Penthouse (8 page)

I hesitated at the second door but knocked anyway. He opened it with a rakish grin, pulled me in, and began to kiss me before
I could get a full look at him.

“Ah, mademoiselle. Très joli. Vous êtes très, très joli.”
Thinking back on it now, how was he so sure he had the right woman? Maybe his penis pushing against the leg of any female
would have elicited a positive response. I had no choice but to be overwhelmed by its insistence, its confidence, and I grasped
it hard enough to cause him to cry out. I could feel the veins, stiff, engorged with potent blood. Wriggling out of his embrace,
I dropped to my knees to sink it deep into my mouth. He groaned and sighed and stroked my head tenderly, the way he had touched
himself. I let my tongue feel the texture of his gallant tool. I spiraled it slowly up and down the thick shaft, enjoying
the tiny imperfections of his skin.

I could have kept this up for hours, he tasted that good, but he clearly wanted something more and pulled abruptly out of
my tight lips. My sweater vanished over my head. He sucked my nipples, hard as nail heads, and I let fall my slacks and kicked
off my shoes. We fell back together against the well-worn corduroy of the seat. He made a move to kiss my pussy but I needed
him, commanded him, to enter me now, hard, fast, before the trains could leave.

My back scraped rhythmically against the fabric, the
chafing beginning to hurt but making his thrusts that much more palpable. He pushed in rough. He pulled out fast. We banged
into each other with a feverish thirst born out of our total anonymity. I struggled to reach out one hand and grasp his balls.
We were both near climax when I remembered the window. He followed my upward glance and, in perfect understanding, we uncoupled
momentarily and repositioned ourselves.

At first we faced outward and my breasts, pressed up against the chilly glass, were flattened and released, flattened and
released, as he pounded me from behind. I reached back, took his rock-hard ass in my hands, and held him inside me, forbidding
him to move. I wanted to see just how deep he could go. I could feel his cock twitching— his release was quite near. His hands
dropped from my hips, tickled my clitoris, and I came with a scream that should have brought the porters running. Or was it
just the departure whistle?

He began to hump me slowly again until my pussy stopped convulsing, then he turned us sideways to the window to give our performance
a better frame. I smiled to think of who might be watching us now. Perhaps there was someone sitting in the very car that
I had so recently left.

“Fuck me harder now. Goddamn it, just fuck me,” I cried out to him, knowing he would understand this English. He pressed his
hands tightly into the skin just above my womb and, with a deep, glorious moan, filled it superbly, richly, with his hot sperm.

He kissed the back of my neck, sniffing lightly behind my ears, and slipped out from between my shaking thighs.

I grew unaccountably shy now. He seemed to also, and we dressed quickly, away from the window. I gave a fast look at my wristwatch
and a long glance at the now perfectly
ordinary businessman in front of me. We shook hands. How bizarre! Then we kissed on both cheeks and I ran back to catch my
train, acutely aware of the time and the warm rivulet flowing gently into my panties.

BY
S
PIKE
F
ULTON

T
here’s something ghastly about weddings. The pews are filled with people who say things like, “Her third marriage and still
wearing white!”

“You’d think virginity was a renewable resource.” It is, isn’t it?

My name’s Kate. My friend Cindi is the unflappable one in white. She tells me “Three’s the charm,” and Carl looks promising.
He’s a nice guy—smart, strong, kind, and delivering an incredibly goofy smile from time to time. Cindi also reports he’s lusty
and funny in bed. So good luck to them. Me, I’ve never been married and have no intention of being so. I love sex. Marriage
would eliminate so many possibilities.

Cindi invites me to these functions because I’m her friend, but also because she needs the loose female, the available arm,
the dance partner, and the object of interest to otherwise disinterested males who get roped into the festivities. Hey, I’m
game.

The reception’s way out in the fields on her granddaddy’s
farm, which is one grand postcard of meadows and rolling, grassy hills surrounded by piney woods. The barn’s had a once-over
with streamers, flowers, and bunting, and food has been laid out from stall to stall. There’s a dance floor made of smooth
blond wood, and Cindi and Carl look great spinning around it. There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of men asking me to dance,
so I wander outside and there they are, men and boys and girls, playng soccer in the field. Wish I hadn’t worn this dress.
“Come on,” one of them yells as I lean over the fence. That’ s Carl’s college buddy, Rolf. Sure looks good— sunshine, sport,
running around, scrambling, and laughing. Okay. I go to my car to get my sneakers—my canvas, rubber-toed basketball sneakers
with the vegetable motif.

