Diary of a Reformed Harlot: Part Four
Since returning from visiting Bishop’s family, I’ve struggled to put the experience into words. Watered down, flowery phrases fail to capture the intensity, the soul searching epic of life within his family. So until I’ve collected myself, I’ll skip it.
Brit’s been home for a week; however, work and other responsibilities have hindered any private meetings. He dropped by my office unannounced a few times but I was in conference. I refused his dinner invitations due to prior arrangements with Bishop, but I invited him to an early birthday party my assistant planned that night. He should thank me for not kicking him in the balls for not picking up the phone Yes, I’m spoiled—it’s his fault—he created the monster. He’ll have to live it.
Truth is, I miss my friend, which we are above all else. He is brash, stubborn, cocky, and, at times, downright annoying. But he is also a compassionate and loyal friend who’ll go out of his way to do you a favor. What I admire most is his matter-of-fact yet avant-garde approach to life. Logic first, emotion second. With him, I’ve learned to let go of the things I can’t change and embrace the things I can. This has been particularly helpful when dealing with my survivor’s guilt; his brashness has a way of kicking things back in order.
His upbringing molded the man. Brit comes from a long line of philanders. He was raised in an environment where lovers came and went freely; where love and sex rarely intersected; where spouses harbored no bitterness and frank communication was encouraged. And at the center of this was Brit, the God-child. Coddled since birth, his silver spoon licking parents never used the word ‘no’ where he was concerned. What they hoped their tepid parenting would achieve is lost in antiquity. In my summation, the man before me is a psychologist’s wet dream.
He is black and white, up and down, sinner and saint. Just when you think you have him pinned down, you find yourself clutching air. That’s what I like about him; he’s ever-changing and steadfast. He’s ambiguous even in bed. You just never know what you’re going to get. Sometimes there’s nothing slow and tender about it. It’s hard, raw, frantic “pull me to the edge of the bed” fucking. Other times his attention is painfully measured. My body literally hums with need even as I’m being fucked!
“You need patience.” he says.
Patience? I need cock!
He sat across from me at the boardroom table looking like a million bucks and carrying on with the meeting as if all was well in the kingdom despite the eye-daggers I was throwing at him. The meeting was dragging on and I was on verge of self-harm when Brit’s text sprang my phone to life. It read:
I dreamt of you last night. I was fucking you from behind, smacking your lovely ass.
Stop it, I replied.
He knows those two little words send me over the edge. A dare. I’m not wearing any underwear, I sent.
He raised an eyebrow and shifted in his chair. We exchange a stream of flirtatious messages, trying very successfully to turn each other on while Jerome, the dullest man in existence, blistered on.
Your office or mine?
Yours, I replied. You just sit back and continue to work if you’d like, don’t mind me. I’m gonna walk up behind you, nibble on your ear and kiss your neck while undressing you. Stroking your cock a few times, I’ll kneel in front of you—looking up, licking the pre-cum off your head.
Slowly I’ll take you into my mouth, my lips and tongue tight around you. Your hips rock forward, feeding me your cock.
I love how your mouth feels around me.
I love the way your hands feel weaving their way into my hair. Use me.
Don’t tempt me.
We exchange smiles and are shaken to reality when my assistant delivers an invitation to a wine tasting hosted by our new client later that night. My blood was literally boiling. I hate last minute black tie engagements, especially when they interrupt what was sure to be an evening of frenzied fucking. Game faces on—normally I’d fall back on my conscientiousness, preferring to plan rather than act spontaneously but there was no getting out of it. I shot Brit a heads-up and reminded him that his tux was hanging in my closet.
Afterwards, I pranced back to my office and slammed the door, knowing Brit wouldn’t be far behind. Seconds later, he arrived, floored by my unexpected change of locales.
“Are you up for the party tonight?” I circled my desk, thinking the extra barrier was a good idea. Wrong! It was a hard surface on which to be fucked. I walked to the open window overlooking the city instead.
“I know it’s work, but, do you really want me to come?” He followed, wrapped his arms around me, and nuzzled into the side of my neck. “You don’t seem happy to see me.”
“Of course I’m happy to see you,” I ran my fingers through his hair. “I’m just tired. I hadn’t planned on entertaining clients.”
“You’ll change your tune when you cash your commission check.”
He was right, of course. Money has a way of making this bullshit seem worthwhile. We stood watching the traffic below; enveloped in each other's presence. He continuously kissed my neck as we shared thoughts too intimate to be spoken above a whisper. I told him about TI’s disappearance and my trip with Bishop. He told me about his frustrations in China and his raging case of blue-balls brought on by my pencil skirt. We laughed hysterically.
I sank into him. It was good to have him home. Nevertheless, I had needs. I swiveled in his arms, opened his trousers, and succumbed to gravity.
“I’m going to cum in your mouth, Lena.” He thumbed my cheek.
