Message-ID: <26347asstr$969012604@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn From: laneboyd@newsguy.com X-Original-Message-ID: <8psdm1$20r@edrn.newsguy.com> Subject: {ASSM} The Anti-Climax <*> (MF) ~ A first story by Lane Boyd Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 06:10:04 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/26347> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, english 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. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> | | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+