The Hand Job Girl

I rifled through my purse and snatched the thousand dollars. Then I threw it at him bitterly, letting the bills scatter off his face and chest.

"Last night was the best damn sex I've ever had," I yelped at him, my voice choking with emotion. "But that's all it was, sex. If you want to get me to turn my damn life upside down, you'll have to give me more to go on than just your overgrown, volcanic cock."

"Such as?"

"You're the one that's supposed to be telling me. You're that one that's been begging to spend all this time with me. You're the one asking me to move in and quit my job."

"I want us to be a couple," he spat out.

I let his words saturate my brain for a moment. They were good words, hopeful words, words that held promise.

"What kind of a couple?"

"The kind of a couple that enjoys too much of each other's company to want their time together to end."

"At least that's something," I whispered, planting a moist ferocious kiss onto his handsome mouth.

I grabbed my phone and hit redial. Harold answered.

"Let me speak to Thelma," I insisted.

"Sandra?"

"I won't be coming in."

"I know it's your day off."

"No, I mean not ever. I quit."

"You quit? Just like that? We got clients. I would need more time to find a new hand job girl. A month at the least."

"I won't be coming back. Period."

"Don't be a fool. What will you live on?"

"I'll manage."

"It's him, isn't it? That handsome hunky Steve fellow. You're staying with him I'll bet. That's it, isn't it? He's asked you to shack up with him. A great way for him to get free sex morning noon and night."

"He's a multi-millionaire. He can pay for a hundred girls a day if he wants to."

"And let me guess. Currently he miraculously only has eyes for you, right? Don't' be a fool. You'll end up as the flavor of the month, and then he'll be on to someone else."

"He says he's crazy about me. He especially loves full figured black women, which is what drew him to me in the first place. From there, it was a kind of a love at first sight deal. Enough for me to believe him. Besides, I'm crazy about him as well."

"You've only just met the guy."

"The length of time you've known somebody doesn't dictate how much you can care for them."

"At least check him out. Phone around other agencies. See if he's done this kind of thing before, you know, tell girls that he just met that he loves them and wants them to move in with him."

"You don't know that he's done this kind of thing before."

"And neither do you, that's just my point. You should at least call the other agencies, ask around. For all you know he has caused a hundred broken hearts to be floating around here and there. Sounds like he just wants free sex."

"That is stupid. As I just finished saying, we are surely talking about a guy who can afford a hundred women like me a day."

"Or we are surely talking about a guy who just wants to save money because he is incredibly cheap."

"I can see that talking with you is like talking to a post, except the post is a lot brighter. Bye, and don't bother calling me back, not ever."

There was a certain finality to that resulting click, almost as if one door was being permanently being closed and another one opened.

People had long looked down their noses at me because I was an escort. My livelihood had been earned and my money making abilities were, quite simply, always based on how many men's raunchy, horny cocks I could take into my hands a day. When I added to that, the fact that I was continually forced to bathe my hands, arms, breasts and even face with at least a damn cupful of putrid cum each day, then not servicing men was actually a blessing in disguise. I was still going to have sex, only now it was going to be with one person. I was still going to have sex, only now it was going to be with someone who adored and worshipped the very ground I walked on, not some leering creep that viewed me as a piece of meat to be used and abused. Was being paid for sex a form of abuse? Maybe not in the beginning, but after a few years of constantly working over men's cocks, I had come to believe that jerking off guys for a living, however profitable, had become degrading, humiliating and psychologically damaging.

It had also made it nearly impossible, at least up until now, to meet a guy who might want a meaningful relationship with a pretty full figured black girl like me. That was in spite of the fact that I had a bubbly personality, was loads of fun, a great conversationalist, and someone who was caring and always trying to see the good in people.

