One Night Only (18 page)

But “Sessa” doesn't
want
to stay in this job. She doesn't want any regulars. What she wants is a thousand bucks, made in a day, or maybe a day and a night and, if she has to, a nooner. Today and tomorrow—that's all.

She's had fantasies her whole life about getting paid for sex. She's been bewitched by the thought since her early days, obsessed with
Pretty Woman
,
Belle de Jour
, Victorian porn. Now she gets to be one—but just until tomorrow.

Today is Friday and she wants Saturday to pack and she has to be on a plane at 6:00 a.m. Sunday. And more importantly, she wants this all to be fast so she doesn't have too much time to think about it—because she wants it very, very much, but isn't stoked about admitting it to herself.

That's why, as she walks through the lobby, she's wet. That's why, as men leer at her, she's very, very wet. That's why she's horny—very horny. Fucking
dying
of need, having thought about her first trick all morning, ever since Jeanette called at 8:00 a.m. to offer it. Sessa's nipples peak firmly enough to show through the fabric. Her sex feels smooth beneath her dress, freshly shaved and dripping, exquisitely sensitive.

She takes the elevator with more suit-clad businessmen who can't take their eyes off her; she wishes she could see them better. But her horn-rimmed librarian glasses sit perched on the dash of her '86 Civic; they don't go with the ensemble.

And contacts?

Steffi can't even put eyedrops in.

Itchy pieces of plastic are out of the question.

Sure, “Sessa” could handle it, but “Sessa” is a fantasy—an illusion. For Steffi, with her wet shaved puss and her shelf ass and aching nips, as much as for the guy about—she hopes—to fork over six hundred dollars for sex.

She looks the businessmen up and down salaciously, pursing her red-painted lips.

She can't see them that well; they're quite blurry. But she smells them, cologne and male sweat wafting along with her and mingling with her whore-perfume as she stalks in mincing steps down the hall—to Room 2332.

She checks her cell phone: it's 3:59. Right on time.

She takes a deep breath, licks her lips; thinks,
Okay. Don't get scared. It's just sex, right? It's just fucking. No big deal.

Yeah, just fucking for money
, she thinks, and her insides give a hot scary quiver.

She knocks thrice: hard, deep and even.

The door opens. A man in his thirties answers; Steffi feels a sudden rush. This guy's
hot
. Psyched up as she is to fuck a stranger—a revolting, repulsive stranger if it comes to that, and she won't care all that much if it does—she isn't going to have to. In fact, she's pretty okay doing this guy. He's fucking
handsome
. He's wearing a suit with suspenders—fucking
hot
. Gordon Gecko shit. He's much closer, physically, than the guys who lusted after her in the lobby, so he's not just a blur. Even Steffi's 20/100 tells her he's got a fuckload of
Mrrrrowr!
going on.

She tinkles out musical notes, fake-soprano: “Hi, I'm Sessa. Are you Jason?”

He throws his tongue around his mouth a few times, like it's
just been shot full of Novocain. Steffi feels a hot wave of pleasure go through her; holy shit, she's made him a mute. This guy is hot, and she made him stupid. Add six hundred dollars and Romeo's her dream date.

He finally says, his eyes wide and zinging in circles all around her and over her—everywhere but her tits and her legs—“Yes, I'm Jason. You're Sessa?”

“That's what I said,” she purrs smoothly. “Can I come in?”

He gets red and embarrassed; he backs up and holds the door and lets her in. He can't stop looking at her, but he can't let himself look at her. She guesses the dress is a hit.

Her cell phone buzzes. She ignores it.

She looks Jason up and down and says, “You seem nervous. Can I help? It's really nice to meet you.”

He laughs nervously. “I didn't expect you to be so hot.”

Steffi feels a warm glow. The dress is
definitely
a big hit.

