Magdalene Monroe

Wearing slinky spaghetti straps out to Michelin-starred Italian restaurants sitting across from a Hefner as wandering gazes wondered if I was a daughter, gold digging wife, or even worse, what I actually am.

Staggering around on the Amsterdam cobblestone, hanging off the arm of a Sterling while picking at a gourmet apple pie that I didn't have to go dutch for.

Men who needed a companion. Men who needed their abject loneliness alleviated. Men who love that I don't treat social media like 'Dear Diary.' Men who would pay the full price tag for the minimum of work. Men who fumble around trying to find the correct hole, get their two or three little pumps in, and roll over and complain about their nagging wife and ungrateful kids. Men like the pastor.

"My oldest one gets it. But this one... I don't know," He snarls, shaking his head. "That boy there walks to the beat of his own meat. Has hands this big. Quarterback hands. Could've been the next Tom Brady. But all he wants to do is build sissy ass furniture and make love to the only girl he's ever been with... and only missionary style at that. I mean, it's cool. It's boring, but it's cool. But it disappoints me that he's not taking advantage of the intensity of our blessed bloodline," he continues, damn near pulling his pants up to his navel before buckling it. "Maybe he just needs to try it out with a girl like you. I bet you can give him a good exorcism."

"An exorcism?" I chuckle.

"Yeah, girl," he coos, coming up to kiss me on the cheek. "A girl like you gives exorcisms daily, turning every head in the room when you walk through."

Cute, but ugh. I smile.

"I'll see if I can set it up somehow," he says, putting on his jacket. "Can't be directly. He don't like talkin' to me about that type of thing. But God blessed me with the ability to convince anyone to act in a desired manner."

And convince him, he did. Turns out that big bro had a little more luck talking to the baby boy about this type of thing. Turns out Little Le Corbusier had been having a few recurring impure thoughts that he unfiltered with a strong bottle of roadhouse whiskey. Big brother set up a meeting for us between the aforementioned business acquaintance, my faithful client. He only asked for me not to tell him of his father's extracurriculars, and not telling is what I do best.

"Go make yourself a drink and I'll be down in two shakes of a lamb's tail," says the rouge lips on the 58" QLED in the hotel room. "The bar is by the fireplace." I pour another gulp of Tito's into my now watered down screwdriver and swirl it around in the glass. I usually don't drink much when new clients are involved, but the prep work for anal isn't my favorite and can be time consuming and unpredictable. Plus, the father made him seem as unthreatening as imaginable. But I'd taken my Imodium like the little twinks in West Hollywood taught me and the water had ran clear two douches ago. I hadn't taken on a new client in about a year and was getting those jitters again.

"A million fucking times," I whisper to myself in the mirror, inspecting myself in the devil red La Perla lingerie and Louboutins the pastor just paid for. "Just clench down hard and we'll be done soon." A set of meek knocks beat from the door, barely audible over the cacophony of Jack Rabbit's Slim blaring from the TV. I give myself one last once-over and clack towards the door. Placing my hand on the handle, I repeat to myself again, "a million fucking times. You've done this a million fucking times. A million fucks." But no mantra could sooth the anxiety that takes over my body as soon as I swing the door open.

Here I am, expecting some Micky Mouse American with soft hands, but standing in front of me was a man with Hollywood-ready looks and a NFL-primed body. Pure entertainment. I can tell from his expression that he was shell-shocked too, and immediately remember my role. He looks both ways down the hotel corridor, as if to make sure he wasn't followed, before slinking past the door and shutting it just as quickly, practically shoving me out of the way. I can smell on him that the alcoholic genetic had been passed down. Before officially acknowledging me, he kind of surveys the room.

"So you're a friend of Mike's," I say, warming up into the typical choreographed introduction.

"Not really," he responds in an earnest Southern accent. "Helps my family out with some money stuff. None of my business."

"I'm Mary," I say, after an awkward beat. He finally looks at me and flashes a nervous smile. "Would you like a drink?"

He looks at the bottle of vodka sitting on the console.