Steve had been able to look past the fact that I jerked off cocks for a living. He had also been able to invite me to live at his palatial mansion. Yes I was losing a ton of money by quitting my job, but I was also saving a ton by instantly sub-leasing my condo and putting up my BMW for twenty-five grand and cancelling the costly insurance. My monthly bills were now zero. Living in a mansion with millions in imported furniture and a custom swimming pool was a lot better than living in my condo. Plus I had the pick of any of his five luxury cars to drive. He also had a maid to prepare all my meals and fix all my drinks. Life was good.

He even frowned when I suggested I might go on a diet and get a new hair style. He insisted that he loved me just the way I was, which was fine for me, because diets are strictly for the birds.

XXX

It's been a whole month since moving into Steve's sumptuous home. Life couldn't be better. He takes me out to dinners and dancing and doesn't care when envious men whisper to him in the men's room that I had worked over their cocks in the past at the spa. The only thing Steve cares about is the fact I don't work at that flesh pit anymore. He is taking me to France this weekend to check out the sights, all because I mentioned to him that I had never been there before. On the way back he says we will be stopping over in Hawaii for a week. Steve jokingly claims he is jealous of my 'tan.'

Having a guy love me just the way I am is sheer heaven itself.

I have just taken my first pregnancy test, courtesy of the fact that Steve and I didn't use a condom that first night we met. My period is overdue, but the brightening blue line in the 'negative' slot is leaving no doubt. In eight short months Steve and I will not be parents. Thank goodness. I'm not sure I'm quite ready for a baby. And I'm not sure Steve is quite ready for one either.

On a much lighter note, I don't think a day has gone by that I haven't asked Steve what it is he sees in me. A guy like him can have any girl he wants, and yet, he only seems to want me, or so I thought.

I got curious this morning and decided to secretly follow Steve to his 'office.' Actually, it turns out he doesn't have an office. What he does have is a serious sex addiction. I watched in horror as Steve entered three escort agency spas on the outskirts of town. He spent about two hours at each. As he was entering a fourth I raced home, puking my guts out while emptying my empty head of all its tears.

My stomach is upset, but I'm even more upset with myself, really. I should have known better than to have expected a fairy tale HEA ending from a nightmare situation.

I have just finished getting off the phone with Thelma. She is delighted that I have decided to go back to working over men's hot and horny cocks. She gleefully admitted that none of the replacements she got for me have been working out. She was actually losing some precious clients that missed me. Nice for a girl to know she's being missed. Maybe after a while without me, Steve will feel the same way. I managed to get thirty grand for my car, so now I have sixty in the bank. Not bad for a girl that only has sex all day. Thelma has agreed to toss in the swank restored corvette as a present as long as I stay at her spa.

Thelma has also agreed to ensure that my take home weekly pay with wages and tips will not fall under four thousand a week. If it does, she has agreed to make up the rest. At least someone knows the value of a real skilful hand job girl when they see one.

I have finished packing my three suitcases and am waiting on a cab. I will miss the palatial mansion lifestyle, that's for sure, but as I brush away yet another tear, I am not sorry I'm leaving. I don't want my prince charming if he's really a frog in disguise. I'm not one who is into pretending.

I have left a note on the dining room table for Steve to find when he gets home. My cab has just pulled up so I don't have time to write down anything else. Lord knows, I have already told you the whole sordid story in every crazy detail. But I'll keep the diamond necklace he gave me the other day as a present. It's worth, after all, yet another thirty grand, the same amount I've managed to save in the bank from my spa days, and, as I just said, the same amount I scored for my car. So I guess, financially speaking, at a total of ninety grand, I'm better off than some. As for the note I'm leaving Steve?

My note to Steve reads,

"I know you've been seeing other women on the side. I know that doesn't necessarily mean that you don't love me. But if I'm going to be fucked around by a man, then I prefer it to be at the escort spa, where I am at least expecting it. If you miss my skillful, loving hands and would love to have another go at my succulent pussy for old time's sake, then you know where and when to find my full figured beautiful black body. I'll be right where we first met. And by the way, no more freebies. My time is valuable."

Sincerely, but no longer yours,

The Hand Job Girl.