So she drops it, smooth and even—practiced thirty times in her bedroom. It goes down so easy—just a
snap
, and a
zip
, and a
wriggle
—Jason barely even knows what she's doing, until the dress is a puddle of cherry-red blood on the floor around her spiked heels. She steps out of it and with the toe of one cherry-red shoe, she tosses the dress onto a nearby chair with her handbag. She smiles.

“I didn't expect
you
to be so hot,” she says. “You know it's okay to look, don't you?”

So he does, panting, wanting her, his eyes drinking in the way her tits spill out of her tight push-up bra, the way her hips roll from under the soft lace of her garter belt and her thighs spread her garters. Her shaved sex is visible, beautifully so, through her nearly transparent thong with barely anything to it.

She said, “I'm afraid I have to ask you—”

Jason points at the bedside table; there are eight crisp
hundreds there, spread out in a fan. Steffi feels a rush.

“Just let me take care of this,” she says, and Jason nods. She walks over to the bedside table and makes a very big show of bending down so he can get a good look at her ass. She feels the cool hotel air on her sex—she's wet, very wet; is this really as hot as she's making it?

Fuck no, she decides—it's
hotter
. Even if the sex turns out to be bad, she's going to fantasize about this moment for the rest of her fucking life.

She tucks the money in her bra and minces past him to the chair that holds her handbag. She puts the money in her wallet, palms a condom and returns to him. She edges up to Jason, putting her arms around him and her body up against him.

She sighs: “Wanna take me to bed?”

He does.

 

The sex isn't bad. He isn't the genius sex-god of the universe, but as turned on as Steffi is, he doesn't need to be. She helps him out of his clothes and pulls the covers back and spreads him out on the bed and takes his cock in her mouth. She sucks his dick with an eager abandon;
I'm getting paid for this
, she thinks.
I'm getting fucking paid for this
. She's never been the sort of girl who has an easy time being present in the moment during sex, but now it's ten times harder to be so. Not because he's a stranger; not because he's a client. Because all she can think is,
Two-sixty from eight is five hundred and forty. Five hundred and forty fucking dollars. Five hundred and forty! And he gave me a two-hundred-dollar tip before I'd done anything. Holy shit!
She can't fucking handle it. She thinks
Venice
; she thinks
Rome
; she thinks
Job applications in the fall
; that makes her freak so she goes nuts on his dick and starts laying down the porn-star action that's always been guaranteed to make
whatever guy she's with think she's some kind of sex goddess. Except Jason already does.

He pulls her off of him, gasping and glancing at the clock.

“Don't make me come,” he pants. “Fuck, you're good at that! Here, let me—”

He rolls her over on her back and slides her thong down. She learned a slutty trick from a porn novel about a prostitute: when wearing a garter belt, your underwear goes on the outside. Jason takes the thong off of her over her red high heels and tosses it on the bed as he goes down on her. He's good at that—
very
good. Very
very
fucking good. Maybe she's just turned on enough that it doesn't really matter if he's good. Or maybe he's
great
—the best clit-licker in the business. Either way, she's clawing crisp hotel sheets up and biting pillows soon, moaning, thighs doing things they shouldn't, begging him not to stop.

He doesn't. She boxes her ears. Her back arches. She yells. Her ass goes up and fucks his face. He rides her carefully. He does something with his mouth and some kind of suction and the way his tongue moves is
nice
. She comes fucking
hard
. She collapses moist with sweat, a puddle of moisture underneath her. She grabs the condom from the nightstand, tears off her bra and pulls Jason onto her.

She gets the condom on
fast
and then he's inside her—
voila
. Two minutes, three at the outside. He tries to last; after all, she's really moaning. She seems to be enjoying it lots; he wants to make it last.

And she
is
enjoying it—but she can hear her cell phone buzzing, over in her purse tucked against her wad of hundreds. She wants that even more than she wants Jason's very hot dick, and as good as it feels inside her, it's the feel of his tongue and the explosion of her orgasm, so beautiful and so unexpected, that Steffi will recall with pleasure and pride like a pair of
gorgeous events in the timeline of her life.

