It's Just a Job

My name is Jack. I'm a gigolo.

Chase away everything that crossed your mind the moment you read that. Forget Richard Gere in American Gigolo. Nice clothes and car, and who wouldn't have wanted to bang Lauren Hutton in her prime, but that's not me.

I also don't look like Fabio, the chiseled stallion on the cover of romance novels. In fact, I probably don't look like anything you would conjure up for someone in my line of work.

Think well-groomed high school English teacher, of medium height and build, in his mid-thirties who runs 5ks and lifts weights to stave off a paunch, not fill-out jeans a wife-beater. Trust me, schoolgirls never fawned over me, but their mothers did, and it was a pair of them that essentially fronted the start-up capital for me to hang out my shingle, so to speak.

I ply my trade in the Motor City, where the wives of auto executives waste away their lives blistering credit cards and raising kids. Who at age 40 have long ago quit wondering why in the world their husbands need to work 15-hour days to just to sell cars.

The higher the pay grade, the longer the hours. The longer the hours, the more lonely the wife. The more lonely the wife, the more demand for my product.

Last year I worked about a 12 days a month and made $250,000, plus about half that much again in tips. Toys and trinkets mostly, including a black on black 2004 Corvette convertible—a thank you from a Chevy dealer for keeping his wife company while he scooted across the border to Windsor, Ontario to suck-off young men in one of Canada's most notorious gay bars. To each his own.

I see a wide cross section of women in addition to the corporate widows. Wives of doctors, lawyers and even an Indian Chief; a guy who spends all of his time at the Detroit casino his tribe owns, interviewing former strippers for jobs as cocktail waitresses. Word is if a girl titty-fucks him and takes the flack on her chin she'll get a job serving the high roller tables. Probably making more money than me.

And you can forget the nonsense about how these proper women are only interested in male companionship. Looking for someone to escort them to charity events, museum openings, chamber music recitals and gallery auctions. Hell, they can get their husbands to do that; the men look at those functions as networking opportunities.

What they can't get their husbands to do is to spend time alone with them, between the sheets, fucking them senseless. Or going down on them. It's amazing how few of these corporate types lick pussy.

I've been told I've got a perfect cock, 8 ½ inches long and as thick as a wrist, but dollar for dollar, my clients will tell you my biggest asset is my tongue. My ability and willingness to lick a woman until she reaches orgasm has made me quite comfortable.

It's an interesting life, not a career path anyone's mother wishes her child to pursue, but at least I'm good at it. Pretty near top of my field. And it's great for someone with nosey, voyeuristic tendencies such as myself. The stories alone are almost worth as much as the money. Almost.

This is the first of the stories.

Julie's husband Mark was the youngest person in the history of the Ford Motor Company to be elected to the automaker's executive committee whose name wasn't Ford. That was 17 years ago. During that time they've made love 27 times. One time for each wedding anniversary over that span, and the other ten in order to impregnate Julie with their two children.

"Do you think I should get boobs?" Julie asked as we lay naked together under a comforter in a king size bed at the Troy Marriot. "Christ, I should do it just to see how long it takes him to notice."

This wasn't the first time she'd asked me that about this. Julie was self-conscious about her body. Few women her age aren't. Any age I guess. But she was very attractive, sporting that Lands End swimsuit model look, what I call a breast-less beauty. Each time she brought it up I reassured her she had nothing to worry about. I get paid for that, too.

"But I don't have any," she said, flopping her very small, flat breasts with her fingers. "That's probably why he won't sleep with me."

"He doesn't sleep with you because he's too preoccupied with Ford's quarterly earnings. Looking to whittle another penny off the cost of a door latch, another nickel off the price of a floor mat," I said.

We had made love an hour ago, ordered in fruit salads for lunch, and were watching Dr. Phil talk to a group of parents who had purchased breast implants for their daughters as high school graduation presents. Dr. Phil was lecturing on why he didn't think this was a very good idea.

I wasn't supposed to be with Julie today. I was supposed to be playing golf with Steve Yzerman, captain of the Detroit Red Wings, and a couple of our buddies at Oakland Hills. But Julie called in a panic this morning and told me to meet her at Tiffany's in the Somerset Mall Collection in Troy.

