Le Concierge

I've been at this gig for about three years now in a Northeastern city. Career-wise, it wasn't what I expected to be doing at my age, but I can't gripe about the pay. This is for a private apartment complex (not a hotel, mind you), so it's rightly what Europeans define as being a Concierge (attending to high-end residents' needs).

I'm in my mid-twenties, tall and reasonably fit, outfitted in a blazer, gray slacks and dress shoes, and I sport a genuine-enough smile that's kept fresh every day. This is no mean feat, as the job is the essence of repetition; if you think it's easy coming up with clever ways to say the weather stinks, guess again.

When you're handing that Mercedes owner her Wall Street Journal at 7 AM, you need to have your happy face on your mug, a talent that most guys my age can't list on their resumes. Attitude is everything in the Service and Hospitality Industry, allow me to inform you.

The reason I'm writing this bit of introductory hooey is because I want you, dear reader, to know this isn't some sort of braggadoccio you'll be slogging through. It's just a few episodes in my life as a Concierge, ones where I've gone beyond the usual services a guy like me will do to earn those holiday tips. I may do a series of stories, depending upon interest. Time will tell.

To start off with I want to talk about sussing people out. That is, trying to anticipate what a person like one of these residents is going to need before they even know it themselves. That's how I do over 7K a year in tips: knowing when to step in and when to back off.

People at certain salary levels and/or privileged backgrounds don't like the direct approach, you see -- you must give them their own space. But it doesn't hurt to gently nudge. In fact, thoughtful gestures always pay off in dollars.

Getting to the sexual stuff in the building: it's always there, right under the surface. If I had a dime for every instance when a female resident told me something confidential about her husband's behavior, well, you know, I'd be retiring early. Like, next week. And I don't mean it's always overt stuff; mostly it's just little hints that they wouldn't mind something extra in their lives.

Hell, some of the married men here have given me signals that they'd love an informal intro to a sexy lady who just moved in on the fifth floor, for that matter. They're more direct in their comments, naturally, than the women.

But, I'm avoiding the main subject. Let me tell you about Mrs. Harris, for starters. Not her real name, of course, but it might as well be. She's a long-standing resident of this building, which is set back on a short, relatively-unknown street off a major thoroughfare in the city, but manages to seem nestled in just the right spot to allow easy walking distance to every cultural (museums, opera, clubs) as well as practical conveniences (grocery, shopping, shopping, and shopping) that one might need.

It's a brick edifice, constructed in the latter 20th Century but mimicking the staid looks of some preserved buildings in Britain. Tourists and passers-by stop in at my desk all the time, remarking on its authenticity. They all think they're freaking Frank Lloyd Wright, let me tell you.

Mrs. Harris is perfectly coiffed and made up, at any hour of the day. Don't expect to catch her with pale, reddened morning eyes, not her. She's petite and well formed, appears to be about 40, and has a soft, slightly British accent. If you've seen classic Bette Davis movies, that's the voice.

If anything Mrs. Harris wears costs less that a thou or maybe two, I've never seen her in it. Don't ask about the various tasteful jewelry pieces and what they may cost, please. I've met her husband twice so far in three years, so the vague "he travels a lot on business" will have to do.

Mrs. Harris and I have carried on a discreet and unusual sexual life for about a year now. We've never actually spoken about it, oddly enough. Even as I write this today I wonder if she might read it sometime and recognize us. I believe she'd get a charge out of it, in her own refined way, but I will never know. Such is our arrangement.

As I said I believe she is about forty in years. But never forget this about the well-off: you can't guess their ages without a look at the driver's license, and even then you don't know if it's forged. Her wide, deep-set eyes are light brown and she has a patrician nose that leans toward a possible Italian half-heritage. That may explain how warm and moist her skin can look. Her hair is so professionally colored that it looks like real chestnut brown. She wears it down around her graceful neck, almost to her shoulders.

Her breasts are firm and high and not artificial, as best I can tell, with responsive nipples. Not thin-waisted but not thick, her daily trips to the gym keep her shapely, which is doubly-important for petite women. Invariably, Mrs. Harris totters expertly on expensive, imported heels that one day may be her downfall (literally), but I guess one never loses the stigma of being short.

