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As soon as I saw Bobby I ran to him. I practically threw myself at him. He saw me and was ready. He threw his arms wide and I pushed myself into his arms, let him feel every part of me that he might have forgotten about, and I gave my mouth to him and let him kiss me, taste me. His hands reached up into my hair (I’d just gotten it done the day before) and I listened to him take a deep breath of my perfume.
“God,” he said when we broke apart, “you look amazing.”
I smiled at him, half with lust and half with what I’m sure looked like wonder. He was back and he loved me.
He’d flown in the night before and I’d had to work. I would have loved to have seen him then but without a car and with his place one too many el stops for comfort, we put off seeing each other until the next day, which turned out to be the same day as a back-from-college kickback we were all more or less socially obligated to attend. He told me he was jet lagged and had to see his family, otherwise he would have driven to see me. I didn’t care; he was here now.
I would have dragged him upstairs, but we didn’t have the time; plus my parents were home (but would be gone later that evening). So it was just a few minutes of merciless making out in the doorway and then I was clinging to his arm as he led me back to his car. We drove up to Evanston at about eight o’clock, chattering about everything we hadn’t talked about, things we had.
I was playing the part of the perfect girlfriend. As soon as I saw him, I wanted it to be true. Little annoyances were marginalized, his taste in music was not a big deal, nothing was wrong. And I looked good. Obviously I’d done my time at the gym and I was wearing a tight but tasteful black dress that hugged my hips and reached nearly to my knees; it was pretty conservative overall but the slip in the side and the ample decolletage balanced it out (I suppose that is to say: a tight bra and my tits balanced it out). I liked Bobby looking and I told him to keep his eyes on the road. But he put his hand on my thigh and squeezed and I laughed.
(A few weeks ago on the back of Tom’s motorcycle, he’d slipped his free hand down to the same leg and laid his hand on my knee. It was a smooth, comfortable gesture. There was certainly something possessive about it but it happened so naturally, as if that was exactly where his hand needed to be. It bothered me at the time. I guess it bothered me now.)
When we got to the party it was full, and since we were all at least graduated from one university it was a laid back affair, one where we saw a lot of friends we hadn’t seen in a while and no one got too drunk or made too much of an ass out of themselves.
Though towards the later end of the evening Tom (who I’m convinced was dragged there by Allison so she’d have someone to drive her home – though she ended up going home with a random rugby player from UPenn) went down to the kitchen to grab a beer and Allison started talking about his idea to pay a girl for S-E-X.
By the time Tom returned to the group nearly the whole party was talking about the plan and whether or not it was a good idea. Bobby thought it was a great idea. “We all need a few more prostitutes in our life,” he said. Some girl laughed. I can’t believe she laughed.
Tom looked into his beer and said, “It’s not really prostitution.”
Bobby took that as a challenge. “Um, paying someone for sex? Yeah, Tom, that’s prostitution.”
“Well I won’t quibble,” Tom said congenially. He raised his glass and made to saunter away.
“No, let’s quibble.”
Bobby loved to argue. He used to joke that he would have majored in law but he could make more money in business just telling people what to do. It was probably true, one of those traits that simultaneously attracted me to him and made me furious. But that’s how it works.
Tom just stood there and regarded him. “Okay.”
“You’re saying a woman – or, okay, a guy – who takes money for sex is not a prostitute.”
Tom licked his lips and took another swig of beer. “Yes,” he said.
“How are they not a prostitute?”
Tom cleared his throat. “Suppose you and I decide to fight this out. Mm?” He took a moment to think. “But instead of us fighting, we hire two other guys to fight for us. Boxers, right. And they fight, and one of them wins, and he gets paid. He’s a boxer.”
Bobby nodded and gestured for him to get on with it.
Tom gave a smile that I recognized. “Now suppose the same scenario except this time instead of my guy, I pay my guy to be in the fight. I mean, I want to fight the guy who’s fighting for you, but that’s against the rules, so I’ll pay my guy and take his place. Am I a boxer?”
“Well, no, but- Technically-“
“Yes,” Tom replied. He took another swig of beer. I don’t think anyone else at the party at that moment realized how much Tom was enjoying himself. And I was actually interested where this was going, much to my dismay. “Yes, technically I am a boxer because technically I am boxing. But I’m not a boxer. That’s not what I do. But I did bahis siteleri it for this match because I wanted to.”