"Ah. No thanks. Clear liquor turns me into a mean drunk like my dad." He puts his hands in his pockets and begins to look around again in order to avert direct eye contact. "Love this movie."

I move towards the bed and his eyes follow me as I lay down seductively and finger him over. That usually gets the geezers going, but those were men who used to jack off to Sears catalogs, not ones who grew up searching for 'gapping anal creampies' in 1080 HD. He pulls his hands out of his pockets, one of them revealing a wad of green bills and holds it out.

"Do I just give it to you or do you want me to put it somewhere?" He sets it down next to the bottle and wipes off his hands. Admittedly, I love it when they seem green and nervous. It gives me a sense of dominance and makes the production run a little smoother. With that, my anxiety dissipates and I get off the bed and walk over to him, taking control and pulling his face into mines. His anxiety xeroxes mines as he falls into me and I feel his calloused hands caressing the bottom of my back.

Still locked in an embrace, We begin backing up towards the bed until I'm sitting down on the edge of it. He's slightly bent over me and even with my eyes closed, I can see him stepping on the heels of his cowboy boots and kicking them off. And then, still kissing me, he picks me up, and crawls on the bed, dropping me down on my back when there's enough mattress for us to comfortably sprawl out on. He lets his 220 hard pounds sink into me. We kiss for a little while longer, but every man is a man-child, and he begins to inch his way down towards the... you guessed it. He grabs them both in his hands and plays around with them, squeezing them, pushing them together, kissing them. The bra gets pulled to the side and he takes his tongue and circles the areola a few times before putting the entire prize in his mouth. He sucks politely. No milk would be produced from the suction he was initiating. His beard sweeping the circle while he sucked softly caused a mass sensation.

Money can open legs, but it doesn't exactly get a girl flowing down there. That type of lubrication only forms when the beast has been woken up inside of her. I hadn't even noticed how long mines had been hibernating until I looked down and noticed those green eyes starring up at me. That beast that would see a man and wonder what it would be like to test ever single one of his erogenous zones. My god and my devil. I reach down and grab his face, pulling him into me again. I arch off the bed to officially take my bra off and unbutton his flannel before flipping over on top of him.

I can't wait any longer. Every man has his own surprise. My hands dance gracious in a ballet I've performed so many time. The belt unbuckles and slides loose. The button unclasps. The zipper does what its names suggests. He lifts his butt up as I grip the waist of his blue dungarees and pull them down toward his ankles. A thick erection is trapped behind a pair of tighty whiteys. I ignore the fact that this grown man is wearing tighty whiteys and proceed to perform the same act on them when I'm greeted to a quick flickering and a loud thud.

It's very rare when you're presented with the Holy Trinity: a man who looks good, has a great body, and a dick that was so heavy with blood, you could see the veins running blue. A saintly object, worthy of worship. I prepare myself for a Super Soaker slurp session. He's cut, but there's still enough thick flesh to pull up into a mini foreskin, which I take my tongue and swirl between that and the head which makes him squirm around. He's a groaner. A grunter, not a moaner. As I take it in deeper, my tongue brushes against the spongy underside as the grip of my lips pushes the blood back in his pronounced dorsal vein. Spit trickles down my fingers as I maneuver it up and down the shaft while working the head, but then I lose the hand and take it all the way to the hilt. He lets out a gruff yelp, wrapping his Heisman hands around my jaws and practically yanks me off of his dick, pulling me into an embrace. His tongue flickers mines more organically than the pastor. The passion must've came from his mothers side. Only seconds after I start up again, he repeats his actions. This is a tactic men use when their motor begins to run too hot.

"I usually get no pleasure from that," he exclaims with a grin on his face. "God, you're amazing." Thats what happens when Jesus directs you to marrying your high school sweetheart who sucks dick like an asexual lesbian. He never got to explore.

His cock is wagging around like a cocker spaniel looking at the Volvo pulling in from the window. I can tell that he's trying to will his babies back down into the ovals that house them, so I decide to stay up here for a while, tasting the sour mash on his tongue, becoming drunker in the excitement. Hoping we could stay here just like this, fucking until we both had obligations. There's nothing outside of this bedroom except for wars, famine, responsibilities. But then he spits on it. His hand.