Her Gorsuch wardrobe style complements her figure, with her favorite looks epitomizing the "just back from Aspen, by way of the Alps" attitude, namely ski pants that hug her hips and ass quite well. Well, I'm pretty sure she'd never refer to them as pants, but that's how I grew up speaking.

Most of all, Mrs. Harris has that thing called charisma. Charisma has the power to mesmerize you, to make your eyes draw down from hers to the source of that strong but soft voice, to study those moistened lips and the perfect teeth within, as they expel the time-tested, upper-echelon diction ("Raymond, your tie was an excellent choice. I compliment your wife. Has the mail arrived?").

Not that I'm intimidated by such personal magnetism. Note the fact that I've just given you, the reader, my actual first name and divulged the fact that I'm a married man. No, not intimidated by such a person as Mrs. Harris, but certainly drawn to her. I could listen to her read the phone book with that voice.

It all started with Trust. Trust is something I've learned is required to get the rich to open up. Discretion is a major part of Trust. I'd be fired tomorrow if any of my residents felt I was telling tales out of school. Trust is the tree from which all things green grow in my world, if you get my drift.

Over the course of time Mrs. Harris evolved from stiff to soft in my presence. This was before the first sexual incident I'm about to relate. As she grew to realize she could trust me, even in things that might put me in an awkward position with the management company that pays my salary, she gradually dropped her master-and-servant bit and loosened up. This, I figured, would give me opportunities to worm my way into performing more services for her, with escalating tips as a result. Little did I know.

That was all that drove me that day when she asked me to her apartment to rearrange some heavy planters on her balcony. I'd been frequently in her unit to take care of the many florals and hanging plants during Mrs. Harris' vacations, so this was not anything unusual, except for the fact of her presence in the place. I'd been summoned by her phone call. It was about 11 AM.

She asked me if I'd join her in a glass of wine and some crackers and brie, as she was feeling peckish. It's not often that I'm invited to do anything like this, but it had happened before (and has, since), so I knew not to be flustered. I discreetly shut off my cell phone as she opened the Pouilly-Fuisse and set out a plate. So what if it wasn't even lunchtime yet -- I could use a bite and a gulp or two myself, and there was always a packet of mints in my jacket.

We discussed upcoming renovations to hallways in the building, as I recall. She wore an Hermes orange robe with discreet piping running down the front, and as we spoke and politely shared the wine I noticed that the arcs of that piping seemed to mimic her own considerable curves, underneath. The brie was just tart enough and creamy as can be, for my taste, and did I mention the generous batch of room temperature grapes that were on their own pretty little plate?

As we spoke about the various papers the management company was considering for the halls I kept wondering about those balcony planters. It came to me that perhaps I wouldn't be moving those planters, at least not that day. Maybe it was the French wine, or maybe her loose attitude of camaraderie, but I found myself wondering about why she wanted to see me.

Then Mrs. Harris did an odd thing. One moment she was poised so elegantly on an antique chair with light yellow upholstery, speaking to me of her time in Greece and the ancient kitchen she had toured in some ruin or other, and in the next she was gliding across the room to her Bose Wave compact stereo and upping the volume a little.

As she did so, I recognized that the music was from an old classic jazz album by the Three Sounds, with Stanley Turrentine sitting in on sax, and that the track was "Willow Weep For Me".

I was about to remark on that very fact when the lady of the house crossed back through the room and stood beside my seated form in the chair, with her right leg pressed into my left arm.

I know it doesn't make sense, but that bathrobe felt like it wasn't there, like I could feel the heat from her outer thigh right through that imported material and my own assembled-in-Malaysia jacket. It was a heat that meant only one thing.

I looked up at her and she looked back. In her right hand was a wine glass. I remember it shimmered in the late morning light, betraying slight nervousness at what she was doing. Her neck seemed flushed. Her eyes studied mine with a vulnerability I'd never witnessed in her, but at the same time she was in charge.

