Cum oozed out of my just-filled snatch, the warm creamy mixture of semen and sperm drifting slowly down both sides of the crack of my ass to drip onto the sheet below. I wondered how many millions of other dying sperm had soaked into the fibers of that cheap sheet in that cheap room in that cheap motel in that cheap neighborhood that the cheap son-of-a-bitch had chosen for our first – and possibly last – fuck.
I've been fucking for fun since I was fourteen and fucking for money since I was twenty. Many people might call me a whore but the police cannot arrest me for it.
Whoa, back up, you say. You want to know who am I and what the fuck this story is all about, don't you?
I'm Tara, which is a nice name to have for someone with red hair. My last name is Quick, which accounts for the fact that my business is named Tara Quick Home Sales. I originally toyed with the idea of leaving out my first name and calling the firm Quick Home Sales. The problem was that that name gives the impression of a operation handling small, low-cost inexpensive fixer-upper homes.
To the contrary, I personally am high maintenance and my firm handles only high priced homes, McMansions or real mansions. Sure, the market really stinks nowadays, stinks like dead fish, like a skanky streetwalker's cunt. But the rich are still rich, and they can buy homes that cost a lot of money. And the higher the selling price, the higher the commission.
Do you know how real estate brokers make money? The commission is split, half for listing and half for sales. The broker whose office signs up a seller, who gets the listing to put into the Multiple system for all of our 'cooperating competitors' (a classic oxymoron) to sell gets about half and the broker whose office actually makes the sale to the buyer gets the other half. (And then each broker splits her share with the salesperson who actually brought in the listing or made the sale.) It's possible and legal for a broker to both get the listing and make the sale, thus earning the full commission for herself.
How do I do it? Re-read the first two paragraphs.
You'll notice that I keep referring to the brokers by using a female pronoun. Though the profession is technically gender neutral, there seems to be a preponderance of women selling homes. It's like nursing or teaching; there's no rule requiring women, it's just the way the numbers work out. (No, this is neither the time nor the place for a discussion of the 'glass ceiling').
Why do women join the field of real estate sales? Some are good salespeople and just like the public interaction. Some are single mothers with children, just getting by – or maybe not even – on alimony and child support, and they need additional income. Some are still married, stay-at-homes whose children have left the nest and they want to keep busy and make some extra money. Some are school teachers willing to work nights and weekends. Lots of other legitimate reasons too.
And some simply see it as a way to meet lots of men, to earn orgasms and money without fear of arrest. Hello, my name is Tara.
I came to real estate honestly. My Mom sold real estate to support my brother and me. I never knew my father; for all I know, she might have been artificially inseminated. She did like men though. Many mornings I would wake up to find a new 'uncle' had stayed over. I knew that they weren't uncles and that the reason Mom let them stay over was so that she could get laid. In retrospect, I can't really blame her.
It was to one of those so-called uncles that I gave my virginity. Notice that I didn't say cherry; I had long since lost that to a hairbrush. And it only hurt the first time. 'Uncle George', the latest in her string, was sitting at the kitchen table when I woke up one morning. Mom had gone off to an early appointment and my brother was already away at college. I was wearing a chaste nightgown, opaque to the eye, dull cotton.
"My, aren't you a pretty little thing?"
Fuck no; I wasn't pretty by a long shot. I was little (I'm barely five foot now); I still had braces on my teeth. My tits at fourteen were the same as they are now, the same as those of a fourteen year old boy. My strong points were my eyes and my smile. But I could be pleased by a compliment.
"Thank you," I answered, my face blushing. I knew without a word being said that this guy, wearing a wife beater shirt and needing a shave, wanted to fuck me. And I, who had back then never even had a single date, wanted to know what it would be like for a boy (or man) to touch me. In truth, I was jealous of Mom for all the various uncles she brought home with her, for a night or a week, sometimes more. What had started as a name, uncle, for things I was too young to comprehend, had morphed into an unspoken joke as television and school friends made me aware that the word sex meant more than what kind of plumbing the person used in order to pee.
