasy, nothing more. “