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Subject: {ASSM} The Anti-Climax <*> (MF) ~ A first story by Lane Boyd
Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 06:10:04 -0400
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THE ANTI-CLIMAX (MF)
By Lane Boyd
(laneboyd@newsguy.com)

There's nothing I hate more than a client who can't 
come.  As a professional `sex worker', a john who 
can't blow his load is a personal insult.  After 
all, the whole thing about hiring a prostitute is 
titillation - if you're not ready to get your rocks 
off, what in the hell are you doing here in the 
first place?

Usually guys with this problem were long-term 
clients with whom I'd reached a level of intimacy 
that their wives probably couldn't even imagine.  I 
used to ask them why they didn't find another girl 
to get the spark going again?  But most of them 
preferred to stay with me anyway - strange really, 
especially when it cost them at least three hundred 
bucks per `consultation'.  I wondered if they'd 
developed a similar comfort level with me to what 
they had with their wives and partners and found it 
just too complicated to find another girl.  I could 
have recommended someone to them - and quietly 
received a percentage of the take for the new 
custom, too.  We high-quality girls tend to be 
scrupulous about paying our debts to each other.

I only ever lost one long-term client who couldn't 
get it off with me any more and that was an out-
and-out relief.  He was into spanking and 
scratching, and the longer it went, the sorer I 
got.  Losing the five hundred bucks a week was less 
painful than my bum after the doubtful pleasure of 
his company.  And having a red backside and welts 
across your lower back was not exactly a good 
advertisement when you're catering for a more 
refined (read `timid') class of client.  Most of 
them wouldn't recognise an STD if they saw one, so 
they jumped to all kinds of conclusions.  One of 
them even asked me if it were AIDS.  Stupid prick.  
Literally.

Quick bio of Natasha Bjornsdottir.  Okay, so it's 
not genuine but neither are your tits, I bet.  
We're all trying to improve the way others see us 
and having an exotic image is essential for a high-
class hooker.  I'm twenty-eight but can make myself 
look younger.  Tall for a woman - almost five foot 
ten - with natural dark-blonde hair, fair skin and, 
surprisingly, brown eyes. When pushed, I spin a 
line about being descended from a Slavic peasant 
worker who escaped the communist net into Norway, 
then married a local girl, and emigrated to 
Australia, etc, etc.  I've even perfected a light, 
sort-of European accent.  It's not perfect, but the 
new clients are too nervous to notice and the 
regulars don't care.  They know what they want and 
are scrupulous about getting it.  And within a 
specified timeframe.  It can be exhausting 
sometimes, but it's always lucrative and, above 
all, safe - when you're working from your own 
premises with your own contacts, you're a lot less 
likely to be stiffed on payment (a little `in' joke 
there) or slapped around (except for the odd kink, 
who pays extra and only if I have no clients booked 
afterwards).

I'm a long way short of being beautiful but, as a 
woman, being slim, blonde(ish) and having long legs 
can really take you places.  My bum's a bit big 
and, if we're going to be honest, starting to sag.  
But my tits are great - a real gift from God.  Not 
particularly large (Oh, how I used to envy those 
bitches in high school who looked like they could 
feed half the babies in Ethiopia by the time they 
were fifteen), but my breasts have stood the test 
of time and countless lips and tongues as well.  
Still upstanding with small, cherry-red nipples.  
My feelings of inferiority in the gymnasium showers 
quickly evaporated after my first couple of sexual 
encounters.  And the effect never lessened when I 
moved into this trade.  New johns were unlikely to 
last more than a couple of minutes.  Quick and 
easy.  But definitely not cheap.

But I digress.  The cause of my present problem was 
nderneath me.  One of my longest regulars, 
MacDowell Campbell - `Mac' for short - is a big man 
in many ways.  He's chairman of a mining company 
with interests scattered from Western Australia to 
east Africa.  Physically, he's around six-foot-six 
and built strongly with it.  Vigorous white hair, 
shaggy white eyebrows over a patrician nose and 
clear, green eyes.  He has a big booming voice, 
heaps of energy even though he's nearly sixty, and 
boundless confidence.  

A lot of his confidence is probably because he's 
one of only two men I've ever encountered with a 
genuine eight inch cock.  Lots of guys like to 
think they're well hung, but the reality is a lot 
different.  Some are thick, some are thin, but they 
almost all reach between five-and-a-half and six-
and-a-half inches.  Trust me on this; I've done the 
on-the-job research.  