That was Julie's release. When she got pissed at her husband she would buy something she didn't want or need. Sometimes it was clothing; other times a new appliance. This was a common trait amongst my clients—making unnecessary purchases to strike back at their neglectful husbands. I have one client who purchased a small island in northern Lake Huron and shipped all of her husband's clothes and golf clubs to it, but that's another story.

Today was rather costly, from her husband Mark's perspective. It was their son's birthday and daddy had to go out of town after promising for weeks he wouldn't. Julie dropped something like $24,000, about a month of her husband's take-home pay, on some thingamabob she'll never wear.

It was her idea of foreplay, having me watch her spend her husband's money. It made her very hot and horny.

"I don't think I can make it to the hotel. Let's do it in the dressing room," she breathed into my ear, loud enough for the clerk who was ringing up the sale to hear. She caught him blush, so for good measure Julie made sure he saw her stroke my crotch when he returned with her purchase.

I slid a room key-card into the front pocket of her jeans and let my fingers linger, again for the benefit of the sales clerk. I told her I'd see her at the hotel.

Julie was waiting when I got there, I'd stopped to get gas and to let the mood swell, "Where'd you go?" she asked, "I thought you got a better offer and I was going to have to rent a dirty movie."

"We can still do that, if you like."

"I don't think we're going to need one. Come here."

She grabbed my tie and reeled me in, falling back on the bed and taking me down with her. We kissed for a long time, 15 or 20 minutes—my clients tend to be starved of all attention, not just carnal--before she pushed me away and told me she couldn't take it any more.

"You're going to go down on me, aren't you baby?" she coyly asked.

Unnecessary question. For $2,000, she's paying me eat her like I haven't had a meal in a week

"I wouldn't have it any other way," I said, and peeled off her jeans and panties while she worked on her blouse and bra.

I licked the inside of her thighs while my fingers danced about her outer lips. I dragged my nose across her slit as I moved from left to right and back again, each time nuzzling deeper into her dampening twat, bumping up against her clit.

Julie had a hard time containing herself. It'd been at least two months since I'd last been with her, chances are good that was the last time she had an orgasm. Calling her pent-up wouldn't have done justice to her situation.

"Oh God Jack," she stammered, and spread her legs wide open by pulling out and back on her knees. "If I come right now will you do me again?"

My thumbs separated her now swollen lips, pushing back her pubic hair (regardless of what you may read, most women haven't jettisoned the full grown pube look) and I dove in with long, slow licks, penetrating her pussy with my tongue, stopping to flick her clit at the end of each pass. The lower half of her body started shaking and she grabbed the back of my head to steady herself.

My experience has been that women take longer to cum than men, but Julie had worked herself into such a frenzy that she had almost gotten there on imagery alone.

"Oh, oh, oh, oh, right there, there, there."

I moved my hands up to her breasts and twisted her nipples as I clamped my lips around her clit, twirling my tongue around her rigid little digit. That was all she could take. Julie's body froze with my head forced into her twat. I literally had to fight to breath as she came.

We laid motionless for a minute or two, me searching for a pocket of air, Julie coming down off a wicked orgasm. She said, "I almost forgot how good that feels."

I got up, stretched my hamstrings and loosened my jaw. Removing my clothes, I joined Julie, warm and damp, on the bed. I was hard, really hard, but I didn't press the issue. At my rates you cum when the woman's ready for you to cum. Fortunately, most, if not all my clients, feel the need to give as well as receive.

We lay there, Julie cuddled next to me, head on my chest. As you might imagine, I found myself in this position a lot. One of my strengths is that I don't mind. Besides, we do what we need to do when we're on the clock.

After five minutes she began to stir. Slowly she wiggled her fingers down my chest to my dick and began to lightly stroke. She dabbed at my pre-cum with her forefinger, brought it up to her mouth and licked it off. Without a word she crawled on top of me, slid her pussy along my cock—flat against my stomach and scary-stiff—before moving up and planting her moist mound on my mouth.

Once again I penetrated her slit with my tongue, but she was now doing the work. Satisfied with her position, she arched her back, stretching like a cat after a long nap, and ever so slowly began move back and forth, head to chin from my angle, grinding downward each time her clit passed over my tongue.

