Exclusive newsletter freebie
Copyright 2020 by Jeana E. Mann
Cover design by Jena Brignole
Just to be clear, I like to fuck. A lot. It’s one of the reasons I’m so successful in my business. If a woman needs me to ride her all night and into the morning, my dick is more than happy to comply. Oral, anal, roleplay, kink, threesomes, couples—I’m down with it all. Most of my customers want standard missionary with a side helping of foreplay and pillow talk thrown into the mix. Whatever gets their rocks off. Makes no difference to me as long as they pay cash—in advance.
Copyright 2020 by Jeana E. Mann
Mrs. Smith says she likes it rough, so I decide to dress like a biker for our date. After a light supper, I throw on my favorite pair of ripped jeans, heavy combat boots, and a tight white T-shirt beneath a black leather jacket. I don’t bother to shave, choosing the scruffy, just-got-out-of-bed look, and muss my hair up with some gel. Appearances are everything in this line of work. I can’t be a hard-ass dressed in a pink polo and khakis.
My dick’s been semi-erect all day at the prospect of meeting a new client. I’m anxious, but looking forward to it all the same. Before leaving, I throw a box of condoms into a leather backpack, a couple different kinds of lube, mouthwash, and a vibrator—because, well, you never know when you might need one. Some women are difficult to get off the first time, and even I need a little help. There’s no shame in a bit of battery-operated assistance now and then.
As I leave my apartment and ride the elevator downstairs, my mind scrolls through a few different scenarios. I rehearse them in my head, paying no attention to the other occupants until Chloe boards the elevator on the fourth floor. She’s wearing a short denim skirt, cowboy boots, and a tight blue T-shirt. When her gaze catches mine, she smiles, and I forget about Mrs. Smith. Fuck me, if this girl isn’t the hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Her hair is swept into a high ponytail. She’s the perfect combination of sweet and sexy.
“Howdy, partner,” I say.
“Howdy.” Her smile widens.
“Hot date?”
“Sort of. You?” Her gaze drifts over my body. I can tell by the way her nostrils flare she appreciates my bad boy outfit. Nothing tempts a good girl like a dirty, sexy bastard.
“Something like that.” I shove my hands into my pockets and grin, thinking of the arsenal of erotic weapons slung over my shoulder. This Pollyanna would probably shit if she knew where I was really going. She tugs her lower lip between her teeth, drawing my focus to her mouth. Her lips are plump and tinted a soft rose color. A vision of them wrapped around my dick flashes through my head. I shake it away.
The elevator doors open, and we go our separate ways. She meets a skinny, bookish kind of guy at the lobby. He lights up at the sight of her, but it’s me her eyes follow as I push through the revolving door and out onto the street.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I park my car in the driveway of an austere three-story brick mansion on Dayton Street in Lincoln Park. The house is dark except for a few lights on the ground floor. I make my way up a sidewalk lined with frothy pink flowers and landscape lights. Once I reach the front door, I ring the doorbell and draw in a deep breath to get into character. Show time.
The woman who answers the door is petite, blonde, closer to fifty than forty. She’s dressed in a floor-length satin robe tied tightly around her waist. Her hand trembles as she offers it to me.
“Hi, I’m Mrs. Smith. You must be—?” She frowns. “I don’t know your name.”
“Romeo,” I say.
“Is that really your name?” she asks.
“Does it matter?” I lift an eyebrow and coax a smile from her.
“Not really.” She steps aside to let me enter the foyer. I take in the two-story ceiling, crystal chandeliers, and marble floors. Very nice. Understated. Elegant but not fussy. I wait at the base of a double staircase. Her oval face has gone pale. “Should we go upstairs?” A tremor shakes her voice. “I’m not sure how this works.”
“Why don’t we sit down and chat for a minute? Your time won’t start until we’re both ready.”
“Okay then. Yes. Let’s get acquainted first.” She breathes a sigh of relief and leads the way into an expansive living room. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks. But go ahead if you’d like.” I take a seat on the sofa, sling my backpack to the floor, and watch as she heads to the wet bar a few feet away. Ice tinkles into a rock glass. She pours two fingers of bourbon over the ice, takes a sip, then another. Her shoulders visibly relax.
