Anticipation and Satisfaction

As she made her way home, she became cognizant of the fact that she was not nearly as distraught as she thought she might be—thought she should be. In some strange way she thought that she had actually dodged a bullet.

Next morning, she felt conspicuously silly, as she stepped into Dwayne's office wearing a denim skirt, white blouse and heels.

"That's fine to start," Marshall allowed, giving her the once over. "We'll work on it as we go." Caroline waited nervously in the bar as Marshall dealt with various people. She braced herself with a couple shots.

Straightening her shoulders, she stood and headed for the back door of pub, when Marshall beckoned her. The doorway led out to a rear parking lot out of sight of the street, where Marshall gave her her initial assignments. She participated woodenly in the first couple quickies—a hand-job, a blowjob, and a doggie-style in the back seat of a crew-cab pickup—in a daze. But it was not as horrendous as she had expected, and it became easier as the afternoon progressed.

The subsequent days came and went in much the same way. In between assignations she had time to think about partitioning her life—keeping things separate, even more so than she already was. She must be careful not to raise suspicion at home—although part of her felt that would be an easy way to end the mortification. Truth was, however, that she'd already accepted that, physically, it was actually not really bad at all. Indeed, on a purely carnal level, it was way better than her vibrator.

Initially she had to work at dissociating herself from the situation, but as that got easier, she concluded that booze didn't actually help at all. It was, even, detrimental, especially if she wanted to stay sharp.

Unbeknownst to her, Caroline was working under a concise rate schedule: outdoor parking lot action was cheapest—twenty-five dollars each for a straight, stand-up fuck, a handjob, or a blowjob; back seat action—fifty dollars; hotel rooms, in the hotel attached to the bar—seventy-five dollars per. Gang bangs were yet to be broached. The administrative fee—the pimp's cut—was fifty percent.

Caroline quickly got used to the routine, and still found time to gamble away her allowance. In relatively short order, she had an epiphany. She had been telling herself 'it's only sex', then, suddenly, she really and truly comprehended the meaning of that cliché. Clear as day, to her, at least, it meant that there was a complete absence of abstract feelings, like love and consideration, in what she was doing; there was just carnal sensation—arousal and release.

These guys didn't give a shit about her, so why should she give a shit about them. She realized she need actively participate in the fucking only to the extent that it helped her partner generate the desirable sensation required to pleasure her, perhaps, one of these days, to attain orgasm.

Once she'd gotten over the shame of her circumstances, the repellent nature of her situation, she began to feel some appreciation of the attendant mixture of naughtiness, excitement, and trepidation. It was almost seductive. And in the light of this new appreciation, she was amazed how incredibly protected her upbringing had been —how stifled.

Still, she was surprised with herself at the realization that she actually found back seats exciting. Indeed, she had discovered that the discomfort of copulation in an automobile was more than made up for by the intensely intimate closeness. During active back-seat sex you could almost feel your bodies fusing—merging, albeit briefly, into one. And besides the creative contortions, there was the risk of a casual audience—and the fast pace. Any back-seat sex was, almost by definition, a quickie.

Caroline rapidly found herself looking forward to assignations with clients. If she ever knew any of their real names, she couldn't recall. To her, they were just faceless men, apparitions—all named John. Still, anticipation became a brilliant rush, a need that was, at least partially, satisfied by the completion of sex—that is, with the john cumming. It often felt like a lull in the storm of desire, there was a sense of temporary contentment. But the desire was not truly satisfied, not really quenched until she found herself approaching orgasm—indeed, reaching the point-of-no-return.

Caroline's first on-the-job orgasm was in the back of an old 'shaggin' wagon' van, with a middle-aged long-hair straight out of the seventies. A/V cords hung from the walls, an air mattress lay on the carpeted floor. As the doors closed, Caroline headed straight for his fly, but he unexpectedly stopped her. "First, show me them boobs." Flipping down her top to bare her breasts, he dove into them like a man starving. Throwing an arm around her shoulder, he gathered her in, almost desperate in his sucking and chewing and pulling on her nipples. Caroline's tits hadn't had that sort of attention for quite a while, and really showed their appreciation by standing up proud and firm. The john's other hand snaked under her skirt, and, discovering no underwear, began to prod and poke along her moistening furrow, dipping in to gather her dew. Flattening his hand against her, and in her, his thumb began to gently swirl her clit.

