Читать книгу Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl - Tracy Quan - Страница 12

When Bob showed up, I was wearing a short pleated skirt with high narrow heels. My red toenails glistened against strappy golden Pradas—a confectionery bare-legged look that I could never wear to a john’s office or a good hotel. Wouldn’t dream of wearing outside of my apartment, actually.

“Look who’s here!” I cooed.

I fluttered around the living room, bending forward to adjust the VCR—and to grant a quick peek up my skirt. Easy to do, in heels. If I were traveling through the halls of the Peninsula or the Four Seasons, these shoes might throw me off. But within the radius of my bed, I’m gliding; I belong in them.

I’m a better twenty-six-year-old today, at thirty-something, than I was at twenty-six. And I enjoy being a “new” girl—more than I ever enjoyed it when I really was new. So when Bob mentioned the Stanhope, a hotel I’ve been to many times, I feigned ignorance.

“Sabrina,” he chuckled. “Didn’t Daria teach you anything?”

“Only the important things.” I giggled and pulled my skirt down to hide my transparent white panties.

“Don’t do that,” he protested. “Daria wouldn’t want you to cover up your pussy like that, would she?”

“Daria taught me how to eat pussy,” I remarked in a friendly voice. “She teaches by example.”

His eyes twinkled as I slipped into his crude routine.

“Does she?” he replied gamely. “So she did teach you something. Daria likes to have her snatch licked, doesn’t she?”

“Only if you know what you’re doing,” I told him. “And she tells me you have a well-trained tongue.”

(Daria and I didn’t know each other that well. In fact, we worked together just a few times before I bought her book. But her clients like to think we were lovers. Before she moved on, Daria planted this cute idea in their minds—and called during her honeymoon to remind me. She was a conscientious call girl, even in retirement.)

Soon I was standing in front of Bob in my panties and heels, bent over with my skirt at my feet and my smooth rump in his face.

“What a gorgeous ass,” he sighed. I could hear him unzipping his pants.

“Are you playing with your cock?” I murmured, pulling my panties clearly to one side. I tilted my pussy to give him a better view.

There was a hungry moan as he held back from coming too fast.

“Let’s go in the bedroom,” he suggested.

“Good idea,” I agreed, glancing at the clock on the VCR. “Where we can relax…and I can try out your tongue.”

This wouldn’t work if Bob knew how long I’ve been in the business. He needs me to be Sabrina: naive, dirty-mouthed, willing to do all the work, very much in control, excited by my “new” career. A tall, complicated order. Especially when you’re really new.

I teased him and sat over his face, demanding that he lick my ass.

“Your tongue…” I was cooing again. “I could get addicted to that tongue!”

I changed positions and slipped a condom onto his erection. “Are you going to fuck me today?” I was kneeling on the bed, poised to suck his cock. I ran a fingertip over his dark chest, flicking the gold chain to one side; Bob’s generation still believes you can’t be too rich or too tan.

“Oh, my god. Sabrina—you’re such a hot little girl!” His erection was impressive. I placed it in my mouth and gave some attention to the head, then worked my way toward the base. “Not yet, not yet,” he moaned, pressing his cock upward. Only with a condom could I give him the following treat; I felt an unexpected throb as I pulled him into my throat. He exhaled loudly, turning rapidly to jelly—my signal to pull away, grab a tissue, and shift gears.

As I tidied up, I turned off my slutty act but continued to play bubbly Sabrina. My boyfriend never sees this part of me. Guys like Matt don’t mate with bubbly chicks. It’s true, I do seem unambitious, compared to the women in Matt’s daily life—his boss, his up-and-coming female colleagues. But unambitious is permissible (in a girl) if you’re not too bubbly, and if you’re respectable. My fake job isn’t a power gig—nor is it glamorous—but it has nothing to do with my looks. And Matt wouldn’t want to be seen as a guy who marries a girl for her looks! (Though of course he wouldn’t have fallen for a girl who wasn’t pretty.) That stack of volumes on my bedroom floor by dead white novelists from Thackeray to Mrs. Gaskell to Henry James, interspersed with stuff by live brown ones implies that I’m serious at the core. Matt never reads fiction that was written before 1960 but wants to marry a girl who does.

Whereas Matt finds my reading tastes respectable, Bob’s impressed that I read anything at all. Bob’s the kind of self-made guy who could marry a woman who doesn’t even read. He made all his money in real estate speculation.

“You’re a very nice girl,” Bob assured me in a deliberate, fatherly tone. “A wonderful young lady.” He was sliding some hundreds under the tissue box on my bedside table.

I was touched by his desire to validate the fluffy dirty-mouthed girl he sees three times a year. I suddenly wondered if Matt, upon meeting such a bimbette, would bother to say something corny, something kind. Would he know that it makes a difference? Would he care? I don’t want to go there, I guess; anyway, Matt belongs to a different part of my life.

As I closed the door I could hear Bob stepping into the elevator, and I wondered: What happens to the bubbly “Sabrina” when Nancy marries Matt? Must I burn the bimbette to save the woman?