I was also jealous of those friends in school, the ones who had dates with boys, the ones who had tits that justified the purchase of sweaters. I was jealous of the ones who told about being felt up and insanely jealous of the girls who had gone 'all the way' with boyfriends or sometimes brothers and in one case, one mind-boggling case, with her father. Shit, if I had known my father, I would have gone all the way with him and jumped right to the top of the totem pole.
All these thoughts raced through my mind, the way your life supposedly flashes by when you're drowning, and I knew that all George had to do was to crook a finger and I'd be his until Mom got back from her appointment.
"Come sit by me," he said, patting the chair next to his at our rectangular six seat table with the shiny wood top, Mom's pride and joy. I sat.
"You have a really pretty smile," he said. I favored him with one in response.
His eyes dropped, staring at my non-tits. I was embarrassed.
"I have no tits," I explained unnecessarily.
"That doesn't matter," he said. "You're sexy anyway." He gently put his hand on my leg. The part that he touched was covered by my nightgown, but still, he touched it. My pussy gushed as if I were masturbating. I slid closer to him until my leg was touching his. He took that, quite rightly, as an invitation to proceed further. His hand slid down, under the hem of my nightgown, and then began to move upward on my bare leg.
My knees parted, to give him the opportunity to soon learn that I always slept naked under the gown. His hand touched the fuzzy growth of my pubic hair, and froze. He stopped breathing, as I already had done hours (moments actually) ago. Our eyes met. Mine were serene, offering him courage to continue. His were confused. He knew that he would soon accomplish something, but he wasn't sure just how far he would get.
He had to be wondering if he would get only a hand job, or at least a blow job. Or maybe with a lot of luck would he actually get laid? Had I ever sucked cock? Would my braces hurt his cock? Did I know what it meant to swallow? Was I a virgin? Where would we do whatever we were going to do? My bed, Mom's bed or in the kitchen? And then there were the more serious questions. When would Mom be back? What would happen if she caught us? How would he pee if she cut off his cock? Would I ever tell Mom what had happened? What were the chances of him going to prison? Would he be strong enough to fend off the rapists there?
The one thing that he was sure of was that if he didn't make some kind of move, the moment would be lost, perhaps forever. And it wasn't often that a fortyish man had a clean shot at a fourteen year old teen, even one with braces. Go for the gold, George, I messaged him silently.
He took my hand and began to walk me back toward Mom's room. I shook my hand free and used both of mine to pull my nightgown off over my head. It fell to the kitchen floor and I didn't bother to pick it up. George reflexively looked at the counter with the rack of Cutco knives. He knew how sharp they were, and I could see him imagining a quick but painful death – or worse if she chose to simply reduce his counting ability to twenty from twenty-one – in the event that she came home while that gown was still on the kitchen floor.
He slid his hand down to my naked ass as I walked into Mom's room. The bed was unmade, as per usual with her. There was a big wet spot in the middle of the sheet. I could only guess that it meant that Mom was a squirter, something one of the girls at school had mentioned. I knew from my own fingers that I was not.
It would have been easy for us to go back to my room but I chose not to bother. The only place for my ass was in the middle of that spot, and so be it. Actually, it felt very wicked for me to be spreading my legs in the very same area that my Mom had just done that very same thing, with the very same man, on the very same morning. Pardon that repetitive style. That's the second time I've used it in this story.
I think there's something in the Bible that forbids a man from fucking both a woman and her daughter, but I'm not very much into that book. It prohibits a lot of stuff that people, especially me, like to do.
As George dropped his slacks, his cock popped into view. I had never watched a porn film and didn't know what a penis was supposed to look like. My only frame of reference was my friend's dog's pecker, and George was a hell of a lot bigger than that. And a lot closer.
Would his cock fit into me? It looked bigger than my finger, which always felt snug when I shoved it inside me. But then I figured that men fucked girls all the time, so I was sure that I could handle it. The crown, the pee hole, was a little damp. My hand took it by the shaft. It was hard. Well, I could tell that just by looking. Yet the skin was silky smooth.