Caroline leaned back and enjoyed the unexpected stimulation, sporadically reaching in to attempt to release his growing tool. By the time she had exposed his impressive woodie she was tingling, on the verge. Finally, letting her well-tongued nips drop from his mouth, her client swung his leg over hers and, stabbing urgently, pushed himself fully into her pulsing pussy. Her orgasm exploded as he touched bottom, flooding her senses. They laid there insensate until Marshall slapped the side of the van, signaling time.

After that, climaxes came with increasing regularity, although not really frequently; but even when she didn't cum, feeling good became de rigueur. Orgasms represented a sort of Pavlovian reward—happening often enough to keep her hopeful. Indeed, reaching climax herself soothed her and quelled the need for a while.

It was a relatively short time before she was introduced to anal intercourse, and she quickly came to like it, even revel in it: spongy glans pressed against her rosebud; a stiff shaft bulling its way up her bum; the fleshy rod being grasped tightly by her rectal sheath; the long strokes that generally dried up any lubricant; and the heat generated by the ensuing friction, rising higher and higher; if it was long enough, the stiffness prodded her inner reaches, trying to straighten out her bowel; the invading cock, swelling and quaking, until the spasms culminated in a spray of cooling liquid relief that, after another stroke or two, lubricated the dark channel once again.

In some ways, it was like a game, and Caroline was just getting into her role. First, she got hair cut short, then she bought a big, blonde wig. Then she took to frequenting the local sex-shop—collecting hooker-wear—the accoutrements of prostitution: stilettoes—CFM heels; lace and leather garters; fishnet stockings; split-crotch panties and G-strings—not that tiny thongs were all that exotic anymore; lubes and lotions; condoms—plain, textured, coloured, and flavoured; as well as dildoes and vibrators, of which she was gathering quite a collection; even 'novelty' items, like nipple-clamps and anal beads.

She assured Marshall that she would be available—ready and willing—most afternoons and some evenings—mainly when Neil was out of town. While Dwayne saw her continued compliance as evidence of a crushed will and profound fear of exposure, for Caroline it became less about acceding to demands and more about feeding desires. The whole situation had become more of an adventure than an ordeal; an experience she faced eagerly.

Earlier on, Caroline had been advised to take on an alias—a working name. She chose Sandi Carroll. Curiously, she kept her wedding-ring on—initially to avoid the risk of misplacing it, but it soon became a prop. She took to correcting the johns who called her Sandi, saying, "It's Mrs. Carroll to you!" So, although she generally introduced herself as Sandi Carroll, her working name became Mrs. Carroll.

Marshall continued to provide her with a small cash allowance, which she always considered her gambling money, and blew it at the races. Hence, she was so busy with gambling or fucking she was hardly at home during the day and continually rushed home to try—with limited success—to be there by dinner in case her hubby got back in time, or called, though, as often as not, he worked very late at the office or in his home office and didn't surface until bedtime, if at all.

Suffering through another sleepless night—the bed beside her was not empty that night, although she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not—lying awake next to Neil, who quietly snored, dreaming of profits and markets, sales and stocks, she felt guilty about what she was doing. Still, exercising the all-too-human trait of rationalizing, she was willing to shift at least part of the blame to Neil, himself—for neglecting her—for putting his job before his wife.

Idly masturbating, stroking herself, with a vibrating dildo, a bulbous pink spongy device she hadn't turned on, she considered her lot—her plight. She was, by now, constantly distracted by her cravings—the smoldering fires of addiction. Of course, at even the slightest mention of addiction, Caroline would be in full denial. "I'm too smart for that," she easily convinced herself. "Besides, I can stop whenever I choose to." And, she would never, ever accept that addiction lies exactly there; in the not choosing to stop."

