Dinner was going well. Jerome seemed charming as ever, a bit awkward and overly mild-mannered, but certainly an amusing table companion. But from the way he hemmed and hawed now and then, it was apparent that the guy had something on his mind.
Aside from that, he kept knocking himself out to make me happy, acting like some kind of henpecked husband enjoying his abasement. All evening it had gone on like that, with Jerome leaping to obey as if my slightest wish had great significance for him. And there were moments when my nearness had a noticeable effect on him, too plain to miss, his breathing quickened and his hands clenched and unclenched nervously.
Like a man in love?
I sensed a proposition coming, a very nice proposition, the type worth listening to. He was going to offer to keep me, set me up in an apartment and pay all the bills, I was almost positive of it. And I was already giving the idea some thought. I could quit whoring and still live comfortably. Better yet, as a lady of leisure I'd have plenty of time for Zoe.
True. I'd be losing some of my independence. But not much. Jerome Ackroyd lived in Colorado and traveled all over the country on business-even to Canada and Mexico sometimes, he just wouldn't be around very often. Then too, he wasn't the kind of man to crack a whip over his woman. Just the opposite, in fact. I really like the guy, the only client who had ever treated me so royally on every date, wooing me and staging a seduction when he could have just tossed my creamy little body into bed for that amount of money. Oh shit, with all that going for him, I was sure ready to listen to his proposition.
By the time he appeared on the verge of speaking out, my mind was almost made up. Then, horrors!, his elbow hit a water tumbler and my dress got soaked. He jumped up to help me and we were immediately surrounded by a flock of discreet waiters proffering napkins and towels and sympathy.
"Relax, dear." I threw him my most winsome smile when the fuss had quieted down. "Don't look so forlorn, it's not the end of the world. Let's finish and go to my apartment, shall we? I'll get out of this damp rag and into something dry."
"Clumsy me. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay. Don't grieve."
"But I wanted to take you to a nightclub. A discotheque, perhaps, or some club with a good floor-show."
"No floor-shows, please. Besides, you've got something on your mind tonight, I can tell. Woman's intuition, you know. Let's go to my place, I'll get comfortable and then you can spill it, okay?"
He grinned boyishly. "Spill it. No, thanks. I've done enough spilling for one evening."
I giggled and the mellow mood returned. And I was determined not to let it slip away this time. After all, it isn't every day that a girl gets asked to become a kept woman. And that was obviously his intention; what else could it be?
At the apartment, I told him to fix a drink and started toward the bedroom to change. Then, on second thought, and rather wickedly, I stopped halfway and unzipped my dress and simply shucked it off over my head. To hell with propriety, I figured, this little lady could do no wrong tonight. Whatever I did was going to be just fine with love-smitten Jerome. A nice feeling, nice indeed. All the more so when the hiss of the zipper and the rustle of the dress caught his attention and brought him to a standstill practically in midstep. Like a puppet on a string. My string.
I made a pretense of checking and adjusting the things I still had on, using it as an excuse to strike a few cute poses for my spellbound audience. Fragile bra and wispy panties. High-heeled pumps. All in black, very elegant and a bit depraved. And the sexiest garter-belt and long sheer hose, still the choice with any upper-bracket hooker despite the comparative comfort of pantyhose. A costume to win any candy-daddy's heart and/or wallet. This one almost melted to a puddle of weak manhood on the carpet. At least that was the impression I got.
An accurate impression, as it turned out. I moved past him to sit down on the sofa and he was already sinking to his knees in front of me. He kissed my legs, one dab on each, and then peered up imploringly, his face tense with anxiety.
I tried to relax him. "Like my lingerie and such? I hope you don't mind, dear: I'm wearing sexy stuff in case you've got something sexy to say to me tonight."
He looked puzzled and then shook his head. "No. I wasn't thinking about sex. But I do like your sexy outfit. Dana, you get more beautiful every time I see you."
