Roses

I knew something was wrong when Sly called. I could hear it in his voice. All he said, though, was that he had a client lined up and wanted to discuss it with me. When he opened the door to his apartment I gasped at the nasty cut on his lip and the black eye. I know intellectually that Sly's world is a rough one, but I'm usually not confronted so forcefully with the evidence.

"Jesus, Sly," I said. "What the hell happened to you?"

"It don't concern you, Princess. Forget it."

"Bullshit," I said. I pushed him backward into the apartment, no easy task; he's a big guy.

"Go sit down," I told him. "Let me get something for that lip."

"Fuck it," he said dismissively. "I told ya, it don't concern you."

Nonetheless he backed away and went over to the couch and sat down, his eyes downcast. I knew damned well that he wanted attention, but just couldn't admit it, even to himself. Near as I have been able to make out during the time of our partnership, no-one before me had ever taken an interest in him. I know that he really appreciates my concern, but he simply doesn't know how to acknowledge it. So I ignored his gruff dismissal.

Leaving him there I went to the bathroom and got some bandages and a washcloth. I came back and pretended not to see his glowering. I wiped his eye and the blood from his lip. It must have hurt, but he didn't react, just stared ahead.

"Leave it alone, willya? I'm okay."

Sure, I thought. Secretly I was amused by how transparent the big guy was. He liked it when I mothered him, but he'd sooner die than admit it. I had to be careful, though. Step over an invisible line and he'd just get mad. I had to strike a delicate balance between showing concern on the one hand and respecting his masculine stoicism on the other. I have a lot of respect for him; he's had a tough life, mostly on the streets, yet he's basically a decent guy under his prickly exterior. I'm appreciative of the fact that I'm probably one of the few people that knows that.

Yeah, I know it's funny that I should feel that way. Sly's the guy that blackmailed me into having sex with him and a few of his buddies a while back. He clearly enjoyed making a lily-white upper class "princess" perform sexually for him. Not a very auspicious beginning, but when he recognized my talent, he was all business. He'd run women in the sex business before and has a lot of practical experience in overseeing his "ladies". He saw what I couldn't admit to myself, that I actually enjoyed the work. He made me face that and then offered me a partnership. I accepted, and over the subsequent months I've gotten to know him a lot better. We've developed a pretty good working relationship based on mutual respect.

"I'm not leaving," I said. "So, are you going to tell me or not?"

"Ah fuck. It was just a disagreement over cards."

My hackles raised at that. Old memories.

"Sly, you didn't use me as stakes again, did you? I'll fucking blacken your other eye."

He smiled and winced at the pain from his split lip.

"No, Babe. Take it easy, willya? Just money. As I recall, you were pretty clear last time."

"Hmm. Yeah, I guess I was. Okay, then, you called me. What's up?"

"Can you get a toga by next Wednesday?"

"You're kidding. A toga?? What is this, some kind of fraternity party for college kids? Not likely! Think again."

"No, no, Babe. Take it easy. Not college kids. Adults. And it ain't a party. It's at the big flower show at the Colosseum."

"Hah. That's good. I guess togas go with the setting, anyway. But where do I come in?"

"Okay. Some of the guys who are running the show have set up a little theme party for after-hours at the show. Invited guests only. That's where you come in. The theme is 'Romans and Roses', or maybe 'Roses and Romans'. I forgot. I dunno what the connection is, but that ain't my problem. Don't care."

"Oh c'mon, Sly. Roses were very important to the Romans. They used them for all kinds of things. In ancient Rome roses were symbols of beauty, love, and passion. They were associated with Venus, their goddess of love, so the Romans used them in poetry and art to symbolize romance and desire. Roses were a celebration of life as well as a recognition of mortality, so they'd put rose petals on graves and in tombs. Hell, they even used rose oil as medicine to treat headaches and other problems. You see roses in a lot of Roman art because they were so important."

"Yeah, yeah. So, I'm impressed. Roses were a big deal to the Romans. I got it. Jesus, Princess, I never know what you're gonna come up with next. The junk stuffed in that pretty head of yours..."

"Nothing like a liberal arts education for being useful," I said with a smile. "Anyway, though, what these guys want sounds like fun. I'm up for it. If the money's good, go ahead and set it up, will you?"

"You got it, Babe. You and the guys can talk all night about roses and Romans."

"Oh, I hope it's not ALL talk."

He smiled. "I doubt it will be."

****

I consulted with Ruth, the costumer I met when I had had a client at the Met. She informed me, with all the hauteur of a professional, that proper young Roman ladies did NOT wear togas. They wore stolas. Apparently among women only prostitutes wore togas. Who knew?

I pointed out that it had been a while since I had considered myself a "proper young lady." Ruth smiled and said, "That's as may be, but Honey, you don't really need to advertise, do you?"

