by Lexi Duval
“I see. Good plan. Your mother did seem utterly delightful. I question whether she'd understand if you told her the truth.”
“She won't,” I tell him. “And nor will my father. I mean, what parent would? They still think I'm their innocent little girl.”
“Oh no, you've clearly blossomed into a sexually adventurous young woman. And I'm sure you're the better for it. The world certainly is.”
He laughs and continues to gulp his wine, while I hastily send my eyes around the restaurant to make sure no one can hear what he's saying. The sight makes him chuckle even more.
“It's OK my dear, we're quite out of earshot of anyone.”
The meal continues, our main dishes being removed and desserts being brought out. Randall continues to talk, his loquacious character coming to the fore, but most of what he's saying goes over my head.
Because there's one thing, and one thing only that I'm thinking about – my dream. Fifty thousand dollars for a half hour of sex, and suddenly my dream is within grasping distance. And who knows...a few more shows and maybe I'll be able to rent a studio and begin working on my designs.
Fashion designer by day, sex performer by night.
Wow, how my world has changed.
I'm drawn from my thoughts at the end of the meal, when Randall suddenly turns his attention back to business.
“Are you able to perform this coming Tuesday?” he asks me.
With only the briefest hesitation, I answer in the affirmative.
“Excellent. Paulo, your driver, will pick you up at the same time as before. The process will be the same, except for one thing – your partner will be different.”
“OK.”
“Now, let's enjoy the rest of this bottle of wine shall we?”
He picks up the bottle, refills our glasses until it's empty, and places it back on the table. Then he lifts his up, and I follow, clinking them together.
“To a prosperous relationship,” he says. “And...to your delightful mother. She really was a lovely woman.”
He winks, and I laugh, suddenly feeling more alive than I ever have.
Chapter Two
On the same day as I'm preparing to perform for the second time, the money from my inaugural show appears in my bank account.
I hate the old cliché of 'it hasn't sunk in yet' that just about every Olympian utters when they win a gold medal, but truly, seeing the sight of fifty thousand bucks in my account will take a bit of getting used to.
Frankly, it seems like monopoly money right now, like some sort of joke, a mistake by the bank that will be quickly be rectified. I'm fully expecting to wake up later this week with my account suddenly bare again. Or perhaps receive a phone call from the bank manager apologizing for their egregious error.
Never in my life have I seen or had access to that sort of money. It alone is life changing, enough to get me back on my feet and searching for a new job if I want one.
But, right now, the thought of returning to regular paid employment is farcical. Why bother when I can earn more than a years salary with half an hour of incredible sex?
No. It's my dream of designing my own fashion label that has truly taken hold.
But, of course, today I'll be performing once again, and so my mind is split between the wonder and joy of seeing the money in my account, and the inevitable nerves that accompany a big performance.
No matter how many times actors and sports stars head out onto stage or the giant arenas they play in, they are always nervous. So now, even though I've already been there, done it, and got the t-shirt, my heart is rampaging and my mind spinning.
It would help if I was fucking Brett again. The guy was dynamite, and we quickly got to know each other's rhythm. But it's not Brett, it's someone new. And, well, that's enough to make me have to catch my breath every so often during the car journey into Manhattan.
Once more, the driver, who Randall has revealed is called Paulo, takes me the distance without saying a word. I do wonder how much he knows of what I'm doing and what goes on in the grand mansion near Central Park. The cheeky looks he gives me suggests he knows enough.
When I reach my dressing room, I'm once more greeted with the sight of Charlotte and Matilda, the same two hair stylists and make up artists who got me ready last time.
So, I shower, wash myself all over, and let them pamper and prepare me with such meticulous care that soon I'm transformed from 'hot' to stunningly beautiful. My hair, however, isn't wavy this time but straight, and my make up is slightly different, bringing out the light blue of my eyes better than before.
I'm also dressed not only in sexy panties and bra, but in a small skirt, a white shirt, and high heels that make me look a little slutty.
Perhaps the audience have requested such a look this evening?
This time, however, Randall doesn't greet me or take me to the stage door at the end of the corridor. I merely walk it alone, feeling just as nervous as before, and step through without any words of support and reassurance outside.
Now, it's seems, I'm already trusted to know what to do.
A man waits for me. And he's different too.
He wears a mask, like Brett, with his jaw and mouth exposed but his face obscured from his nose upwards. He stands taller, stronger looking. He's also dressed, unlike before, with a pair of black pants and a white shirt adorning what looks to be a perfectly crafted frame.
A smile rises on my face, and I move forward, noting the alternations of the room as well. The bed is still there, but this time the sheets are a dark red. There's a lower lighting in the room, more of a romantic, moody atmosphere that creates small shadows here and there.
Music plays lightly, setting the scene, and in the corner candles burn, letting off the smell of incense. The entire room feels more amorous, less neutral and, frankly, lifeless as it was before with nothing but the bed and white sheets and the bright lighting above.
The man ahead of me stands waiting for me by the bed. He doesn't advance like Brett did. He just waits until I reach him, unmoving.
