Whore Diaries II: Adventures in Independent Escorting by Tara Burns Page A
Authors: Tara Burns
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Stockings for my dry sandpaper legs. Fuck, where's the makeup?
The phone rings. He's here. I haven't even had time to reread his emails and meditate on my holy whorishness. I give him the room number and tell him to come on up, and then I hide the phone. It doesn't match my woodsy image, even though it's actually practical to have a phone that functions a little like a laptop without needing as much electricity. One more run through the room and I notice the bathtub is coated in hair shavings and big chunks of dead skin. Oh no! Very unprincessy! I grab the ice bucket and try to wash most of it down the drain before he knocks.
He's a lawyer who goes around suing corporations and paying women to hurt him. He wears polar fleece. I imagine he has a bicycle that he doesn't ride as much as he wished. He has a shaved head and polar fleece jacket and he always books two hours. He asks where to put the money, even though he himself has lectured me to never talk about “the gift.” I shrug. Wherever. He puts it by the sink.
He's one of those good communicater BDSM guys. Successful lawyers are always good with words. I let him ramble on about how he wants to be controlled and used for my pleasure, teased, denied, and kicked and kneed in the balls. The questions I ask are more to show off my good communication skills and BDSM terminology and expertise than to get information. I already know everything I need to know about this guy.
“Take your clothes off,” I order.
“Yes, ma'am.” He's grinning and throwing his clothes off. I have to remember not to be too evil-mean. Nurturing mean. That's the thing -- girl-next-door domme. Nice, huh?
I have him lie down and I remember that the first time I saw him I thought his cock was really big and I was like, “Oh, thank goddess I don't have to put that in me!” but now it's just normal sized. I'm so amused by my lack of heterosexal experience sometimes -- the crazy thing is that I'm apparently great at sex with guys without really knowing what the fuck I'm doing, but they like me and they leave me nice reviews.
“Oh, nice cock,” I say, and I mean it this time. It's the perfect size with the perfect curve.
I climb up between his legs and pet his cock softly with my fingertips. How sweet. I make some sexy “mmm” sounds and punch him in the balls. Lots of stroking and petting and lube and punching and squeezing and twisting. I wrap the rubber bands around his cock and snap them up and down the shaft, tie up his balls and shoot them with rubber bands, and put rubber bands on his nipples and slap them. Between all that, I lick my way up and down his stomach, nibble on his ears, pretend I'm going to kiss him and laugh instead at the last second. In between groans, gasps, and breaths, he tells me how beautiful and creative and sensual and dominant and amazing I am. He wants to take me away on a vacation, he says, and serve me for a week or a weekend. I tell him that's a lot of my time and he would first have to prove himself worthy. Really I'm thinking that would save my ass with the IRS and a few trips like that would pay off the land. Maybe if I had money I could figure out what to do with my disabled auntie.
He hyperventilates, and I tell him to breathe. Guide him into that grounded space at his core. This is the only time he feels real, really feels. Sometimes when people tell me nothing is real and reality is an illusion, and therefore, nothing really matters, I want to tell them that I could make them feel real. I could show them a place so deep and true inside themselves, they could never deny it. I think Viktor Frankl said something like that, but he was an intellectual, a survivor, not a sadist for hire.
“You don't deserve to cum,” I tell him. “You haven't earned shit.”
I climb up to sit on his face and punch him in the balls while
The phone rings. He's here. I haven't even had time to reread his emails and meditate on my holy whorishness. I give him the room number and tell him to come on up, and then I hide the phone. It doesn't match my woodsy image, even though it's actually practical to have a phone that functions a little like a laptop without needing as much electricity. One more run through the room and I notice the bathtub is coated in hair shavings and big chunks of dead skin. Oh no! Very unprincessy! I grab the ice bucket and try to wash most of it down the drain before he knocks.
He's a lawyer who goes around suing corporations and paying women to hurt him. He wears polar fleece. I imagine he has a bicycle that he doesn't ride as much as he wished. He has a shaved head and polar fleece jacket and he always books two hours. He asks where to put the money, even though he himself has lectured me to never talk about “the gift.” I shrug. Wherever. He puts it by the sink.
He's one of those good communicater BDSM guys. Successful lawyers are always good with words. I let him ramble on about how he wants to be controlled and used for my pleasure, teased, denied, and kicked and kneed in the balls. The questions I ask are more to show off my good communication skills and BDSM terminology and expertise than to get information. I already know everything I need to know about this guy.
“Take your clothes off,” I order.
“Yes, ma'am.” He's grinning and throwing his clothes off. I have to remember not to be too evil-mean. Nurturing mean. That's the thing -- girl-next-door domme. Nice, huh?
I have him lie down and I remember that the first time I saw him I thought his cock was really big and I was like, “Oh, thank goddess I don't have to put that in me!” but now it's just normal sized. I'm so amused by my lack of heterosexal experience sometimes -- the crazy thing is that I'm apparently great at sex with guys without really knowing what the fuck I'm doing, but they like me and they leave me nice reviews.
“Oh, nice cock,” I say, and I mean it this time. It's the perfect size with the perfect curve.
I climb up between his legs and pet his cock softly with my fingertips. How sweet. I make some sexy “mmm” sounds and punch him in the balls. Lots of stroking and petting and lube and punching and squeezing and twisting. I wrap the rubber bands around his cock and snap them up and down the shaft, tie up his balls and shoot them with rubber bands, and put rubber bands on his nipples and slap them. Between all that, I lick my way up and down his stomach, nibble on his ears, pretend I'm going to kiss him and laugh instead at the last second. In between groans, gasps, and breaths, he tells me how beautiful and creative and sensual and dominant and amazing I am. He wants to take me away on a vacation, he says, and serve me for a week or a weekend. I tell him that's a lot of my time and he would first have to prove himself worthy. Really I'm thinking that would save my ass with the IRS and a few trips like that would pay off the land. Maybe if I had money I could figure out what to do with my disabled auntie.
He hyperventilates, and I tell him to breathe. Guide him into that grounded space at his core. This is the only time he feels real, really feels. Sometimes when people tell me nothing is real and reality is an illusion, and therefore, nothing really matters, I want to tell them that I could make them feel real. I could show them a place so deep and true inside themselves, they could never deny it. I think Viktor Frankl said something like that, but he was an intellectual, a survivor, not a sadist for hire.
“You don't deserve to cum,” I tell him. “You haven't earned shit.”
I climb up to sit on his face and punch him in the balls while
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