“I want it,” I whispered, lowering my mouth and, tentatively, licking his bulbous head. He was hard, yet his skin was soft. I liked the way he felt against my tongue. Opening my mouth wider, I took more of him inside.
“Fuck,” he groaned and put one hand in my hair and guided his cock towards my mouth with his other. “Open for me.” he softly commanded.
There’s no prissy way to put this: I really, really missed sucking Brit’s cock. This son of a bitch is a work of art that should be admired by all! It’s the Sistine Chapel of cock: you can’t appreciate its beauty until you’re looking up at it. My throat opened to accommodate the head of his cock. I get a perverse gratification from feeling it swell in my mouth, and then, after fellating him senseless, feeling it wilt. I like having my mouth filled and his hands in my hair; how they mirror his arousal, going from cradling my face to grasping my hair as tension mounts. I pine for his bleats; instructing me, praising me—the way he moans breathlessly and heavily accented, ‘Oh fuck. Suck it’ with his eyes half closed when he breaches my throat. Considering the seriousness by which I indulge in this endeavor, one might think I have no life. Simple fact: I love servicing this man’s cock.
Diary of a Reformed Harlot: Part Four
A nice crowd of well-dressed and pleasant people was on hand. We moved from station to station, chatting with the servers, sampling wines worth more than the average minimum wager earns in a year. I spotted Brit speaking with a lady who seemed enthralled with him. She was short and slender. Long strawberry blonde hair draped her back. Deep, piercing green eyes framed by long lashes, and a pair of full, luscious lips.
Brit caught my eye and smiled. Our behavior was utterly serene and calm, but there was an ambient storm brewing. Depraved as it sounds, we get a kick out of watching each other openly flirting. Without breaking my eye contact, Brit moved closer to her as she spoke. My finely manicured hands tapping the glass of pinot I held captured the attention of the man standing beside me. He was tall and filled his tux to perfection. He had cropped dark hair, darker eyes, and kissable lips.
Brit placed his hand on the small of the lady’s back and whispered in her ear. Judging by the way she blushed, he wasn’t asking for the time. My new friend and I compared notes about flavor and acidity, all the while flirting and touching each other under Brit’s vigilant eye. He enjoyed the show I was putting on. He leaned into his friend again, this time he kisses her just below her ear, never taking his eyes from me. We traded smirks. The chemistry in the air between us was so powerful, it was almost corporeal. Our ‘friends’, or rather, our unwitting decoys in our little game were none the wiser.
A few glasses of wine later, we were standing in a quiet, dark hallway just off the gallery. Brit pulled me flush against him, then, twirling me around, pushed me against the wall behind him. Though my eyes widened in shock, I love when he manhandles me! His fingers brushed up my bare legs until he came to the smooth lace of my panties.
“Jesus,” he buried his face in my neck, rubbing slow, wide circles on the thin layer of fabric separating us. He stretched the wet panel aside.
“Wait!” My knees buckled, skin-to-skin, was too much. Besides, Brit is a cad but he loves nothing more than being teased. Again his fingertip tickled my clit through my panties. I pulled away, just out of his reach. I gasped sharply when he pulled me back against him and continued fondling me.
“Cum for me.”
Cum? I came—twice! “Not here.” I gathered myself. Ignoring my request, he casually brushed my panties aside and slipped his fingers inside of me. “Brit, our clients. Not here.” I protested without the faintest hint of sincerity. “Oh, right there.” I threw my arms around his neck while he fingered me to orgasm.
“Get upstairs. Now!” He threw off his jacket as we walked through his front door.
I kicked my shoes off (he doesn’t allow shoes inside lest they scratch his precious bamboo floors) and trotted into the living room. There was a tug at my waist and before I blinked I was being carried cavemen-style upstairs and plopped on his bed with the same gracefulness.
“Strip!” He stood up, removing the remnants of his tux and reached for a condom. “Now!”
No sooner had I removed my skirt and shirt, and lowered my panties, was I flipped over and pushed face down onto the bed with my bra still on. Brit all but ripped it off. He then pushed two warm digits into my wetness from behind—fingering me slow, then full of intent and purpose. His abruptness sent me pinging.
“Whose been fucking my pussy?” he hissed into the side of my head. The rhythm was firm, and calculated—blistering hot and all-consuming. I heard him apply the condom.
“It’s not yours.” I said plainly. All of a sudden he slapped my ass, hard! My eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing?!” He swatted me again, his fingers still having their way inside of me. Slap! This time my pussy twitched and my body jerked. I opened my legs, exposing myself to him. Smack! Each strike shot through my entire body. Oh my God, my inner lioness has become a submissive pussycat, I thought to myself as the sound of my wetness and the sting of my bottom pulled me closer to orgasm. What was happening to me? Slap! Smack! Shocked and stunned, the more he spanked, the more aroused I became.
“It’s mine. You just don’t know it yet.” Smack!
My eyes rolled backwards. His fingers in my pussy—his hand slapping my ass—his sensual albeit sudden and crude dominion over me drove me wild! I bit the duvet and begged him not to stop. Slap! Smack!
