by Livia Ellis
He pulls me tighter to his side. It's actually a bit cold in the atrium. He's warm. He releases me for a moment to set his glass on the ground. His arms wrap around me again as we watch the pair move together for our entertainment. He kisses me on the cheek, jaw, and neck. His lips grab my earlobe. He makes a noise. The paint tastes fairly vile.
But it still looks pretty, right?
Of course I'm pretty. He's just not going to kiss me.
He turns me slightly in his arms. His hand slips between us. His palm cups my sex. I sigh a little and rub my forehead against his neck. He makes some comment on the fact I am no longer as furry as a black cat. I ignore this. He makes another comment about how ready and wet I am. He wants to leave. Go to his room. Be alone. But with me.
I want to watch the couple. See what they're going to do. I also want him to keep touching me.
We can stay for a few minutes. The voyeur in him wants to know what they're going to do. It's making him hard which is nothing short of a miracle after his session with The Vicomte and The Banker. Fucking weirdos.
I reach for him and he moves away. Later. When we're alone. He's had enough of people looking at him.
I pull my hand back and let it fall on his waist.
He keeps doing with his hand that thing he does that is just right. That sort of slippery, sliding, stroking, touch that is perfect. Why do men think women want to have their privates slapped and poked? They don't. Oliver does this thing with his fingers. Sort of like twirling or twitching. It's just lovely. The woman that encouraged him to learn the technique deserves my thanks. Then there is the tapping. He takes the tip of his finger and taps my clit. Really exquisite. It does it for me every time. He kisses the side of my mouth as an orgasm flutters like a butterfly in my belly. No. I'm not screaming. Maybe I take a deep breath or two, but there is no gasping for air like a deep sea diver out of oxygen that has just reached the surface.
Nice. I kiss his cheek. Thank you.
He kisses me. Sweet and deep with his fingers on my jaw.
He removes his other hand from between my thighs, then picks up his drink which is mostly melted ice. Sex is messy. We both know this. He sticks his fingers in the liquid and gives them a swirl. As clean as they can be under the circumstances. The glass is discarded on the ground.
Right. He's done. We're leaving. Unless I want to stay without him.
I don't want to stay without him. But, we should stay. Or, more precisely, he should stay. There are a lot of big money clients in the room. He should go around and meet them.
He can't be arsed. They've all gotten a good look at him. That's all they really need. Besides, he's met The Footballer and The Sheik. Despite what the Matchmaker might be thinking, he will retain some amount of control over his client list. A dozen well-paying repeat clients will earn him more than three dozen one off clients.
Then I remember. I've booked us with The Billionaire and his wife for New Years. Davos. Is that okay? They pay exceptionally well.
I get a kiss on the cheek despite the taste of the paint. Very well done. We make a good team. Davos over New Year’s sounds marvelous.
The couple finishes prettily. He kisses her like Oliver kisses me. I wonder if this is what we look like when we are together. I wonder if they're in love. I wonder if people wonder if Oliver and I are in love when they watch us. Or is it all just pretend?
He takes his arm from around my waist then picks up my hand in his. He's had enough. He wants to go to bed. He looks at me. What exactly do we need to do to get the paint off of me? Because I am not going to bed with him covered in paint.
Will he wash my back?
He'll wash my back.
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4 the after-party
We go to his room. It faces away from the back of the house where a tent has been set up. There is a band and an orgy out that way. The noise will be constant through the night no matter where we are, but at least facing the street we won't have to hear the boom of the band.
He turns on the TV and falls on the bed.
I knock his feet off the bed. Shoes. How many times do I have to tell him shoes do not belong in bedrooms let alone on beds? Is he going to help me or not?
He kicks his shoes off. He'll help me if it means we'll get in bed that much faster.
We go into the bathroom together. I pin up my hair. I walk him through the process of getting the paint off. Before we get into the shower, he rubs the cream cleanser over my back as I take care of the front. I'm covered in slippery goo by the time I step under the water.
He gets into the shower with me. He has bruises I hadn't noticed before.
What did the Samurai do to him?
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Memoirs of a Gigolo – Happy Halloween Oliver
Nothing actually.
Where did the bruises come from?
He will never tell me.
That embarrassing?
Yes. He will tell me that the last night in Kyoto was one he'll never forget.
Did someone finally beat him to make him stop singing?
He laughs. I don't like his singing? He bends down and kisses me. Don't answer that.
Together we scrub my skin until the water starts to run clear. I'm sure I'll be washing gray paint out of my nooks and crannies for days, but for the moment it will do.
His gives my bottom a light smack before he leaves me in the shower. He'll see me in bed.
I'm out of the shower just behind him, but it takes me longer to do what I need to do to keep my standards up. There truly is no justice when it comes to what it takes for women to maintain standards when compared to men. No justice. Oliver should moisturize more than he does, but I'll never convince him.
