Latest Older
Only YouOnly You

2004-09-02 - 9:32 p.m.
For those of you that wonder why I don't write fiction stories, here's one reason below. This was written six years ago, and is entitled:

Only You

'Three hundred thousand to go' she thought, as she sat at her mahogany desk, in her quiet corner office, with its beautiful panoramic view of the city below. She stood up, picked up her Gatsby and walked to the window, swirling the ice and bourbon gently around the crystal tumbler. From this vantage, she could see the lights and bustle of the city below, the cars inching their way along Vine street, with tiny stick figures weaving between them, in an endless dance of lights and horns, frustration and fear. It was 2:00 am, on a Friday night, but the city didn't seem to notice the time. It was restless, insomniac, always awake, always running on frayed nerves and adrenaline.

She took a sip of her drink and shook her head slowly. Four more years, maybe less. It had taken her ten years to fill her savings account with $700,000. She would leave when she had a straight million - no fanfare, no good-byes. Just a letter of credit from her bank, a passport and a plane ticket, and she would leave.

She hit a button and the blinds slid slowly, quietly across the window. Walking across the room she saw herself in the mirror that was also the east wall of her office. She went and stood in front of it, examining herself closely. 'Four more years' she thought. She would be forty. Not for the first time, she examined herself critically. Tall, slender, perhaps a little too thin. Her face, she realized, was pretty, but without make up, she could never be called beautiful. Her dark, dark eyes had seen too much, and it showed in her face. Her hair was long and straight , but its uniform blackness was being corrupted by silver threads she refused to pull out or dye. They served as a reminder of why she wanted out, and why she must push, always push to escape before she ran out of time. At thirty-six, her skin had not quite lost its newness, but around her neck was the slight threat of what time would do to her if she didn't free herself soon. She opened her red silk blouse, slowly, unfastening the buttons to reveal her breasts. They weren't firm, but they were full. She had lost the pertness of youth, but experience had taught her that maturity had its own rewards. She turned sideways, patting her stomach, and pulled herself up to her full height, then unzipped the black leather skirt and let it fall to the floor. Her legs had always been her best quality she felt. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she examined them from every angle, watching the light catch the silky blackness of the stockings. She sighed and pulled up her skirt. Fastening the last button on her blouse she heard the intercom buzz.

'Yes, Bruno' she called over her shoulder.

'Sorry to interrupt you ma'am, but there is a gentleman here to see you.' She frowned, puzzled. She'd known Bruno for three years, and had never known him to misread a situation, but a caller for her specifically, at this hour?

'Can't Gina accommodate him?' she asked. Bruno's tone sounded uncomfortable as he replied. Another first.

'He asked for you specifically ma'am. By name.' There was a long pause. She said nothing. 'Ma'am?'

'Show him in Bruno.' She crossed to the desk and sat down behind it.

He had asked for her by name. Very few people knew her real name. Bruno was one of them but he never called her anything but 'ma'am'. If anyone ever called requesting to see her and used her business name, Bruno was under orders to deflect them. In the three years that she had employed Bruno, no-one had ever come here who knew her real name. Her family, with whom she rarely spoke, knew her name, but not where she worked - except her brother, who was so wrapped up in his own rich world that she knew she could share her secret with him with impunity brought on by apathy. Everyone else, except Bruno, knew her business name alone - and she never granted an audience.

There was a knock at the door.

'Come in.' Bruno opened the door, and the man walked in. She gave Bruno a hand signal to leave but remain available. He nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

The man wore a gaberdine raincoat and hat which made him look like he'd stepped out of a 1940's movie, but they did not look like an affectation on him. He removed the coat, placed it over his left arm, then removed the hat. He had said nothing, but etiquette now compelled her. She could not remain behind her desk while her guest was burdened with his hat and coat, and he had not made a move further than a few steps into the room. She stood, crossed the floor to him and held out her hand.

'Marianne St. Claire' she said, acknowledging her real name.

'Sean Peterson, at your service, Miss St. Claire' he shook her hand and she relieved him of his hat and coat.

She motioned for him to sit down by the coffee table, as he placed his hat and coat on the coat stand next to her own long black cape.