Not a word is spoken between us as his hands start tracing over my face. His fingers run along my lips, brush my hair out of the way of my eyes, tickle down my neck in a sultry, delicate fashion.
Soon they move onto my shirt, unbuttoning the top slowly until my cleavage is revealed. His fingers snake inside, beneath my bra, running over the top of my breasts and teasing at my hardening nipples.
He opens my shirt, but leaves it on, and I do the same to him, revealing a body tightly packed with firm, hard muscle. He moves me onto the bed, and sits me down. His hands disappear under my skirt and reappear gripping my pink panties, pulling them down my legs, over my heels, and discarding them to the floor.
Leaving my skirt on, he pulls my legs open and his head disappears between my thighs. The sharp buzz of electricity zaps through me like a shot as I feel the sudden, warm wetness of his tongue meet with my folds, licking them up and down, moving around the outside of my vagina and finishing at my clit.
Fingers join the party, diving inside me and coming out sodden. They enter again and again, his digits and tongue and lips all working in perfect unison to force my body to start shaking, my mind to start whirling.
Everything inside me calls with joy, my throat already gargling with salacious delirium. Sounds escape me that I've never made, jolts of pleasure rush through me that I've never felt. And all the while I forget that there's anyone watching at all.
I don't try to scream of moan for the sake of the watching millionaires and billionaires. I do it because I have to, because if I don't make those sounds I feel as if my body will explode.
He develops such a rhythm that within only a few minutes my entire structure is convulsing in the throes of an orgasm, my pussy growing wetter and wetter and demanding more.
Before the convulsions die down, with my eyes closed and my entire being unaware of anything but the pleasure between my thighs, I suddenly feel the shape of a large dick
enter me.
I open my eyes, my entire body shimmering, and look up to see him, pants down, cock sliding inside my gaping hole. He leans back, shirt still on, abs clenching, and delivers the first of many pulsating blows.
I'm so wet that he slides right in, despite his considerable size and girth. I feel him fill me up, penetrate deep and hard and with a long breath of pleasure rolling out from behind his mask.
Then he slides back out, quickly leaving me hollow once more, before thrusting again, slightly harder, slightly more forcefully. But, every time, my body reacts with the rhythms of a continual orgasm that shows no signs of going away.
I lie back, and feel my skirt now ripped off. It's thrown aside, torn and frayed, as his mouth and tongue once again descend into me. As I start to get used to the more delicate motion of his lips, however, he's up again, sticking me hard, and bearing his weight down onto me on the bed.
I can hear his breathing now as he pumps at my pussy, heavy and lustful and without restraint. Small groans fall out of him, joining my larger moans of pure delirium.
I slide my hands inside his open shirt, my fingers running along his chest and abs and behind his back, scratching and digging in to get a grip as he pummels me harder and harder.
He grabs at my bra, pulling the cups down so that my breasts pop out. He leans down, his tongue zipping from beneath the mask, sliding out of a square jaw dusted with black stubble.
He licks at my nipples, runs his fingers across my body as his groin continues to thrust and pulse inside me. I want to grab his face, pull him toward me, remove the mask and kiss him deep.
But I don't. I was told never to remove the guy's mask, never to kiss him on the lips unless he did so to me.
So I just lie back, let him take control and keep me in the state of paradise that I'm in. Let him lick and touch and pump me deep. Let him explore my body, salivating as he begins to lose control, letting the carnal beast inside him roam free.
That beast is even better than Brett.
He's more forceful, fucks me harder and the way I like it. He fills me to overflowing, then leaves me bare. He devours my pussy with his mouth, lets my pussy devour his cock, shifting from one to the next before my body can settle.
By the time he's lifting me up off the bed, I can hardly stand, my legs are so wired, so shaky, my entire body tremulous.
He drops onto the bed, his big cock standing up in front of me, raised to attention, ready to impale me. But first, I slide it up and into my mouth. I climb onto the bed, grip the shaft, wet with my juice, and send as much of it as I can between my lips and toward my throat.
I suck so deep I gag, gargling his dick at the back of my throat and quickly pulling back. I watch as his mouth opens, tongue dangling out of it, legs shimmering to my lefts and right as they sweat and shake.
He's going to come soon. I can feel it. The extra movement of his legs, the tensing of his muscles, the heavy breathing and pulsing of his heart.
I prolong his agony, as he did mine, and climb up onto him, lowing my pussy down onto his cock and straddling him like a horse. I ride slow, at first, arching my back and pulling my ass up and down so that I slip the entire length of his cock out of me, and then slowly swallow it up again.
Soon, however, I quicken my pace, pumping harder, faster, bobbing my ass up and down, slapping against his thighs as the bed shakes and the entire rooms starts to swim in front of my eyes.
It's too much for him to bear. He grips me either side of my ass, takes control again, and pumps even harder. His movements start to turn erratic, but he maintains enough control to lift me off him at the right moment.
To my surprise, he turns me over, lying flat on my front, and slips his dick inside me from behind. Then he keeps pumping, keeps of going, and just when I thought he was about to come, he's taking charge again.
It doesn't last long, though, and I suspect he wanted to come in this position.