The interesting thing is that dicks can be all 
kinds of shapes and sizes when flaccid, but they're 
nearly identical when they're ready for business.  
And they really do all taste the same, too.  At 
least in my place they do, because anyone who wants 
to be blown has a shower first - with me helping.  
It's all part of the service and you'd be amazed 
how quickly a gentle hand with the lavender-scented 
soap can start things moving.  It speeds things up 
no end and the worst I have to worry about when I 
start is the occasional soap bubble in my sinuses.  
The finish is always a bit messy, but I'm prepared 
for that.  Although I have say that getting a 
facial isn't all it's cracked up to be - I've 
started having trouble with my skin lately and I'm 
beginning to wonder if it isn't work-related.  Not 
the kind of thing you can put in a Worker's 
Compensation Claim for, though.

You may wonder why I can think about all this stuff 
while on the job?  The answer is experience.  I can 
keep my body moving and moan realistically for any 
period of time while I think about anything from 
what's for dinner to my overdue tax return.  My 
eyes are always half-closed and they look a little 
glazed.  Men like that because they think it's 
because of the pleasure they're giving me.  It 
flatters the male ego to think he's so good in bed 
that he can make even a pro feel pleasure.  In this 
case, I'm really wondering how long the KY Jelly 
will last.  Like I said, Mac's a big man and 
there's not much room to manoeuvre when he's well 
inside.  I can feel that he still hasn't hardened 
up that last bit which would indicate approaching 
orgasm.  I've already had two clients today 
(carefully spaced two hours apart) and if this goes 
on, I'm not going to be able to walk in the 
morning.  Time to take executive action.

I looked down at him and realised with a start that 
he was staring attentively at me, and probably had 
been for a while.  It was a considering look, 
passion and desire had nothing to do with it.  It 
made me nervous.

"What's the matter, Lover?  We just don't seem to 
be making it tonight," I asked, careful to add that 
deep tone of affection to my voice.  And it's not 
all put on.  Mac's been a client for nearly four 
years, now, and I can't help but feel he's part of 
my personal life even when I'm trying to keep a 
professional outlook.

"I've just been trying to work out how long you can 
keep up that act."  It was a statement, not a 
question.

"Act, Big Boy?"  When in doubt, try flattery.  Guys 
love it.  But the little laugh I gave sounded false 
even to my own ears.  Change the subject, girl, get 
on with it! "We've been doing this position for a 
while now.  How about we change positions and get a 
bit of spark goin'?  How about doggie style?  
You've always loved that."  Yeah, he loves it but 
you don't, I cursed to myself silently.  Mac's so 
big that when he mounts me from behind, I feel like 
my lower intestines are being rammed up through my 
stomach.  I have indigestion for hours afterwards.  
And when his weight comes on, it drives me half-way 
across the bed, especially when he gets on to the 
short strokes.  He gets his rocks off and I get 
fabric burn on my nose.  God, we women suffer in 
the line of duty!

He gave me a half-smile and moved sideways from 
underneath me as I lifted myself off him.  The 
condom was pulled half off, indicating that the 
lubricant had almost all gone.  No pain - yet - but 
I'd have to use some more before we started again.  
Clients hate to see that - it destroys that glowing 
image they've built up about their own prowess.  
Hence the number of pros who need to `just pop to 
the loo' before they get into it - there's usually 
a large tube of lubricant stowed discretely nearby.

As I watched, Mac's penis drooped visibly, 
loosening the condom even more.  Shit, I thought, 
if I didn't act soon the whole evening would fall 
flat.  Pardon the pun.  One thing about Mac - he 
believed in getting value for money.  If he didn't 
get off, I didn't get paid and that was a problem - 
now an urgent problem.  It was going to have to be 
an impromptu blowjob and without delay.  Shit, 
shit, shit!  Wrapping your lips around a mouthful 
of condom lubricant was not a happy taste 
sensation.  I always imagined the taste as being 
similar to sump oil, myself, and I'd never gotten 
used to it.  Still, it was now or never.

With a practised hand, I quickly pulled the condom 
off and took Mac into my mouth.  He gave a grunt of 
surprise and I felt him harden inside my mouth.  I 
began to gently slide my hand up and down his 
shaft, sliding my hand around his testicles and 
squeezing them gently on the down stroke.  He 
sighed deeply and I felt the tension drain out of 
his large body.  Well, well, I thought smugly, 
another victory for the workers.  Taste-wise, I 
felt like a sea-bird caught in the spill from the 
Exxon-Valdez.

