months ago he’d added them to his attire and later he’d said how much that increased his pleasure. Leslie didn’t know why, nor did she care. The only important thing was that he enjoyed himself to the utmost. She looked at him, slightly paunchy, with heavy thighs and a chest covered with whorls of straight hair. She was delighted to see that his erection was full and hard.
He grabbed her hair and twisted her face to the side and, knowing his next move, she opened her mouth so he could ram his engorged cock into it. “Be a good little girl,” he said, “and suck me good.”
She did, using everything she knew about the way he liked it. She flicked the tip with her tongue, then licked the length of him as he dictated the rhythm. She sucked and lapped at him until she knew he was getting close. She wanted to fondle him, but her hands were still tied, so she used her lips and tongue to bring him closer and closer to orgasm.
Finally she heard the deep catch in his breath and he spurted into her mouth. She swallowed as fast as she could, milking the last of his orgasm from him. When he was fully satisfied, he untied one of her wrists and dropped into a chair to catch his breath. “Satisfy yourself while I watch,” he snapped, and she quickly moved her hand to her crotch, easily finding her erect clit and rubbing. His eyes were fixed on her fingers as she pleasured herself. His actions had so aroused her that it took only moments for her to climax, her small moan the only sign.
Minutes later he untied the remaining restraints and quickly put on his clothing. “That was wonderful,” he said with a deep sigh, “as always. By the way, I’ll be away for August, but I’ll call and make an appointment for September.”
She slowly sat up. “I’ll look forward to it.” That was when it had first hit her. Would she look forward to it? Although the sex was satisfying, and of course the fifteen-hundred-dollar charge to his credit card, a thousand of which would find its way into her bank account, was wonderful, she was restless and bored, tired of all the things she had to do to maintain herself as one of the highest paid “entertainers” in Manhattan.
Bob closed the bedroom door quietly behind him. It was almost midnight and she knew she was the only one left upstairs in the brownstone that housed Club Fantasy, one of the most exclusive and well-attended brothels in the city. So after Bob left the building, gloriously naked except for the wide-open robe and clutching the torn nightgown to keep from tripping, Leslie crossed to the bathroom. She knew the club’s bodyguard was downstairs locking up, but he wouldn’t disturb her. “Good night, Rock,” she called and after a moment heard his answering, “Good night, Leslie. I’m going to set the alarm so remember to disarm and reset it when you leave.”
“Will do.” She heard his door close as she stripped off her robe and tossed the shreds of her nightgown into the trash. Just part of the expense of doing business, she thought as she turned on the hot water in the shower.
Bob would be away for August. How delightful. Quite a few of her regular clients would also be gone so that month should prove to be a very quiet one. God, she thought, I could use some quiet. Some peace and quiet. Suddenly, as she stood beneath the spray and soaped her tired body, she realized that she wanted, no desperately needed, some time away.
Was she suffering from burnout? Who cared what name you called it. In a flash of understanding, she realized that she hadn’t been enjoying her job for months. Yes, she got sexual pleasure out of her encounters, and emotional pleasure out of pleasing her clients, but where was the fun, the adventure, the newness of satisfying a client for the first time, of watching his, or even her, face as they found something they had so long sought? It had been so great in the beginning; now it was just routine. Where had that explosive fire gone?
As the days passed, Leslie realized that as exciting as the fantasy games were for her clients, it had all become boring for her. What a joke. Great sex with rich and powerful men had become almost tedious. Boring. She’d been able to satisfy all her clients but she knew that it was only a matter of time before they’d start to become bored with her. And that must never happen.
She’d been working for the owners of Club Fantasy, where dreams were fulfilled for a hefty fee, for almost nine years. She worked five evenings a week and frequently made several thousand dollars each night. She played roles as varied as a harem dancer, a maid captured by a pirate, a female prison guard, and a young teenaged girl. She also had dinners with the movers and shakers, with hanky-panky afterward. It was wonderful fun, but it was also lots of work. In order to be able to converse with them, she read the New York Times every day, and People, a news weekly, and at least one sports magazine each week.
She wasn’t ashamed of what she did at all. She entertained, gave pleasure, and was well paid for it. She saw nothing immoral about any of it. Illegal? Maybe, but the New York City police left her and Club Fantasy pretty much alone. Maybe that was because the owners of the Club knew a little more about some government officials than they wanted publicized. Maybe because it was hard to fault a business that gave pleasure and harmed no one. There were no drugs allowed, everyone was of legal age, and everything was strictly honest and aboveboard. Dangerous? Not really. The clients were thoroughly vetted and Rock, 220 pounds of bodybuilder and black belt martial arts expert, was always in residence, although his bouncer skills had never been needed. For whatever reason, she felt no compunctions about what she did.
As she drove through the early August heat, Leslie thought about it all. She hadn’t had a truly filling meal except with a client since she put on several pounds while cruising on a yacht with a wealthy stockbroker the previous winter. One of her regulars had actually mentioned that she looked a little “softer” as he’d put it. Since then, dieting had become a way of life, as well as weekly trips to the hairstylist and the nail salon and a strict regimen at the gym.
Several weeks earlier she’d called a real estate agency that specialized in vacation rentals. “It’s already July, Ms. Morgan,” a motherly woman named Janice had said. “It’s going to be really tough to find something for August, but we do occasionally have cancellations. Let me see what I can come up with.”
A few days later, the agent had called back, suggesting a cottage in Sound’s End, Connecticut, right on the water. “The guy who rented it had a minor family emergency. His youngest broke her leg in a bicycle accident. Anyway, he’s cancelling out on this lovely little place he rented for August. It’s really part of a hotel but it’s a freestanding house, one of several they own adjacent to the main building, and it’s got all the amenities. They treat it like any other hotel room, maid service and such, but it’s more private. There’s a full kitchen, if you want to cook, and if not, there’s a dining room at the hotel. You can have it from August first through to Labor Day, if you like. My client will be delighted to have his deposit back.” She mentioned a substantial price but it had taken Leslie only a moment’s thought. Salt air, relaxing all day and going to bed alone each night. It had sounded like heaven. “Done.” Now it was August third and she had finally been able to get away so she was on the way there.
She’d memorized the directions and now took the exit east of Old Saybrook and drove toward the tiny town of Sound’s End, so named, she’d learned when she looked it up on the Internet, because the town was located directly opposite the eastern-most tip of Long Island so it was technically at the intersection of the Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. As she slowed to thirty miles per hour on the main street she looked around. The town appeared to be typical of the small New England towns she’d seen on the Net, white buildings with black shutters surrounding a large town square with a veterans’ memorial, all basking in afternoon sunshine. On one side stood three banks, a couple of gas stations, a post office, and a row of small, one-story, boutiquey stores, including two that sold T-shirts and other tourist items, one that seemed to specialize in photography, and a few that had FOR LEASE signs in the window.
The main shopping area on the other side of the main street consisted of a florist, a small market, and a ladies’ clothing shop. Interspersed were several restaurants: a diner, an American-style family restaurant specializing in seafood called the Wayfarer, a Chinese sit-down place and one that specialized in takeout, an Italian restaurant called Victorio’s, and a pizzeria. I guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t cook, Leslie thought. Since it was midafternoon, many