Victoria's Lunch Date

My name is Victoria Lovejoy. My uniform is a tight pencil skirt, chiffon blouse and high heeled black leather shoes. The sexy secretary look works for me. I charge five hundred dollars an hour and typically pull in three thousand dollars a week. Between the money and flexible schedule, life in Manhattan is pretty good.

I have two appointments scheduled for today and after giving a morning blow job to one of my clients in his office, I'm on my way to my second appointment; a lunch date with a tall Texan named Jim.

Jim's text read, 'Rm 1505. I'm here.'

I've never been stopped by security in any hotel. I carry myself confidently through the immense lobby with my nose in the air; blending in with every other young professional woman going about her business.

I softly knocked on door. Jim answered it with a smile.

"Come on in, beautiful."

Jim was a tall blonde drink of water from Texas working as a security analyst for a huge international oil company here in Manhattan. He likes to kiss though, like other escorts, don't kiss clients. What a twisted logic we share; willing to let a man penetrate almost every hole in your body for money but deny him the intimacy of kissing. When I first started seeing Jim, I'd give him my turned up cheek his when he tried to kiss my lips. But lately, I let him give me a peck on my lips.

I stood waiting by the door. He handed me five hundred dollars which I counted in front of him before shoving it in my bag.

"Want a drink?" he asked.

"No, thank you," I said, setting my bag on a table.

He threw some ice in a glass and cracked open a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey.

Jim was one of those clients who gets off in five minutes and spends the rest of his hour talking. He complained about how expensive it was to live here and how women don't talk to you unless you're a hedge fund manager.

"Women don't talk to you unless you drive a Porsche," he said, sitting beside me on the bed.

"So buy a Porsche."

"I'm a Dodge kind of guy. I can't wait to get the hell out of this city."

He sipped his drink as I stood up to walk to the foot of the bed. He kicked off his shoes before scooching onto the bed to rest his head on the pillows and putting one arm behind his head while holding his balanced drink on his chest, watching me intently the whole time.

"Go ahead, girl. You know what daddy likes."

I slowly took off my jacket and tossed it aside to reveal my low buttoned blouse. I let down my hair from its messy bun. It tumbled to my shoulders as I shook it out, combing and fluffing it with my fingers. It was so quiet in the room, with the sounds air conditioner whir rattling the drapes.

My hands moved to my blouse, my fingers lingering at each button before I popped them open one by one to reveal a white satin bra. I pulled my shirt tails from my skirt, coyly standing before him, open shirted and awaiting my next command.

"Now hike up that skirt."

I knew this game; draw it up a little, then stop and look him in the eye. He motions upwards with his whiskey glass in hand and I pull my skirt up a little higher. This continues until my skirt is bunched up in my hands well above the top of white satin panties. He motioned for me to come closer. I walked around to his side of the bed, my skirt still gathered high as his eyes bore into my approaching thighs. He reached out his drink hand and stroked my smooth satin covered crotch with his knuckles, his eyes firmly glued to the sight. The back of his hand continued to glide over satin and skin until he drew it away.

"Take 'em off, girl."

I stepped back and slid down my panties, until they dropped to the floor on their own, stepped out of them while holding up my skirt up high and waited for what comes next.

He stared at the sight of me before he gruffly said, "Now put your finger in your pussy."

I licked my manicured finger before sliding it between my pussy lips, slowly sliding it back and forth over my clit the way he likes it. He laid there watching mesmerized until he held out his glass.

"Stir my drink."

I withdrew my glistening finger from pussy lips, leaned over, stuck it in his drink and stirred until the ice swirled and clinked against the glass. Then, as per his liking, I placed that soaked finger between his parting lips. He closed his lust filled eyes and sucked my finger, humming contently to himself for a while. I removed my finger from his mouth all the while staring into his storm grey eyes. He set his drink on the night stand before scooting down the bed and settled in until he was comfortable.

"Come on. Bring that pretty little box over here. Don't be shy."

I climbed onto the bed, straddled his head and gingerly sat on his face. His liquor soaked tongue burned my tender nether flesh at first before subsiding. His tongue darted and licked and greedily sucked. He's good, so good that I was getting excited. But I never let a client know. They don't need to know that their sexual prowess can excite a sexual professional. My fingers gripped the headboard. A little moan escaped my lips as I stared at the soulless painting above the bed. I began to make a shopping list in my head while Jim ate me like a man eating his last meal on Earth.

After a few minutes, he tapped my thigh. I drew up on my knees, crawled back off his face, down his chest and scooted down until I was positioned on all fours between his legs to stare back at him. He stared at me as he unzipped his pants pulling out his fully hard cock which rose between our gaze. He began to stroke his damp cock, looking around into the mirror behind me, staring at my naked, moist haunches exposed from my hiked up skirt. My face hovered above his knees, my hands squarely on his thighs. His gaze returned to my eyes and then down my open shirt, watching my tits strain against bra. I stuck my tongue out as if I would lap it all up. He jerked off until ropey spurts of cum shot into the air.

I waited a few moments, until he let go of his still jerking penis before getting off the bed to prepare a nice, wet warm wash towel in the bathroom and came back to clean up his sticky mess.

As I wiped his limp dick, he said, "You sure know how to take care of a man. How come you're not married?"

"My husband left me for an opera singer."

"Ye-ouch."

"Yeah."

He got up and went into the bathroom to wash up. I kicked off my shoes, turned on the TV and settled back into a propped pillow against the headboard. He emerged, wiping his face with a towel. He sat on the bed's edge, griping over politics as he finished his drink. With the ice tinkling in the empty glass, he set it down and rose to return to work.

"Is it okay if I order room service?"

"Order whatever you want. Until next time, slim."

"Later gator."

He left, always leaving it for me to do whatever I want. I called room service, ordered a chef's salad, iced tea, and a turkey club sandwich to take home for dinner. I counted out my seven hundred and fifty dollar earnings for the day; a blow job and let a guy eat my pussy and I'm done for the day. I grouped the money by denomination before shoving them in my wallet, leaving out a ten to tip room service. After eating, I double locked the door, stripped naked, turned off the TV and crawled between the cool sheets to nap to wait out the sweltering afternoon.