© Honey Maxwell 2014
This is a work of fiction and is intended for mature audiences only. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book is the property of Honey Maxwell.
I had no idea what was going to happen when I walked up to the bar. All that I knew was that I had been paid a good amount of money to do my job - the job that I had been doing for six months.
I am a prostitute. Sure, I can dress it up as much as I want to - I’m an escort, a companion - a hooker. What you call me depends on how much you’re paying. Or, how much I’m willing to accept to fuck you.
This job was different though. This job had been paid for by someone else - by someone who apparently owed my client. All that I had been told was that he was someone who would be happy to see me - once I explained to him who had sent him.
The smell of a biker bar had always excited me. There’s something so honest - so raw about the scent of oil, tobacco - beer. As soon as I saw the line of bikes outside the place I knew - I knew that I might walk out of here a totally different person.
I wasn’t wrong.
The man that I was supposed to meet with was called Storm. A name that when I first heard it spoke so strongly to me. I knew from just that name what he would look like - what he would feel like, what he would taste like. I knew that I would have most likely gone for free.
I walked confidently to the bar - catching the eye of the middle aged woman who was working that shift. I knew immediately that she controlled the front end of this place, that getting on the wrong side of her was a bad idea. I asked for Storm and was waved towards the side of the bar, where a door marked ‘Private’ stood in front of me. Taking a deep breath I rapped on the door, standing back and adjusting my skirt - preening myself for him. Without waiting for a response I opened the door, walking into his office.
“ Who the fuck are you?” he asked, turning to stare at me. “This is my private office. Who said that you could come here?”
I walked towards him, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. The room heavy with cigarette smoke, my mind firmly on the plan. My short black skirt rode up my thighs, my white shirt struggling to contain my heaving breasts. My heart pounded as I approached him, aware that if he really knew who I was, if he really knew why I was here, then I might be in a lot of trouble.
“ Who I am isn’t important” I said, flicking my red hair from my eyes. I stood directly in front of him with my hands on my hips, licking my lips as I inspected his body. His tight black shirt displaying his bulging arms, his strong muscles making me weak at the knees. “More important is what I am.”
He stood, his eyes wandering around my body. The tension in that room could have been cut with a knife. Each silence spoke a thousand words, each flicker of the eyes, each step, each breath gave positions away. Storm may have tried to play it cool but his body language gave him away. His cock straining against his pants revealing a thick outline, a shadow that I couldn’t take my gaze away from.
“ Oh yeah?” he said, taking two steps in my direction. His head cocked, his cock headed towards me as his meat struggled to be constrained. “Then what are you, exactly?”
I turned, facing his desk. On the wall behind his chair the face of an old man seemed to smile, a portrait that was enjoying the show just as much as its participants. I ran my hands down the sides of my body, slowly inching towards the hem of my short skirt. I looked over my shoulder at him as I grabbed onto the fabric, bending over his desk as I lifted my skirt over my ass, baring my glistening pussy to my host. Widening my legs, I reached my fingers towards my cunt, parting my lips, giving Storm a front row view of my prize. His mouth open, his eyes wide, his cock clearly ready. I stared into
This is a work of fiction and is intended for mature audiences only. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book is the property of Honey Maxwell.
I had no idea what was going to happen when I walked up to the bar. All that I knew was that I had been paid a good amount of money to do my job - the job that I had been doing for six months.
I am a prostitute. Sure, I can dress it up as much as I want to - I’m an escort, a companion - a hooker. What you call me depends on how much you’re paying. Or, how much I’m willing to accept to fuck you.
This job was different though. This job had been paid for by someone else - by someone who apparently owed my client. All that I had been told was that he was someone who would be happy to see me - once I explained to him who had sent him.
The smell of a biker bar had always excited me. There’s something so honest - so raw about the scent of oil, tobacco - beer. As soon as I saw the line of bikes outside the place I knew - I knew that I might walk out of here a totally different person.
I wasn’t wrong.
The man that I was supposed to meet with was called Storm. A name that when I first heard it spoke so strongly to me. I knew from just that name what he would look like - what he would feel like, what he would taste like. I knew that I would have most likely gone for free.
I walked confidently to the bar - catching the eye of the middle aged woman who was working that shift. I knew immediately that she controlled the front end of this place, that getting on the wrong side of her was a bad idea. I asked for Storm and was waved towards the side of the bar, where a door marked ‘Private’ stood in front of me. Taking a deep breath I rapped on the door, standing back and adjusting my skirt - preening myself for him. Without waiting for a response I opened the door, walking into his office.
“ Who the fuck are you?” he asked, turning to stare at me. “This is my private office. Who said that you could come here?”
I walked towards him, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. The room heavy with cigarette smoke, my mind firmly on the plan. My short black skirt rode up my thighs, my white shirt struggling to contain my heaving breasts. My heart pounded as I approached him, aware that if he really knew who I was, if he really knew why I was here, then I might be in a lot of trouble.
“ Who I am isn’t important” I said, flicking my red hair from my eyes. I stood directly in front of him with my hands on my hips, licking my lips as I inspected his body. His tight black shirt displaying his bulging arms, his strong muscles making me weak at the knees. “More important is what I am.”
He stood, his eyes wandering around my body. The tension in that room could have been cut with a knife. Each silence spoke a thousand words, each flicker of the eyes, each step, each breath gave positions away. Storm may have tried to play it cool but his body language gave him away. His cock straining against his pants revealing a thick outline, a shadow that I couldn’t take my gaze away from.
“ Oh yeah?” he said, taking two steps in my direction. His head cocked, his cock headed towards me as his meat struggled to be constrained. “Then what are you, exactly?”
I turned, facing his desk. On the wall behind his chair the face of an old man seemed to smile, a portrait that was enjoying the show just as much as its participants. I ran my hands down the sides of my body, slowly inching towards the hem of my short skirt. I looked over my shoulder at him as I grabbed onto the fabric, bending over his desk as I lifted my skirt over my ass, baring my glistening pussy to my host. Widening my legs, I reached my fingers towards my cunt, parting my lips, giving Storm a front row view of my prize. His mouth open, his eyes wide, his cock clearly ready. I stared into
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