He wore a black pinstripe suit, with good shoes. He appeared to be a man of means, comfortable with his wealth. He was handsome, around her own age. But what was he doing here at two in the morning? And how did he know her name? None of this showed on her face. The formative years of her profession had taught her the art of hiding her true feelings.

'How can I help you?' she asked, as she sat next to him.

'I wish to avail myself of your services.' He said, matter of factly. Her heart sank, some of it undoubtedly showing on her face. She had not been prepared for this. Anything but this. She stood, allowing herself time to recover her composure, and then called upon her years of training. After all, he was obviously wealthy. He had probably slipped Bruno a couple of thousand to reveal her true identity so that he could discuss what were undoubtedly 'special needs' with her personally. She knew that there were others in her profession who enjoyed this side of their work. Finding the right girl (or girls) to perform some sickening perversion that required the strongest stomach and the greatest greed. She did not. This exploration of the human sexual psyche brought back too many unhappy memories for her, and besides, that's what Gina was there for. 'Damn you, Bruno' she thought. Still, a client was a client.

'I would be happy to help. Could you start by giving me a broad idea of your needs? Do you have a preference for oriental or caucasian? Any particular age?' He smiled grimly at her questions.

'I want you, Marianne.' Her composure again took a tumble. Hearing her seldom used first name, and in this context, was taxing her professionalism to its limits. She laughed - it was supposed to appear light, but came out nervous. She walked to the bar to freshen her drink.

'I'm afraid I'm not on the menu, Mr. Peterson.' She waved the bottle of Southern Comfort slightly in his direction and he nodded. She poured a second glass over ice, added a little ginger.

'I will pay you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars'. Off of one client, one time, many years ago, she had made ten thousand for a night's stay. It had been cruel and degrading, and she had been laid up for weeks. But that money had started her on her road to the future and had freed her from the drugs-and-sex-and-beatings trap she had gotten caught in on the street. She had not worked on the streets since, and had not worked on the front line in over seven years. Would she go back now, for one night? One hundred and fifty thou would wipe nearly two years off of her 'sentence'. But what would it do to her?

'Mr. Peterson, I don't think that - '

'I assure you,' he said, interrupting her ' my needs are nothing unpleasant, or abnormal.' Despite years of evidence to the contrary, she believed him. But if he was willing to offer one-fifty right off the bat then�

'Its not out of the question, Mr. Peterson, merely a little unusual.' He understood, and sighed. She didn't like the implications of the sigh, she felt ashamed by it. It was if she had destroyed his illusion and had become the common little street whore she once was, asking for more.

'I will pay you three hundred thousand, for one hour.' He said nothing else, and there was no emotion in his face, but she knew she should not, indeed could not, ask for more. Three hundred thousand would end this. She would get her life back. She smiled, demurely, and took his hand, helping him to his feet. As they passed the desk, he gracefully pulled three wads of $1000 bills from his breast pocket and placed them by the lamp, without missing a step.

Marianne opened a side door, and they were in her bedroom. She watched him as he examined the room, looking at the silken eroticism of the bed, its four silver posts draped with lace, the paintings of her in various sultry poses along the walls, the mirrored ceiling. He smiled approvingly. She led him to the bed and questioned him with a look.

He ran is hands along her shoulders, then kissed her lightly on the lips. 'Be yourself,' he whispered, 'be Marianne.'

She pulled him towards her, running her fingers through his black hair, kissing his neck. 'Be yourself' he had said. But who was she? This last trick would be the crossover between her old life and the new one she had wanted for ten years. Three hundred thousand dollars he had paid for one hour with her. She would be herself all right - cheap whore, caring lover, rich bitch.

She deftly removed his jacket and tie and unbuttoned his shirt, as he grabbed her head and pulled her face into his neck. She slid her hands inside his shirt and around his back, biting gently on his neck. He groaned slightly, and she slid down, licking one nipple then the other nibbling on them as she located his belt buckle and then his fly. She felt his hardness swelling under her hand and unzipped him gradually kneeling down until she was level with his groin. He moaned and dug his nails into her head, as she unbuckled his pants and dropped them to the floor, then pull his shorts down ever so slightly so that the purple tip of his manhood poke out over the top. She teased it with her breath then her tongue - little swift licks like the tongue of a snake sniffing out its prey.