I never drink during work hours. Too many things might go wrong, in which case, I need my wits about me. You never know when a husband or boyfriend might arrive home unexpectedly. I’ve had to launch out a bedroom window and hightail it down the street to safety more than once. It’s also a well-known fact that alcohol can inhibit sexual performance. My customers expect satisfaction, and I expect to give it to them—no pun intended—something I can’t do with a whiskey dick.
“Have you been doing this long?” She turns to face me. The lamp from the bar backlights her figure. The outlines of her body show through the thin silk. Perky breasts, slender thighs, a flat belly. This will be an easy ride for me. It’s always nice to see a woman take care of her body, although I have no preference on physical type. They all feel the same once you’re inside, regardless of age or fitness level.
“A few years.”
“You’re younger than I expected.” The liquor is making her brave. By the time she finishes her drink, she’ll be ready to move upstairs.
“I’m twenty-four,” I reply and pat the sofa beside me. “Have a seat.” She eases onto the cushion next to me. The throat of her robe gapes open to reveal a sliver of smooth, tanned skin and the upper swell of one breast. I play with the hem of her robe and lean toward her.
“Does it bother you—the age difference?” Her breath catches as my fingers graze her knee.
“Not at all. I prefer older women. They know their bodies better, know what they want.” That’s the honest truth. Her eyes latch onto my mouth and hold there. I run my tongue over my lower lip to tease her.
“My friend said you were hot, but you’re absolutely gorgeous. You must work out a lot.” She takes another sip of her drink while her gaze slides over my chest, pupils widening.
I scoot a little closer, almost but not quite thigh to thigh. “Every day.”
When her gaze drifts over my biceps, I’m grateful for the hundred or so push-ups and crunches I did before leaving my apartment. “I’ve been working on my abs this week. Would you like to see?”
“Yes.” She’s almost ready to begin, and so am I. The challenge turns me on, sends blood rushing into my cock.
“Great. Just a few details and then I’m going to take you upstairs and fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked.” I grin and wink. She nods, her gaze trained on my face, and I continue. “Cash up front. Two-fifty for an hour. A grand for the night. Non-refundable.”
“I’ve got the money for two hours here.” She withdraws an envelope from the pocket of her robe and hands it to me. “And a bonus for working me into your schedule on such late notice.”
I riffle through the bills then drop the money into my backpack. Later, I’ll put the cash in my safe deposit box at the bank. I brush a lock of hair back from her face. Anticipation is a huge part of the process. She needs to want me. Taking a woman to ecstasy is as much a mental journey as physical.
“Oh, my God. This is really happening,” she whispers. A flush creeps up her neck. Beneath her robe, her nipples poke against the fabric, tight and hard.
“If I see you out in public, I won’t acknowledge you unless you speak to me first—and never when I’m with another client. Condoms are required and non-negotiable. I get tested regularly for STDs. Here’s a copy of the results from the last test.” I pull the paper from my backpack, hand it to her, and wait as she scans through the results. When she’s done, I return the paper to my backpack. “I’ll fuck you any way you want. You’re in control of this situation. This is about you. If at any time you want to stop, just say the word and we’re done. Understand?”
“Yes. I understand.” She licks her lips like she’s parched and I’m a cold drink of water. I live for looks like that. Maybe I didn’t get enough attention from my mom as a kid, or maybe I just dig women.
With slow movements, I cup one of her breasts in my hand, lift it, and flick the nipple with my thumb. She hisses. The satin is soft in my palm. Her head falls back against the sofa. When I pinch her nipple between my fingers, a shudder ripples down her body and her eyelids lower. Fine lines bracket her eyes, spiderwebs of pain and experience. I lean forward and touch my lips to hers. The taste of bourbon burns my tongue.
When I pull back, she says, “I’m ready to go upstairs,” in a voice thick with desire. I smile at her, because I’m ready, too.
BAD BEHAVIOR #1, #2, AND #3 are releasing on NOVEMBER 17, 2020
ONLY 99 CENTS