I realised abstractly that this was almost a repeat 
of the first time we had done business - minus the 
suspicions of course.  Until then, I'd only kept 
standard sized condoms on the premises (an economic 
decsion based on my `studies' that I mentioned 
before).  I'd deftly slipped one onto Mac before 
he'd got fully hard and it fit fine.  But when he 
got completely erect, the condom was - to put not 
too fine a point on it - too small.  Quite a bit 
too small, really.  The lip around the end had 
pressed into his penis about an inch-and-a-half up 
from the base.  It must have impeded the blood-flow 
back down the shaft because his penis just got 
harder and harder and deeper and deeper purple.  
I'd heard about similar problems with guys who wore 
straps around their penises to delay ejaculation 
for too long.  I knew of at least two cases where 
the Fire Brigade had been called.  Not exactly a 
life or death situation but I'm sure the firemen 
had the right tool for every occasion.

Mac and I had a lot of fun with his engorged penis 
for a while (hey, he's a very imposing guy and I'm 
not above enjoying myself in the line of duty).  
But then the pain started and I ended up having to 
cut off the condom with a pair of nail scissors.  
Very, very carefully, and he was in a cold sweat by 
the time I'd finished.  There's nothing like waving 
a cutting implement around a man's most precious 
organ to command his full attention.

My attention returned to the present as Mac's penis 
hardened further.  He was about to come (At last, I 
thought uncharitably).  I held him firmly and 
stiffened my tongue to press down underneath the 
head of his penis.  He groaned as I pushed down 
across the glans and along the base of the penis.  
Again, then a third time, and he was coming - 
shooting into my mouth for what seemed like forever 
as I squeezed his penis with one hand and his 
testicles with the other.  I'm not big on 
swallowing but I thought it was time to make an 
exception.  My apologies to the readers of 
Penthouse, but I didn't find it necessary to insert 
a finger into his anus.  I still have a tendency to 
bite my nails, so I've never been a fan of that 
technique - and, for the record, I've never met 
anyone else in the trade who is, either.

Afterwards, Mac lay like a dead man on the bed, his 
eyes closed, the shock of white hair tousled, 
barrel chest heaving like a bellows.  That will 
teach you to say I was acting, I thought 
rebelliously, as I went into the bathroom to wash 
and, above all, to gargle some mouthwash.

I was shocked when I came out of the bathroom to 
find him fully dressed.  He had moved out of the 
bedroom into the dining area and was laying the 
money onto my white dining table, as he always did 
just before leaving.  One of my younger friends in 
the trade had once asked me why I had a unit 
furnished entirely in white.  `Surely something 
darker would have been more practical than this 
high maintenance stuff?' Richelle had asked in her 
matter-of-fact tone (which didn't change even when 
we were acting out a lesbian fantasy for a well-
heeled client).  `I mean some wood tones would have 
broken things up and hidden the dust at the very 
least.'  `Ah yes,' I'd replied blithely, `but I'm 
more interested in hiding the semen.'  She sighed 
deeply and shook her head.  Richelle was always 
shaking her head at me.

Mac looked across at me.  He started to say 
something, then hesitated.  "Do you have to leave 
so soon?" I asked.  "Usually, I give you a 
massage."

He sighed, then took a deep breath as though 
preparing himself for something distasteful that 
had to be done.

"Natasha, I'm afraid I have to tell you that this 
is the end of our ... our liaison.  This was the 
last time.  I'm sorry it wasn't more happy and 
relaxed for both of us."

I couldn't take in what he was saying.  "I don't 
understand, Mac.  The last time this week, this 
month ... what do you mean?"

"I mean the last time, ever, Natasha," he said, his 
voice very deep and definite.  "I've been 
approached to stand for preselection for the 
Federal Parliament.  It's been made clear to me 
that any little irregularities in my business or 
personal life must disappear.  I'm afraid that 
means the complete end to our relationship.  We 
can't see each other any more.  I'm sorry.  I want 
you to know I enjoyed your ... company..."

A roaring had started in my head, I couldn't hear 
clearly.  I was seeing him through a haze.  I knew 
I was babbling like a child, but I didn't know how 
to stop.  Where was the professional Natasha when I 
needed her?  Why did I revert to plain Joanne 
Robinson in times of high stress?

"I don't believe this, I don't.  There's got to be 
someone else.  That's it, isn't it?  You've taken 
up with Richelle since we did that twosome for you.  
She looks seventeen without make up -- you're just 
after the younger model, I know. . ."

He approached me suddenly, cutting off my stream of 
argument.  For a fleeting moment, I thought he was 
going to hug me and the thrill of relief through my 
body was painful.  Then I found myself sideways on 
the floor, the breath knocked out of me.  It took a 
couple of seconds to realise he had hit across 
the side of the head.  Not in the face, thank God, 
there was no blood.  Carefully planned like all his 
actions.

