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

This morning, as he dressed for work, Matt tried to reopen the possibility of inviting Allie.

“I wish you would let me decide what’s best,” I replied petulantly. “Elspeth doesn’t know Allie the way I do. And I wish you wouldn’t discuss it with her.”

“Why does it bother you so much?” He was standing in front of the mirror, straightening his tie.

“Aren’t there any single women in your office? Chris is not Allison’s type.”

“How does this look? And how do you know?”

“I just know. It looks, hmmm. Even better than I expected.” I got out of bed in just my panties and embraced my fully clothed husband. He’s wearing the tie that I gave him the other day, purchased with my illicit earnings. I could feel my nipples responding as I pressed my bare skin against a crisp cotton shirt, a silk tie. I was surprised to feel so aroused just seconds after being annoyed with him. Matt pushed me away gently. Holding my shoulders, he kissed the side of my neck.

“Not now,” he said. “But later…”

I began sliding to my knees, but he blocked my descent. “Honey, I know this seems counterintuitive but I have to ask you to stop.” He pulled me closer. “I have a meeting with a very important client. Try to understand.”

One of his clients is interfering with our sex life? I guess there’s a first time for everything.

I gave him a tender smile—and accepted my raincheck obediently, determined to save my pleasure for Matt.

But, this afternoon, during a session at Jasmine’s apartment, my body misbehaved.

Jasmine, under pressure to deliver some “real” action with a girl, had lowered my bra to expose my breasts. Harry, her favorite client, was rubbing his erection against my thigh, urging Jasmine to “get Suzy” (that’s me) “nice and wet.” Her fingertips caressed my nipples and she closed her eyes. Jasmine hates getting too close to another girl’s body, but she’d rather do the hated thing with a girl she likes. An excited-sounding moan (hers) was followed by a wet flicker—Jasmine’s tongue reluctantly touching my breast. I couldn’t hide the fact that my nipples were hard. This fresh tingle, spreading quietly through my flesh, reminded me of my early-morning encounter with Matt.

My nipples are a little too independent. They can’t be told what to do and they don’t want to hide. The pleasures of my pussy are more discreet: they can be obscured by my outer lips. But I can’t tame the visual evidence of a tingling nipple.

As the pleasure grew more intense, I grew more quiet and didn’t mind listening to Jasmine’s fake sound effects. Harry was removing my panties, convinced that Jasmine’s mouth was on its way to the place where I now had my finger. But she stayed firmly on my left nipple. As I touched myself, I kept hoping she wouldn’t suspect me of enjoying her tongue. I wondered if I might even get away with coming, but Jasmine was just too near. She would be horrified if she figured it out!

I turned toward Harry—he was already wearing his condom—and got into a sluttish kneeling pose. Jasmine’s hand was at the base of his cock, guiding the head into my mouth.

“She’s ready for your cock,” Jasmine told him. “She’s wetter than she’s ever been.”

When Harry was finished, he offered a half-baked apology for being premature. As he always is!

“I didn’t give you girls enough time,” he said. “You were just getting warmed up.”

“But I think Jasmine got off.”

“Sure did,” he said. “You have quite an effect on that gal. You’re dangerous together!” Jasmine, now out of earshot, was listening to her telephone messages while Harry dressed. A Town Car was waiting downstairs to take him to his office. When she had closed the door behind him, she apologized for the girl-on-girl action: “These guys get spoiled by other girls and there’s only so much you can do. Or not do.”

Jasmine looked vaguely disgusted, not with herself but with the sorry state of the sexual marketplace. But I was impressed by how little she had gotten away with.

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “It’s just business. And he’s still an easy date.”

“And I raised him!” she said happily. “I got him up to five. This is yours.” She handed me a thick stack of new-looking twenties. “But”—her tone grew darker—“the girls today have no control over their customers! Our guys are trained. These New Girls don’t even know what that means. Harry’s never been a runner,” Jasmine mused.

A runner rarely sees a girl twice—until he’s forgotten her, at which point he can be talked into seeing her under a new name. That’s not Harry.

“But they all stray now,” she said. “Even a regular like Harry. Have you seen what some of these websites are like?”

“No.” I shuddered. “I don’t think Harry would go online. Do you? He’s so…old school, you know?”

He looks like one of those semiwired senior execs who gets a young assistant to open his e-mail, print it, and type a response! Would a guy like that go shopping for lesbian sex online?

“Well, if he’s gonna pull that stuff, I’m glad you’re here. You, I can count on. Once I did a date with Eileen, and she practically had her tongue up my snatch! That girl’s a degenerate at the best of times.”

“I’m sure Eileen was just trying to be helpful—”

“Gratuitous muff-diving is not helpful! Why does any girl do that when it’s not being requested?”

Jasmine’s cell phone interrupted, giving her the last word.

What can you learn about a girl from the way her phone rings? Not, um, how often it rings—I mean the ring she has chosen to announce her callers. Allison’s phone is playing a lot of Brahms lately, because she read on some website that he practically lived in a brothel. (Well, his name was Johannes.) Jasmine’s phone goes off like a smoke detector.

“Allison’s postponing our lunch,” she told me. “She has a customer.”

“You’re kidding. She was so…”

“…psyched about our meeting!” Jasmine agreed. “But she’s practicing some fiscal responsibility for a change. Putting business before boyfriend was never Allison’s default setting.”

It’s Jasmine’s, though. And I sometimes wonder, What’s it like to be Jasmine’s boyfriend? She must have had more than one. She positions herself as such an authority on relationships, but I know very little about her love life. And she claims she has never “shacked up” with a man for longer than a weekend.

“So what about this guy?” Jasmine was saying. “This boyfriend of hers. Sounds like he might be trouble.”

“She says they’re in love.”

“The L-Word. On the second date? Whatever! As long as the guy goes first.”

“God. Allie wouldn’t use the L-Word first—would she?”

“It’s possible,” Jasmine said. “If she did, we’ll find out. Look, is this guy some kind of bedroom freak? Did she tell you anything?”

“Just—there’s something she’s not ready to do! I’m kind of worried.”

The thing that has no name!

Is Lucho pressuring Allie to quit the business? Even though she’s a spokesperson for the Trollops’ Council? Or maybe he’s going to the other extreme and trying to have a threesome with one of us? Does he want to hide in the closet while she turns tricks? That’s the problem with telling a guy you’re in this business. If he doesn’t want you to quit, he thinks you’re a one-woman fantasy fulfillment center. In fact, if a boyfriend knows you’re hooking, it doesn’t matter whether he accepts or rejects it. Either way, he’ll cause trouble and make impossible demands.

It’s the wrinkle, not the war, of the sexes. Allie joined the hookers’ movement thinking she could eradicate this wrinkle, but you can’t reconfigure the male animal with a manifesto.