If you haven’t read Part One or need a refresher. Read it here.
A knock sounds at the door. I rise onto my toes and peer through the peephole, confirming my client’s identity.
I open the door, revealing a slim, light-skinned man standing about 5 feet, 11 inches tall. His eyes roam over me, from my face to my feet and back up. It’s 7 p.m., and I can tell he’s already drunk.
Letting out an audible sigh, I smile as genuinely as I can and coo, “Hello, Tyrone. Welcome.”
He walks past me without acknowledgment, looking around the room like it’s his first time in a hotel.
“It smells good as fuck in here,” he declares. “I ain’t never been in a hotel room that smells like this.”
“Glad you like it,” I respond.
I take him in as he gazes out of the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows lining the room. He’s downright skinny—his ankles look to be the size of my wrists. He still has a full head of hair, braided into two cornrows lining either side of his head. Pot belly protruding through his shirt. He’s definitely a heavy drinker. I peel my eyes from him and look out the windows. The view is breathtaking. The sun sets over the city skyline, casting a warm glow of orange and pink hues, enveloping us in a cozy atmosphere.
Tyrone turns to me. “So how does this thing go? I picked up a few bitches working the blade before, but I ain’t ever had to answer questions and shit like that. You on some other shit.” His southern twang tickles me.
Beyond the alcohol-induced bravado, I observe what seems to be a dejected teenager, craving attention, like a child fearful of parental interruption yet enticed by the thrill. He’s probably married.
I smile as I walk toward him, grabbing the collar of his jacket to help it slide down his arms. “It’s important to me that our safety and your anonymity stay intact. We’re here to have fun, and I want nothing or no one getting in the way. Are you good with that?” I ask.
He lets out a breathy, “Yeah.”
“Good.” I smile, lifting his left wrist, sliding it out of the sleeve of his jacket. He jerks his hand back when he sees I notice the black chrome wedding band on his ring finger. I knew it. I lift my eyes to meet his, biting my bottom lip. Reminding him that his marital status is no business of mine.
I fold his jacket and lay it across the chaise lounge in the corner. Before I can turn back around, I feel his bare dick pressed against my back. I don’t know what kind of supersonic undressing he did, but when I spin around, I find Tyrone naked except for his white Nike crew socks.
I scoff. “Looks like someone is ready to play.”
“Let me take that off for you,” he offers.
“It would be my pleasure, Daddy.” The word ‘Daddy’ always seems to excite men. My guess is they have an unmet desire to dominate and control, which is why they book my services. I have no qualms about calling anyone ‘Daddy,’ considering I never had a real one anyway.
Once he removes my negligee, I climb onto the bed. I reach for the nightstand and grab the Trojan Ultra Thin Tyrone requested. I hand him the condom, then prop myself up on my elbows. Back arched, knees spread, giving Tyrone a full view of my pussy. His stiff dick jumps as he climbs onto the bed and crawls between my legs. Once we’re chest to chest, face to face, his neck cranes as he leans in for a kiss.
Pulling my lips into my mouth, I remind him, “No kissing on the lips, Daddy. It’s on the list of rules I sent you.”
“Damn, my bad. I guess I got a little carried away,” he apologizes before peppering my neck with kisses. “Turn around,” he whispers. I expect this and actually prefer it. This experience is transactional, after all. The clearer the boundaries, the better. I spin around, settling on all fours. The crinkling of the condom wrapper keeps my mind and body in the present moment.
“Ahh,” I moan as he plunges into me.
“Damn baby, you’re so fucking wet,” he growls, thrusting into me. I roll my eyes. I give him about 90 seconds before he is pumping, panting and passes the hell out. And that’s generous. “Ah,“ I moan to remind him that I’m still here. Physically yes. Mentally no. I never am. I wrap my fingers around the headboard, gripping it tightly as his thrusts become more erratic. The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and labored breathing fill the room.
Tyrone's sudden yelp breaks through my thoughts, followed by his declaration of climax. He thrusts into me one last time before pulling out and rolling over onto his back. He didn’t make the 90 second mark. More like 60. I didn't even have a chance to satisfy his ego with moans and compliments on how good he was. The truth is, I don't feel much during these encounters. Pleasing my clients is my job. My own pleasure takes a backseat in this line of work. I engage in sexual activity with them and then they leave, usually heading back to their wives or girlfriends and kids, feeling more relaxed and confident than when they arrived. I like to think that I'm helping to save relationships; clearly the wives or girlfriends aren't fulfilling their sexual needs. While some of these clients may be insatiable assholes, most are just lonely and in need of release. When they come to see me, there's no talk of responsibilities, financial stress, or family drama. In that moment, I make them feel wanted and needed.