The puzzlement was all mine. He sure didn't sound like a man about to bargain for a new mistress. I had guessed wrong, no doubt, but he still had something important on his mind tonight, that was certain. He was even trying to say it now, I realized, but my befuddled brain registered only strung-together syllables until 'he blurted the momentous words out, "Darling, will you marry me?", and even then I couldn't cope with the shock.
My head reeled. Marry me? Dana Thorpe, prostitute? The poor guy must have gone plumb crazy. Only his spiel wasn't finished yet and he had become quite coherent, if not downright eloquent, now that the crucial words had been uttered. With only a trace of nervousness, he couched his proposal in terms of money. Not exact sums, just money in general. In large denominations. In large bank accounts and investments and the like. Oh, he loved me, all right, and he said so with touching tenderness. But in view of our disparate ages, he considered money his major asset.
"You'll be comfortable for the rest of your life, darling, long after I'm dead and gone. You've got years ahead of you and I promise you'll be well provided for."
"Jerome, don't talk of dying. That's silly. You're still in the prime of life."
"No. I won't try to fool you. I'm an old man and I've already faced that fact. What's more, I have a heart condition, it's not really bad, but it could get worse, so I'm a sick man too. But I'm rich, my dear, rich enough to make any woman happy. And you're the woman I want. Dana? I want you so much it hurts. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"
"Uh-huh. But I won't marry you just for the money. And that's the only reason you seem to think-"
"Marry me and never mind the reason. Oh, I'm sorry, this is all pretty sudden to you. Don't give me an answer now, take plenty of time, all the time you need. But please don't say no. I'll be good to you, darling, I swear it. You'll never want for anything."
"Please. You mustn't get yourself worked up. Jerome, you've paid me a great compliment and I'll never forget it. But we both know marriage isn't for girls like me, unless I tricked some man into it, of course, and I've got too much pride for that. Hmm. Even that word tricked has a different meaning in my profession. You treat me like a princess, but you're still paying for my services and that makes me a prostitute. I'm a hooker. A whore. I'm not ashamed of it, mind you, quite the contrary, but for your sake, let's stick to tradition and our nice relationship and not get all tangled up in the bonds of matrimony."
Funny thing. He sat there on the floor taking it all in, and yet I saw only love on his seamed face. Even greater love now. It made me feel mighty cheap, seeing his genuine sincerity after my own phony outburst. Well, not phony, but not quite candid either. I had laid it on pretty thick about being a whore, but that was really just to ease my conscience, stressing half the truth to overbalance the stigma of the untold half. What could I say, that I'm a whore who just happens to love another whore? Hey, look at me, I must be a lesbian, I suck a lesbian's juicy pink cunt, I kiss a lesbian's big soft plump ass, I crouch low like a slave and lick the ruby red toenails on a lesbian's feet. Just like a lesbian, a hot little slut of a lesbian; what man in his right mind would want to marry a lesbian?
"Dana. Oh, my dearest one. I love you. That's all I need to know. The past will end when you become my wife."
He took my hand gently, almost afraid to touch me, and buried his lips in the palm, kissing tenderly. His voice had wavered a little, kind of choking up and fading away. I glanced down and saw that his eyes were misty. For a moment I damn near felt that way myself, on the brink of tears. The guy meant it, that was for sure. And such a nice old guy, too, not somebody to take advantage of. No, it wouldn't be fair to marry him under false pretenses, I liked him too much for that. Even if I loved him a little it would still be wrong; how could I become the wife of Jerome Ackroyd when I had this overwhelming desire for Zoe Madrigal? Could I offer him a body that had known its greatest pleasure in a lesbian embrace? A body that turned hot with passion whenever Zoe was nearby? A body that had somehow slipped out of control? No. Not in marriage. But for a commercial consideration, well…
To hell with the wedding, let's have the honeymoon!