Julie's first orgasm was purely maintenance. Letting the steam billow out of a boiling kettle. Getting it out of the way so she could get move on to more involved pleasure. It's taken her awhile, as it does with virtually all of my clients, to get comfortable with our situation. At first there's guilt, embarrassment, at times even humility, and it takes time to get beyond that. Once we do, my clients, my ladies, have the most satisfying sex they've ever dreamed about. Julie was at that point with me.

This was her favorite position. In control up to the moment she wanted to let go. She was wet, almost drenching me, as she glided back and forth my greased-skid of a face. Leaning forward, she gripped the headboard, giving her the leverage she needed to get the pressure she desired.

She swayed in a slow, purposeful cadence, intermittently letting out minute gasps of ecstasy. Julie had gotten to the place she wanted. Unburdened from the life of a career-driven husband and unappreciative kids, this was her time, precious as it was, and she was determined to make it worth every penny.

The tempo increased and her breath deepened, and joined in rhythm with the squeaky bed joints. Julie's thighs tightened against my cheeks and I knew she was close. I sucked in her clit the next time it passed over my mouth and she yelped. "Damnit that's good," she said with a groan that came from her gut.

With her clit firmly engulfed by my lips and my head vice-gripped between her legs, Julie rocked, almost thrashed, back and forth. The headboard banged against the wall once, twice, three times. Once more Julie's torso locked-up below her waist, this time almost crushing my skull, as her orgasm shocked throughout her body, followed by guttural sigh of pleasure and relief.

She literally slid off my chin, down my chest and bumped into my erection. Exhausted, she apologized and asked if she hurt me.

"I was about to ask you the same."

"Yeah, right." Julie rolled over and off me. She gathered a pillow and clutched it as she scrunched-up into a fetal position with her back toward me. Still slightly panting, in something between a purr and a moan, she expressed how happy she was and how good I made her feel. I reached around to hold her and accidentally jabbed her with my cock.

"Oh, I forgot about him," she said, and, reaching behind her, fumbled to find my dick with her hand.

"Don't worry about that. It's not about me."

"I know it's not about you, but if I walk out of this room with you in that condition I know you'll be jerking off into the toilet before I hit the elevator. How do you think that'll make me feel? Just give me a couple of minutes for my head to stop spinning."

I got up to grab a condom, professional courtesy, and Julie stopped me once she saw what I was after. "No don't. I want to feel you come inside me," she said with total sincerity. "I know your rules, but I also know you'll break them. Come on, fuck me raw—pun intended."

With that, Julie rolled on her back and spread her legs. I grabbed her by her calves and moved her to the side of the bed. Eating pussy makes me hornier than a lap dance and I wasn't sure how long I'd last. I pulled her legs up and outward and simultaneously slid my cock into her sopping wet pussy. There was no resistance as I ventured deep inside her on the first plunge.

"Oh God Jack, I can't tell you how good that feels."

I slowly moved in and out; then picked up the pace at her behest. At first I thought this was only going to be Julie's way of thanking me, allowing me to get off with a partner, but she soon got into the flow and began meeting each of my thrusts with one of her own.

Picking up the pace, the damp slap of balls to twat echoed in our room, and Julie begged me to hold off so she could come once more. She grabbed my ass and pulled me into her, squirming and churning, doing everything to see that my cock caressed her clit with each pass.

"Lean into me baby, just a few more, get right on top of me," she ordered, eyes clenched and lips pursed. "Oh fuck, that's it baby. Oh, I'm cuming. Fill me baby, fill my hot cunt with your jism."

Julie came harder than I would have thought, there were fingernail marks in my ass for a week, and her spat of dirty talk was all I needed. I rammed everything I had up into her pussy and shot load after load deep into her. Julie was never much of a talker, but she went over the edge and took me with her.

I collapsed on top of her and stayed there for a few minutes. When she finally pushed me off, our sweat-streaked chests popped as we separated like a suction cup being torn off a window.

"I've got about ninety-minutes before I have to be home to get the kids. Let's have lunch and see whose ass Dr. Phil is kicking today," Julie said, pulling the comforter over her body. I rolled over to order room service and she grabbed the remote.

After she showered and kissed me goodbye, I went in the bathroom to clean up. There I found the customary envelope. Next to it was a robin's-egg blue Tiffany box. Inside, a Mark T-57 chronograph. About a 100% tip, give or take.