I was too shocked to cry or speak.  I had never 
been struck by a regular client, especially since I 
had got out of the bars and off the streets into 
the high-quality game.  Being hit by Mac of all 
people was emotionally shattering.  We'd been close 
for four years and I couldn't pretend he was 
just another roaming prick with money.  When he 
spoke again, his voice sounded as breathless and 
strained as mine.  But he was implacable.  "I'm 
sorry for that Natasha, but I can't have you 
getting hysterical and screaming.  You do have 
neighbours, and I can't afford a public row.  You 
must understand that I'm serious.  This is the end.  
I can't see you again.  Ever.  I'm sorry."

Mac bent over and reached out to me, but I recoiled 
from his hand.  "Don't touch me again!  Never!"

For a moment Mac glared at me, his normal reaction 
to having his will crossed.  Then he sighed and 
half-smiled regretfully.  He walked across the 
lounge room to the front door of the unit, then 
turned back to look at me.  "I want you know that 
you're wrong.  There is no other girl.  There never 
has been.  It's just an unavoidable change in 
circumstances."

My voice was thin, but very clear.  "You already 
sound like a politician, you bastard.  Try telling 
all that to your wife.  Poor trusting bitch.  Will 
she whore for you, too?"

Mac's face turned blank and hard and he took half a 
step back into the room.  Oh shit, now he's going 
to kill me, I though desperately and began to slide 
backwards along the carpet.  Maybe I can reach the 
phone, dial 000 before he gets to me.  But Mac had 
stopped after that first step, and we stared at 
each across the lounge room.  A little expression 
came into his face and his voice, when it came, 
carried only resignation.  "No, my dear, my wife is 
certainly not trusting.  And with good cause, as we 
both know.  She certainly is a bitch, though, and 
there's nothing she wants more than to be a Federal 
Minister's wife.  In addition to being a colossal 
snob, Lucia has visions of using my office to find 
out nasty information about her so-called friends.  
In her own way, she certainly will do her best to 
whore for my election, as you so eloquently put it.  
I'm sorry we couldn't have parted friends, Natasha, 
I'll miss you."

Mac turned and walked briskly out of the door, 
closing it firmly behind him.  The door's thud into 
the jamb had the sound of complete finality about 
it.  I heard the sound of his BMW starting, then 
turning around the useless roundabout in the unit 
carpark, then fading into silence as it travelled 
away.  Out of my unit, out of my street and out of 
my life.

I used the edge of the table to pull myself up.  I 
walked calmly into the bedroom, then collapsed 
across the bed as my legs turned to jelly.  I could 
smell the strong scent of his body on the sheets.  
For a girl who prided herself on being modern and 
independent, I had turned into a real sucker for 
a man of the old school.  I realised belatedly that 
Mac had become a fixture in my life who meant far 
more to me than I had realised.  Not exactly a 
father-figure - I really wasn't into images of 
incest, even when I was dressed up in a school 
uniform with my hair in pig tails.  But he'd been a 
strong, masculine constant in my life for four 
years who I had come to trust, and who I 
subconsciously believed had also depended on me.

So why did he have to hit me if I meant something 
to him, I asked myself bitterly?  Why didn't he 
just say goodbye and leave?  Rational thought 
intervened.  You know why, I told myself firmly.  
To make sure I knew it was real, that there was no 
point chasing him, hanging around his home and 
work, embarrassing him in front of his colleagues 
and family.  To make it end here and now.  And to 
show me I'm a hooker, pro, sex worker, whore, 
whatever you want to call it, and not to be taken 
as seriously as a wife even if she's an untrusting 
bitch.

I cried silently for a long time.  Partly from 
pain, partly from shock, but mainly from sorrow.  
Sorrow for losing him, sorrow because the bastard 
had shown me who I really am in today's society, 
sorrow for the lost self-esteem and pride that I 
knew I'd never fully recover.

He needn't worry, I thought distractedly.  There'd 
be no attempt by me to get back in touch.  No 
telephone calls, no hanging around outside his 
house or in the lobby of his office, no anonymous 
contact with the media.  He was back on his path 
and I was back on mine.  He was a business leader 
and pillar of the community; I was a sex worker who 
supported the cash economy.  We were where we'd 
always really been, even when our paths intersected 
twice a week.  I was strong and I knew I could get 
over it.  Enough to keep my `career' moving and pay 
the bills, anyhow.  

I guess the whole evening had been an anti-climax, 
really.  Thank God I didn't have another client 
booked tonight.

ends

Contact author at laneboyd@newsguy.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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