Uncle George's fingers were at my erect nipples, pinching them.
He stopped pinching, but didn't apologize. Little did I know then that he was acting out the standard male attitude of many millennia, mindlessly uncaring about us when blood in the penis took control of the brain. Now I know it, of course, and work it to my advantage by taking control of their fingers, wrapping them around gel pens and guiding them to sign listing agreements and sales contracts.
That fuck scene at the beginning of this story? If he doesn't sign, he'll never ever get into my pants again. And maybe, just maybe, I'll call the cheap bastard's wife. The reality is though that I have a pretty good sense of a guy's intentions. Sure, I know that they want to fuck me, I get that look from them whenever the wife's back is turned, but I choose only to pick up on those invitations if I feel that there's already some leaning toward giving me the listing or making an offer on the property.
But back to George. His fingers were between my legs, playing there. His cock was in the neighborhood and I could tell that he was getting ready to shove it in me. This was surprising, according to what my friends described. OK, I didn't really expect him to kiss me. I knew that he considered me just a quickie piece of ass, which is sort of the way I felt about him. Any cock in a storm, if you will. Yet any of my friends who claimed any experience at all said that the guy always wanted to start with his cock in her mouth. Whether as foreplay or as a cum-gushing complete blowjob, that's where they all began.
Not George though. At his age, he must have gotten enough blowjobs, likely even from Mom, so that they were no novelty to him. So without further ado he slammed his meat straight into me. It was not pleasant. Sure, my cherry was long gone, my pussy was accustomed to the girth of a hair brush handle and anticipation had gotten me somewhat wet, yet it still hurt. Reluctantly my vaginal walls dilated to receive this unfamiliar visitor (cock, not George).
I screamed, maybe you'd call it a yelp, but these new visitors (George and cock) were undeterred. They continued to pound away inside me, thrusting with all the urgency of a teen-age boy getting laid for the first time. (I learned that from my first boy a few weeks later.) And like a virgin boy, George either could not or had no interest in holding out. Before I knew it, I heard his grunt, felt his throbbing and the wetness of his cum spurting inside me.
Need I say that he didn't wait to make me cum?
He pulled out quickly, another little male habit that I would soon learn was all too typical. Then he moved his cock up to my face.
"Clean me off." Now that was something none of my friends had ever mentioned. But I understood his plain words and took his shiny, slimy tool between my lips and began to suck away the cum that hadn't stayed inside of me. It didn't taste bad. As I would learn, cum never tastes bad.
When his cock was clean and dry, he dressed without a word and went to work. I went back to bed and slipped my hand inside my vagina. It was still gooey with his cum and damn, I liked it. I rubbed myself to an orgasm and fell asleep. About an hour later, Mom came home and the sound of the front door closing woke me up. A minute later, she was at my bedside. She spoke in a soft controlled voice.
"I think it's time to put you on the Pill." With that, she handed me the nightgown which had been in the middle of the kitchen floor. I turned red as a beet.
George called her that afternoon. She told him, very calmly, that she didn't want to see him ever again. After a few days to trying to get her to relent, he began to call me. I wasn't interested either.
I wasn't interested in George, that is. I was interested in cock, much more so than in prior times when some boy's cock was just an abstract idea. For the same reason, I was interested in the smooth slime of a boy's cum and began a determined effort to get some of both.
I shared my story with some of the girls in school, knowing deep down that one or two of them would let the boys know that I had some experience. In fact, I was trying to get the word out that I would not shriek at the sight or touch of an erect penis. Additionally, knowing that I had survived a sex act, I began more forward with boys, not letting my braces or my flat chest hold me back. It took a while, but I became reasonably popular with the boys, and Mom's investment in the Pill turned out to be a wise one.
College didn't interest me, despite Mom's urgings, so I took the exam, got my real estate license and went to work with (for) her. She taught me the basics and the insider language. (Don't call it a shack, just say that it needs some TLC.) I became pretty adept at the work and I was bringing in decent money to the office.
