meant anyway, by whose standards, by where’s standards, she was capable of carrying a baby wasn’t she? In Egypt she would already be a married mother of more than one child. And God is she sexy, you thought. She was squinting slightly as she looked at you, had her face slightly lowered and turned to the left, was looking up at you just a little bit, pouting just a little bit. You couldn’t control yourself. You pulled her inside the room, closed the door, and fucked her right there, right up against the door, her clothes still on. And she kissed you. Really kissed you, opened her mouth wide, shoved her tongue in your mouth, couldn’t kiss you enough. She wasn’t very good at it, messy, unpracticed, your teeth collided, but they were the best kisses you’d ever had. And hookers never kiss you, or if they do, it is controlled, unabandoned, designed to produce a particular effect. It is not for its own sake. This girl, this young hooker, still kissed for its own sake.
And when you were done, you actually felt a little guilty, even you. You looked at her (she looked right back, looked right into your eyes with your cock still inside her, with her arms still around your shoulders, looked right into your eyes and shoved her hips forward and when you nearly collapsed because she did that, when your knees nearly gave out because you were so sensitive, she opened her mouth wide and laughed a hard, happy laugh, smiling and snarling all at once, all with her mouth open wide) you looked at her and thought, “This girl has a problem. This girl is addicted to sex. This girl likes fucking strange men and if she gets paid for it, so much the better.” You looked at her and thought, “This girl was probably repeatedly molested when she was a child.”
But then she pulled herself off you and walked over to the bed, leaving her skirt hiked up around her waist, not bothering to pull her skirt down, it not even occurring to her that there’d be anything about her body you wouldn’t like, that she should be ashamed of anything about her body, showing you that her legs, at least, were fully developed, were very long compared to her torso. But then she undressed and got into your bed. But then she rolled around under the expensive sheets, enjoying their feel against her body. But then she turned over at last and pulled them back to make a space for you and showed you her naked body lying stretched out on its side and beckoned you with one finger and you found you were already getting another erection, found that you were ready to fuck her again. “She must think it’s her,” you thought as she pulled you into bed by your cock. “She must think men can do it over and over with her because she’s sexy or because she’s a great fuck. I wonder if she even knows we’re not always like this, not always capable of this? If she doesn’t, I wonder what she’ll think in a few years when her clients start wanting to fuck her only once, maybe twice, and then want her to leave, don’t want her to stay the entire night?” You thought all this in a second and then lost yourself in her.
And that time and the last time, after you were done, again the guilt came back, the concern for her. Yes, concern. But then you put your hand on the bone of her hip, saw the curve of her ribs on her side beneath her right breast, saw the back of her knee, and you had to have her again. And every time you reach over to take her again, she laughs that laugh, that cold, hard, satisfied laugh.
Each time the time in between grows longer, to be sure, you worry about her more, but you still manage to fuck her five times that night. You can’t believe it. You haven’t cum five times in one night since high school.
When she leaves the next morning, sore, walking carefully, her pussy like a wound, you give her double what you agreed on. You do it because she was good, because she earned it, but also because you want to make her life better. Because you do feel
And when you were done, you actually felt a little guilty, even you. You looked at her (she looked right back, looked right into your eyes with your cock still inside her, with her arms still around your shoulders, looked right into your eyes and shoved her hips forward and when you nearly collapsed because she did that, when your knees nearly gave out because you were so sensitive, she opened her mouth wide and laughed a hard, happy laugh, smiling and snarling all at once, all with her mouth open wide) you looked at her and thought, “This girl has a problem. This girl is addicted to sex. This girl likes fucking strange men and if she gets paid for it, so much the better.” You looked at her and thought, “This girl was probably repeatedly molested when she was a child.”
But then she pulled herself off you and walked over to the bed, leaving her skirt hiked up around her waist, not bothering to pull her skirt down, it not even occurring to her that there’d be anything about her body you wouldn’t like, that she should be ashamed of anything about her body, showing you that her legs, at least, were fully developed, were very long compared to her torso. But then she undressed and got into your bed. But then she rolled around under the expensive sheets, enjoying their feel against her body. But then she turned over at last and pulled them back to make a space for you and showed you her naked body lying stretched out on its side and beckoned you with one finger and you found you were already getting another erection, found that you were ready to fuck her again. “She must think it’s her,” you thought as she pulled you into bed by your cock. “She must think men can do it over and over with her because she’s sexy or because she’s a great fuck. I wonder if she even knows we’re not always like this, not always capable of this? If she doesn’t, I wonder what she’ll think in a few years when her clients start wanting to fuck her only once, maybe twice, and then want her to leave, don’t want her to stay the entire night?” You thought all this in a second and then lost yourself in her.
And that time and the last time, after you were done, again the guilt came back, the concern for her. Yes, concern. But then you put your hand on the bone of her hip, saw the curve of her ribs on her side beneath her right breast, saw the back of her knee, and you had to have her again. And every time you reach over to take her again, she laughs that laugh, that cold, hard, satisfied laugh.
Each time the time in between grows longer, to be sure, you worry about her more, but you still manage to fuck her five times that night. You can’t believe it. You haven’t cum five times in one night since high school.
When she leaves the next morning, sore, walking carefully, her pussy like a wound, you give her double what you agreed on. You do it because she was good, because she earned it, but also because you want to make her life better. Because you do feel
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