Mrs. Harris gasped slightly when she felt my hand running up under her robe. I wasn't even aware I was doing it, to tell the truth. While Stanley played soulfully behind us, sparked by the finest piano-bass-drum combo this side of a smoke-filled room, I marveled at how I didn't mind at all that she was older, and that her skin wasn't butter-soft like new imported leather in a Jaguar, or whatever analogy might apply. This was a woman in serious lust and heat, a woman who needed my services at that moment and was not ready at all to be turned down. A woman whose legs were parting slightly as I slid further up. My response to this was pure instinct.

We spoke not a word as Mrs. Harris leaned down and used her left hand to pull her robe out of the way, offering a naked, needy body to my view. Her sumptuous flesh was actually trembling. She bent more and brought a stiffened nipple to my mouth. I felt like I could hear her inner machinery hum.

My hand had reached her inner thigh, where I encountered actual moisture sliding down her skin from above. I had to make myself step outside the overwhelming, almost oppressive fact of her need, to notice that my own response had produced a fierce erection, one that was painfully trapped within my confined position. I don't believe I've ever had a stronger reaction than that in so short a time, even during puberty. It was like I could come any second just from the novelty of this situation.

The nipple between my lips seemed to expand from the licking and sucking I was giving. I heard a sort of sobbing breathlessness from Mrs. Harris. Looking up, I saw the wideness of her eyes and knew right away that she was about to come. It made no sense, but she was about to give out, I could tell.

I brought my fingers to the mouth of her sex and felt the warm wetness, the shape of her vulva, the reality of her. I was like the blind man allowed to see, or I should say I didn't need to actually view her naked cunt to feel the bareness of its need. My mouth was now full of her substantial breast as Mrs. Harris tried in her lust to push more of it into me. Her breath was ragged, just above my ear. I barely found the time to locate the nub of her clit before she exploded all over me.

At least it felt that way. Unlike most women I've known at this height of passion, Mrs. Harris' orgasm was one large blurt full of emotion and biological culmination. She seemed to squat and leak all over my fingers as the wine glass flew across the carpet. Her breast pulled violently out of my mouth even as her hand softly stroked my neck like it was her lover's cock. This gentle gesture seemed autonomous, given that the rest of her was so involved with her strong release.

Within about twenty seconds she was on her knees on the carpet, exhausted, with her arms about my neck, her head buried in the hollow of my shoulder. I petted her sopping cunt lips with my fingers softly before withdrawing. Her sexual smell was positively overpowering in the room, which only made me more erect and more in awe of her suddenly-revealed inner person.

I remember that day she recovered gradually and gave me a short hug before dropping a hand curiously to my lap to explore my reaction. I guess she needed to know that her actions weren't merely ones of selfish impertinence, but that I'd gotten something out of it as well. Her touch was more like a physician's exam than a lover's caress. Her wine breath was sweet as her cheek briefly touched mine, and then our session was over.

"Thank you, Raymond."

"My pleasure," I replied, hoarsely. "Perhaps another day for the planters."

"Yes, thank you." And then she was in the bathroom with the shower starting to run and the door closed. And I was doing what cleaning up I could, but screw the wine glass and the stains on the carpet, that was her bother.

My erection didn't recede for quite some time, owing to the thoughts in my mind and the smell of her pussy on my fingers. I found myself wondering if I'd be called back soon to complete our session that day, but that didn't happen for another month or more.

In the interim I wondered how I might react to her the next time we'd meet, outside her apartment, I mean. I even practiced keeping a straight face in our imaginary hallway encounters. I wondered most of all if she would act differently toward me, and hoped it wouldn't be in a negative way.

I needn't have bothered worrying. Things were back to normal the next day, as if nothing had happened. Small talk and a bit of politics were exchanged between us for weeks, and pretty soon I chalked the whole thing up to aberrant behavior. It was either that or make myself crazy dreaming up a rational explanation. Still, I couldn't help wondering how I'd behave if ever Mrs. Harris summoned me to move those blasted planters again.

And so it was, immediately after taking a cell phone call from her the following month about coming up to do exactly that job, that I found my trousers tented unbearably. It was with much trepidation that I took the elevator to her floor and attempted to conduct myself professionally while knocking.

