My Personal Whore Ch. 01

Wishing to add to the Pamela series, I wanted a second series of stories that differ in a number of ways. These stories will all be shorter, in fact, exactly the same - 1,000 words. They are to be written in a very different style, and one that I am totally indebted to another of the Literotica family, Pointyplay for her inspiration. Coming across her creations I was immediately taken by her ability to generate erotic tension with few words, leaving much of the story to the reader's imagination. 'Less is more' would be her mantra. I was, and still am, utterly captivated with the first of her stories that I read: The Window. Read it, and enjoy being aroused.

So, this is the first of my efforts in this genre and I would, very much, welcome constructive feedback.

***

The routine, tradition, whatever one might call it.

Trip to town on Saturday afternoon, meet the guys.

Couple of pints, laugh and joke, footy on TV.

What could be better?

Well, one thing ...

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Skip the footy, leave the others.

Just a few streets away, down by the quay.

The 'Pleasure Parlour', why not?

Booked a slot ... didn't quite mean that!

Three o'clock until four, done.

-- -- -- --

Five days to go, excited.

Couldn't stop thinking about it.

Pick a girl when you get there, no 'reservations'.

What would I like?

Blonde, brunette, redhead, who knows?

Skinny, slender, curvaceous, voluptuous?

Four days to go, seemed a long time.

Three days, sort of on the near horizon.

Starting to feel a little nervous.

Two days, nervous isn't the word.

Just don't turn up, why not?

Who's to know it was me?

Gave a false name, no phone number.

Must happen all the time, no-shows.

But the excitement, the thought of it.

Tomorrow is the day, a firm conviction.

Going to do it, yes, no backing out.

-- -- -- --

Standing at the bar return.

Weight moving from one foot to the other, nervous.

Newspaper unread on the counter.

Cool beer to hand, untouched.

Focus alternating from the barmaid's denim-clad arse to the clock.

It must have stopped.

Ten minutes to three, time to go.

A narrow street, somewhat unloved.

Sensing my footsteps on the pavement.

Heart in mouth.

Five stone steps, ascending.

Hearing the sound of my appeal.

A click and it opens, entering.

Climbing the stairs, musty and unlit, signage indicating left.

Too late to pull out now.

-- -- -- --

Middle-aged receptionist looks bored, lacking in natural light.

Counter showing pictures of wares for hire.

Like a colour brochure for paint.

A matrix of possibilities.

She shrugs, marking some with a cross.

Unavailable, occupied, busy.

Spins it around, perhaps twenty remaining.

Pondering, like a child in a sweet shop.

Waiting, playing with her dank hair.

A fingertip, she nods, expressionless.

Crisp banknotes counting out.

One hour, no more, no less.

Pointing to a door, trying to smile.

-- -- -- --

Door after door, sconces guiding the way.

Number 17, at the far end.

Stepping slowly, egg-shells for nerves.

Carpet almost bare, countless shoes.

Patting inside pocket for wallet, reassurance.

Knocking quietly, holding breath.

Opening.

Waiting for me, no doubt a message.

Smiling, a slight bow, hands together.

She is beautiful.

Glancing around the room.

Side table and chair, water jug and glasses, a clock.

The bed, freshly made.

And her.

-- -- -- --

Moving to unfasten her ankle-length satin robe.

Holding up a hand.

Wait, slow down, not so fast.

Let me enjoy looking at you first.

Stopping, she walks over to the window.

Dark hair is long, way down her back, loose.

Turning.

"What would you like to call me?"

The brochure gave her a name, saying that.

Smiling a knowing smile.

Moving a little closer.

"How old would you like me to be?"

The brochure said twenty-five, trying that.

Nodding sagely, slipping the tie of the robe.

Not objecting.

Allowing it to fall open, black bra, panties and stockings.

Lusting at her slim body and encased legs, stilettos.

Shaking in wonderment.

"Are you pleased you chose me?"

My open eyes answering.

Coming closer still, maybe five-six with the heels.

Her hands on my lapels.

Her dark eyes.

"Will I be your first Asian girl?"

Nodding, laughing nervously.

Looking serious for a second.

"Take off your jacket and shirt."

Obeying, discarding.

Reaching up to my nipples, squeezing gently.

Small hands, those slim fingers, so erotic.

Her face closing to mine.

Stopping before touching.

"Would you like to see my nipples?"

Reaching behind, unclipping, releasing and discarding.

Fuck!

And those nipples, dark and hard.

Smiling as she reads my thoughts.

"Think of me as your personal whore."

-- -- -- --

Disbelieving, head shaking.

Sliding down my body onto her knees.

Unbuckling, unfastening, unzipping, dropping to my ankles.

Lifting one foot, then the other.

Naked.

Edging closer, wrapping those fingers around the shaft, massaging.

Rock hard, twitching.

Looking up at me, showing the tip of her tongue between her lips.

Groaning encouragement, nerves on edge.

Anticipating.

Deep into her cleavage.

Wrapping her ample tits, pressing together.

Seeing my submission.

Head lowering, eyes on the hole.

Tongue probing, lapping the smooth flesh.

One, then the other, repeating, her dark eyes on mine.

Moaning constantly.

Fists clenching, muscles taut.

Releases, lowering her head, her lips encasing.

Throwing my head back, sheer pleasure.

Instinctively placing my hands on her head.

Stroking her hair, holding her.

Inch after inch being coated with saliva.

Lips kissing my balls.

Pulling back, starting to suck, ecstasy not far away.

Holding her hair, pulling.

Wait, slow down, not so fast.

Surges of cum, one, two, three and four, absolutely beside myself.

Filling her mouth, her throat, dribbling from her lips.

Heaven.

Gasping for breath, legs shaking, eyes rolling.

Looking down, her tongue lapping the shaft.

Up and down, recapturing, savouring.

A deep exhale, the makings of a smile.

She looks up, her eyes shining, opening her mouth.

Tongue coated in cum, pushing it out, showing.

Closing again, a smile, swallowing.

Every drop.

Rising to her feet, hands on her arms, gently holding.

Silence, desperate to kiss her but ...

Placing an erotic fingertip on my lips, smiling.

"Come and see your personal whore again, won't you?"

-- -- -- --

Standing in the lounge at home, hands deep in pockets.

Gazing out of the window, not seeing.

Reminiscing, disbelieving.

There they are.

The colour brochure, the matrix.

Twenty possible choices, standing in a row, waving.

Closing my eyes.

Opening a little once more, peeking.

All gone, just the shrubs and trees to admire.

But burned onto my mind's eye, it remains.

Not twenty, just one.

Middle window, black lingerie.

Her.

My personal whore.