She showed me some pictures of stolas, but I had to admit I was initially hard-pressed to tell the difference between them and togas. I imagine ancient Roman guys had no such problem, though. In any case we 'borrowed' some stuff from the Met, and together (well, mostly Ruth) we cobbled up a pretty sexy sea-green stola. It was gathered at my left shoulder and then swooped down across my chest to show a fair amount of cleavage and then draped over my right breast. The material was silky and clinging, so it might as well have been transparent there. Since I wasn't wearing a bra, it left nothing to the imagination. It was gathered at my waist and then dropped gracefully to the floor, with an opening on my left side that extended up to my left hip. Ruth forbade high heels, but we compromised on a pair of sandals with a low heel that shaped my legs nicely. I had my long hair done up in a fancy Roman-like coiffure, but we left a few "casual" strands brushing my long neck.

Ruth pointed out that technically I was supposed to wear a tunic under the stola, but I drew the line at that. My turn to play the 'professional' card. Ask any kid on Christmas morning: there's a fine line between the anticipation of opening a beautifully wrapped present and the frustration when the wrapping takes too much time. Guys are much like little kids when it comes to sex, especially when they've paid for it. I needed to strike a balance between historical accuracy and female availability. Ruth grimaced, but acquiesced. She's a doll.

Wednesday night I showed up at the Colosseum with a light topcoat over my stola. I was met at a back door by a guy. He guided me into the building and through a maze of corridors until we came out onto the floor. It was amazing! Pretty dark except for work lights, but even in the dim light I could see the many booths and sections on the floor all beautifully landscaped and decorated with a fantastic variety of flowers. It smelled wonderful. I felt pretty privileged to be there. I was reminded of a line one of my classmates in high school used while he was trying to get under my bra: "Good girls get to go to heaven, but BAD girls get to go EVERYWHERE!" Yeah. Nice try. Didn't work. Good effort, though.

My guide showed me up a set of stairs to a room off the main balcony. When we entered, I saw maybe a dozen guys with about the same number of women. They were all dressed in ancient Roman garb. The other women were wearing togas. Shows how much THEY knew. Oh wait. There was one other woman wearing a stola. She looked at me, nodded and smiled. I returned the smile and gave her a thumbs up.

There was a bar set up and lots of couches around. The lights were pretty dim. One couple was already heavily making out on one of the couches, oblivious to the rest of us. The guy had his hand way up under the girl's toga between her legs while he kissed her exposed breast. She looked quite happy.

A couple of the guys came over to us. I smiled through the thorough once-over. There was a little hushed discussion, and then one of the guys took my arm and we headed for the bar. The other two guys faded into the background.

"Jesus, honey," my escort said, "you are one beautiful lady. And I love your outfit. What's your name?"

That was nice. I'm always flattered when a client asks. Lots of guys I meet professionally don't ever bother.

"Vicki," I said. "With an i."

"Nice. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure. I'd like that." This was getting even better. He was in no rush.

We went over to the bar. He had a vodka martini, so I joined him. Turned out he was one of the exhibitors at the show, so we talked about flowers for a little bit. Not that I know a whole lot about flowers, but I did get a chance to use some of my rose arcana that had impressed Sly so little. Eventually he suggested we sit down for a bit. Show time.

We adjourned to one of the comfortable couches. I leaned against him, making sure one of my breasts pressed lightly against his arm. He didn't need a whole lot of encouragement. He leaned over and kissed me. I felt his hand sliding up along my leg under my stola. He gently stroked my inner thigh. I kissed him back, hard. He put his free arm behind my neck and drew my face close to his. Our kiss deepened, and then I felt his fingers brush my pussy. I sighed. His fingers pushed the crotch of my panties aside. I wriggled a little and pulled him closer. He put a finger into me. Oh Lord, it felt good. I let him know it. I reached down and stroked the hard lump under his pants. His breathing picked up.

He put another finger into me and began to stroke me. I moaned and unzipped his fly. Much as I was enjoying his fingering, I had a job to do. I broke our kiss and bent over him. I lay on my side, my head on his lap. He reluctantly withdrew his wet fingers but quickly adapted to the new situation by reaching behind me. I helped him draw up my stola so that he had access to my ass. He cupped my buttocks under my panties and then his hand gently probed between my legs. I raised one leg enough to give him room to work, and soon he was groping and fingering me again, but from a new angle. It felt delightful.

Meanwhile with my free hand I probed into his fly until I found what I was looking for and maneuvered it out into the air. It was a nice cock, already wet on the tip with pre-cum. I held it erect in my hand and addressed myself to the tip, kissing it gently and probing the slit with my tongue. I took a couple of inches into my mouth and gently sucked on it. I heard his indrawn breath and felt his hand on my pussy tense up. Good. I wriggled around a little to give him better access while still holding his cock in my mouth and massaging it with my tongue.

I began to slowly rise and fall on his cock, sucking and licking it while I did. I enjoyed hearing him moan. His cock soon inflated even more and pulsated as it got ready for his orgasm. I kept up my rhythm until I felt the first little spurt of his semen. Then I locked my lips on his shaft and made room in my mouth for his load.

He didn't disappoint. After the first gentle release his cock throbbed in my hand and then erupted in my mouth. Spurt after spurt he delivered, his semen all warm and slightly salty. I swallowed in time with his ejaculations and his groans. I kept licking the tip of his cock, but I was careful not to interfere with his delivery until I was sure he was done. I purposely let a little of his semen escape my lips: guys like to see evidence of their product on our lips when they're done.