“So, what now?” Tyrone asks, staring at the ceiling.
“There are fresh towels in the bathroom. Please only use one and dry your feet before getting out of the shower. I don’t want the rug getting soggy,” I respond.
His head pops up, and he looks at me. I’m already opening the closet door to put on my robe. “It’s only been like,” he glances at the clock on the nightstand, “eight minutes. I booked you for the entire hour.”
“Your contract states you get one round.” I turn back toward the bed, climbing in and straddling him. “If you want to keep this party going for the rest of your time, just say the word, and I’ll charge the card you have on file.”
“Can I get some head to help me get back up?”
“There’s a charge for that too.”
“Damn. Can I at least taste it for free?”
“When you go to an ice cream parlor, do they let you taste it for free?” I quiz. Annoyed, I roll my eyes and climb off him. “A washcloth and towel are in the bathroom for you. Unless your wife knows what you’re up to tonight, I suggest rinsing thoroughly without soap. Use the washcloth to remove my scent, but you don’t want to go home smelling freshly showered.”
“Man, fuck this shit,” he growls, stomping to the bathroom naked except for his tube socks, grabbing his clothes off the floor.
As the sound of running water fills the room, I quickly slip on a plush white robe and tie it tightly around my waist. My turnover service begins, and I waste no time stripping the bed of its sheets and blankets. Cleaning in between clients is crucial. Every trace of the previous client has to be erased before the next one arrives. I scrub every surface meticulously, ensuring no lingering scents or signs of another man’s presence.
Tyrone leaves without saying a word. I smile to myself as I walk into the bathroom. So typical. The nasty motherfucker left a mess—ass prints on the toilet seat, water tracked all over the floor. Did he even close the shower curtain? Towels are drenched and sprawled everywhere. And he stole fucking my candle. I let out an audible sigh. The downside of this business is dealing with a lot of assholes. Cheap, nasty assholes who don’t read the contract. “No wonder his wife doesn’t want to fuck him,” I mutter.
After thoroughly cleaning the space and showering, I’m ready for the next client.
Marvin, my next client is a repeat customer but it’s still more of the same. He strokes. I time my moans, and he finishes quickly. I complete the turnover service. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Sitting on the bed, I open my laptop to look over my final client’s profile. Jakaiden Wilder. Another newbie. Great. I exhale and roll my shoulders to release some tension. I’m tired. No, I’m exhausted. I need a break. This has been draining, both mentally and physically. But things have been picking up lately, and I can’t afford to slow down. I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. I have a job to do.
I close my laptop and place it back on the desk as a knock sounds at the door. I check the mirror to ensure everything is in place. I’m wearing a simple black, sheer bralette with a matching G-string. I change wigs between clients because hair holds scent. All my wigs are the same, so I don’t have to readjust my locs underneath.
I open the door, and my gaze meets a striking figure—tall and commanding, with rich brown skin and sculpted shoulders. His hair is cut in a low Caesar. I study his face. Thick eyebrows. Nice little beard situation. Full lips. Diamonds in his ears. But it’s his soft, almost delicate eyes that capture me, drawing me in with a single look. We stand in a silent trance for a moment.
"Jakaiden Wilder?" I manage to croak out, still under the spell of his gaze.
"Yes," he answers, breaking the spell as he steps into the room with an air of confidence that sends shivers down my spine.
"I've been waiting for you," I say trying really really hard to sound seductive. I fail.
I close the door behind him, feeling my nerves settle as he begin undressing me with his eyes. Guard. Command. Deliver. I remind myself as I smile to mask my nerves. He scoffs as if he can see the warning signs occupying my brain. Telling me to get my shit together. What the fuck is this feeling?
The air thickens. My body tingling with an inexplicable sense of unease, as if this fine ass man has some kind of hold over me. Was it the musky, primal scent emanating from his skin, or was it something deeper, buried in the depths of my subconscious? Either way, I can’t deny the butterflies in my stomach as I try to maintain a cool façade.
He walks deeper into the room, also, taking in the magnificent views and then, “You scared out of your mind aren’t you?” Jakaiden asked. Chuckling as he squats to lower himself on the desk. He is so cool. So comfortable that it actually piss me off a little. How can he feel more secure in this space than I do?