Bobby shook his head vigorously. “That’s a terrible analogy. You’re paying the boxer. He’s not paying you for a service.”
“How are things supposed to be?”
“How is the boxing match supposed to work?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“The rules are: two boxers enter the match, they fight, they get paid, they go home. The rules are not: two boxers enter the match, one of them pisses off and some other guy grabs a pair of gloves. Right?”
“That’s not in the rules. So, what were we talking about?” Tom seemed to genuinely search his memory. “Right. So I meet a woman, say, and I say, I’m strapped for time, strapped of personality, strapped in all ways except cash. If you’re into it, I’ll pay you, we conduct a transaction, that’s the end of it.”
“That’s a prostitute!” Bobby laughed. Most of the group laughed along with him.
Tom nodded and swigged his beer. “I suppose, one who boxes is a boxer, right? One who fucks for money is a prostitute. Call a spade a spade, I get it.” He made to walk away.
“No,” said Bobby. He was incredulous. “Hold on, how do you think that’s not a prostitute? You’re not right.”
“Okay,” said Tom, “let’s think about this. If I spend a day digging ditches am I a ditch digger? If I look through a telescope am I an astronomer? Two people who sleep together sleep together because they want to, presumably. But say there’s something wrong with the picture. One of them doesn’t like the other, one of them doesn’t know the other. There is no incentive for this union to take place except one which is universally valuable. Money. A prostitute makes exchanging sex for cash her profession. I just think there’s a difference in degree.”
“Okay, I kind of get it,” Bobby said. “But difference in degree doesn’t make the girl not a prostitute.”
“I guess not,” Tom replied. “I think of it more as an understanding. You ever have a fuck buddy in college?”
Bobby looked at me. My eyes went wide and my face hot. “Why the fuck are you looking at me?” I exploded.
He gave a sheepish smile. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate to say with you here-“
“Oh for God’s sake,” I said, “I don’t care.”
“Get on with it!”
Bobby turned back to Tom. Before he could open his mouth Tom stopped him, “We know what fuck buddies are, is all I’m saying.”
“Great. Anyway, fuck buddies, right? Clever name. Again, it’s two people who share an understanding. They’re not friends, they’re not lovers, they’re definitely not in a relationship. It’s one thing: sex. Or how about friends with benefits? There’s a transaction going on there. Two people who are platonic friends who…occasionally sleep together.” A few in the group mumbled at that. Tom nodded to them. “No, it never really works out, in the end.”
Bobby was past impatient at this point. “I’m sorry I asked.”
Tom considered him and sipped from his beer. “Then I guess I’ll just finish by saying this: There is always something to be gained from a relationship. And usually the two sides are not balanced. Friends with benefits are trading loneliness and an easy lay for long term feasibility as friends. Fuck buddies are trading sexual openness or lust with trust and and a long term relationship. Two people who have an agreement to sleep with each other on the condition that one is paid are balancing an equation: one’s need with the other’s need.”
A girl in the crowd looked at Tom quizzically. “But if that’s the case then one of them can still get hurt.”
Tom replied to her, “All three of those relationships are imbalanced. You’re right. It’s a fine line between that and prostitution, but it’s a line, is all I’m trying to say.”
Bobby frowned, not from anger but in thought. I could see the girl sizing Tom up. She drank theatrically and smiled at him. “So how much are you offering?”
He smiled and reached into his pocket. “I got twenty-five cents. What’s that buy me?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Half a hand job. My name’s Beth, by the way.”
Tom extended his hand. “Tom.” He moved closer to continue conversation with her and then stopped and turned back to Bobby. “Does that answer your question?”
Bobby smirked and shook his head. “Yeah, sure.”
“Nice meeting you.” Tom happily went back to talking to Beth and Bobby returned to me, putting his arms around me and swinging us back to Sara and Allison and the people we knew.
Sara started talking about someone she’d seen from college and how fat they were now. I sighed and nestled up against Bobby, thinking, tuning Sara out (it wasn’t hard). It certainly was a line, wasn’t it, Tom?
But which side was imbalanced?
* * *
Later that night Bobby got into a very involved conversation about the last university match against his home team. I stayed for as long as I could and then wandered downstairs to the kitchen.
I won’t lie. I was looking canlı bahis siteleri to see if anyone was outside smoking. I don’t smoke, but I do smoke at parties. Just like I don’t cheat, except on my boyfriend, sometimes, when I’m a prostitute but not really.
