Overture
Through my window, snow is falling. Unique flakes dazzle me
as they swarm and crash then disperse, earthbound, in the glow from my red
light. Gorgeous and yet a pain in the ass—like so many things in life.
Let me count the ways.
Customers stay indoors to avoid the chill or romp through
the rare weather, making for slow nights in Amsterdam’s infamous district.
Unless you factor in the men who seek alternative methods to keep toasty and
stranded passengers from Schipol taking advantage their airline delays.
Slut shoes plus treacherous icy cobblestones equal a
terrifying combination. I’m not the sort of woman who wears rubbers to work—at
least not the kind that protect my investment in my Louboutins—only to slip on
sumptuous six-inch stilettos at the last instant. My pride rebels. The mystique
generated by my stacked heels is part of who I am.
Which is why I cringe when Rick, a frequent customer, fills
me in on the news.
“Damn it, Star.” He pants as his orgasm weakens him. My
liquefied bones leave me unable to protest as he withdraws his softening cock
from my pussy and crashes to the mattress in my booth’s loft. The hint of
frustration in his tone has me squinting.
“You’re not satisfied?” A complaint would be a first for me.
Not that whores have the equivalent to a corporate comment box system, but my
popularity and the abundance of my repeat clients reassure me of my skill.
I sit up, crossing my legs, lifting his head to rest on my
thigh as I play with his hair. Dozens of shared sessions with him have taught
me I don’t have to hesitate to explore in the aftermath of our pleasure. I
figure he craves the interaction. After all, he purchased a full hour tonight
when he never requires more than a quarter of that to reach satisfaction in my
body, usually dragging me along with him.
Something about his honest craving for me— not just an
easy lay—affects me. The chemistry between us makes serving him a pleasure.
Sure, he hires other girls in the district from time to time. Then again, I
sometimes try a new ice cream flavor before indulging in Rocky Road for my
standard Saturday night treat.
“No. I mean, yes. I’m satisfied. More than.”
I massage Rick’s scalp until he rewards me with his content
relaxation. Before I can gloat to myself, he shakes his head, caressing me with
his thick mane. When he tilts his face to meet my curious stare, his nostrils
flare in response to the scent of the arousal he’s inspired.
He laughs. “I can’t think straight when I’m near you. What I
meant is, I didn’t come here for this.”
“You didn’t?” What else would he seek from me? I’m providing
his essentials.
Rapture.
Friendship.
Intimacy without responsibility.
“Not tonight.” He levers upright, granting me the opportunity
to admire his toned torso as he rests his shoulders on the wall beside me.
A far cry from baby’s-butt smooth or steroid-strong. A
natural ideal. Nice.
“Star, I have a proposition.” He links our fingers as though
he misses our contact as much as I do.
“I thought I already resolved your proposition.”
He rolls his eyes, soliciting a giggle. A reaction not every
customer can inspire.
“Not a request for myself. For Chloe.” He sighs as he rubs
the five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw, his scruffiness multiplying his
handsomeness.
I cup my breast with my free hand, remembering how his
whiskers applied the precise amount of roughness I prefer to my skin. So
different than the touch of a woman. “Chloe? The principal at Triple X?”
Rick works as a bouncer for a live sex show near my window.
When he nods, I wince. I hate to disappoint.
“Sorry, Rick. I’m not attracted to her. If you hire me so
you can watch me with another woman, or arrange a threesome, I could suggest—”
“Holy shit. Stop. Right there.” He gulps in breaths until he
resembles my goldfish Goldy. “Or I’ll need another fuck before I can finish
Through my window, snow is falling. Unique flakes dazzle me
as they swarm and crash then disperse, earthbound, in the glow from my red
light. Gorgeous and yet a pain in the ass—like so many things in life.
Let me count the ways.
Customers stay indoors to avoid the chill or romp through
the rare weather, making for slow nights in Amsterdam’s infamous district.
Unless you factor in the men who seek alternative methods to keep toasty and
stranded passengers from Schipol taking advantage their airline delays.
Slut shoes plus treacherous icy cobblestones equal a
terrifying combination. I’m not the sort of woman who wears rubbers to work—at
least not the kind that protect my investment in my Louboutins—only to slip on
sumptuous six-inch stilettos at the last instant. My pride rebels. The mystique
generated by my stacked heels is part of who I am.
Which is why I cringe when Rick, a frequent customer, fills
me in on the news.
“Damn it, Star.” He pants as his orgasm weakens him. My
liquefied bones leave me unable to protest as he withdraws his softening cock
from my pussy and crashes to the mattress in my booth’s loft. The hint of
frustration in his tone has me squinting.
“You’re not satisfied?” A complaint would be a first for me.
Not that whores have the equivalent to a corporate comment box system, but my
popularity and the abundance of my repeat clients reassure me of my skill.
I sit up, crossing my legs, lifting his head to rest on my
thigh as I play with his hair. Dozens of shared sessions with him have taught
me I don’t have to hesitate to explore in the aftermath of our pleasure. I
figure he craves the interaction. After all, he purchased a full hour tonight
when he never requires more than a quarter of that to reach satisfaction in my
body, usually dragging me along with him.
Something about his honest craving for me— not just an
easy lay—affects me. The chemistry between us makes serving him a pleasure.
Sure, he hires other girls in the district from time to time. Then again, I
sometimes try a new ice cream flavor before indulging in Rocky Road for my
standard Saturday night treat.
“No. I mean, yes. I’m satisfied. More than.”
I massage Rick’s scalp until he rewards me with his content
relaxation. Before I can gloat to myself, he shakes his head, caressing me with
his thick mane. When he tilts his face to meet my curious stare, his nostrils
flare in response to the scent of the arousal he’s inspired.
He laughs. “I can’t think straight when I’m near you. What I
meant is, I didn’t come here for this.”
“You didn’t?” What else would he seek from me? I’m providing
his essentials.
Rapture.
Friendship.
Intimacy without responsibility.
“Not tonight.” He levers upright, granting me the opportunity
to admire his toned torso as he rests his shoulders on the wall beside me.
A far cry from baby’s-butt smooth or steroid-strong. A
natural ideal. Nice.
“Star, I have a proposition.” He links our fingers as though
he misses our contact as much as I do.
“I thought I already resolved your proposition.”
He rolls his eyes, soliciting a giggle. A reaction not every
customer can inspire.
“Not a request for myself. For Chloe.” He sighs as he rubs
the five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw, his scruffiness multiplying his
handsomeness.
I cup my breast with my free hand, remembering how his
whiskers applied the precise amount of roughness I prefer to my skin. So
different than the touch of a woman. “Chloe? The principal at Triple X?”
Rick works as a bouncer for a live sex show near my window.
When he nods, I wince. I hate to disappoint.
“Sorry, Rick. I’m not attracted to her. If you hire me so
you can watch me with another woman, or arrange a threesome, I could suggest—”
“Holy shit. Stop. Right there.” He gulps in breaths until he
resembles my goldfish Goldy. “Or I’ll need another fuck before I can finish
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