Sensual Massage 2

(Author's Disclaimer: This piece of writing is a short story based on a fantasy, a work of fiction. In no way does it endorse unlawful activities, and it is not a confession on the part of the author. It is not a recommendation by the author to engage in such activities.)

* * * * *

Today in the supermarket, I dressed a little bit sexy. I showed my cleavage, which I never do, and fixed my hair a little differently, a little wilder than the simple ponytail I always wear. It felt good; everything felt good, and I felt admired, nice to look at, as though I'd sipped a healing potion or eaten one of Alice's mushrooms, one that makes you grow. I felt pretty; for once, I felt pretty, and it felt great.

The cleavage felt magical, having surrounded a hard, hungry cock scarcely an hour before. I could still feel his fingers gently brushing back my long strands of hair, wild and unruly as I slid his pulsating cock past my lips. His moans were fresh in my ears; "You're so beautiful," reverberated in my soul. "You're so good...no one has ever blown me so good." I felt 10 feet tall and full of light.

Some of us have been abused, abased. Beaten down by parents, step-parents and others, so low we thought we'd never see the light of day. Some of us never escape the psychodrama of degradation, and reprise the victim role for the rest of our lives. Oh no, not me, I'm through with being abased and abused, and I'm through being used. As a result, I'm through being a secretary, or a waitress, or anything else where I give more than I get, and even then, get way too little in return...I want equity. And I don't want to wait for it any longer.

Today, I changed professions. I put away my polyester skirt sets and control-top pantyhose. I broke out my comfortable, sheer satin teddy, managed to fit my plump breasts in the flimsy cups, and plugged in the hot oil warmer; lit the vanilla candles and slapped a New Age natural music CD into the player. I slid into my slingback stilettos, and answered the polite knock at the door.

Today, I got payback for all the years I felt unappreciated and devalued. Today, I got a merit promotion and a bonus.

You know, "whore" is such a harsh word in the Western world. I have never liked it. Instead of conjuring up warm, lustrous images of wanton, willing sex, it conjures up all kinds of conflicted feelings, like strong desires versus abject shame; pleasure and release versus the stress of lawbreaking; a nice wad of money in the hand versus the poverty of soul involved in handing the wad over to someone else; a clean and simple transaction versus the threat of disease. I hate conflicted feelings, mixed messages. I hate it when pleasure gets invaded by scorn or shame. I don't think I have ever called anyone a whore in my entire life. I have been called a whore once, but only once, by an unworthy thug, undeserving of the pleasures of my mouth and loins which he had, by the way, partaken of. He has lived to regret this, having lost the one person who could truly satisfy him; I walked away and never looked back. Whore 10, Asshole 0.

Actually, someone else came very close to calling me a whore as well. I was a phone sex operator briefly, and this guy decided to sort of interview me, at $4.99 per minute on his credit card. He wanted to know all about what I did for a living... and blurted out, as though it were some deep revelation, "So you get paid to talk to guys and get them off. That makes you... well, a whore, doesn't it?"

"I don't like to get into name calling, personally," I replied as gently as possible. "Besides, if

you

are calling

me

on the phone, what does that make

you

?" Personally, I can only stand phone sex if I am in control of the call, because men are so out of control when the blood is rushing to their lower "head." But that is another story entirely.

What word can I use besides "whore" to describe my new part-time profession? Word 6.0 won't give me a synonym for it; I will have to dredge it out of my own fleshly brain. "Prostitute" feels a little better to me; it has a professional ring to it, as though the career required training and expertise, maybe even a degree, and offered levels of advancement and bonuses. Sounds can be deceiving; I know the trade doesn't offer incentives to most of its workers, something I attribute to the fact that Pagan gods and goddesses are no longer connected to the transaction. Aphrodite knew how to get respect, even if most mortal women do not. Now, a "slut" doesn't charge for her favors, so she doesn't count in this discussion; a "trollop" sounds like a very dirty person (or a cousin to a "scallop"); but "courtesan," now that sounds downright courtly, like a geisha, who has many different skills and a certain amount of refinement and style.