“Someone is enjoying herself,” he retrieved his fingers and rubbed my clit while his other hand caressed the fleshy part of my tingling ass. “Tell me. Who have you slept with?” His tone lulled me into a false sense of security.
“Does it matter?”
He laughed and playfully slapped my clit. “Not really.” He stood straight behind me and pulled me onto all fours. “Just wondering who to send the thank you note to.” Slap! Smack!
“Brit!” My eyes flew open and my breath caught when he penetrated me. I was slick and ready, but taken off guard by his intense pressure. He groaned and adjusted his angle, pushing deeper and deeper until he rubbed against my g-spot. “Oh! Oh, God! Right there!”
“Fuck!” He rocked his hips, slapped my ass, and pumped fiercely into me.
I closed my eyes, intoxicated by my newfound pleasure; mindlessly staring into the mirror over his bureau, my breasts shaking as he fucked me from behind. His right hand spanked my cheeks while the left weighed heavy on the small of my back, his thrusts became more insistent. I’m prone and open to his selfish pounding and loving it!
“Are you okay?” he leaned in, and rubbed my clit.
“Yes,” I tightened around his cock, each thrust sprang me forward.
“Good, I want you to be sore tomorrow,” he said. “Every time you feel an ache, you’ll remember fucking me—remember how I spanked your pretty ass. Look,” He pulled my hair backwards; I blinked until our images appeared clearly in the mirror, his head beside mine, still pumping feverishly into me. “Watch yourself being fucked.” He kissed my temple and hissed. “That’s it. Let it take you.”
I did. His body slapped against my sore ass. I let him take me. “Faster.” My stomach tightened, my thoughts swam, my pussy stretched wide around him. “Brit, I’m…” I dissolved into orgasm. Not just any orgasm—this was something altogether different. No unicorns sliding down rainbows, gleefully landing in fluffy clouds of marshmallow. No, this was pyrotechnic—smash and grab—the re-mastered guitar solo of Free Bird—the tearing of the tiny threads holding my sanity in check—the disemboweling of all that good and wholesome!
He rubbed my clit relentlessly as I quivered and swayed and bucked, spurring his orgasm. Calling my name in a deep, heavily accented tone, he came so hard I came undone again. Hoarse and spent, we fell forward in the bed. I curled against his chest with my hands clutched tightly between my legs. Words failed us.
Recovered and clean, we laid in a post-coital, tangled mass of limbs; cuddling and laughing our heads off well after three o’clock. I miss our intimate moments when he wraps his entire body around mine; touching and caressing, cackling like children, skin-on-skin, sharing unfiltered thoughts. Safe, though a generic phrase, best describes how I feel lying in his arms.
As predicted, the next day everything, even my eyeballs hurt. My shoulders and my hips felt as if I’d been stretched on the rack. And my naughty bits hummed the sweet tune morning sex. I pushed my last two meetings onto Brit’s plate and slipped out of the office to finish shopping for my birthday trip to Martha’s Vineyard with Bishop. My phone rang. It was TI. My stomach flipped. He was distant, more concerned with me than divulging his thoughts. We met near Grand Central and walked hand in hand to a local eatery.
I can’t remember our conversation; however, I do remember feeling the urge to apologize. But apologize for what? I hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. No, he left because he wanted to, and he stayed away for that very same reason. Still, I couldn’t shake the need to apologize. He dutifully listened as I rambled on about work and my family and my birthday plans. He chuckled and smiled and asked questions at the appropriate time. But his eyes, they saw straight through me. Not in a creepy Stephen King way, rather as if he were calculating the cost benefit analysis of reentering my life. And for once, I was nervous. What if this was it, the last time I’d see him? What if this was his way of letting me go? I was on pins and needles.
Our conversation shifted to his ongoing project and the purchase of his new loft a few blocks up from my place. I gave him my girlfriend’s number seeing he was in the market for an interior decorator to fill his extra space. Admittedly, I was a little hurt he didn’t ask for my opinion or even offer an invitation to see his place. He’d changed. He was guarded. I couldn’t blame him. As he said, I don’t have the power to hurt him. All the warning signs are there. It’s his choice whether or not to heed them. How prophetic those words sound now.
We did some window shopping on the walk back to my office. I remember his hand seemed so much larger clasped around mine. I was feeling as if I would do anything to restore some semblance of trust in me, even if the physical nature of our relationship was beyond repair.
A block away from my office, he turned to me, smiling and running his hand through his hair. “I have to run. Gotta get my mane cut. Big presentation tomorrow.” There was an awkward silence. “Yeah, so, thanks for the number. I’ll, um, I’ll give your friend a call next week. I should be free then.”
I waited for him to say something, anything of substance. He kissed my cheeks, saying warmly, “It was great seeing you again, Lena. Take care of yourself. Call if you need me.” With that and a quick smile, he strolled in the opposite direction…
… and I was the lesser for it.