Virgin Whore by Thomas Henry Page A

thigh…and a clit ring.  I wondered if she would be the one to “relax” me.  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.  She was reasonably attractive, but I didn’t care much for the strange hair and make-up.  And she seemed awfully young to be working in a place like this.  I tried not to think about the possibility that she was being forced to work here against her will.
    The other woman paused at the desk, still smiling at me.  “You come here before?”
    “No, first time.”
    “First time?”  Her smile faded.  She looked into my eyes.  “What kind job you do?”
    “I’m an accountant,” I said.  She looked confused, so I said, “I’m a CPA.”
    “CPA? Oh…taxes!”
    “Uh-huh.”  In fact, I wasn’t a tax accountant, but I figured I’d be wasting my time trying to explain the difference.
    “You no look like taxes.  You look like police man.”
    “No, no…I’m really a CPA,” I said.  I wondered what it was that always made them think that I looked like a cop.  Perhaps my styled hair and fresh clothing.
    I looked around.  The carpet and paint looked and smelled new.  This place hadn’t been open very long.  I had a nagging feeling that it might be some kind of sting operation.  “Nice place,” I said.  “Are you the owner?”
    “Oh, no.  I only working here.  I only receptionist,” she said.
    I wondered if she was lying, just in case I turned out to be a cop.  But I didn’t care whether or not she was the owner.  I was just making conversation, trying to get a sense of the legitimacy of the place.
    “You sure you not police man?” she asked, still looking into my eyes, but now with a bit of a frown.
    “I’m sure I’m not a policeman.”
    She took my right hand, studied it and ran her fingers over my calluses.  “You look like police man.”
    “Well, I’m not.  How can I convince you?”
    She squeezed my hand and pressed it against her fleshy breast.  She took a deep breath, smiled again, and held out her other hand, palm up.  “Forty dollar, please.”
    I handed her a fifty.  She found a ten in the desk drawer and gave it to me.  “Follow me, please,” she said.
    She led me across the room and up a flight of stairs.  I followed a couple of steps behind her, taking the opportunity to appraise her from behind.  She had no waistline and a flat ass.  Her long skirt hid her legs.  But even from behind, I was mesmerized by her swaying breasts.  I wondered if they were natural.  In my experience, naturally large breasts weren’t all that unusual among Korean women.  But it really didn’t matter if they were natural or enhanced; the effect was the same either way.  I wondered if she were going to take care of me herself.  That would have been ok with me.  I love a woman with big, sagging, swaying tits.  I had a vision of her leaning over me, dragging them across my chest.  Then I saw her on her hands and knees, breasts swinging freely, surging back and forth as I took her from behind.  I blinked and shook my head to clear the vision from my mind.
    The little dog bounded up the stairs ahead of us and was waiting, tail wagging, tongue lolling, when we reached the top.  Down a short hallway, the woman opened a door and invited me into a small, dimly-lit bedroom.  The scent of new carpet and fresh paint lent an air of cleanliness.  A clock-radio crooned an old Johnny Mathis song from a small night stand where a table lamp with a red bulb provided the room’s faint illumination.  A white bath towel was spread out over the sheet in the middle of a twin bed, and several more folded towels were stacked on one corner.  A box of tissue and a bottle of baby oil sat on a corner of the night stand.  A robe hung on the wall between a full-length mirror and an air conditioner.
    “Too cold?” the woman asked.
    “No, it’s fine.”
    “Take off clothes.  Put on this,” she said, handing me the robe.  “You like bath, yeah?”
    I had showered just