Alas, life intervened. After about two years of this, Mom and I went to a brokers-only open house. One of her friendly competitors mentioned that her brother was visiting from Omaha. One word led to another, one date led to another, and soon 'Uncle' Mike became my step-father. The only problem was, they went back to Omaha to Mike's high-paying job. So the business became mine.
97 TULIP DRIVE
One of the things you learn as a broker is that you can make money by just concentrating in a small area. And that doesn't necessarily mean geographical. I decided to become a big bucks broker. While I have women (and a few men) now working for me who handle smaller homes, my time and energy are limited to homes going for over one million USD. I write it that pretentious way, USD instead of $, because many of the customers in that bracket come from outside the country and they think in terms of Euros, Pounds or something else. (So I also learned to do the approximate currency conversions in my head, )
Farming (that's what they call it) for those buyers and sellers takes a lot of effort. Aside from the ton of research that I had to do, it also included meeting those people, at the fanciest restaurants, at the ultra charity soirees, volunteering, soliciting referrals, etc. But eventually it pays off.
I was referred to the Neilsens (spelled en, not on) by someone I had been bidding against at a charity auction, for the sole purpose of showing that I had money to burn. It was one of the ugliest pictures imaginable, and I was praying that I didn't chase the other woman out of the bidding. Fortunately, she hung in and got that piece of junk. However, we became friends, and that's what it was all about. She was a neighbor of the Neilsens and had them call me.
They were selling because they wanted to upgrade. They had already found a new place – damn, damn, damn – and naturally wanted to get rid of the old one, 97 Tulip. They had estimated the value of the old homestead at 1.5 (understand that we're talking millions here) and they weren't far off. They had already moved to the new place but there was still some furniture at 97.
I met Frank and Henrietta at 97. They were simply interviewing me, in an understated way, trying to decide if I had the skill to do the job expeditiously. Frank was a currency trader, making tons of money whether the market for Euros or Yen or whatever was up or down. He was a trim, handsome guy, a tennis player and a golfer. Henrietta was a born-rich dowager, big-boned (that's a polite way of saying overweight). a ' lady who lunched.' And lunched and lunched and lunched.
She wasn't much of a walker therefore, and she sat in the kitchen while Frank took me from room to room. As we walked, he would hold me by the arm or sometimes guide me with his arm around my waist. He was such an overt lecher that I began to wonder how high I'd be able to go on my commission rate without losing the listing. I moved an inch or two to the side, so that my hip was touching his. When we got to the master suite, which was empty except for one bed, he sighed. I looked at him and gave him an 'innocent' wink.
"You're a very aggressive saleswoman, I see," he said. Now that was a clear double entendre if I ever heard one. I took a moment to frame my reply. Should I be coy or forward? Is he just toying with a mild flirtation to keep him feeling young, what with his sexless wife right downstairs, or was he actually starting to hit on me?
"Wait until you see the real me." I ventured.
"Right now?" he said. Well, that was clear enough, but still...
"Henrietta will hear us."
"Let's see a sample."
Damn, this guy was a tough negotiator. But I knew I could handle him. I turned to face him and began to rub his crotch. He definitely was 'glad to see me.' I pulled down his zipper and fished out his cock. I licked the crown and sucked it for all of two seconds. Then I pushed it back inside and re-zipped him.
"Tonight," he whispered. "Eight o'clock. Here."
"A deal," I said, adding "Let's go downstairs so you and Henrietta can sign the listing agreement."
He looked shocked and then he smiled, the slow recognition that he had been outmaneuvered. Of course, he could refuse to sign, but then if he wanted to get his rocks off that evening, he would have to rely on the dumpy dowager Henrietta.
And so I drove home with a signed listing agreement and the key to the property in my purse. I hummed as I drove, entertaining myself with the thought that I would not only be paying off on a deal but that also I would be getting laid by a rich gentleman, a guy whose only apparent fault was that he cheated on his wife. Not my problem! Quite the contrary, my good fortune.