When I leave the bathroom, he's in bed reading the dog-eared copy of Gone With the Wind he's been carrying around with him. One more diatribe about Scarlet O'Hara and her love of her home and I might just have to beat him. I don't understand why this story resonates with him as it does, but it does. I've never read the story. My mother loved it. Perhaps I'll read it someday soon.
BBC World is on the television. The party is loud, but easy to ignore. I drop my towel and get into bed with him. It's cold in the room, but warm under the blankets. I scoot until I'm in the curl of his arm. There is a crash in the hallway. He gets out of bed to investigate. I watch his naked bottom as he crosses the room. This makes me smile.
After a moment at the door during which he exchanges several firm words with a party goer, he returns to bed. I'm told several things; in the morning we're checking into a hotel for a few days and turning off our phones. Ridiculous that we were expected to show up at The Vicomte's after Japan. Never again.
I like this plan. I tell him I have frequent flier miles that we can use to pay for the hotel. I don't want him to keep spending his money. He's working very hard for it. He should keep it. I wonder how many times I'm going to be able to use that excuse to pay for things for him before he starts to wonder how many frequent flier miles I could really possibly have.
The weather comes on the television. Cool across Europe. Cold in Russia. Unseasonably warm in North America. I cuddle up next to him as he starts to channel surf. He flips around for a few minutes then turns off the TV. It's surprisingly easy to ignore the party. We are in our own cocoon. The bedroom is nice. The bed is comfortable. I want to know who made the bedding. It's very fine. I don't understand the Vicomte and his ilk. I don't.
They have beautiful homes that they allow to be turned into pits for the sake of these parties. Sex I understand. I enjoy what I do the vast majority of the time. But these orgies just confound me. There is nothing intimate or sensual about them. Maybe I'm growing up. I wonder if I'm coming to the end of my career as an escort. It's not as fun as it used to be. For certain it is telling that I'd rather lie in bed with Oliver watching the weather than participating in the orgy on the other side of the bedroom door.
Oliver pulls me to him after he turns off the lights. He kisses around my mout
h, and then finally reaches my lips. His hands roam over my body, touching and stroking. At no point does he twist my nipple to purposefully hurt me. There is no audience to impress or clients to try to win. Just us. Alone. Doing what comes naturally.
He asks me if I want him. He doesn't just assume. I could say no. I could say no and he wouldn't be upset. I would probably have to masturbate him otherwise he'd be annoyed, but I could say no. I don't say no. I open my legs a bit more and pull him to me. There is a moment’s pause when he sorts out the condom. I'm patient. I can wait. Especially if I don't have to put the condom on him myself.
He slips inside of me and begins to move. He loves the taste of my kisses and the feel of my skin. I'm so beautiful he can't believe I want to be with him. Leaving that party to be alone was all he's wanted since arriving. Since we were in Japan he's wanted us to be alone as we are. Just us. Without anyone else. This is why he wants us to disappear for a few days. Do I want to disappear with him?
I do. With all of my heart I want to disappear with him.
I don't know where my orgasm comes from, but there it is. Like a boom or a bang. Like a person jumping out of a closet at me. I'm totally taken by surprise. My eyes are open and I nearly laugh from the shock. Oliver isn't paying much attention to me. He's in his own world of physical stimulation. As I lay under him, he finishes. Then comes the kiss. If he ever finishes without kissing me, it might just break my heart.
He rolls off of me, deals with the condom, pulls me into his arms, then tucks the blankets around us. I get a final kiss on the head.
I'm asleep probably a minute later.
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5 post script
What comes next? The following morning, he woke me up at the crack of dawn. We slipped out of the house and into a taxi. We drove a few blocks to the George V and checked in to a room. We stayed for five nights, and then took the train back to London.
What happened in Paris? Let's see... We slept a lot, watched television, read books, ordered room service, went shopping, went to lunch, he took me to the Louvre... I'd been to Paris a dozen times before and only with Oliver did I first see the Louvre. Did we make love? Yes. Of course we did. What do you think? We were young and sexual people that had found a connection. What was it like? You want to know what the sex was like when we were alone? I don't know. Do you make love to your boyfriend? It was probably a lot like that. Unremarkable. Normal. We weren't being paid to perform. It was real. Yes. Real. Like boyfriend and girlfriend.
Was he my boyfriend? No. He wasn't. We were just lovers. Best friends and lovers.
How long did it take him to figure out I didn't have unlimited frequent flier miles? Probably not as long as he has always let me believe. We had a few of these convenient little lies until we came to the conclusion that we should only be truthful with each other. It would be some time until we, me mostly, decided to start telling the truth.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Livia Ellis is a writer. She works very very hard. There are moments when she truly begins to believe no one appreciates or even likes what she writes; then she realizes she was wrong and is filled with gratitude. You can find out more about her at: www.liviaellis.com
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