Room Service

I tap on the hotel room door. I call out, "Room Service."

I'm wearing a generic service-type uniform; black pants, white shirt with black tie, name tag. I'm carrying a small suitcase, presumably the property of the party on the other side of the door. It isn't.

A woman opens the door. She fits the description I've been given. Mid-fifties, short grey hair, slender, a handsome face with age-appropriate lines and wrinkles. I've dealt with worse. She's wearing a tweed business suit with a skirt. The skirt will make things easier.

"Yes?" Abrupt. An ex-smoker's contralto and a who-the-fuck-are-you attitude. Nice.

"I have a delivery for Ms. Merryman." The name I'd been given. When she'd signed into the hotel a week ago for the APA convention, she'd given the front desk an Amex card and a California DL bearing the name Anna Schmidt.

She doesn't hesitate. "That would be

Doctor

Merryman. Come in." I shut and lock the door behind me. "Put it there," she says imperiously, pointing at the suitcase stand.

I throw the suitcase onto the floor. "Bossy cunt, aren't you?" I snarl. She freezes and stares, alarmed; I'm a tall man, heavily muscled, and I tower over her. I seize her arms above the elbows, pin them to her sides and kiss her on the mouth, hard. She twists free of my grip and cocks her arm back to deliver a teeth-loosening slap. I intercept it and shove her face-first against the wall, holding both her wrists against the small of her back with my massive left hand. "Not nice," I growl. With my right hand I pull up her skirt. Garter belt, no panties. I slide my hand up between her thighs and grab her plump pussy. It's freshly shaven and dripping wet.

"It's like this, bitch. You try to scream, I'll gag you. You fight, I fight. This can be as easy or hard as you want to make it."

"Fuck you, white trash," she gasps OK, I think, so that sets the tone. I pull handcuffs out of my pocket and cuff her wrists behind her back. As I turn her around to face me, she tries to knee me in the balls. "

Really

not nice!" I throw her backwards across the bed and pull up her skirt. She tries to kick me in the face. I wrestle her shoes off and hug her legs against my chest with my left arm. With my right hand I'm dropping my pants.

I popped a Cialis an hour ago and donned a snug stainless steel cock ring, so I'm rock hard. I waggle my throbbing organ at her. "You like it, cunt? Nine inch length, seven inch girth. A one-in-ten-thousand cock, and you're going to get all of it."

She stares at my police baton of a cock; gnarly with throbbing veins, and gapes at both ends. Her cunt twitches and oozes thick white grool. "Your cunt's trying to tell me something," I say conversationally. "It's saying 'feed me.'" I stick my middle and ring fingers into it up to the knuckles and begin firmly rubbing her G-spot. My thumb mimics the motion on her clit.

She arches her back and starts gibbering - "Ohmigawd, Ohmigawd!"

"Shut up," I say, "or I'll gag you. The gag has a rubber plug like a short, thick cock. You wouldn't like it." She shuts up.

Already, the whole room is smelling of hot cunt. I take my fingers out, pull her toward me, and bury my throbbing fireplug in her gaping, dripping, greedy hole. I am rewarded with a loud queef. "Musical, aren't we?" I remark. She shudders all over and shows me the whites of her eyes.

What I can see of her body - belly, vulva, legs and thighs - is quite nice. Once again, I reflect on how women age. The parts that never see the sun age slowly, staying smooth and wrinkle-free. That makes my job a lot more fun.

She groans and writhes as I fall into my rhythm; pull it out slow, slam it in fast and hard, bumping her cervix at the bottom of every stroke. This is my dream cunt; warm, wet, loose, gentle as butterfly wings. I'm caressed by feather-light satin curtains hanging over a bed covered with soft velvety cushions. The muscles in her vaginal floor flutter, tickling the bottom of my cock with the tips of soft baby fingers. A twenty-year-old cunt is hot, tight and insistent, demanding quick completion of the reproductive function. This one is loose and welcoming; perfect for hours of thoughtful pleasure.

She is impatient. "Faster? Can you go faster?"

"No." I pause for a long moment, then continue. After a few minutes her thighs twitch and she shudders all over. Orgasm number one. She's shiny with sweat, and her nipples are sticking out like pencil erasers.

"Stop for a second. Just stop, won't you?" Her eyes roll wildly.

"No. Look me in the eyes while I fuck you." I slap her right ass cheek, hard. "Every time you blink or look away, you get another slap, next time on the face."

"Ohmigawd ohmigawd ohmigawd..." Orgasm two comes ten minutes later. We take a beat while I finish undressing her, leaving only the stockings and garter belt. It's the more-naked-than-naked look. Her breasts are firm for her age, with gold rings through the prominent nipples. They're meant to be played with, so I do that very thing while we work on orgasm number three, which takes six minutes. "Roll over and stick your bitch ass in the air." I ride her hard while giving her a reach-around, rolling her clit between my thumb and index finger. Orgasm number four takes five minutes, after which I reach into my bag and bring out the wand. After another hour she's in a continuous orgasmic state; squirming, sweating, shuddering and speaking in tongues.

I pull out. I'm still rock hard; my dick head is drumhead taunt and as red as a maraschino cherry. But I'm nowhere near orgasm. A professional conserves his energy.

"OK. End of Act One. Now we set the stage for Act Two."

"Oh God, how many acts?"

"Three. In Act Two I tie you spreadeagle on the bed and suck your clit like a baby on a nipple until you're out of your mind. Roll over so I can take off the cuffs." As I'm saying this I'm retrieving many yards of neatly coiled satin rope from my bag.

"And then what?" Her voice has an edge of hysteria.

"In Act Three, the grand finale, I give you all nine inches up your ass."