He wraps his arm around my thigh and smothers his dick in the sour saliva, nodding at me. I reach behind me and pinch the scarlet thread to the side, which was the only thing blocking his entrance, and slowly guide him into me, pushing my sphincter out until it stretches enough to accommodate the girth. His breathing intensifies as he feels me carefully sinking into him. Once the initial bruising is over, I take my hands that were pulling apart my asscheeks and place them on his thumping chest. I'm ready to completely submit to him now, but he continues gently. His eyes squeezed shut, taking in the new sensation that he hadn't known nature to offer.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he exhales. I can feel the cold scratchiness of his wedding ring as his hands makes its way up my thighs and grips my ass, pulling me up, pushing me down, at his tempo. Experiencing and providing profound pleasure. I thank whatever deity approves of this. For this world. For this moment. The Garden of Eden can survive a drought.

The novelty subsides and his pumps become more energetic. He opens his eyes and stares at me with hunger. His hands rummage the proximity of my body that his joints allows him to reach in this position with an urgency that if he didn't do it now, he'd never get the opportunity again. I'm no longer performing or laboring, just letting the currents fly between us. We begin writhing so erratically, the corners of the fitted sheets pull off the mattress and snap around us. When the sweat begins to dribble off of my forehead and into eyes, we know its time to switch it up.

I climb off as he giddily jumps up, maneuvering me how he wants me: prostrate, ass up, back arched. My hole has harbored itself directly to his dimensions, so he slides in easily, but the dominance is in his hands and in this position he's able to dig a little deeper. I yelp in delicious pain as he takes shelter. He slaps my ass and directs me back to position if I move even a single inch from his fantasy. Face buried in the roughed up sheet and hands gripping whatever they could, I bite hard, clamp down, and throw my entire body into the experience. A flurry of ungodly words fly from behind me. Applauses ring off as our flesh encounter. When I look up into the wall mirror opposite of the bed, I see him staring into it at the scene he created. The look on his face is one of a director, so satisfied with his work, he decided to write himself into the movie.

I freeze the heat of his facial expressions in my head and then, shut my eyes tightly. My red intimates blanch into a white g-string. His Carhartt Flannel softens into a dress shirt. It's our wedding night and the guest are in the other room. The orchestra swelling behind the door is competing with the bustling conversations of our excited guests. It's our first time. The moment felt so inconvenient and dangerous, but perfect.

I'm snapped back into the moment when a scream is let out on TV. Mia Wallace jumps up after getting a shot of adrenaline to the breastplate. The pastor's son collapses on top of me and we both fall into a lazy doggy on the wet sheets. He wraps his big arm around my neck and continues grinding slowly, trying to catch his breath.

"I'm getting close."

I squeeze my sphincter as hard as my muscle will allow and he exhales hard with approval.

"Can I cum inside of you?" His question was more of a beg. Affirmations to that were typically discussed beforehand and came with a bigger price tag, but I hadn't taken on a new client in so long, I'd lost my manners. But we were too deep to kill the fervor of the experience. The back of my neck heats up as he lets off a heavy gasp. I can feel him pulsating into hard spasms as his warmth shoots inside of me. The sensation sends me into shrieking spasms. The satisfaction of knowing I got him to this place shows itself in the form of thirty-two pearly white sprawled across my face.

He breathes out a few weighted "wow"s and "fuck"s as I grip erratically in the aftermath, until the blood begins to accelerate out of his dick back towards his brain and he pulls whats left over out. He climbs off of me and when I look back at him, he darts his eyes towards his pants hanging off the edge of the bed.

Once a man cums, their entire world changes. Guilt and shame consumes. Wars are too far away to be distracted by. Famine becomes somebody else's problems. Your wife and kids will still cause the type of stress that will thin a mane in a month, but there's responsibility there.

"Thank you," he murmurs, pulling his belt together. "I needed that."

And just like that, married and divorced within a few minutes, I'm left alone, gaping, wondering if I just gatewayed him into homosexuality.