I peeped through the kitchen window and saw Tom sitting out there smoking quietly. Knowing full well I shouldn’t, I stepped outside and closed the door softly behind me.
It was so cold. Chicago in December is not the worst weather; far from it, usually, but it does get chilly. Thankfully it wasn’t windy, just a low, dry cold.
Tom hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
“Yeah, I’m awfully cute. Can I steal one?”
Tom, after a languid moment, looked into his carton and then back at me. “I don’t want to be encouraging bad habits.”
“Oh shut up,” I said. I grabbed the cigarette from his fingers and slipped it between my lips. “Ew,” I said. “Camels.”
He smiled and pulled another one from his box. He lit it. “I’m trying to make myself quit.”
“Shouldn’t be hard.”
“Yeah, I just got all these urges I need to sublimate.”
I smiled at him wryly. “Where’s Beth?”
“Put the claws away, Cat.”
“I will hit you-“
He chuckled. “She has gone for the night. But I did get her number.” He flashed a scrap of paper at me and slipped it back in his pocket.
“Was that true, what you said?”
“I did indeed get her number, yes.”
We smoked in silence for a bit. I felt a little warmer. Though it couldn’t have all been the cigarette.
“I think it’s true,” he said.
“Let me ask you something.”
He rolled his head against the house, cigarette perched on his lip.
“Real suave. No, um, even if someone agreed to that kind of deal, with paying. It’s still degrading.”
Tom sighed. “I can’t deny that, I guess. I mean, part of the thrill is that it’s degrading- some of it, anyway. But by paying for it it kind of sets that up, makes it more understood.”
“What do you mean?”
He took a drag and let his hand drop below the chair. “Well, it’s sort of like erotica, isn’t it?”
“You mean porn?”
“Some people call it erotica.”
“Some people like you.”
He smiled. “Some people like me, who get urges, who are fine, strapping young citizens of the nation, who wouldn’t hurt a fly but are, for whatever our reasons, kinky creatures. It’s fantasy. It’s an outlet, a channel, something to access. Does paying for sex degrade the person who’s being paid. Yes, maybe. But it’s part of the show, the price of admission. How they are used in that context is essential to the fantasy. How they’re treated before and after is just as important.” He finished his cigarette and put it out on the pavement. Then he smiled at me. “Kinky people have feelings too, after all.”
I crossed my arms. “So you have feelings, huh?”
“I wasn’t talking about me.”
He stood up and sauntered over to me. He put his hands in his pockets and I could see in his eyes, no matter how he may have denied it, that he was thinking about trying to kiss me.
But he didn’t.
He walked out into the backyard and let himself out the back gate. “Take care,” he said. And I finished my cigarette by myself.
* * *
He kissed me sweetly and crushed my body to him. I melted against him and kissed back, sending my tongue into his mouth.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he said. I smiled at him and pulled back. I grabbed at the undersides of my sweater and prepared to give him the full reveal. But he had already pushed me back against my bed.
My feet still stuck in the heels I tried to kick them off but they were strapped tight. “Hold on, let me-” I started.
“Leave them on,” he said. “It’s hot.” He pulled my skirt up over my ass and yanked down on my panties. When he got them to about my thighs he stood up and unzipped his fly. “Are you ready, honey?”
I guess so, I thought. We could take it slow later. He slid his pants down to the floor and stepped out of them. His big dick tented his boxers and then he pulled them down too, gingerly making sure to get his penis free. He leaned back over me and worked my panties past my knees.
He kissed my mouth and slipped his hand up under the sweater. “I love it when you don’t wear a bra, Katie.”
I kissed him back and reached for his cock. He was already pushing it forward.
He paused over me. “What is it?”
“Condom,” I said.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Sorry.” He reached down to his pants and pulled a string of condoms forth. Ripping one open he quickly rolled it down his cock and climbed up on the bed. “Ready, baby?”
“Yeah,” I said. I was mostly wet enough. He shoved it against my cunt and I squirmed to try to get him inside. “Wait,” I said.
Bobby pushed and tried to rearrange his hips. “Like that?” he said.
“Mmhm,” I replied. We finally got situated and he pushed himself in.
“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” he groaned.
“I do kegels,” I said.
He smiled and canlı bahis kissed me, and it was a good kiss. We both still had our shirts on and the pumps were driving me crazy but we were together and doing it.
He did it to me missionary and it was fine.