Ever the analyst, her guilt-driven insomnia gave her plenty of time to think. And during those wakeful nights, she developed her own theory of sexual pleasure. Each complete pleasure unit, she theorized, was comprised of four ordered components: anticipation, arousal, climax, & satisfaction. Any pleasure required at least two of the components. Either of the first two alone resulted in frustration. Either of the last two singularly made no sense. Although, lying there laconically stroking her slit, she wasn't sure how viable her theory was. "But, what the fuck?" she sighed, as the sensations between her legs gradually grew in intensity.

Caroline had shaved her pussy one morning, to facilitate quick clean up and minimal odor. It took her husband over a week to notice. "Just trying to spice things up," she explained.

He was, once again, apologetic for his negligence, but pleaded, "Gotta just get me through the next five months." He'd also failed to notice that the classy way she had carried herself was fading, being subtly replaced with a sort of unseemly skankiness. "Please, hang in there," was the only advice he could offer.

Still trying to juggle her increasingly complicated double life - or was it triple-life, she was in danger of becoming overwhelmed. She knew she was neglecting things around the home—the mundane parts of her life. She just couldn't find time—couldn't make time—for her domestic duties. The house had begun to look abandoned—unwashed dishes gathering on the counters, laundry accumulating, her clothing piling up in disarray.

One morning, before he left for work, Neil had looked about and remarked on the growing mess. "What do you do with your time?" he asked.

"If you only knew," Caroline thought, but she simply said, "Gym. Library. Mission. I stay very busy."

"Perhaps you should get someone in—to help," but his attention was soon distracted, once again, from all things domestic.

Over time, Caroline discovered there was a keen anticipation to hunger and thirst—high energy sensations that intensified the expectation of fulfilment, that glowed in her mind until she gave in. She found that if she didn't eat until she was ravenous, didn't drink until she was gasping, bingeing on fast food, and guzzling water gave her a keen rush of satisfaction. Indeed, the intense need in being really hungry simulated feelings of erotic desire, or feelings that were so similar as to make no difference; and sating that hunger resulted in stimulation that was very much akin to sexual satisfaction.

The same was the case with other essential bodily needs, apparently. Even her toileting and sleeping began to play into her constant desire for arousal— the constant interplay of anticipation and satisfaction. Consequently, she didn't stop to take a crap until her bowels were achingly full; didn't take a pee until her swollen bladder was screaming for relief— glittering on the keen edge of unbearable, raw desire. And she enjoyed the pain of the fundamental need as much as she enjoyed the eventual flood of relief. As well, keeping herself awake for long periods charged her up; feeling as keenly invigorating as the satisfaction of finally surrendering to sleep. Intriguingly, they all took on a sort of acquired eroticism, in which she reveled.

Caroline almost felt guilty acknowledging that she was now enjoying herself, and the new aspects of her life, far more than she ever did her old 'normal' existence. The incredible highs of anticipation and satisfaction were beginning to blot out all the gray bits in between. More and more, she felt she had no time for mere day-to-day existence. There was even a sort of soothing contentment that existed between the thrill of anticipation and the relief of satisfaction—sort of a prelude to arousal and climax. It was rather amorphous, and variable in length: very short in quenching thirst; or taking a pee; a bit longer during taking a crap. While feeding ones hunger it lasted longer; and placing a bet at the track could be longer still, depending on the length of the race, the crowds, and the pomp and circumstance. The period of contentment during sex was the most variable, though; from very short for a wham-bam quickie, to almost interminably long with a guy having trouble—the pitch of the attendant arousal, and the height of the climax varied incredibly.

Anticipation, satisfaction—arousal, climax, contentment—all segments of the same spectrum—the spectrum of erotic sensation. And each point on that spectrum could differ in strength and intensity; just as there can be many varieties of 'green'—varyingly bright, pale, and vivid—there can be an infinite variety of sensual stimuli. Notwithstanding, sometimes the contentment phase simply petered-out—arousal failing to even initiate—without ever achieving anything resembling satisfaction.

At times, during periods of contentment, Caroline pondered, wondering, "What has happened to me? How did I end up adrift in this sea of unmitigated hedonism?" She was smart - she was a financial analyst, for cryin' out loud! "How can this be?" How had she become this... this completely unrepentant hedonist? While her rational mind rejected it all, her moral cornerstones were in such disarray that her current perception—in tatters—was unable to judge.