With the new angle of his dick bringing me to orgasm again, he pumps so hard, slapping his groin against my ass, that I scream with delight and feel my body return to the lofty position of an amazing climax.
And just I'm overtaken my the whims of my body again, I feel him pull out of me and shoot his warm goo all over my lower back, hitting my soft, sweaty skin with several powerful bursts as his balls are emptied out.
And lying there, with my shirt still on, riding up my back, and my tits hanging out of my bra, I feel like I must have been premature last time in thinking Brett would be the best fuck of my life.
Because this guy was even better.
Chapter Three
My mind still slightly in a whirl, I twist on the bed, feel the warm come dribble down my back, and stand up. Naked from the waist down, I pull the cups of my bra back over my breasts and feel my shirt fall down over my lower back, soaking up the man's discharge.
And then something completely unexpected happens.
As I'm pulling my panties back up and looking at my torn skirt on the floor, wondering whether it's still wearable, I see, out of the corner of my eye, the guy slowly removing his mask.
The movement draws my attention, and I turn to see a gorgeous face revealed. Eyes shine in the dim, romantic light with a mixture of green and blue. Dark brown hair, shortly cut at the sides and longer on top, frames his head. His cheekbones look so sharp they could cut glass, his jaw so strong and stoney it could withstand a barrage from Tyson.
He smiles, his eyes looking alert and alive, but with a hint of carnal exhaustion, and speaks, his voice low, sexy, and with a slightly gruff edge to it.
“Wow, you're just as good as I'd hoped.”
And as I'm wondering what he means, something else happens, even more unexpected.
The room changes.
The walls lose their reflection, the glass turning suddenly clear and see through like a regular window pane. I look out to see large, comfortable leather chairs set up, facing the room. Blood red booths run along the walls beyond, and I see two bars, one on either side of the room, both with marble counter tops and stocked with various spirits behind.
The lighting is moody, as in the show room I'm in now, and has the feel of a jazz club. Only the stage in the middle isn't fitted with musical instruments and a band, but only a bed and two half naked people.
But the most striking feature isn't the layout of the bar, but its contents. Or, lack thereof.
Because outside of the show room there are no people. No one at all. Not a single person watching. Not a single waiter serving drinks. The only people here are me and the man who's just taken off his mask.
With a confusion settling inside me, I turn to the guy and see that he's not sharing the same expression. He looks at me with a smile on his face and the sort of slant of his eyes that suggests he knows exactly what's going on.
“You look confused, Ashley,” he says, the mention of my name making me feel even stranger as I don't know his.
“Um...I am. Do you know what's happening? Why is no one watching?”
“Because this wasn't a public show. This was private. It was only for me.”
And now I'm even more confused.
“What do you mean? Randall said it was a show.”
“And he was right. But a show without an audience. Randall Taylor caters to his client's needs, Ashley. And I'm one of his major clients.”
I lose my breath for a moment, suddenly feeling more naked than if I'd lost my clothes again.
Who is this guy? A client? That makes no sense.
“I thought the clients only watched?” I say. “You're a client?”
I repeat it again, needing confirmation. The guy looks nothing like the sort of man I'd expect to be watching me from outside. He's nigh on perfect. Young, handsome, tall, muscular and strong.
And, clearly, rich as well.
He nods.
“I am a client, yes. And you're right, we only usually watch. But, sometimes, we just can't help ourselves.”
A devilish sm
ile crosses his lips.
“Now, Ashley, let me explain this to you further. But, not like this.” He references our semi nude states.
“Go and get washed up, change, and meet me at the front of the building in 30 minutes. I'll be waiting for you there.”
He smiles again, turns, and disappears through the door at the other end of the room leaving me completely in the dark about what the hell is going on.
I gather my torn dress, button up my shirt, the bottom quickly sticking to my semen covered skin, and escape down the corridor and into my dressing room. Thankfully, it's empty, Charlotte and Matilda now absent. The idea of them seeing my post coital state isn't a nice one.
I quickly shower, washing the guy's fluids off my body along with all of the sweat and other bodily secretions that cover my skin, and quickly get dressed into the jeans and light summer sweater I was wearing on arrival.
I quickly make sure my hair looks OK, tie up up in a ponytail, and apply some regular make up. One final look in the mirror tells me I look nothing like the girl who just walked into the show room to have sex. I look far more natural now and, to my own tastes, much nicer.
With the 30 minutes about to expire, I beat a hasty retreat and escape into the warm summer sunshine to find the guy standing outside in a razor sharp suit and smoking casually on a cigarillo.
His eyes lift to mine as I come down the steps and meet him on the sidewalk, and he takes my hand and kisses it gently. It's a strange sensation meeting a guy for the first time when they've already fucked you to heaven and back.
“Ashley, my name is Grayson, or Gray for short. It's nice to meet you officially.”
“Um, thanks. You too, Grayson.”
“Please, my friends call me Gray. After what we just did, I think it's fair to say we've crossed that line.”
He begins walking toward the road, ushering me across in the direction of Central Park.
“Now, let me explain what's going on here for you. I think you deserve that much.”