CHAPTER 6
I moan, stretch, contemplate getting out of bed. Talk about a serious fucking. Michael was spectacular. The best I’ve ever had. So what’s wrong?
Last night, I became a prostitute.
I groan, roll over in bed and look at the money sitting prominently on my night table.
Fuck it. I’m not really a prostitute. I won’t be standing on a street corner late at night in nothing but high heels, fishnet stockings, and a tee and skirt that barely covers my assets. No, I will be having regular sex with an incredibly hot guy who can fuck me to heights I’d only dreamed of.
So what if he isn’t my boyfriend?
So what if some loser is paying him to watch?
So… what?
What is wrong with me?
Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
I groan once more for the hell of it and strip off my t-shirt from last night. I hadn’t bothered to put my bra and panties back on when I dressed in the hotel room, and I’d managed to take off my shorts as I hit my bed in an exhausted lump when I got home.
I pad to the hamper and am about to toss the tee in when, instead, I bring it to my face and inhale deeply. Yes, it smells like the ocean. Like Michael.
Yummy.
I laugh at myself and head to the bathroom for a much needed shower.
I’m naked, and all the blinds are pulled up to let the sun in. I hate a dark apartment. I laugh. I’d never thought about who might be able to see me as I strut around.
I wonder how many of my neighbors have seen my breasts.
Moving to the window, I stop and look out onto the street. It’s always busy in Long Beach, especially in warmer weather, and for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to step out onto my terrace just as I am. Just for a second, no harm in that, right? Maybe a couple of people might notice me if they happened to look up, and then I’d dash back inside before someone called the cops on the crazy lady exposing herself.
I laugh, and that’s when I catch movement from the corner of my eye.
If I look straight out my window, I see the street. If I look to my right, I’m gazing onto my neighbor’s terrace.
I don’t know how long he’s been standing there, but certainly long enough to get an eyeful of my breasts. Heat boils over onto my cheeks, and I start to scurry away.
Wait, what am I doing? I’m supposed to be an exhibitionist, and this is the perfect opportunity to practice.
With that in mind, I force myself to throw back my shoulders and look into the eyes of this unintentional voyeur. For a moment, he’s the one who looks embarrassed, but when he realizes that I’m putting on a little show for him, he smiles and gives me a thumbs up.
I want to run and hide. Who am I kidding? This is hard, but it’ll only last a moment or two more, I tell myself. I can do this.
Reaching up slowly, and in what I hope is a provocative manner, I take hold of the cord for the blinds and release it, letting them fall inch by agonizing inch to the window sill. My neighbor voyeur nods and applauds as the blinds hide him from view.
I can’t believe what I’ve just done. Grabbing my towel, I run into the bathroom, shut the door behind me and lean up against it until I’ve collected myself. I laugh, realizing how much fun that was. What a rush!
I told Michael I could do this before I knew if I could. And now? I really do think I can. I jump into the shower still laughing.
The steaming hot water feels delicious against my skin, and I’m almost immediately aroused. I don’t kid myself. Letting a stranger see my breasts sent me at least halfway down the road to arousal before a single bead of water hit my flesh. I smile and raise my face to the hot press of water as it cascades down my body. I start to reach for my bath puff, but decide I want something more and grab my rough exfoliating loofah instead. No lotion, I just want to feel the scratch of it on my body.
I start at my neck and move it in circular motions as I work my way down. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I know where I want it. Last night, Michael worked my nipples to raw, sore perfection, and I want more. I bring the loofah down onto my left pert tip and groan and gasp as the rough fibers scratch the sensitive skin. Both nipples immediately harden into ripe rocks as I relive the memories of Michael sucking, pinching, twisting, milking, biting, teasing, and tormenting breasts that were entirely his.
I start to work the loofah in harder, faster circles on my nipple and sensitive areola. I want to scream as the sensations start to drive me wild and send electricity to my core. I move my other hand to my pussy and pinch the very tip of my clit the way Michael did last night. Already on the edge, I thrust a couple of fingers into my pussy, pumping them hard and deep. No foreplay, like an animal I just want a quick, fast release.
The steaming hot water, the sweet pain to my nipple, and my relentless thrusting brings me to the fast orgasm I demand. I cry out in pleasure, dropping the loofah and steadying myself with a hand against the slick tiles. I can’t breathe and gasp in lungful’s of air as I shudder uncontrollably.
It takes a long time to come down from my quickie, but I finally manage to calm down, wash my hair and body and depart the bathroom, clean and sated.
It’s already three p.m. — ah, the life of unemployed leisure — and I’m hearing a strange chirping sound coming from somewhere in the living room. I follow the sound and track it to my handbag, the one I had with me last night.
It’s the cell phone Michael gave me.
I grab the bag and all the contents spill out onto the floor. And of course, the cell phone winds up way under the sofa. I drop to all fours, gritting my teeth as my sore nipples scrape the carpeting, and stretch my arm under the sofa as far as it will go. My fingertips lightly caress the cell, but I can’t get a grip.
“C’mon, shit! Don’t hang up,” I say and manage to stretch my arm just a little bit further. I strain and am finally able to flip the phone over in my direction. Carefully, so as not to send it flying back against the wall, I work my fingers around the case and drag it out and into my greedy little palms.
“Hello? Hello?” I say, frantically swiping the call button.
“I thought you weren’t going to answer, Kim.” My stomach twists at Michael’s throaty rumble.
“I dropped the phone. It went behind the couch,” I ramble out at him. “Hi.”
“I see. I’ve set up an appointment with Jack for tonight. He has other plans earlier in the evening, but I wanted to fit you in, so he’s agreed to one a.m. Are you available?”
“One a.m. tonight?” I parrot back at him, stunned.
“Yes, in Brooklyn. Is that a problem?”
“Brooklyn?”
“Yes,” he says again, this time a little impatiently. “You’re very picky for someone unemployed and broke. Is this a problem?”
“Oh, no no no. It’s not a problem. I’m sorry. I’m just so used to calculating exactly how much everything I do is going to cost that my brain immediately went to the price of gas. I’m so sorry! I can be there.”
“I see. Your cell phone has GPS, and I already added Jack’s address so you should have no trouble finding the place. I’ll see you at one a.m. sharp. Don’t be late. Jack is expected home between one-thirty and two. Be prepared. This is a full dress rehearsal. Understand? Fill your tank with gas and bring me the receipt.”
“Thank you! I will…”
He’s already hung up, and I sit staring dumbly at the phone for a beat or two. Sex again with Michael in just a few hours. I think my clit just twitched. Is that possible?