Chapter 2: Leo
You know the woman I'm talking about. She doesn't live in Grand Bayou year round. Every summer she arrives here from Chicago, Detroit, Minneapolis, Cleveland, someplace bigger, someplace better, someplace else.
You see her in the passenger's seat of a car worth more than your house, usually accompanied by a man twice her age. Either that, or she's sauntering down Central Avenue on her way to a salon, or sunning herself by the lake.
When you spot her, you can't help but wonder what it's like to suck on those beautiful tits, slip your cock into that voluptuous mouth. While you will never know that woman socially, she's completely out of your league, sometimes it is possible to fuck her.
Don't get too excited just yet, my brother. The Goddess will never grant you the opportunity if you're a pool man or a gardener. To fuck that woman, you must be in the right place at the right time, meet the right people and satisfy specific requirements.
First of all, you must develop a fondness for egg whites and oatmeal, do a lot of cardio and spend years pounding iron in the gym.
Secondly, you must have excellent personal hygiene with attention to detail. If you're well-hung it's a bonus. However, if your big cock is your only selling point, you won't get the job. To qualify, you will also need clean fingernails, bleached teeth, shaved balls and a tan. Wit, charm, a sense of humor and a voice like Keifer Sutherland's can also prove useful.
Thirdly, you must really love sex. I do mean really, really love sex. Yes, I know what you're thinking; 'Dude, who doesn't?' However, to fuck that woman you have to love it beyond all reason, love it with the patience and focus of a Zen master. You must be willing to eat pussy until your jaws lock, study the art of sensual massage, memorize every position in the Kama Sutra and withhold your own orgasm indefinitely. In other words, you must do whatever it takes to get her there, more than once. Your pleasure is merely an afterthought.
Lastly, you must not suffer from performance anxiety, nor can you have any hang-ups about your body. If you really want to fuck that woman, you must do so in front of her husband, on film more often than not.
Yes, you heard me right. You must fuck that woman in front of her husband. He's also likely to pay you for it, with the understanding that whatever happens in Grand Bayou, stays in Grand Bayou. After all, these people have reputations to uphold.
I know what you're thinking. "I'm a tough guy! I can handle it!" Wait, brother. If you truly believe you have what it takes, you must also prepare for the worst case scenario. Even the best jobs inevitably have a downside.
Every now and then, that woman suddenly and unexpectedly develops the capacity to feel love. She may even delude herself into believing she loves you. When that happens, the investment banker who paid you to fuck her is likely to confront you at three AM, coked-out, weeping and pointing a gun at your face.
If you manage to survive such an indignity, you may choose to remove "Exhibitionist Stud for Hire" from your résumé indefinitely, preferring to focus on less dangerous pursuits: telemarketing, waitering, philosophy majoring, etc. However, once you've experienced the unparalleled joys of uninhibited kinky sex, downgrading your tropical mango shake back to plain old vanilla can be difficult.
"I'm a tough guy! I can handle it!" I told myself when I went cold turkey four months ago (OK, there was an incident on a private beach recently. However, that woman's husband wasn't watching at the time, so I'm not sure it counts).
So how did I get the "Exhibitionist Stud for Hire" job, you're wondering?
My life as a manwhore began late one Saturday night after a shift at Ciao Belo, one of the tourist bistros located on Main Street. In my section sat a couple who'd been loitering there for hours, picking at hors du oeuvres and sampling our best wines. The husband was an impeccably dressed gentleman in his late fifties. His wife looked like a younger version of Jerry Hall. Every time I checked on their table, the wife eyed me as if she starved for something we don't post on the menu.
Finally, about two hours before close, the couple requested their check. While the husband paid the bill, he casually mentioned they were hosting a small suaré at their summer home later that evening. He extended an invitation by handing me a map sketched on a paper napkin.
"I probably won't get there until around one. Is that alright?" I asked.
"That will be fine," answered the wife, "we're planning to stay up all night, aren't we, sweetie?" She patted her husband on the back, then flashed me a Mona Lisa smile and a wink.
'What was that about?' I wondered.
After work, I followed the map down a winding road along the coast, to a wood-sided, multi-level beach house overlooking Lake Michigan. The husband buzzed me in. He greeted me in his foyer wearing nothing but black silk boxers.
"I'm so glad you could make it. Michelle has been waiting for you."
'What, huh? This is getting a little weird.' I thought, but curiosity overwhelmed me. I followed the guy up a wrought-iron spiral staircase to his bedroom. There on a king-sized bed, on her back with her legs spread wide, lay the wife. She wore a contraption made of flexible blacks straps linked by silver rings. One of those straps wrapped around her neck in a V-shape, another ran across her breasts, another ran down her belly and over her crotch, another ran across her hips. Her high-heeled black shoes had thinner straps which crossed along her calves and tied at the knees. Underneath all those straps was one of the most exquisitely toned and curvaceous bodies I'd ever seen in the flesh.
"Oooh, I'm so glad you're here!" she moaned. With that, the wife pulled down the strap which covered her big, round, fantastically artificial breasts, revealing large brown nipples. She teased them erect with the tips of her fingers, then pulled aside the strap covering her pussy. As the wife stared at my body with her I'm starving expression, she began to masturbate.
Blood rushed to my cock so quickly it made me dizzy. I'd never grown that hard, that fast in my life. In one corner of the room sat a video camera on a tripod. I assumed it was running, but that only made me harder.
The husband, who'd also pitched a tent in his boxers, laughed and handed me a condom.
