The rain was misting the windows of the lonely hotel room tonight. I often used this hotel room for my meetings. I am an escort, but of a very special variety. Many of my clients see me several times a month, but I often do not remember their names. I know that something special occurs, but I am paid well for my services and never ask too many questions. It has been an hour since I received a call. Room 728, Montclair Hotel, 9:00pm sharp. I do not let a minute pass before I am out the door and in a cab headed to Midtown.
I love the smell of Manhattan in the rain. It is refreshing. The hot pavement just starting to cool as the night takes it. Steam rising from grates and manhole covers. The rain brings a fresh scent, mixing with the acrid smell of gasoline fumes and making it almost sweet. It is the perfume of this city that I love. Some days I just stand on the little balcony of my apartment and let the rain wash away the all the tension from my day.
By day, yes, that is the time when I'm myself the least. I work as a waiter in a fancy restaurant in the lower East Side. Some days I don't know which mask I wear when, if the person I become after dark is the real me, or just a mask I wear to hide the scars of a fucked up childhood. Or maybe it took all the cuts those scars made to release the person I was inside. Like some black clad butterfly, slipping the cocoon of button up shirts and khaki pants into the leather and t-shirts I am wearing right now. Either way, I've learned quickly in my 'other job' to always be the person my client wants me to be. You get better tips that way, and sometimes you have a little fun in the process.
Tonight's client I know well. She is a regular, if someone I see every three months can be said to be regular. But like clockwork, every three months she calls up the service and arranges a meeting. It's been that way for five years now, ever since I started living the life of a professional escort. Though most of my clients seldom 'escort' me anywhere except the bedroom. Fancy words mean nothing to me, I like sex. I like the pleasure I give others. I love the pay I get for being a good lover. It's a win-win scenario, and I plan on riding this gravy train as far as it will go.
I arrive at the hotel and pick up my key from the front desk. The guy working there is often around when I show up. His name is Carlos, and he seems to understand that this kind of thing goes on here. Sometimes he wants to talk about what it is like. I humor him with stories about the women I've known. I don't tell him that I take all comers, and sometimes I bat for teams his mind might not even want to fathom. He gives me a wry little smile and a nod as he hands me the key. I slip him a ten and bump his fist to show the masculine camaraderie that he so expects from me. It's an act, but one I play as well as any others.
I head upstairs in an elevator filled with people. Middle class, upper crust... a whole melting pot right here in the Big Apple, rubbing shoulders. I smile at a little kid with his parents. He's sucking on a lollipop and holding a stuffed dog. His mother looks at me nervously but I give her that winning grin I'm so known for and she is putty in my hands. She returns my smile and gets off on the fifth floor. I continue on up to the floor where I was ready to ply my trade.
The room smells like every other hotel room I've been in. A little too clean, a little too sanitary. All sparkle and no substance. New Yorkers love their glitzy views out of their big windows. I do not need anything to remind me that I'm in the City at night however. The sound of a million people moving by outside penetrates even the windows at this height, and I know that I'm home... one little blood cell in the seething veins and arteries of the city streets. I have a little time so I take a nice hot shower to freshen up after the rain and the cab ride.
The hot, steamy water runs over my body. It is a bit thin, but muscular from all the work I do every day. I lather myself with a sandalwood scented soap, then rinse off in the hard rainfall simulated by this delicious shower head. I step out, begin to dry off and brush my teeth again. Some of my clients are very particular about what I wear, even down to what tooth paste I use. This one in particular loves the smell of sandalwood. She said it reminds her of her youth. I always aim to please.
I have just enough time to slip back into the leather pants and my tight black shirt when I hear a knock at the door. I know it is her, just like I know what she is wearing. The knock never changes, neither does her appearance. Always dressed in conservative fashion, with her hair up in a tight bun. As I open the door, I'm greeted with the sight of her there, just as always, dressed in her gray dress. Not too long as to be formal nor too short as to be 'vulgar' as she might say in her work-a-day world. High heels at the end of perfect legs that look like they are chiseled from darkened marble. Lips a little too red, and eyes a little too green, hidden behind sunglasses. I've seen them before in a movie... something with Audrey Hepburn. They do nothing to block the intensity of her stare. Without a word, she places one hand between us, palm down, and awaits my invitation. Have I mentioned that most days I love this job?