The schedule called for an early dinner and then a long, hot soak in the bathtub. Surrounded by scented candles and my trusty twelve inch boyfriend, I got myself off twice. Why, you ask? Because there's no guarantee that these guys have anything on their minds except a quick cum. If they're not going to take care of me, I guess I have to do it myself. Frank seemed like a nice guy, but I had no idea if he still had the stamina, or the interest, to give me an orgasm.
I hung up my all white business suit, the one I use to sign them up, and took out my basic little black dress. I know, I know, we weren't going to be going out for cocktails or dinner, much less even be seen in public, but it makes me feel good, feel prettier than the mirror will admit, and it's easy to get out of. Plus, it doesn't require any underwear. A quick scented spray made my pussy more inviting to his tongue in case he happened to be a muff diver.
I drive an expensive convertible, designed to give the customers the feeling that I make a lot of money – which I do. The idea is that success breeds success, and I want to give the impression that I can do a very good job for them – which I can. Even if it means spending some of my working hours on my back or knees – both of which I enjoy.
My trip to 97 Tulip was made with the top down. The wind-blown effect is most erotic for those times when I paying off the promise I made in order to get the listing. I was there five minutes early. Even with the key in my purse, I waited in my car. A girl can never be sure and I didn't want to be in the house alone. Then along came Frank and we made some meaningless small talk. We went into the house and up to the bedroom.
He looked at me, likely searching for buttons to begin to strip me. I guess dear Henrietta never owned a little black dress to seduce him, and so he didn't know where to begin. I laughed and reached down to pull the garment off over my head. I could see that he was surprised that I wore nothing else. He glanced at my chest, confirmed his earlier opinion that I needed no bra, and concentrated on my pussy. It's been bald for years, another thing he surely never saw at home.
"Get undressed, Frank." He did so, slacks and underwear first. His cock was erect of course, but just a cock, nothing spectacular. I got the impression that he wouldn't have minded stopping at that point but I made no move to join him, so he continued with shirt, undershirt and socks. That made us even, except for the pubic hair.
I had no idea how he wanted it so I waited. He answered my unasked question by sitting on the edge of the bed and then lying back. To me, that meant that he wanted either for me to ride him like a cowgirl or to blow him. I chose the latter, a continuation of that quick preview I had given him earlier. I knelt on the floor and used my hands to spread his legs, allowing me to get my mouth to the starting line. I took his meat in hand and gave it a warm puff of air and a fast lick on the crown. He sighed.
I twisted my head sideways to get to his balls. My mouth sucked them as my tongue washed the sac. Then little nibble kisses up along his shaft. He sighed again. His hand was on the back of my head, silently, gently letting me know that he wanted his cock to be inside my mouth. I took the hint.
Here's my thinking. If I suck him hard, I can get him to cum quickly. Then he'll rest, we'll fuck, and I'll be home in time for the ten o'clock news. So I gave it my best shot. But after a good ten minutes, he still hadn't cum. When I took my mouth off of him for a breather, he sighed again, more deeply.
And then, and then, son of a bitch, his cock began to shrivel in my hand. My hand began to knead his balls, even to squeeze them a teeny bit. All to no avail. I looked up at him, my sadness evident.
"Frank, what would you like me to do for you?"
"It's not you, Tara, it's ... it's..."
"E.D.?" I finished the sentence for him with a question mark.
"I hate that fucking expression," he said, "but yes, that's my problem."
"But they have pills for that," I said. To my own ears, it almost sounded as if I was whining.
He shook his head. "No pills, doctor's orders. I take blood pressure medicine."
"Shit!" There was nothing more for me to say. I resigned myself to a night of masturbation.
"But I can take care of you," he said with a smile.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I've had guys go down on me often enough, but it's always been on a regular date, someone with whom I had at least a casual relationship. But never a business client. No, they always knew that they were getting laid in return for a signature, and they felt no obligation to give me any orgasms. If I got one from them, fine, but it was coincidental to their purpose. Frank could see the relief on my face.