Just as call-girl was a euphemism for prostitute, and the new euphemism for call-girl was intimate companion, the other end of the prostitution scale was, she supposed, hooker, or street-walker; lady-of-the-evening, or slag; or just plain whore. "I mean, let's call a spade a spade," she silently proclaimed. "That's what I am. A whore—no more, no less."

Subconsciously, Caroline had already realized, albeit helplessly, hopelessly, impotently, that she had compounded one addiction with another - gambling and sex, together, although, interestingly, she had never touched drugs, and, nowadays, rarely booze. For that she was thankful. Still, while remaining unwilling to even contemplate it, she was, in fact, seriously addicted to the highs and lows of her simple desires.

Not long into what she sometimes wryly considered her dissolution, Dwayne had organized a motel gangbang for her, which was destined to become a regular, every second Saturday, event. Of course, Caroline understood they were compulsory, at least until she had worked off her debt—whenever that'd be. Still, she left all the details up to Dwayne or Marshall, telling herself, foolishly, that she trusted them—WTF?

"Gangbang," she murmured, swirling the word around her mouth. Now, there was something different. And, indeed, her very first multiple-partners experience was an eye-opener. It seemed a bit stilted, a bit awkward to begin with, as Caroline wasn't at all sure how to commence. Ultimately, taking a deep breath, and throwing her shoulders back, she strode over to the bed with a confidence she didn't really feel, peeled her clothes off, and flopped down on her back. "I'll let you guys figure out who's going in what order," she announced. After that, things got going quickly.

As the first fellow dropped his pants and pushed a serviceable erection firmly into her waiting cunt, she felt it somewhat peculiar, doing it while others watched. As it became apparent that it was her show—she was the director, the idea of playing for an audience suddenly became a real turn-on. Her first partner had barely finished cumming when a second guy pushed him aside and stabbed balls-deep into her dripping quim. After one or two more, she was abruptly flipped over onto all fours. Fucking doggy-style was old hat, so she shouldn't have been surprised when someone else pushed his cockhead insistently against her lips; but she was. Dividing her attention was distracting at first but rapidly became quite delightful. Mouth and pussy, mouth and ass, either way the pleasure was almost overwhelming. It seemed, the arousal was not simply cumulative, it was compounding. The interplay of caresses and insertions was complex and intense.

Only an hour into her first gangbang, her whole body tingling and trembling under the novelty of double stimulation, Caroline was puzzled when the cock behind her was pulled swiftly from her pussy, then jammed, just as swiftly, into her ass. Only vaguely aware of the chatter surrounding her, she wondered just what they meant by 'airtight'. But she didn't have much time to ponder, as another of the randy crew slithered beneath her, then pulled on her hips, impaling her on his impressive woodie, and sliding her down until he was fully ensconced. "Ahhh!" Now she understood. Airtight. That's what they were congratulating themselves about. Smiling to herself, Caroline turned her attention back to finding a manageable rhythm among the now three throbbing penetrations. She detected the building climaxes to each of the three cocks, competing with one another, filling her orifices. Her own apex orgasm would not be far behind.

The sensations ignited by the swelling, throbbing erections, pummeling her, were stoking the building inferno, building in her fundament. Rocking and bouncing, grunting and whining, she felt her body quiver as her knees got weak. Her arms wobbled uncontrollably, threatening to fold under her, but at that moment, hands gripped her ears and pulled her tight, forcing the swollen, spurting shaft deep into her throat. The scalding issue, pouring into her gullet, threatening to drown her, detonated her own climax,

Her squealing, muted by the twitching rod filling her throat, heralded an overpowering quivering and quaking. Caroline's body shook and flopped, trying at once to hold itself firmly on the triple penetrations, while threatening to tear itself free of the impaling cocks. The spasms continued as the intruders jetted their loads of spunk fully into her, but, eventually, her awareness shrinking to a small, pulsating spot, she toppled off the threesome, who were already being replaced by their other cohorts. Arousal and satisfaction lapping at her psyche in waves, the afternoon seemed to go on, somehow removed from time, until the other participants had left, and Caroline returned incrementally to some sort of reality.