I take her hand and invite her in. She loves this sort of thing. I've never seen her enter any room, even this same one we are in tonight and have been in several times before, without asking me to invite her in first. She believes that she seems more enchanting when someone desires her presence. I can't deny that it is a thrill to be wanted, to be desired, but honestly I can't see anyone ever not wanting to be in her presence. She always seems to just radiate this ... something. Like a halo or something. She shines, and leaves those around her in awe of her passing. She enters and I take her coat.
As always, I take her coat and place it neatly on the rack near the door. Sometimes, with long time clients, this kind of thing becomes a ritual, but with her it just seems natural. It is like you are in the presence of royalty and you just want to bow and scrape. I normally don't really get off that much on being the servant, but let's be honest... servant is what I am in the most visceral sense of the word. I invite her to take a seat and I sit across from her. As a formality, I offer to fix her a drink but she declines, as I knew she would. She asks that I have a drink however, something strong and heady to make me ready for the night to come. I understand fully why she wants this, and mix a double bourbon, straight up and down it with one gulp. Better to get this in the system as quickly as possible.
As I turn from the minibar, I see that she is already standing behind me. Her shoes are gone as well. Tonight must be one of those nights. You see, many nights she is gentle with me. She likes to be loved and held like a lady. Some nights she just wants to talk while I brush her hair. But other nights, when I see the flash in her eyes like I do right now, I know it's been a bad three months. Those nights, though just as pleasurable as the rest, have a harder edge to them. With a strength that defies her petite frame, she grasps my shoulders and kisses me back against the wall next to the bar.
Her kiss is strong... strong enough to almost hurt. I feel her teeth digging into my lips a little, nipping me a little. I can tell from her pale skin and slightly sunken eyes, that tonight is one of those nights. Those nights when she is hungry. Sometimes those nights scare me, but sometimes fear is the best aphrodisiac around. I feel myself grow hard against the leather as her teeth, sharper now that she is losing a bit of control, nip harder against my lip. A small white-hot flash of pain and I taste my own blood mixed with the bourbon. I see she does as well, because she stops kissing and starts consuming my mouth in a deep, full bodied kiss reserved for young lovers. It shows more of lust than love tonight, however, as she tastes me deep inside with her tongue.
I push her away slightly, never looking like I am in charge. I know she likes to be the one in charge. But I push away nonetheless and ask if she would rather I move to a more comfortable place for caresses. She mumbles something, French I think, before correcting herself. She hurries me back over to one of the large, soft chairs we were in before, and thrusts me down into it's cushioning embrace. Before I can say another word, more hungers than normal spring from her and she tears at the zipper of my pants, almost ripping the leather in her haste to free me from the shackles of my clothing.
I sit there now, my pants around my ankles, fully exposed and throbbing in the cool air of the room. She looks into my eyes and holds my gaze for a moment as she slips her legs around mine and sits firmly on my lap. As she moves closer while doing this, I smell the scent that is so specifically her own. It's a musky scent, with hints of flowers and honey, permeating her clothing as her desire makes her wet and ready. I know that underneath, I can also smell a hint of something else... copper and alive. As I learned so long ago, nothing about her kind exists without the will of the blood to sustain it. As in tears, and saliva and cum, everything in her begins and ends with that most precious of life's fluids.
Her skirt, so demure when she entered, rises up now across her thighs, finally showing that she too was fully prepared for this night. She is naked underneath, with a slight blush to her lips that tells me she is ready for all that is to come. I feel them , wet and ready, brush gently against the head, but she never lets my gaze waver from her eyes. I always feel myself falling into her when I look into them. I am good at what I do, I am good at providing love for sale to any and all comers. but she is something special. If I ever could have loved anyone, they would have paled in comparison to the feelings I felt when looking into her eyes.