"Come sit on my face," he offered. I was ready to accept, obviously, but then I thought of an improvement. I mounted him in the sixty-nine position, so that as his tongue pleasured me, I could still try to squeeze a cum out of him, a dry throb if not a mouthful of cream. I wasn't used to doing a sixty-nine on top. Usually, I was either on the bottom or side by side.
With my pussy positioned over his mouth, Frank's hands reached up and grabbed me by the ass, pulling my snatch down to meet his tongue. He held me there with one hand while his other diddled my nipples. It made me wonder once again where, if I ever had a baby, I would store the milk, what with my almost nonexistent tits.
As he licked and sucked, I was impressed with his style. Where had he learned to eat a woman? Surely not between the legs of the matronly Henrietta. I knew that if I ever chose to do some muff diving, it would definitely not be between her tree-trunk legs. But I digress. I knew that the way Frank was munching on me would soon bring me over the top in grand style.
Yet my immediate problem was my desire to take care somehow of his shrunken man tool. If I could. My mouth so far hadn't done the job, and I felt somewhat a failure. Sure, he had the physical problem of E.D. but still, it was a challenge. Listen, I've been told – and I honestly believe – that I'm a damn good cock sucker, one of the best. Of course, that could just be bullshit from guys in the afterglow of an orgasm, but who knows, maybe I really am that good. I could certainly earn an A for effort.
His tongue ran up and down my slit, although the way we were positioned, one might say down and up. Either way, he had me gushing; his face was probably shiny from my juices. I could tell that he was enjoying himself by the way he kept slurping up those juices. Hey Frank, how would you like it if I pissed down your throat? I didn't have the nerve to say that out loud. It might have turned him off and that I couldn't afford to do until the house was sold.
He finally latched onto my clit with his lips. The way he was sucking, it felt like he was trying to pull my whole pussy out of my body.
Meanwhile, I was getting nowhere. Using my lips and tongue on his cock did nothing to pull any blood back into it. It was as limp as the proverbial wet noodle. Squeezing his nuts did no good. My hand grabbed his cock and I began to jerk him off. That was another trick that I had learned in school after George had taken my virginity. The boys for the most part were unsophisticated. Much as they talked a good game, many of them had no real experience beyond bare tit. As a result, if I wanted to give a guy a good time without filling my pussy up with his cum, I could always give him a hand job. For those guys, they were as happy as pigs in shit. Maybe that would work on Frank.
Before I got the chance to find out, he did what he was supposed to do – make me cum. It was his teeth, very gently, biting my clit that elicited the scream of delight that keeps me going. AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE. But that son of a bitch – I use the expression with affection – kept going until I had no choice but to roll off of him to give my clit a chance to calm down.
I turned around to face him and for the very first time, I kissed him. Tongue and all, while I resumed the hand job. He gave me a smile that told me he had never had that screaming reaction from Henrietta, and he was damn proud of it. I sat up on his right side, while my left hand, my strong hand, pulled straight up. This brought just a bit of blood into his pecker, increasing slightly as time passed.
"Is this what you have to do?" I asked him tenderly.
"Sometimes it works," he said, while beginning to breathe through an open mouth. I could tell that he was trying, his eyes closed tightly as I ministered to his needs. His hand covered mine as we worked together. But damn, my arm was beginning to get tired. I had to slow down.
"Don't stop," he pleaded, and I continued. I was doing my best, and he was in fact hard, but getting nowhere. I bent down and took his purple crown between my lips. My fist was slapping me in the face with each jerk. But I was a full service broker, and I was going to do whatever had to be done. I hoped it would work.
Without warning, my right hand slipped between his cheeks and my middle finger found his rear entrance. He felt it and his breath became raggedy. And then the finger was inside him. He gasped and began to squirm. It wasn't my first time inside a guy's ass but I had never done it before on a real estate deal, just with friends.
It worked. My mouth felt the throb of Frank's orgasm, although he no longer had the ability to ejaculate any cum. My finger slid out of him. His hand took mine and for a second I thought that he was going to suck that finger clean. All he did though was to open the hand and kiss the palm.
