her legs suggestively parted. Diana assumed the pose.
The client disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and returned with a large bath towel, which he dropped on the bed. He undressed quickly, and she saw that he was painfully aroused. He sat in the padded chair from the desk and covered himself with the towel. With only his head showing, he looked like a young boy making his own privacy.
Diana turned the page. The next pose called for rolling over on her abdomen and unfastening the bikini top, as if she wanted an unbroken suntan.
In the third drawing the woman had turned on her back again. She had pulled the bikini bottom down to reveal a line of pubic hair. The natural hairline created the retro look that he had mentioned.
Under the towel the client’s furtive movements quickened.
“Go to the last one,” he said in a thick voice.
She turned several pages. In this drawing the woman was naked. She was also dead. The artist had captured the utter surrender to gravity that no living body can imitate. The twisted pose looked agonizing, but the dead never complain.
In this drawing the artist had sketched in a different setting. The woman rested at the base of a building, which was fringed by a flower bed and manicured shrubbery.
Diana did the best she could with the pose and knew that her lower back would remind her about this job for days to come. She hoped he wouldn’t last much longer.
He didn’t. Under the towel he thrashed himself brutally. A moan started deep in his bowels and forced its way up. His clenched teeth, parted, and his mouth made a perfect O.
As the noise tore out of him, Diana watched, fascinated. She would have thought she knew an orgasm when she saw it, but this went beyond anything in her experience. She had never given birth or witnessed another woman’s labor, but it must look and sound something like this. And it had taken a man to show her.
Go figure.
He collapsed and breathed through his mouth. His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. Her experience with hundreds of men told her that he wanted solitude for his recovery. She picked up her bikini and cover-up and dressed quickly.
She craved the shower in her own room. Usually it didn’t bother her to wear the sweat of a stranger, or even a man she knew well enough to despise. This time was different, and he hadn’t even touched her. She wasn’t sure what the problem was, but it might have to do with death.
As she opened the door and left the room, she nearly collided with another woman. The brunette was more than ten years older than Diana and conservatively turned out in a trim black skirt, white blouse and heels.
Takes one to know one , Diana thought.
She assumed that the other woman was thinking the same thing.
“Sorry.”
“No problem.”
They exchanged brief smiles and went in opposite directions.
As Diana entered her suite, she glanced at her watch. She had more than two hours before Jeffrey wanted her. She stripped and headed for the bathroom. The hotel supplied a better body brush than the one she had brought. She gave herself a nice scrub, toweled off a little, and came out of the shower.
She went to the closet and looked at her cocktail dress for a moment. Would Jeffrey want a different look? No, he had seemed pleased.
Someone rapped on the door to the suite. Whoever it was lacked patience, because a second knock followed immediately.
Diana knew who treated doors that way. She went back to the bathroom for a robe and slipped it on. She walked to the door and pulled it open. In the hall she saw more or less what she had expected to see.
A tired, gray-haired man in his fifties stood there. He wore a tuxedo, but on him it hung like the cheap suits he had worn while locking in his pension. The moment for Diana to look surprised came and went before she could seize it, and the omission cost her. The ex-cop gave her the same knowing look that she and the other hooker had just exchanged.
It was all so
The client disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and returned with a large bath towel, which he dropped on the bed. He undressed quickly, and she saw that he was painfully aroused. He sat in the padded chair from the desk and covered himself with the towel. With only his head showing, he looked like a young boy making his own privacy.
Diana turned the page. The next pose called for rolling over on her abdomen and unfastening the bikini top, as if she wanted an unbroken suntan.
In the third drawing the woman had turned on her back again. She had pulled the bikini bottom down to reveal a line of pubic hair. The natural hairline created the retro look that he had mentioned.
Under the towel the client’s furtive movements quickened.
“Go to the last one,” he said in a thick voice.
She turned several pages. In this drawing the woman was naked. She was also dead. The artist had captured the utter surrender to gravity that no living body can imitate. The twisted pose looked agonizing, but the dead never complain.
In this drawing the artist had sketched in a different setting. The woman rested at the base of a building, which was fringed by a flower bed and manicured shrubbery.
Diana did the best she could with the pose and knew that her lower back would remind her about this job for days to come. She hoped he wouldn’t last much longer.
He didn’t. Under the towel he thrashed himself brutally. A moan started deep in his bowels and forced its way up. His clenched teeth, parted, and his mouth made a perfect O.
As the noise tore out of him, Diana watched, fascinated. She would have thought she knew an orgasm when she saw it, but this went beyond anything in her experience. She had never given birth or witnessed another woman’s labor, but it must look and sound something like this. And it had taken a man to show her.
Go figure.
He collapsed and breathed through his mouth. His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. Her experience with hundreds of men told her that he wanted solitude for his recovery. She picked up her bikini and cover-up and dressed quickly.
She craved the shower in her own room. Usually it didn’t bother her to wear the sweat of a stranger, or even a man she knew well enough to despise. This time was different, and he hadn’t even touched her. She wasn’t sure what the problem was, but it might have to do with death.
As she opened the door and left the room, she nearly collided with another woman. The brunette was more than ten years older than Diana and conservatively turned out in a trim black skirt, white blouse and heels.
Takes one to know one , Diana thought.
She assumed that the other woman was thinking the same thing.
“Sorry.”
“No problem.”
They exchanged brief smiles and went in opposite directions.
As Diana entered her suite, she glanced at her watch. She had more than two hours before Jeffrey wanted her. She stripped and headed for the bathroom. The hotel supplied a better body brush than the one she had brought. She gave herself a nice scrub, toweled off a little, and came out of the shower.
She went to the closet and looked at her cocktail dress for a moment. Would Jeffrey want a different look? No, he had seemed pleased.
Someone rapped on the door to the suite. Whoever it was lacked patience, because a second knock followed immediately.
Diana knew who treated doors that way. She went back to the bathroom for a robe and slipped it on. She walked to the door and pulled it open. In the hall she saw more or less what she had expected to see.
A tired, gray-haired man in his fifties stood there. He wore a tuxedo, but on him it hung like the cheap suits he had worn while locking in his pension. The moment for Diana to look surprised came and went before she could seize it, and the omission cost her. The ex-cop gave her the same knowing look that she and the other hooker had just exchanged.
It was all so
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