“No.” I lie. Walking up to where he’s seated with a smirk on his face. His scent is even more potent. Even more arousing than before.
He open his legs so I can step between them. And to my surprise, I do. I have a million questions racing in my head. Who is this man? Is he famous or something? Most importantly why am I feeling this way? I push them all aside because I have a job to do and none of the answers to these questions really matter in this moment.
Before I work up the nerve to say or do anything, his hands are at the back of my thighs, pulling me even closer. With him sitting against the desk, it puts us in perfect alignment for a kiss. Kissing is against every rule I have. Against everything I believe in this line of work. There is no way I was about to. Oh shit. Yes, I am. Those nice full lips I admired before, now I know they are just as soft as they look. His mouth on my mouth catches me by surprise, but I recover quickly, ripping my lips away from his. Guard. Command. Deliver. My mantra replays in my mind. Until he brings his hands higher gripping my ass as his tongue pushes between my lips again. Making this all very real. Too real. I hadn’t let another man kiss me or even touch me like this since before... Lifetimes ago.
“What’s wrong?” Jakaiden demands, pulling back. Looking at me like he already knows the answer. Looking at me as if I am a stained glass window. Intricate yet beautiful. Straining his eyes but looking deep enough to see right through me. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Suddenly hyper aware of every scar, pigmentation, or improperly healed bruise on my body.
Instead I shake my head, taking a step away out of his hold. I’m losing control. “Nothing.” I lie. Again.
“Nothing,” he mocks. Not in a cruel way. Maybe just pointing out how ridiculous it sounds.
“When was the last time you felt safe?” He stood up approaching me. Backing me towards the bed until I couldn’t retreat further. Before I could respond, he continues, “You’re safe now, baby.” I bite my lip. Nodding as he leans in to me. High from the spicy notes from his cologne.
His lips graze my ear. “You spend so much time pouring into others. Ignoring your own needs and desires. Am I right?” A rush of air pushes through my lungs as his fingers tangles through my wig. Tugging until I tip my head back to meet his gaze.
“Right.” I confirm.
“Ok. So instead of you taking care of me tonight. How about,” he smirks, then leans in to finish his sentence right against my lips. “You let me care of you. Let me fill you up.”
“Uhhh,” a treasonous moan escapes my mouth. “It’s not. It’s not that easy.”
“I can make it easy as fuck baby,” he counters. Pressing into me so I can feel his hardness against my stomach. Maybe he was right because that definitely blanked my mind to anything else. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t object. He took advantage of my speechlessness by kissing me again. Longer. Deeper than before. This time, when his hands drop to my ass to grip and squeeze, there is no moment of panic. No stiffening. I just go with it. Instead of worrying about this or that or anything else. I give myself fully to his lips on mine. His tongue in my mouth. His hands at the top of my g-string. Sliding it down for more intimate access to me. Even when he shows me the condom he pulls from his wallet. I don’t rattle. I nod. I inexplicably want this. Want someone who sees beyond the veil. I want someone who sees me, inside of me.
Jakaiden delivers. Impressively. Right here in this luxurious hotel room he strip me down to nothing and stroke me to the point of tears. With my legs locked around his waist. Finger nails digging into his shoulders. Eyes squeezed tight. I cum in a flood of sensations that leave me feeling lighter than I can remember in a long time. Legs numb. Arms loose. Toes tingling. All of those sensations that I had long ago willed out of my reach. Jakaiden had done it so easily. He did it a few more times too, actually. Cleansing me, caressing me, and affirming me in between rounds.
When I finally peel myself out of bed at damn near five in the morning, the sheets I so meticulously dressed the bed with now a complete mess, he is gone. Leaving nothing but his lingering scent on the pillow. Which maybe should make me feel good but it doesn’t. I feel the exact opposite. Feeling something I have not allowed myself to feel in a long while. Desire.
I change the sheets, shower, and call to schedule room service since it is morning now. With that settled, I adjust the settings on the window coverings to block the sun out. Set an alarm. And settle in the comforts of bed to catch a few hours of sleep. Once I am rested, I’ll figure out just how badly I’d blown up my life.
© [2024] [Tamara McNeil]. All rights reserved. This blog post is the intellectual property of the author and may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are purely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
I wish you could see my clutching my pearls yet leaning in closer to my laptop to make sure I didn't skip any lines! Can't wait for the next installment!