As Things Are
by Alan C. McDonald
"Those days are over;
You don't have to sell your body to the night."
THE POLICE - Roxanne
First time ever for me. First time ever. Just the circumstances, you know. Away from home. A one off. Feeling lonely. Yadda-yadda-yadda.
She'd heard it all before, and too many times. Here I am in New York, never been to New York, had to get a girl. Well, any guy would understand that. Any guy would do the same thing. Same sad, pathetic, lying toerag yadda-yadda-yadda. The only difference between this guy and a hundred others was that he was her first Brit, but that was a big "so what?" He, though, seemed to be pretty excited about fucking his first American.
One problem - he had a trait which she'd always expected to find in a Brit guy, on the few occasions she'd ever thought about it. He was boring, with a capital BOR.
She played his conversation as background and concentrated on trying to make him come. Get it over. Priorities. Give him what he's paid for, then leave the tedious bastard to his room bar and multi-channel TV.
She was having to do pretty much all the work. Half-and-half here was going to turn out three-quarters and a quarter, because she'd used up most of the time that she'd mentally allocated him in getting him hard. "You sure you wanted a black woman?", she'd asked him at one point, breaking off some pretty skillful but unproductive friction sucking, and he'd nodded vigorously.
At least when it had finally stood up, it had stood up proud enough to be saluted, and it had turned out big enough to work with. At that point, unsubtly and quickly, she'd peeled off her shorts, had climbed up above him, and had impaled herself. Then, with cool professionalism, she'd worked on him. Tricks of the trade. Style and substance, knowledge and variety. Best efforts, in short. She was still doing so. And he was still talking. Yap yap yap. Yadda-yadda-yadda.
"Bet you know all about guys like me", he was saying. "Bet you've got me pegged, as you Americans say." His hands were working on her breasts, the fingers stubby and a little callused. Occasionally, he tweaked her nipples, often too hard. Once, she had to warn him, but after that she put up with it in the interests of those priorities she'd identified.
"It ain't hard", she replied, changing pace, starting to slide forward and back now rather than up and down, grinding him. His suddenly raised thighs told her that he maybe liked that.
"I know all about you too", he told her, almost an offhand remark. "So we're even."
"You know jack shit about me", she told him firmly. Intrusions like that had to be cut back before they had chance to grow.
"I know more than you think", he disputed. "I might surprise you."
"Don't even try", she recommended, fighting the sneer which she knew he would read as putting him down too far and would probably mean that she had to work that little bit harder.
"First of all", he said, ignoring the advice, "your name isn't Davina."
She was actually offended that he might think her stupid enough to be impressed by that. "Well, shock me again, Sherlock", she mocked him.
"Your name's Katie", he told her. "Your real name is Katie." And then, as though rewarding himself, he pushed up into her, lifting her, impaling her. In startled immobility, she let him.
"Now how in the world... ", she began.
"You have two children", he interrupted. "Both girls. You do this job mainly with them in mind. Not because they'd starve otherwise, because you've got a fair bit salted away. No, for the future. College and such. Because the idea of like mother, like daughters is out of the question for you. You want a different sort of life for them."
With every fact, he drove his cock up and deep, firmly, with a force she would normally have restrained out of concern that the condom might stretch and burst.
"For just over four years, you worked at the local K-mart", he stated, with the ease and confidence of a man reciting a memorised speech. "That's where you first had offers. Sex for money. And you took some of them up. Then you met... Just a minute, bear with me, let the name come. Yes. Then you met Clarence Stanton."
"Clarence was a real bad man", she said quietly, the memory close to being as frightening as the life she'd lived back then. "But he can't have sent you. He's been dead past four years. Some meaner motherfucker's boot went and dropped against his head."
The Englishman had stopped moving. He was presumably confident of her thrall. But he was wrong. And the height of his confidence, she decided, was the moment to reclaim initiative, to ignore the inexplicable. The X-Files could go hang, she resolved, because money was money, and escape was escape.
She knew that she could make him come. He'd pushed himself to the edge, and he was trying to lie low for a while. But even if he could read minds, which she wasn't exactly giving in on, she was the one in the room who could read bodies. Those little twitches against her pubic bone told enough of the story, and the increasing stiffness of the rod was as good as getting the author's name.
She started to fuck him again. Using the rhythm he'd started with her, because he clearly liked it. And, she was right, as she expected to be, as she always was. Just as salt absorbs water, she thought, Katie drains a man when she wants to.
He understood her intention. "No, don't", he pleaded, his hands going to her hips, trying vainly to slow her, failing, because she needed only the slightest movement, and that was a movement which no kind of grip could suppress. "Katie, don't."
"Davina to you, friend", she told him coolly, and she tightened her cunt to grip the base of him, to suck the stuff out of him, moving up, just a little, then firmly down, the drowning stroke, giving the cock no time to breathe, giving its owner too much pleasure to contain.
He yelped in protest. "I want... I want..."...