It was really fine.
I made all the noises I knew he liked to hear and not all of them were lies. But when he finished and collapsed on top of me my pussy was burning and I didn’t know why.
That’s not true. I did know why.
I was thinking of Tom fucking me in the ass. It made me so angry. That he would ask that, that he wanted that. I thought of the money and five hundred easy dollars for just one assfuck. I’d never let Bobby in there.
While Bobby was on top of me and fucking me I was thinking of Tom stretching me, a month ago, stretching my arms, holding me down on my carpet while he pinned my hands to the ground and made me slide back and forth on his dick, basically using my pussy as a sheathe. But he made me slide all the way up and all the way down. And he made me do it slow. And then, while he had me stretched out like that, he blew in my ear.
He flipped me over. He pulled out and patted my bottom. I flipped over for him (because he paid me to do what he wanted) and he held my arms out over my head. He got behind me and mounted me. Just the tip. He put just the tip in. Then he made me buck my ass up against him, slide back the way I’d been doing when my back was to the carpet. I had to stretch my ass up against my coccyx to get his cock in just the way he wanted. But to do it the way he wanted I occasionally rubbed my clit against the rug.
When I did I’d jerk and pull his cock out quickly. He made me do it slow. He made me slowly sheathe his cock while I rubbed my clit against the carpet. Then he leaned down and kissed the back of my neck, burying his nose in my hair. That time, when he came I came. He shoved my ass against the ground and my clit dug into the carpet. God, it hurt but it also made my toes curl. That time it felt like I’d orgasmed in my spine.
When Bobby was inside me my toes curled too but they were doing it for the sake of a memory. A memory of that month. I was mad at Bobby suddenly, or myself. I wasn’t a whore. I wasn’t.
But Bobby was done, at least for the next hour. I smiled at him and kissed his cheek. “I need to clean up,” I said.
“Sure, honey.” He pulled out and I rolled off the bed. I unsnapped my pumps and pulled my sweater and dress up over my head. Naked, I left the room and padded down the hall.
With the parents out for the night I could walk nude with impunity. I was suddenly glad to have left my purse downstairs. Quickly I descended the steps and grabbed my purse. I took it with me to the downstairs bathroom and before I could think about it I’d dialed Tom (I told Allison I needed it to give to Beth). He answered on the fourth ring.
He sounded busy. It was late and he sounded like he’d been up for days. “It’s me,” I said.
He didn’t ask who I was. “What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Why do they always ask if there’s something wrong? I swallowed. I could feel a trail of drying fluid on my inner thigh. “I want you to tell me what you want to do to me.”
He sighed. “I’m in the middle of something,” he said. “I need this report in by five in the morning.”
“Yeah,” I said, dropping my voice. “But what do you want to do to me?”
He paused. “Where are you right now?”
Don’t tell him Bobby’s over, I thought. “I’m in the bathroom.”
I heard him shift in his seat, heard what sounded like papers flutter over his desk. “Where’s Bobby?”
“He’s in the bedroom.”
“Is he sleeping?”
Another pause. “Have you slept together?”
I didn’t answer. But he could hear me breathing over the phone. “Have you reconsidered my proposal?” he said.
“Fucking you in the ass.”
I shuddered. “And?”
“And I want you to call your father.”
I leaned my legs against the bathroom cupboard and felt my vagina pulsate. “I don’t know if I can do that,” I said slowly. “Will it hurt?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I’ll be very gentle.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Have I ever hurt you?”
No, he hadn’t. Not ever. “He’ll know,” I whispered. I rubbed the back of my neck, where he liked to kiss me. I let my fingers rove over my chest, and cupped my breast.
“Do you want him to know?”
“No,” I whispered. Was that true? I dragged my fingers down the indentation of my abdominals, down over my bellybutton. “How will you do it?”
I heard him shift again. Was he turning away from the desk? Was he picturing me? “I’d undress you.”
“You’d undress me?”
“Yes, this time. I’d kiss your breasts.” I closed my eyes and inserted a finger in my snatch. I was wet again. “Then I’d lay you back on the bed and use the KY on your breasts, massage your chest, your stomach…”
“KY?” I said.
“We’d need a lot of lube to put it inside you.”
“Inside my ass?” I gasped. I rubbed my clit with my thumb.
“I’d turn you over.”
“I’d have to play with your ass for a bit, to get you ready.”
“Would you kiss me?”
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