Desire (2 page)

“So where are you now?” says Mark.

“On our bed,” I say, sinking back into the pillows, phone in one hand, dildo tightly clasped in the other. The soles of my feet are pressed together, my legs making a diamond shape so that my trembling pussy is exposed. Looking down, I can see the tip of my clitoris protruding from between my cunt-lips. Gently, so gently, I press the tip of the dildo—Mark’s dick—on my clit and rock it from side to side. I can’t help it—I let out a little moan of pleasure.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he orders me. “Put the phone on speaker.” I flip a switch that casts his voice out so that it fills the whole room. The mobile is on my pillow, and Mark’s there with me. He breathes like he’s just been running, and I picture him in his hotel room, his hand working the shaft of his gorgeous penis in long, firm, hard strokes.

I fight the temptation to shove the dildo inside me right now, and instead I listen to Mark’s voice on the phone, giving the orders.

“Lick the tip of it,” he says. “Now draw it down your body, circling your tits.”

I obey him, pressing the dildo to my lips and moistening it with saliva before dragging the smooth, slippery surface down onto my warm breasts. I tell Mark that this feels good, really fucking good. He makes me draw circles around my nipples, and I watch, fascinated, as they swell and darken the way they usually do under his hands. The gold dick, hard and shiny against the soft velvet of my skin, makes little dents in my tits, which spring back when I pull it away. We carry on like this for about five minutes until I’m so turned on I can hardly stand it. I notice my thighs beginning to tremble, a sure sign that all the tension in my body is building up and about to spill over soon.

“Please baby,” I whimper, close to begging him. “I need you inside me.”

“Well then,” he replies, and I hear in the background the slap of his hand on his dick. I love the thought of him jerking and tugging his dick while its likeness penetrates my slit. “Talk me through it,” he says.

“Okay. I’m on the bed, my legs apart and my pussy on fire,” I tell him, encouraged by his breathing, which grows more rapid by the second. “I’ve got your hard, solid dick, and it’s just outside me. I’m putting it in. The tip’s in. It feels amazing, but I’m holding back. I’m just twisting it a little. It’s cold inside me, and my pussy’s so, so wet. I’m sliding it in and out of me, in and out, but I can’t get it deep enough. It feels so like you, big, and hard, and I’m fucking myself, my pussy’s just throbbing.”

I start using my free hand to play with my clit, fingers working fast and furious over the slippery little bean.

“I can’t hold on much longer baby,” I say or, rather, I scream because I’m right on the edge now. My free hand travels all over my body, tearing at the flesh of my thighs and mauling my own tits in frustration as I frantically rub my clit, while I describe all of this to Mark in explicit detail until his voice interrupts me.

“I’m coming,” he shouts. “I’m coming hard. I’m coming so fucking hard,” and then he lets out this long, low moan. It’s the noise he always makes at the point of orgasm, but it’s so much louder and more intense than any I’ve heard for a long time. The sound of it flips a switch inside me, and I come hard, working my clit with a finger on either side of it and with Mark’s big gold dick inside me. I slide my knees together, wincing as my thighs close and envelop my still-tender flesh. Using my deepest muscles, I push the dildo out. It lies on the bed linen, its smooth gold surface marbled with my pussy juices.

“That was amazing,” I whisper breathily to Mark. His own voice sounds equally sleepy when he replies, and I know that he, too, is spent and feeling tender now that the critical moment has passed.

“I knew you’d get off on it,” he says. “I’m rather proud of myself for fucking my wife from another country.”

“So will you call me same time tomorrow?” I ask.

“I can’t wait. Of course I will,” he says. “Oh, and baby? That phone you’re holding—it can take videos. Learn how to work it. We’ll do the same thing again, but this time we’ll be able to see each other.”

We say good-bye and hang up. Immediately I experiment with the phone, looking for the video function. Isn’t it marvelous what technology can do these days?

I
here’s a lot of pressure in my line of work to look right, to live a certain lifestyle, to have the whole package. Much of my six-figure salary goes into maintaining this image. I’ve a wardrobe full of designer clothes, a city-center loft apartment with off-street parking for my Porsche, and a membership to an exclusive gym where personal trainers keep this power-dressed body buff. And usually I’ve got a man—a handsome, rich man—to go with it all. What’s the point of working all hours, preserving this hot, powerful self-image if there’s no decent alpha-male fuck in it? Well, that’s the ironic thing.

Last year, I’d been working so hard that my love life had taken a backseat for a while, and there’d been no decent man in my life, or bed, more precisely, for at least six months. It was one of those periods where you’re so busy, you haven’t even the time to ask yourself, Hey, when did I last go on a date? How long has it been since I last had sex? Even my vibrator felt neglected in those days. At night, I’d be working on my laptop in bed, if not flat-out after happy hour networking. My bank balance and achievements were so healthy that I wasn’t too worried about being single. Career was my number one priority for now; there would be plenty of time for fun and games later.

But my firm’s Christmas ball is a big deal. You simply have to take a date, and I’d always had the best dates of any woman in the firm. I’d walk into the ballroom with an amazing man: a model, an actor, a personal trainer, a millionaire entrepreneur, an Indie 500 race-car driver. But that year I had no one to take with me, and I didn’t want to turn up alone.

A week before the big day, I realized I would have to act fast. With so much time taken up preparing for the ball itself—shopping for a fabulous dress, extra hours in the gym, manicure, blow-dry, makeup artist—I certainly wasn’t going to have time to meet a new guy. So I resorted to my little black book of fuck buddies. As I scanned the list of names and international numbers, I felt a frisson of excitement, remembering the good times—and great sex—I’d had with many of them. I’m still on good terms with my flings and exes, so surely one of them would want to join me at a fabulous party in one of New York’s swankiest hotels?