The next thing I know, I’m deep in a heated game of soccer that becomes a contact sport, once the kids have been called back
by the parents for family pictures. It’s just me and a few guys kicking up dust and laughing.

My bare legs are flashing under my skirt as I run from one side of the field to the other in the sunshine.

There’s that guy Rolf again. He’s muscular, blond, and stripped down to his rolled-up shirtsleeves and pleated trousers. We
lock legs a couple of times, and he smiles pretty good. “Nice sneakers you got there,” he says.

A couple of guys peel off to get beer, then Rolf kicks this booming ball way into the woods. “That’s gone,” one of the players
says. “Call me when you get out of the poison ivy.” He goes off, looping arms with a pretty woman in pink chiffon.

Rolf glances at me, then wanders off into the brush in search of the ball. Another one of the players gets thirsty and heads
toward the barn, taking a couple of pals with him.

I’m still by the fence catching my breath, watching the woods for any sign of Rolf. His friend Kurt gives me a look, then
sort of gestures to the wilds. We both wander off into the trees.

Nobody kicks a soccer ball that far, we’re thinking as we stroll deeper into this stand of tall white pines and low brush
interspersed with pokeweed and wildflowers. The sun comes through the branches in streams. Kurt and I split up, calling Rolf
’s name. A bird answers, and just as I’m rounding a stand of mountain laurel, I feel a man’s arm around my waist. It feels
good. I look up at Rolf, and he gives me that quizzical eyebrow, measuring if I’m in the mood. I’m in the mood. And before
I can say yes, he’s got his mouth on my mouth, my neck, then down to my breasts, and his hands are working their way under
my skirt.

His tongue is darting down the front of my bodice, searching for my nipples. He unbuttons me and my breasts come free, and
he buries his head in them. My fingers go to his hair. It’s blond and curly and warm from the sun.

He sucks one nipple into his mouth, then the other, rolling each on his tongue until I’m sighing out loud. I bend down to
kiss his hair when he parts my thighs with his right hand and touches my clitoris. I lean back, and he supports me with his
other hand, then plunges his middle finger inside me. Up and down it goes. I’m getting wet, and I feel the exhilaration growing
as he finger-fucks me and sucks my breasts.

My body’s shaking so much, we ease down together on the bed of grass and leaves. He hikes my skirt up over my face and puts
his tongue between my legs. He pushes my thighs apart, and his fingers are inside me again. He’s licking me and using his
fingers inside me. I’m rolling my own nipples between my fingertips when I hear the
brrrt
of his
zipper, and he shimmies out of his pants. Then his penis is against my clit. It slides downward and in, opening the lips just
a little bit with a thrust, not more than an inch. He’s big and I’m not.

He hesitates a minute, then searches for my mouth. He finds my face beneath the cloth of my skirt and puts his tongue between
my lips. His hands are on my breasts, squeezing them hard, and he thrusts again, deeper this time. I’m surprised by his size
and his hard-on. My hips buck against his. He feels like a poker, and he’s driving into me now. It hurts and it feels great.

He stops my words with his tongue, then pushes harder, gaining a few more inches and shoving his penis up into my belly. Then
with a couple more thrusts, he hikes my hips with his hands and drives in to the hilt. I cry out in surprise, and again his
tongue is in my mouth, silencing me with passion. This guy’s a lion. His shirt is open, and now my face is against his chest.
He’s pumping, and I feel his penis getting larger as he’s ready to come. I’m ready myself, with a death grip on his back,
and I’m about to let go when I look up and see Kurt watching the whole proceeding. Whoa! I explode as Rolf slams into me one
last time. My juices are pouring, and my body is shuddering under him. He’s making some noise himself, that lion. Then Kurt’s
shadow makes him glance up.

Kurt and Rolf both look at me like they’re asking permission.

“Sure, come on.”