Yes, I think I will call myself a courtesan, even though there is an overtone of the "kept woman" to the word. Ah, but I am kept, aren't I, supported by my husband... whose raging hard-on as I recount my adventures in sexual commerce swells and throbs and rubs against me, so hungry for the heat of my cuckolding body that he enters me almost without thinking and thrusts inside me with a need so naked, so vulnerable that he moans and pants...we cum together and he sobs against my neck; I clutch him, sobbing myself, awestruck by the way we love each other, with such intensity, with such mutual passion, such parallel intensity. It's almost too much to take, in the revelation of our souls, and we snuggle playfully to mellow out.

He says I am a natural, and giggles into my nipples. "I told you so," he quips happily, and promptly falls asleep, cock still inside me.

As a teenager, I had these fantasies I could not account for, a strange longing and an uncanny familiarity with matters of the sex industry...as though the act were second nature to me, like a song I'd sung in another lifetime but still remembered how to sing. Appalled and fascinated by it at the same time, I have always wondered how it would feel...and somehow, I already knew how it felt. I have never been able to identify with the "Ladies of the evening," the streetwalkers, the saleswoman-slaves of human pimp-drones. My body isn't there for the beating, and my soul is not up for grabs. My fascination was always for the wealthy, powerful courtesans with their own exclusive clientele, offering modes of release unavailable to the average man,

artistes

of sexual sophistication, creativity, wisdom and control... the independent

femme

in her satin at the Paris Opera House, not the poor, starveling junkie, kneeling in garbage in the alley. There's nothing dirty about my desires or my uncanny skill. I simply love to be doing something I'm good at, in control, and appreciated for it.

If I give you something you want or need... and then you pay me generously...it's nothing to be ashamed of or to get upset about. It's a basic economic transaction, trading gifts which I happen to be very good at, performing a much-needed service for a willing client, a human being with strong, unmet needs. How does it undermine society for me to give pleasure, to like what I'm doing, and stay off welfare? Am I not holding my own?

The first time I ever had sex for money, the thrill was absolutely delicious. I didn't plan it for my pleasure, so I felt dangerously close to losing my composure-- and my control. It was electric, celestial, a touch of the divine, even; I know it's technically not supposed to be, but it was an elevating and transforming experience, a validation of my womanhood beyond anything I'd ever experienced. I could not have had a more perfect client: polite and respectful, with an older man's salt-and-pepper hair, he adored my body, middle-aged and portly though I am. He practically worshipped my breasts, moaning in ecstasy as I pressed them against first his back, then his cock and balls in slowly, rhythmically, erotically. He spoke to me as no one else had ever spoken, from the depths of his sexual needs which no one else had ever, ever taken care of with such talent; he told me this as I caressed his throbbing cock and tight balls, teased him between my generous lips and slick tongue, engulfed in my welcoming mouth. And when he flooded my throat with hot pulses of semen, it was a shock of sweetness to my tongue...not a drop of bitterness; like nothing I had ever tasted before. I was glowing, astonished. I had done something so very right, surpassed so many boundaries, both his and mine. It was healing... to both of us.

When he handed me a wad of bills, I accepted it as just one more compliment to my breasts, my oral prowess, my unabashed openness to sex. I didn't bother to count it; the money, at that moment, was irrelevant. His unabashed appreciation was more valuable than gold. Like Gypsy Rose Lee when she first put on a stripper's fancy evening gown, I discovered what I'm good at, stark naked.

I'm a beautiful woman!

Why didn't someone tell me...I'm a beautiful woman?

They were too busy trying to put me in my place. They made my beauty a thing to be dominated, raped and crushed. Their jealousy, or their impotence, tried to deny me my gifts...to cruelly lock them away, to render me sterile...but today I started to be the woman I was meant to be...the brilliant, powerful, sensual female whose sexuality flows like a smoothly running stream, unhampered by debris.

If you come to this courtesan, you come as a supplicant to a priestess, as an art collector to a portrait painter. You are my humble patient; I am your statuesque medicine woman. You don't just put your hands on me; you place yourself in my skilled and knowing hands. You help repair the injustices in my life; I grant you sexual healing.

And if you are the female partner of those who need me, and you are disgusted by and jealous of my powers, remember I am not the dirty one, for

they seek me out

, escaping your sense of filth, your grimy, stingy sexual guilt. I am a butterfly, pulsing with the pulse of life. Who else should he go to?