I moved my hand, the hand he was still kissing, leading his head downward in a gesture that let him know what my need was. Eyes shining, he gazed up at me in adoration, whispering some compliment about my youth and beauty. I cut it short, my voice thick and throaty and rife with urgency.
"No more talk. Just love me… "
It galvanized him into action. He slumped low and began kissing my legs ardently, not just a pair of tiny pecks this time. I was still partially clothed, still in high heels and nylons. Garter belt. Panties. Bra. But he made no attempt to undress me, nor did I want him to. I was enjoying the sensation of his hot mouth through the fragile fabric of my hosiery.
His kisses glided upward, halting at my knees awhile and then skimming my thighs. A flurry of caresses tickled my skin just above the stocking-tops. At the same moment, quite«dexterously, he reached up and hooked into the waistband of the panties. I leaned back, angling a little and resting on my elbows. That motion was voluntary, but seconds later my hips rose from the sofa with no conscious effort on my part. And then the panties were slipping away and the cool air replacing their warmth, touching me intimately.
I closed my eyes and fell all the way back. The garter straps tightened and tugged at the stockings; it felt constricting but not unpleasantly so. They weren't in the way. Nothing was in the way. Nothing but me! Craving. Demanding. Luxuriating. My body became an object of total sensuality, my flesh quivered and twitched and offered itself to the delight of his lingering caress.
"Dana… darling… darling… "
The words were muffled, scarcely audible, but I could sure feel them. I could feel the hot vibrations in my cunt, the sweet liquid fire communicating itself to the surrounding surfaces. They were the kind of words that required no spoken reply. I was just kissing him back, that was answer enough, kissing his lips with my hairy ones. Although there was just a hint of slightly prickly stubble on his face, too, quite different from my own downy fluff. It felt fine. Scratchy but nice. Tongue too, rough but nice. A thrill I hoped would go on forever. Or for a long time, anyway. Forever was too serious a word to fret about now.
I raised my limbs slowly, careful to avoid dislodging even a whisker of his deeply implanted face. My knees straightened and I opened my eyes to see the elongated projection of my legs encased in the shiny-dull film of nylon. Topped now by upside-down shoes with slim heels pointing toward the ceiling.
They were beautiful, those legs. I only wished dear Jerome could see them from this interesting viewpoint. But he was too busy. And I didn't care to interrupt him, naturally, he seemed more than satisfied to remain right there. Implanted. As if he had found a home that suited him to perfection. Implanted in my cunt. A home he hoped never to leave.
Later, perhaps, I would insist on his leaving it; there were other areas of my body that merited attention, each quite beautiful in its own way. I knew his big rough tongue would go right on lapping even if I turned over and shoved my naked buttocks in his face. My lewdly beautiful ass. It might shock him, perhaps, but that wouldn't matter. I was in control. He would never dream of backing out now. So I could succumb without any petty restrictions to my desire for ever more daringly contrived caresses. I wondered how he would fare with a mouthful of my toes.
Ah yes, soon I would lower my legs and roll this way and that and demand that he follow my twisting and turnings and accept whatever bounty I granted him. And he would do so. I was sure of it. Because it would make me happy, and wasn't that of prime importance to both of us?
Hmm. A novel concept. It was nice to be selfish and still know that it was the right thing to do. Something new in ethics. If I married Jerome our relationship would broaden rather than shrink. I would be his wife and his mistress and his dictator all at the same time, and he would love me all the more for it. I might even become his whore, for old time's sake?, and he would love me all the more for that too, a wealthy young matron recalling her humble origin and subsequent rise from poverty. Not that this young whore was ever impoverished! It. was simply a matter of taking pride in being Mrs. Jerome Ackroyd if that impossibility ever came to pass.
Oh shit, not a chance! Even with this manly muff-diver of mine going at it like a bridegroom down there, I was famished for a taste.of some tawny female flesh. Dying for a whiff of cunty perfume. Would that big beautiful bitch-goddess never let go?