Mrs. Harris only nodded to me as I entered her hallway. She was dressed this time in a loose tropical blouse and casual off-blue jeans, her feet bare, but the ensemble was not something you'll find at Target. I followed her until she entered her bedroom and sat on the edge of her throwback Scandinavian Design platform bed, facing me as I stood at the door. That's where my feet stopped, along with my breath.

Her being petite and the bed being close to the floor, I twigged to what she wanted to do immediately, and it was disappointing to realize I didn't find it surprising. By that I mean that I really wish I could have seemed puzzled. Maybe it was the look in her eyes as she beckoned me to her, or perhaps I was beginning to understand that to Mrs. Harris I was more of a useful object than a lover.

Anyway, it was apparent she had pre-estimated the best place to do this in her apartment, and her deductions were correct. Neither of us spoke when I walked to her and she pulled me close by grasping my hips with her hands. I unbuttoned my blazer as the bulge in my slacks pressed against her face and she ran her mouth and lips and cheeks over it without a sound. Her face was at just the right height to marry with my crotch. I could feel her insistent desire through the touch of her hands on my hips.

I don't know how she got my penis out of my pants so deftly (hell, just unzipping to take a piss requires me to spend some time at it), but in no time my naked flesh was feeling the cool air of the room and the warm lips of Mrs. Harris. She'd even managed to fish my balls out so she could nuzzle and kiss them. She got her whole face into it, smushing herself against my erection, her eyes closed peacefully like she was waking from a nice dream and didn't want the light to get in, just yet.

It felt wonderful, I must say. Her features being small and delicate didn't hurt anything in my ego -- my dick looked quite large against her face, especially looking down at her like that. I could see a little smear of my precum adorning her slightly flushed cheek, which only made me stiffer. And then she had me slipped into her mouth with her tongue running along the underside, and I let loose involuntarily with a small groan.

I didn't know what to do with my hands. They naturally wanted to reach out and caress her face and hair and neck and ears, but something told me to just hook them behind my back and keep such impulses in check for the moment. I knew I was right when I saw Mrs. Harris open her eyes and look up at me with a disconnected gaze, as though the fact that there was an actual person attached to these male genitals was inconvenient. I should have been put off, but it came more as a relief.

Of course she knew how to blow a guy, so my cock and balls stayed very interested even as I went a little cold inside. One of her hands left my hip to drift over and cup my ball sac as she tilted her head back a little to accept more of me into the back of her throat. All the while that tongue was roving the underside of my shaft like a little pleasure machine that knew all the right destinations, especially just under the ridge of my glans.

I wasn't too surprised when her other hand moved down her own body, first giving a light trail across her blouse-covered breasts and then delving into the spot between her legs. Looking past the erotic sight of my cock buried half inside this woman's mouth, her lips stretching as she began to bob her head on it, I could just make out her using the heel of her hand to grind against herself down there. It was a languid rather than urgent movement, and I remember thinking that she was clearly in no hurry to reach her own pleasure peak.

I don't believe I was thinking coherently right then. My senses were all about her warm wet mouth and the fact that she was now taking more of me into her throat than when she'd started. My hips were starting to push out at her. My balls were in her hand, being rolled gently between her fingers. My eyes were on her lips.

In my mind I pictured what the shaft of my cock looked like moving through her mouth, the head pressing past the back of her tongue to enter her throat. I imagined the flanged tip blossoming out and the hole of my urethra spread wide, ready to ejaculate directly down that aristocratic throat and fill her with my semen. It was something I'd never pictured like that before, and I think there was a bit of involuntary sexual menace in those visualizations.

I knew instinctively Mrs. Harris wasn't the sort of woman you had to explain things to; she would naturally know when I was to reach my peak of pleasure, since she was in total control of it all the time. And she'd of course know what happens when a man makes it to that point. The way she was now aggressively sawing my cock in and out of her mouth as I thrust it at her, her cheeks alternately swelling and hollowing, her head moving back and forth as more and more of me seemed to be swallowed down and her lips nearly met my crotch....well, that could only mean that she wanted to get me to that destination in a hurry.