Jason lets go and sighs and comes inside her—in the condom. She helps him off her, removes and ties the condom off, and cuddles with him briefly. Then as he rests, panting, she's off to check her phone, kicking off her shoes and unhitching her garter belt as she does.

She says, “You mind if I take a shower?”

“Not at all,” he says.

She texts Jeanette back:
NP, will c client @ Griffin on 1st St @ 6. Rm #?

Jason watches her cross the room to the bathroom. When she gets out of the shower, he's gone—and there's another hundred-dollar bill on the pillow, smelling like her perfume.

She puts her clothes on.

 

She feels bad about lying to Jeanette.
Yes, I'm looking to make a career of this
.
I'm in it for the long-term. It's not just a lark. Oh, I'm very sexually free. I want to learn from you and the other girls. I want to learn the business
. It was all bullshit; what she wants is money, and fast, enough so she won't have to call her parents and beg halfway through the post-graduation European trip they opposed with vehement savagery. “You should get a job,” her father told her.

Steffi guesses she has. This is definitely a job. Otherwise, how'd she get five hundred dollars?

She was enjoying herself, but that just makes it a
good
job.

And it's a temp job, she guesses—just for a day and night.

And maybe a nooner, if she has to.

If she
has
to.

 

Dressed again and primped and perfumed, she takes a taxi, because she doesn't want to fuck around with her glasses or
with finding parking. She disembarks at the Griffin, where the second client waits in Room 1254.

He's in his early fifties; his name is Dennis and he's reasonably hot and suave and sexy. She feels dirty for doing a man as old as her father. She kind of likes that.

Dennis doesn't tip her up front, but he goes down on her, too, and what he lacks for in shaving technique he makes up for with a tongue that's clearly seen a lot of women. Drunk and cocky for having done it once for Jason, she looks down at Dennis's handsome face with his mouth eagerly working on her clit—and tells him he should keep doing that a little, if he wants her to come for him.

He does and she does, but it's harder the second time. What she does, finally, after ten or twelve minutes of trying and not quite getting there, is caress Dennis's face and ease his mouth off her clit—then slide her finger down and rub herself fervently; that part she's good at. She comes
hard
, and he's got the condom on before she even sucks him. He enters her gently, sighing, “Is that all right?” He's got a somewhat biggish cock so he must be used to women complaining. Steffi doesn't complain; she says it's way fucking more than all right, and it is. She wraps her legs around him and kisses him deeply as he fucks her; Dennis seems shocked at that.

Oh, right
, thinks Steffi.
Prostitutes don't kiss, I guess
.

Then she thinks,
Holy crap—is that what I am
?

The thought turns her on so much she can't help herself. She rolls Dennis onto his back and rides him slowly looking into his eyes and sliding her hand down her front and panting, “You mind if I come again?”

That shocks him even more than the kiss, but of course he says go right ahead. She rubs eagerly, looking down at him as she masturbates while riding his dick. She never realized her
thighs were this strong. She's been working the stair-stepper all year—not the better to fuck, but the better to hike the fucking Alps—and now it's paid off. She fucks herself on him, rubbing with one hand, caressing his chest, using every dirty word she can think of as she tells him how good it feels.

It takes her ten minutes; when her climax comes, it's intense but achy, like she's pushed her body too far. She slumps forward and rides him and begs him to come.

He flips her over and fucks her; he comes in a minute. She kisses him, smiles, says, “Thank you.”

“No, no, thank
you
,” is Dennis's shocked response—along with another two hundred.

Steffi doesn't shower this time; she just tucks the money in her bra, because she really really
really
likes to feel it there.

As she takes a cab back to the Damiano to retrieve her car and her glasses, her cell phone buzzes.

It's a text from Jeanette.

Steffi texts back:
???

Jeanette:
Jason just emailed to brag he got you off. Guess u enjoyed? LOL.

Steffi:
LOL.

Jeanette:
He wants 2 c u next week.

Steffi:
Sorry, out of town.