'yesssssss' he hissed softly, and she pulled she shorts down with one stroke, and began to kiss the outside of his hot, throbbing shaft, moving slowly down to his testicles, as they danced slowly around, adjusting to the sudden change in temperature. His hands now clawed at her blouse - he wanted to see her. She licked her way luxuriously back up to the head of his manhood then took him into her mouth, and balanced herself there, sucking gently like a slow, pulsing heartbeat, as she reached for the buttons on her blouse. A thought struck her suddenly - for three hundred grand, who gave a shit about a blouse? She grabbed from the first button and ripped it off of shoulders. Releasing her arms she ran the blouse along the base of his penis then let it fall to the floor. Raising up onto her knees, she began to kiss his stomach, as she lifted her soft, full breasts around him and rocked backwards and forwards, masturbating him firmly with every stroke. He rocked with her, more urgently. 'Not yet,' she thought. She reached under him and tickled his scrotum, which caused him to subside slightly, then slowly settled back, slipping her tongue down his abdomen back to his shaft. This time instead of sucking on him, she opened her mouth wide and pushed him in, inch by inch, until she could feel him at the back of her throat. When she was sure she had her gag reflex under control, she pushed the last couple of inches in and swallowed. He let out a yell of ecstasy, and she grabbed his buttocks with both hands and pulled them towards him. He began to buck forward, pushing harder and harder until she thought he would push through the back of her neck. She could not pull away even if she had wanted to. He had her head gripped with one hand against his groin, and the other held her hair tightly, but not, she noticed, so tightly that he would actually rip it out. As he approached his climax she pulled him as deep as she could into her mouth, until she felt the hair of his testicles sliding across her lower lip. Then suddenly she felt him tighten, harden, swell almost beyond her ability to handle, and he screamed her name.

'Marianne!' She held him tightly as the warmth of his orgasm pumped down her throat in a hot, thick stream of lust and release. Then gently, slowly she pulled away, as his grip on her head eased, and his legs seemed ready to buckle underneath her. As she released him, he fell back onto the bed, exhausted, spent.

Before standing up, she removed the socks, shorts and pants that were pooled up around his ankles, and placed them neatly on the wicker chair near the dresser. From a little silver box on the table she took two cigarettes, reading the inscription absently, as she always did. It said 'To Marianne, my poor little sister, think of me after each trick, Jean-Claude'.

'This is the last one, Jean-Claude,' she thought 'I'm coming home, you asshole.' She lit both cigarettes and crawled onto the bed next to him. She knew from the smell of him that he smoked, there was no need to ask.

'Thank you.' he said. She was uncertain whether he meant the cigarette or the fellatio.

They stared up at the ceiling, looking back at each other and their own bodies through the mirror above them.

'Do you work?' she asked. He flicked his ash into a pewter ashtray by the side of the bed.

'Sometimes'

'What do you do?'

'I'm a lawyer' She looked at her cigarette. He obviously wasn't much for small talk. She got up and refreshed their drinks, he sat up and chinked glasses with her.

'To the oldest profession in the world.' He said, grinning smugly. She wasn't sure how to take that.

'I'm getting out. ' she said.

'When?' he asked.

'After this.' She said, and sipped on her drink. The Southern comfort cut through the thick film of his cum which lined the back of her throat. It felt good. He looked at his watch, then said 'Only half-an-hour to go.'

Marianne looked at him, and then at his member, which was already showing signs of activity. She thought for a moment. She doubted he could come again so soon, but if he could maintain his hardness, with a little help from her, it may be enough to bring her off, which would be a nice way to end her days in the skin trade. She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. Then stepped out of her cami-knickers, leaving on her stockings, garter belt and heels. She kept her eyes on him all the time, and was gratified by the lust she saw in his eyes. She straddled him, and then put her head by his ear.

'Still want me to be myself?' she whispered.