"I don't think I can do that." She sounds weak and genuinely frightened.

"You're not going to

do

anything,

Doctor

. You're just going to lie there and be done

to

."

I tie her to the bed with smooth satin ropes. It goes quickly; I've spent many hours practicing with my domestic staff, aka my house whores. I inspect my work and find that it is Good. Arranging myself comfortably between her legs, I proceed to blow --- or rather eat --- her brains out.

If cunnilingus were an Olympic event, I'd have a shelf full of gold medals. I've been doing it ever since I was 14, when my slutty 18-year-old stepsister introduced me to the ancient art. The secret, I've learned, is to start slowly with gentle, tickling kisses on the insides of the thighs, working my way up to the target a millimeter at a time. By the time I reach her vulva she's shaking all over.

I sniff and tongue her asshole. Clean. She's ready for this. After a few minutes of working her rim, I move up to her cunt. It's twitching, opening and closing at me like a hungry toothless mouth. I thoroughly explore the outer lips, then the deep creases between the outer and inner lips, with frequent detours to stick my tongue deep into her hot, juicy womanhood. It tastes like raw oysters and clam juice. If I had a piece of French bread, I could make a meal of it.

After a half hour of teasing suspense I arrive at her clit. I spread the apex of her labial cleft open wide between thumb and forefinger, pulling her clitoral hood back. She has a nice clit, the size of a lima bean, erect and flushed bright red. I put the tip of my tongue on it and slowly begin to roll it back and forth, Shearches her back and squeals; I raise my head to follow her, never missing a beat. As a grand finale I suck the red bean hard, three fingers fluttering inside her, while she talks in tongues.

After an hour she stops moving and lies limp. She looks like she's asleep, yet as I untie her, she manages to whisper, "And now you're bugger me? I don't think I can stand it."

"I think you can. And I don't think you have much choice. Roll over onto the other side of the bed, this side is soaked with pussy juice. Lie on your face" She does. I reach into my bag, fumble through the dildoes and floggers and other professional equipment and come up with a bottle of silicone lube. "Don't try to fight me, you don't have the strength. Just lie there."

I put a generous dollop of lube on my finger and stick it into her ass all the way up to the knuckle. She sobs once but doesn't pull away. Two fingers, then three. I pull them out and sniff. Not a trace of stink. This woman knows how to prepare herself for an ass fucking. "Yes, I think you'll be able to take it just fine."

And in the end, so to speak, she does. She doesn't move a muscle but does begin to cry; deep wrenching sobs, hand over her face, with copious tears leaking between the fingers as I stretch her asshole with my fingers. I begin to understand words. "Daddy, please. Please, Daddy, not my little tushie. It hurts so bad, Daddy. It hurts so bad."

I start slowly working my fireplug cock into her ass. She's lying limp as a dishrag, but her hallucinatory gibbering is becoming louder and more coherent. "Please, please Daddy, you're hurting my little tushie. It hurts so much Daddy. It hurts do much. Do you have to hurt me, Daddy?"

I'm not prepped for this particular dynamic, but I'd been in it many times, so I immediately fall into the role. "Yes, Baby Girl, Daddy needs to hurt you. He needs to teach you how to take it up the ass, because every woman has to do it. I use your mother's ass, your husband is going to use your ass, and if you have a little girl your husband is going to use her ass. It's the way of the world." I pause, enjoying the sensation. My dickhead, hard as wood and as sensitive as an eyeball, is thrilling at every fold and crease in her descending colon. At length I arrive at a hot, tight place somewhere between her kidney and begin thrusting with short gentle strokes. I'm in heaven. The sensation is like nothing else in the universe unless there are other sentient races whose males fuck their females in the ass. Still, I control myself. Pros don't come on - or rather, in - their jobs.

She's sobbing like a little girl being stretched on the rack, but still lies limp, her body totally compliant. "Oh, Daddy. Oh, Daddy. Please stop. Please stop, Daddy, it hurts so bad." It sounds so heartfelt and pitiable that it makes my sadistic blood boil. I thrust harder.

"I know, Baby Girl, but Daddy likes it. You like to make Daddy happy, don't you?" I pause motionless for a long minute, fighting down an orgasm. God help me, there's nothing I love more than anal. Ever since I locked the door behind me I've been listening carefully for her safe word but haven't heard it. It's Fort Worth, and no, I have no idea.

It's three in the morning when she finally shuts up and lies quietly. II decide to stop. I gently pull out and get off the bed. I study her limp, sweaty, sticky body on the soaked sheets, her red, puffy, face on the tear-soaked pillow, and admire my handiwork. I shower with cold water, squeezing my erection down and working the cock ring off. I still have a huge half-boner; par for the course. I get dressed and am packing my toolbox when she whispers from the bed, "Did you ever come?"

"No. I enjoyed every minute, but I didn't come. I like to save my strength."

"You're a monster. How much do I owe you?"

"You don't. I'm sure it was explained to you that I am not a whore, I'm a friend. If the Spirit moves you, you can send me a birthday present. I left my card on the desk."

"What would be an acceptable - present?"

"That depends upon how much you value our friendship and how badly you want it to continue. And be sure to include a referral. That's what friends are for."

A week later I get a FedEx packet containing a note. "Contact Dr. Joan Jordan at the Long Beach Renaissance on September 9th, 10 PM. When she comes to the door of her room ask for Ms. Goodman. She likes the paddle and the fist. Her safe word is cauliflower." Along with the note is a rubber band around a packet of 100 dollar bills and a hand-lettered Post-It; "$10K. PS I haven't shat yet."

It's never clear to me whether the money is a fee paid in advance or in arrears. That's fine. It makes the legal situation even more pleasantly ambiguous.