Chapter Four

“I have a new client for you.”

We were in the disabled toilet at the hotel; she had text me the day before to tell me what time to be there and I hadn’t even questioned it.

She knelt down in front of me and lifted my skirt.

“He might be a little difficult.”

I swallowed, not sure if the lump in my throat and my heart beating faster as the thought of the difficult client or her face being so close to my cunt that I could feel her breath upon me.

“You don’t have to do this,” she told me as her hands slid up my legs to hook around the sides of my new lace thong.

“You can always change your mind,” she told me, as she slowly pulled my underwear down.

I don’t know what it was about her, but I was wet already.

“No, I want to,” I replied lifting my feet up so she could take my thong off, so eagerly trying to impress.

“Okay,” she said, quickly standing up, all business now. She reached into her bag and squirted something from a spray bottle on her finger, then, quickly parting my legs, she rubbed it on my cunt.

There’s no need, I wanted to tell her, thinking it was lube, I don’t need any after you taking off my panties, after seeing you on your knees before me, face so close to my clit.

But I said nothing, the moment had passed.

“He’s on room 109, here’s the key.” I took it dumbly. “Come find me afterwards, I’m in Suite 276.”

For a moment I wondered why, if she had a suite, we were doing this in a public toilet, but I didn’t have time to question her as she quickly unlocked the door and walked away.

I stumbled out as if I’d been in a darkened room and the light was blinding my eyes.

As I walked away I realised I was almost uncomfortably turned on. I walked through the hotel lobby slowly, surrounded by people in classy dresses and full on suits, all dressed up for a respectable night out, and just the sensation of walking was making my clit throb so urgently I wanted to pull my skirt up again and touch myself right there and then.

What the fuck had she put on me?

I pretended to be professional, focus on the lift, on getting to the room, to focus on thinking about the difficult client who was going to get the best fuck he’s ever had, paid for or not.

I opened the door soundlessly and stepped into the barely lit room, closing it discretely behind me.

I walked to the bedroom and found the client lying naked on the bed, already stroking his impressive erection.

It was Mikey, the moron from the first night I had met Kat.

He smiled at my obvious shock.

“She didn’t tell you? How rude.”

It was, but I didn’t care. My clit was tingling and I needed a release, and though it was obvious he expected me to flounce out in disgust or start some sort of argument, that was the last thing on my mind.

He was fit, handsome and hard, and if he’d have just shut the fuck up, he’d have been damn near enough perfect.

I slowly pulled up my skirt, and now it was his turn to look surprised. He evidently didn’t need me to put on a show to get him going, but that was not my intent anyway.

I just needed to touch myself.

I slid my finger between swollen lips, and watched as the hand tightly fisted around his cock slowed as he watched me stroke my clit. I was slick and swollen and I knew he could see my juices on my fingers, even i the half light.

Already my fingers were moving faster, my head full of fantasies, full of the thought of how Kat removed my panties, her touching me with whatever magical cream she had used and I was close to coming already.

“I’m not paying to watch some whore having a wank!” he spluttered, sounding laughably indignant even though his hand still kept moving around his cock.

“So stop me,” I told him.

He was up and off the bed quicker than I had expected, and just as quickly pushed me back onto it. Then my wrists were pinned above me as he ripped open my shirt. Just as roughly he pulled at my bra, tugging hard until my breasts were bare. He was breathing hard, and even though I felt like I should be mad at him for treating me that way, I wasn’t.

Being so rough had just made me even more turned on.

Then his hand went to my breasts, squeezing them with no thought to how I felt, pinching my nipples so that I cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. I should tell him to stop, I thought, before this goes too far, before I relinquished all pretence of any control.

But I didn’t.

Instead I tried to lift my wrists, tried to pull them away as he pushed me into the bed harder, as my struggle excited him further.

His hand went to my skirt and tugged it up roughly, his fingers quickly explored me, as if turning me on was only a secondary effect; all his fingers were really there for was to check I was wet enough to fuck.

I was.

He reached to the bedside table and tore open the condom wrapper with his teeth, almost fumbling in his eagerness to put it on one handed.

Then it was on and he was inside me, kissing me as I mumble for him to stop, pinning me down with both hands as his body covered mine, his cock filling me, his body rubbing against mine.

I came hard.

Seconds later and he was coming just as hard, hands so tight around my wrists I knew I’d be wearing long sleeved shirts for day.

Quickly he climbed off me and headed to the bathroom to get rid of the condom, to destroy the evidence of our frenzied fuck.

“Help yourself to a shirt,” he called out as I heard him start the shower. “Money’s on the table.”

I could take a hint.

I grabbed a shirt, grabbed the money, and left.

I had the twenty per cent ready for her as she opened the door to her room. She seemed worried for a moment, then looked to check up and down the corridor and saw that maybe I was not as naïve as she thought.

She still rushed me inside.

I wanted to ask her what the stuff she used on me was, but I didn’t want to let her know how it had affected me, how she affected me still.

Instead I stole her make-up remover and quickly wiped away my ‘other’ face.

“Hookers don’t kiss,” she told me as I wiped off my smudged lipstick, my red mouth and stubble-scarred chin giving away my secrets.

“He was a good kisser,” I said nonchalantly.

“Hookers don’t kiss,” she repeated, like I’ve violated some great moral code.

Like there were any moral codes left to violate, like she had morals, like she had ever had morals.

“I’m not a whore,” I replied.

She looked pointedly at the envelope of money I’d put down, at the twenty per cent I’d just given her.

“Sure you’re not.” She lit up a cigarette, still all 1940s elegance even when she was so obviously pissed at me.

“So why can’t I kiss?”

“Kissing is for your boyfriend.”

I refused to make eye contact in the mirror as I flippantly admitted, “We don’t kiss any more.”

She doesn’t make eye contact either as she asked, “Why not?”

I watched the end of her cigarette flare brightly as I answered, “It’s hard to reach when he’s fucking me from behind while I fantasise about what you might ask me to do next.”

She liked that, I could tell.

Finally she made eye contact in the mirror.

“And what do you fantasise about?”

You, I wanted to tell her, about touching you, tasting you, stroking your naked skin.

About kissing the whore who doesn’t kiss.

Instead I said, “A threesome”, hoping one of her punters would like to fuck us both, hoping that even if it’s only in that way, I’d finally get to have her.

“I’ll see what I can do.”