'Yes, Marianne.' She sat up and moved back down his body, then began to kiss and lick his chest, moving slowly back down to his penis. She kissed it lovingly, and nipped very, very lightly with her teeth. She began to lick it, cleaning the tip of its light film of cum, then, when he was hard, she began to move back up his body, resting herself above it, teasing him with her sex lips, gently pushing the head into herself. She let it rest there for a minute, then, with a slightly mischievous grin, lifted herself up and moved carefully up his body reaching behind to hold him in her hand and stroke and scratch his shaft to maintain his hardness.

When she reached his head, she let her sex rest across his mouth. He pulled his arms under her legs so he could get a better angle and began to move his tongue against her clitoris. She moaned, and began to move up and down, as she felt the first promise of the journey's end well up inside her. He held his tongue hard and steady, as she lifted and dropped upon him over and over again. She moaned softly, and was pleasantly surprised when he groaned in pleasure also. She pushed down and back and now his tongue slid from the base of her pussy, along the labia and up over her clit and then back. She began to flush, moving more urgently, harder and harder, as she listened to the sounds of him slurping and sucking and licking her juices as they began to flow freely from her. She formed an 'O' with her mouth and cooed softly as he grabbed her buttocks and pulled her across his mouth again and again, faster and faster, until she felt herself cross over and the familiar warmth began to pass through her, 'Oh God!' she screamed, 'Oh�' and then, remembering his name 'Sean!'. At the sound of his name he groaned and buried his tongue deep within her, pushing her over the edge. She came hard and fast, wave after wave, until she thought she would drown him in it, but no, he swallowed and sucked and drank all she had to offer. Then finally, as the sensation dropped in intensity to a low glowing feeling of oneness with all things, he released her buttocks, and she slid down his body.

She thought they were done, but as she reached his groin, and prepared to dismount, he suddenly grabbed her and pulled her down onto his hard thick penis, and she suddenly understood with full intensity the expression 'nailed'.

An unexpectedly wonderful sensation surged through her and she began coming almost immediately, and she screamed aloud. He pulled her down, gripping her thighs and thrusting his body deep into her, faster and faster. She knew, for him, her pleasure was now forgotten, and he was serving his own animal instinct. She was being well and truly fucked, she thought, as he pushed harder and harder until with one final thrust she felt him explode inside of her, screaming her name like a curse. In that instance, from far away, Marianne felt her own body respond one final time and release the last of the years of poison that had built up inside of her.

His hour was up. In fact, by the time they had recovered to the point where they could communicate beyond the occasional loving murmer and sleepy caress, more than two hours had passed. Marianne didn't mind. She had spent the first hour as a cheap whore, the second as a caring lover and now she would spend the rest of her life as a rich bitch.

As he sat up on the edge of the bed and began to dress, she rubbed his back soothingly.

'Where will you go now?' she asked

'Back to my hotel room, a couple of hours rest, then to the airport' She sighed. She would have liked to have seen him again, but she would be leaving soon too. Back to her little home town in France.

'Business?' he nodded.

'Yes, I have to go to a little town in France to confirm completion of a transaction.' He stood up, checked his tie in the mirror, and put on his jacket. It was unlikely, but she had to ask

'Really, which town?'

'Aulney-sous-Bois' , he said straightening his hair. Her heart leapt.

'But, that's my home town! Do you go there much?' he turned now and nodded, walking over to the bed.

'Perhaps you know my brother, Jean-Claude St. Claire?' Jean-Claude was a rich guy in a small town, it was very likely.

'Of course I know him, Marianne,' he said as he kissed her, then whispered in her ear 'he gave me three hundred thousand dollars to give to you'

Best blogs on politics


  • Name: Catpewk
  • Age: 43
  • Status: Separated
  • Kids: Yes
  • Cats: Yes
  • Fish: Yes
  • Dogs: No
  • Lemurs: No
  • Profession: Geek
  • Passion: Writer
  • Religion: In Progress
  • Photos
  • Leave a Note
  • Email Catpewk
  • All Your Comments are Belong to Us
  • Profile
  • PaganNews.com
  • Start a Diary
    Next

    hosted by DiaryLand.com