Rolf pulls away from me, and Kurt drops to his knees. His cock comes out stiff, and he starts fucking me right there on the
ground. Rolf watches a moment, still dreamy in his sexual satisfaction. Then he plays with my breasts and kisses my neck.
I’ve got his penis in my hand when he
shifts around behind me so my head is between his thighs. In a moment I’ve got his cock in my mouth, coaxing it back to full
strength. Kurt, meanwhile, is fucking me like there’s no tomorrow, and with four hands working over my body, I’m in a frenzy.
We’re in heat, warm from the sun and getting warmer.

Kurt says, “Can we do this from behind?” He pulls out, lifts my hips, and turns me around. Up goes the skirt, so my ass is
exposed to the sun and to his hands, and he enters me from behind with a grunt. Rolf, meanwhile, is getting bigger and bigger
in my mouth, holding my head gently and rocking me back and forth on his shaft. Kurt’s hands have now gotten control of my
breasts. He squeezes while he pumps me harder and harder, and the action makes thwacking noises against my thighs. Every so
often he drops his head onto the curve of my back and licks me. My eyes are shut as Kurt slams into me again and his jism
squirts up inside me. He falls on my back, panting. Rolf lets go at the same time and shoots down my throat. He helps cushion
my fall to the ground under Kurt’s weight, and I’m buried under these sweating, handsome men. We’ve only had a moment to recover
when we hear the iron dinner gong being rung at the barn.

We collect ourselves and the soccer ball and pick grass from one another’s clothing as we head back for the festivities. Rolf
says, “You know, I really do like those sneakers.”

We reach the barn just as Cindi throws her bouquet. It makes an arcing kind of trajectory in my direction and everybody’s
roaring, including Rolf, but I sidestep the toss and let some other woman catch it. I don’t want to be the next one married.
I like to keep my options open.

BY
R
OBBI
S
OMMERS

O
kay, yes, I admit it. I paid for sex—paid for the drinks, paid for the room, and then paid for the woman. One hundred seventy-five
an hour. A personal ad led me to her. The words—simple and to the point—caught my attention and wouldn’t let go. Escorts.
Women for women. Discreet. I meant to turn the page, to continue my search for Ann Landers’s column, but instead I found myself
staring absently at the tiny black-bordered ad.

Hire a woman? I laughed at the absurdity. Hire a woman? What woman would! And yet I couldn’t seem to pull my focus from those
five unembellished words. What harm in calling the number, just to see, just to have a feel for how these things work? Not
that I would ever consider, not that I would have an interest…

I expected a sleazy answering-machine message, a quick eavesdropping into the life and fantasies of someone else, and then
I’d hang up. But before I knew what had hit me, I was caught in the middle of a sex-for-hire transaction.
Someone had answered the line. Someone wanted to know when, where, and what, specifically, I wanted.

“I want her to wear a suit and tie.”
I do?
My mind was racing.
I do?
The sudden drop in my belly was reminiscent of a roller-coaster ride. The slamming of my heart drowned out my feeble words.
Requirements seemed to be spilling from me. What was I doing? Why couldn’t I slow this exchange down? “And she should be taller
than me, five foot six, five foot seven, with long, tied-back hair.” Oh shit, I was out of control! I should have hung up.
I should have tossed that portable phone across the room and moved directly to Ann Landers, but I didn’t. I held fast to that
receiver like a kid does a balloon on a windy day, and muttered my demands.

“Older,” I said. “Classy,” I insisted. After all, for three hundred fifty hard-earned dollars…Yes. Two hours. Yes. I’d have
cash.

“The Fairmount?” she suggested.

“Yes. Perfect,” I replied. How surprisingly easy this was! “In the lobby, Friday night at eight.”

I placed the phone on the table. I stared at the black-edged ad. Friday night at eight? Had I actually consented? Did I really
think I’d go to the Fairmount and take some woman up to a room and…and…? And what?

The transaction whirled around me like a hurricane. Two hours. Three hundred fifty dollars. Oh my God.

I sat in the lobby of the Fairmount Hotel like a reluctant patient in a dentist’s chair. How I had gotten there, I couldn’t
be sure. I’d merely buy her a drink, make small talk for a bit, and then get the hell out of there as soon as I could. Even
so, four one-hundred-dollar bills were crammed in my coat pocket. Not that I would actually go through with this scheme. Not
that I would end up in bed
with a woman for hire—but who could have guessed that I’d even be in a hotel lobby, waiting for a $175-an-hour date?