I was satisfied that the listing would not be cancelled. Just to be sure though, I continued to see Frank two or three times a week until the house finally sold. And much as I hate to admit it, what with me being a whore for business only, I still see Frank every week or so. I don't really like the way I have to get him off, but I definitely love the way he scratches my itch.
The bad news: one of my competitors actually made the sale, so I only made half the commission.
122 PRIMROSE LANE
I got this listing the easy way. It was a referral from Frank, the seller being his long time girlfriend Marge, a widow. Frank knew that I would do anything to get and keep a listing, and so he specifically asked me not to try to hit on Marge. Which of course is typical of the male of the species. He had no compunctions about cheating on his girlfriend (with me) but he didn't want her to be cheating on him. Truth be told, he gave me such a good reference that I had no trouble signing her up, but if she had shown the least bit of hesitation, I would have been perfectly willing to munch her carpeting.
The trouble was, she had no interest in having her carpeting munched, at least not by me, and so I had to cut my commission to make the deal. Only the Bitch had faked me out!
After we'd shaken hands on the commission rate, Marge said, "So you're Frank's new fuck toy, aren't you?"
I almost dropped my teeth. (No, that's just an expression.) I turned red, I know, and my first reaction was to deny. Yet I realized that she could always discharge me and that it would be a bad move to lie for no good reason.
"He told you?" I asked.
"He didn't have to, my dear. It was just so obvious."
"Bastard!" I mumbled under my breath.
"Tell me, Tara, is your tongue as talented as Frank's?"
"He asked me not to try to hit on you," I stammered.
"What he doesn't know won't hurt him." The cliché came from her lips with a smile.
When I first started college, where I lasted all of one semester, I had a roommate named Clara. She was a beautiful girl/woman with hot Latina blood, and she didn't care who diddled her clit. It was she who first taught me the delights of girl on girl sex and as a bonus, she had real woman-sized breasts. So while we both dated often, and many times never came back to the dorm all night, whenever we were both there, we shared the same bed. In a flip the coin contest, my clit prefers to be stimulated by cock, but when no man is available or tempting, I prefer a woman to my own fingers. And if it means holding on to a client, hell yes.
And so it was that Marge and I were soon naked in her bed. She was twenty-five or thirty years older than me – if I had been a man, she would have been considered a cougar – but she had as much energy as did I. She was aggressive, rolling on top of me to sit on my face, forcing her pussy onto my tongue – as if I was trying to avoid it. She grunted and groaned as she pulled my head inside her, or at least tried. She humped my face relentlessly, as if she were a horny dog against my leg. She soaked my face with her juices as her orgasm exploded in a crescendo of joy.
Yet when it came time for her to pay the piper, she was as gentle as a long term lover. We kissed and her tongue entered my mouth, but with little force. She nursed on my breasts lazily, like a satisfied baby. She kissed my slit with a myriad of baby pecks designed to please me without satisfying me. Her hands caressed my ass as she used it to pull my clit toward her lips. When she finally brought me off, brought me to that marvelous instant when all reason leaves the brain and rushes to the loins, it left me in a frenzy of lust that, had I been consciously thinking of anything else, I would have offered to sell her home for free. Of course, my cooler head prevailed after just a few seconds.
For I really wanted to make the sale on this one myself, so that I could keep the entire commission. Marge's home was listed for 2.7 mil, and even at the reduced rate, my payday would cover the cost of lots of vibrator batteries. Fortunately, that's only a metaphor; I didn't need to own a vibrator.
One evening, at a charity reception and dinner, I wound up being seated at the same table as a lovely couple, Stanley and Marcia Miller. Over the course of a couple of hours, I could feel that Stan, despite his perfect conduct, was looking me over. It really gives a girl a warm feeling, knowing that she thinks of herself as average but that some really handsome man is talking to her and at the same time has a stiffie under the table.
What surprised me though was the outfit that Marcia was wearing. Her body was to die for. She had on a navy-blue leather mini skirt with matching shoes and a tight red top that hugged her gorgeous breasts. I was tempted to throw her onto the table and eat her right there.