The first person I called was Jermaine, a male model I took on holiday and fucked for a week in St. Tropez a few years back.

“Hannah!” He had picked up the phone and was clearly delighted to hear from me and keen on the idea of partying, but when I gave him the date of the ball: “Oh, damn, baby, I’d love to so much, but I have plans that night.”

It was the same story with Ewan, the race-car driver. He was obliged to attend his sponsor’s annual party that evening. Hey, from a corporate point of view, I totally understood, so we hung up having made plans to meet (i.e., fuck) in the New Year. While the thought of getting reacquainted with Ewan’s gorgeous dick in January was enough to warm me in the Christmas chill, I still didn’t have a suitor for the party. One by one, all the boys in my little black book had prior engagements—well, it was mid-December. I cursed myself for leaving things until the last minute. Normally I’m very well organized.

I called Jane, my colleague and best friend, to see if she could hook me up with anyone. I’ve never known her to be without a date—and her companions are the only men who are more attractive than the ones I bring along. I hoped I could rely on her to do the sisterly thing. “What? At this time of year?” she scoffed. “You’ve got to be joking. Everyone has too many plans as it is!”

“I know. It’s fucked up. What am I going to do?” I asked her.

“Same thing I always do,” said Jane. “Call Adonis.”

“Who?” I said, not sure I’d heard her right.

And then my best friend, about whom I thought I knew everything, confessed that for years she’d been using a high-class male escort service. As she described the agency, it became clear that it was the best-kept secret among the richest women in the city. The escorts on its books, mainly models and actors, were intelligent, very attractive, well-bred young men charging hundreds of dollars an hour for the pleasure of their company. And, as Jane pointed out, unlike a real date, they were doing it professionally and so delivered to a standard: no risk that they’d get drunk and embarrass you, bore you to tears, or get aggressive on the doorstep about “coming in for coffee.”

I tried to recall the last few men I’d seen with my friend. They had, without exception, been charming, witty, and devastatingly handsome. No way would I ever have guessed that they were paid escorts. I was impressed. And Jane—beautiful, rich, and glamorous—was hardly the desperate type. I wrote down the telephone number and website she gave me.

After I hung up the phone, I fixed myself a mar tini and gave the matter some serious thought. I was used to spending my money on the best of everything in life. I’ve paid big money for ski instructors, top-notch doctors, celebrity hairstylists . . . even my housecleaner costs me a small fortune (but well worth the expense). So why should the service of good-quality male company be any different?

Out of curiosity, I looked at the website and signed in using the password that Jane had given me. The navy-and-gold design was sleek and professional, and I could choose my escort by any category I wanted: location, race, age, IQ, height, even educational background. I didn’t know where to start, so I decided to browse the guys based in New York. There were about fifty of them to choose from, and each had provided a head-and-shoulders photograph as well as a full-length picture in a suit and—my personal favorite—a shot in his underwear. Each boasted an impressive CV. I’d been expecting a parade of male bimbos, but there were a wide variety of guys, from former professional football players to part-time diving instructors and even a couple of university professors.

It was like a grown-up girl’s version of the best toy shop in the world. I scrolled through page after page checking out images of sexy guys—no wonder the agency called itself Adonis. I looked at the rates. Okay, $1,000 an hour was pretty steep, but I was blowing a grand on my dress, and with the bonus I’d just received, I could afford it.

I narrowed my choices down to a final three. There was Marlon, a gorgeous black model with cheekbones that could cut glass, whose photo was from an ad campaign I’d seen in magazines. I turned him down, though; if I recognized him from his modeling work, maybe others would, too. Next came Paul, a dirty-blond surfer type who was a fireman four days a week. Physically, he was more my type than anyone else on the site, but, as higher education was missing from his CV, I’m afraid the snob in me turned him down. The company ball is an event demanding a gentleman who can talk confidently about books, art, and culture. And then there was Olivier, a French-born, Manhattan-living PhD student who, his blurb said, worked as an escort so he could enjoy a good standard of living and still follow his academic pursuit of archeology. His underwear shot showed that he had beauty as well as brains: his body was lean but muscular, and his black hair brushed his collarbone. As I looked at his picture I could just imagine what that hair would look like falling into his eyes. Yes, Olivier, I thought, zooming in to get a close-up of his impressive-looking manhood, you’re the one.

I dialed the number on the screen and was put right through to an operator. I told her who had recommended me. “Ah, Jane, one of our best customers!” she said brightly. “Do say hello to her from me, and let her know we’ve got some great new guys she might want to meet.” I heard her fingers click on the keyboard as she checked Olivier’s availability for the next Friday night. “You’re in luck,” she said. “He’s free for a booking. Would you like to proceed?”

My fingers were shaking as I retrieved my platinum Amex card from my Prada purse and read out the numbers to her. I was doing this. I was really doing this. The following transaction produced a rush of adrenaline far outstripping any previous shopping high, let me tell you. I get excited buying a new designer bag, but this was in a different league entirely: I was hiring a man, and a very good-looking man, too.

The operator gave me a cell number to call next Friday afternoon and let me know the score: Olivier would pick me up in a cab at the appointed time, accompany me to my function, and I’d be charged by the hour depending on how long I wanted him for. I assured her we’d be done and dusted by midnight, one a.m. at the latest, and she gave a little laugh.