I left him lying back on the couch with a smile. Job well done. I take pride in my work.

The night was still young, and I was getting paid to entertain the clientele, so I cleaned up a little and headed over to the bar. It didn't take long. A good-looking gentleman in a blue toga was the first.

"That was quite a performance you and Michael put on, there," he said. "I've never seen Michael so happy. He's still got a goofy grin on his face."

"I'm glad that you enjoyed the performance," I said, smiling graciously at him. "I rather enjoyed it myself."

"That was pretty apparent," he said. "One doesn't often see that in a professional. May I ask what your name is, and are you free?"

"Well," I said, for the first question, my name is Vicki. That's with an i. As to the second, I wouldn't exactly say I'm 'free', but let's just say that I'm 'pre-paid'."

He looked pleasantly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

I laughed. "That's okay. I got the gist of it."

"Thanks," he said, recovering. "If then you are currently not otherwise occupied, I grow roses for a living. I've always had a fantasy of making love to a beautiful woman on a bed of roses."

"What a remarkable coincidence," I said. "I've always had this fantasy of being made love to by a handsome man on a bed of roses. Always wondered if that's the origin of the old saying. Say, you don't happen to have a bed of roses around, do you?"

His grin widened.

"Well, it happily turns out that as part of my exhibit here at the show I've made just that for part of my display: a bed of roses. It gets a lot of comments."

I took his hand.

"Lead on, MacDuff. This I've got to see."

"Oh. The name's Greg, though."

He led me down from the balcony and on a winding path through the floor displays. When we came to his, he opened the little wooden gate and stood aside. I stood for a moment and admired his set-up. It really was lovely, with gravel paths through rose gardens and trellises covered in roses. There was a little shed at the back, open on three sides. In it, among many other displays of roses, damned if there wasn't a bed covered in rose petals. I admit, I giggled.

He took my hand and led me over to the bed. Then he took me in his arms and kissed me. It was a very nice kiss, and I melted into him. I felt his hands roaming over my body, lingering on my ass. I pressed my groin into his and felt the hardness there. Nice.

I broke away from him long enough to undo the rope around my waist and the shoulder pin on my stola. As it was designed to do, the stola simply dropped away onto the floor. Jesus, those Romans were clever devils.

We resumed kissing, and then Greg guided me over to the bed. I lay down on it. By God, it was wonderful. I felt my skin caressed by those soft rose petals. They were velvety and cool. 'Bed of roses' indeed! Whoever originated the phrase just had to have something like this in mind. I lay there, naked but for my panties, embraced by rose petals. I felt like some Roman goddess.

Greg spent some time admiring the view, smiling like a kid in a candy store, and then quickly undressed. He had a nice body, and his erect cock looked quite appealing at that moment.

With my help he slipped off my panties and then climbed onto the bed next to me. Bless him, he took enough time to kiss me and then to kiss each breast, teasing my nipples with his tongue. He slid down between my legs and proceeded to kiss my pussy, making a very nice job of it. He was no amateur. I sighed and ran my fingers through his hair.

He slid up then, and I felt that lovely cock pressing against my lower lips, politely asking for admission. I raised my pelvis then and took him into me an inch or two. He didn't need more permission. His weight came down on me and his cock slid all the way into me, filling and stretching me very pleasantly. I could feel the rose petals sliding along my buttocks as they took up the weight.

Greg began to pump me, then, languorously and thoroughly. He raised his head and looked directly into my eyes. I let him know that I was enjoying him. I closed my eyes and sighed.

His rhythm picked up, and I could feel his cock swelling inside me. I grasped his head and drew him down into a kiss, my tongue probing his mouth. He moaned through his nose. Then he stopped pumping me with his cock about halfway into me, raised his head and came. I used my perineal muscles to gently squeeze his cock, encouraging him. I looked up at him. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, and he wore an expression of utter bliss even as his cock pulsed and squirted his warm sperm into me. Just watching him made me feel really good about myself. He was one of those rare guys who doesn't make a big deal about cumming, grunting and groaning as if they'd accomplished some great feat. He just quietly enjoyed every second of his orgasm, each ejaculation. I really appreciated his appreciation. It actually was very pleasant. I lay there quietly, pressed to the rose petals under his warm body, feeling him throb and spurt inside me, and watching his face as he came. I just smiled and watched him cum, feeling the warmth building up in my vagina.

At last he opened his eyes. His smile broadened even as I could feel the last drops of his sperm seeping out of his cock inside me, coating the sensitive walls of my vagina.

"Oh my God, that was wonderful," he said quietly. "You are a marvel."

"You were right," I said, "about the 'bed of roses'. Whichever classical poet came up with that must have had a similar experience. I can't thank you enough."

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that," he said.

When I got home and took off my stola, I found a couple of rose petals that had come home with me. I had to smile. I saved one for Ruth for when I returned the stola. I knew she'd enjoy it.

God, I love this job!