Which brings up the whole question of why any man with access to the sexual pleasures of one of the world's beauties – possibly a minor exaggeration – would have any desire to fuck a woman like me. And by 'like me' I do not intend in the least to demean myself, merely meaning to include every woman without a cover girl face or a bra-modeling figure. The answer of course is obvious. Those men, ninety-nine percent of the total male population, need the thrill of the forbidden, the stroking of their egos, the feelings of conquest of the mere female.
I'd like to think, if I had my own Adonis with the skill to keep me in orgasms, that I wouldn't ever cheat on him. Of course, I'd still fuck for a listing or sale, so maybe that would be cheating. And maybe our Marcia of the fantastic body has all the sexuality of a blow-up doll or an internet picture. Go know.
Anyway, one word led to another and it turned out that the Millers were new to the area and were living in a hotel while they looked for a new home. They weren't happy with the broker they were using. Of course, I gave him a card from my teeny formal purse. He held my hand and my eyes for a drop longer than necessary before pocketing the card. My pussy was wet.
Sure enough, the call came the following morning, and we made an appointment for that afternoon. Before showing any customer any house, you have to pre-qualify them, asking about income and liquid assets on hand so that you only show them homes that they can realistically afford (or maybe a bit more expensive, what with the current market forcing sellers to lower their prices when shown a real live offer with check attached).
During that get-together, Marcia candidly told me that they were changing brokers because the previous one continually undressed her with his eyes – not that I would have blamed him. As she spoke, her husband looked at me, yet his eyes kept flashing between Marcia and me so that she wouldn't see him concentrating on me. I bit my tongue, smiled and nodded sympathetically. If she only knew!
After satisfying myself that they could afford Marge's house and more, we got into my car – never the customer's car, you just never know – and I showed them that home and several others. They liked Marge's enough to use it as a basis for comparison when they viewed other homes. We made an appointment for the weekend.
Stan Miller wasted no time. That evening – I wondered where his wife might be – he called and invited me for lunch the following day. I didn't ask why; I knew the reason. He intended to hit on me. The only question was whether we would fuck immediately after lunch or make some date in the future. I was hoping for right after lunch, because a buying customer can easily walk away, find another broker to show them the same home, and then I'd effectively be SOL. Letting them use me to get their rocks off generally kept them coming back to me.
After all the years of doing nothing to enhance my bust, sort of a take it or leave it attitude, I had finally decided to move into the mainstream world. Since I had no desire to undergo surgery, that meant buying bras that enhanced my figure. And that naturally drifted me into wearing tight sweaters, for the same purpose. The downside was that I had to wear the bras, thus depriving me of the pleasure of wearing nothing to support nothing. And since I was going to be wearing my tight dress jeans to meet Stanley, I had to also wear panties to avoid showing the embarrassing wet spot that would surely otherwise appear.
The lunch was in a hotel restaurant. Oh, how amazingly transparent. If I hadn't been so RWA – that's ready, willing and able, the conditions that entitle a broker to a commission – I would have been insulted. But I'd learned that if a customer is on the make, playing hard to get serves no purpose. But still, I couldn't be seen to be a total slut.
"What did you want to talk about, Mr. Miller?"
"Stan," he corrected me. After a pause, he said, "I think you're a very exciting woman."
"Exciting?" I asked, "as in a good salesperson?"
"Exciting," he said, "as in erotic."
I had cultivated the ability to blush. Then, "I think you're kind of exciting yourself."
"Are you busy this afternoon?"
"Never too busy," I replied, realizing as I said it that it sounded kind of slutty. But it was too late to take it back, and I was sure it didn't matter.
"Are you really hungry?" he asked.
"Not for food," I said with a smile. By then, all pretenses were gone.
He excused himself and exited the restaurant through the door to the Front Desk. In a few moments, he came back holding a key card and dropped some bills on the table. The brief elevator ride was silent. I mean, once the seduction ritual is no longer needed, what is there to say? He did have his arm around me and that felt nice.