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An Entitled Nobody

By: roguelife6



In a morally ambiguous, obscure world, this would be a true story.

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It was a scene right out of the 1960s. Wealthy, powerful, confident man sits in a smoke-filled, dim lit room, with his scotch at the bar looking at the woman next to him, getting ready to hit on her. He should have felt he belonged on Mad Men. Only, it was a mirage. He wasn't wealthy. He wasn't powerful. He wasn't even very confident. And he had no intentions to flirt with the woman next to him. He was just a respectably dressed 20-something holding a glass of scotch in deep thought. There are too many of those this day in age to consider it a true homage.

He stared at his glass. He watched the balls of ice slowly melt. He fixated on the ripples from the water diluting the amber alcohol. He paid the cost of a steak dinner for that one glass of approximately 4 ounces of nectar, only to watch it become tainted with one of the most abundant substances on the planet. Though when he took a sip, trying to savor it for all its worth, he knew why it was so valuable.

Setting his drink down, he fixated on the vessel itself. The formerly sterile glass was heavy-bottom set, with thin walls. The heft of the glass made the liquid inside even more spectacular, a massless object floating in space. He was convinced it wasn't gravity holding the fluid within the glass, but the intermolecular love between the polar alcohol and borosilicate of the glass. The borosilicate was a greedy mistress.

He wasn't even a scotch man. 99 out of 100 times at any other bar, he would be downing a beer, not taking the time or effort to examine its every phenotype. He would simply appreciate the bartender's skill at the tap, and take large gulps of the flavorful syrup. But today, it had to be expensive. And it had to be scotch.

He had arrived at the particular bar, in the lobby of the ultra-five star Obsidian Hotel, an hour before his arrangement. But according to Einstein, who knew how long he was really going to be there. His sole purpose of sitting there was to play out the duel between drinking and thinking. This inversely proportional relationship was essential for the next few hours. He would drink his scotch, and slowly drown away the thoughts about where he was, where he was coming from, and where he would go.

Recounting the "coming from" tale was the easy part. He had known this and analyzed it at nauseam the past 6 months. He was born and raised in a semi-conservative household with his completely-in-love parents, and two older sisters. They were traditional; he respected it but never understood it. He tolerated it for the sake of his parents but yearned for the first day of college when he could throw it all out the window.

In this tradition, he was raised to believe in God, in the values of marriage and love, and the evils of practicing vices. He was not allowed to date as a teenager, as it was seen to interfere with his academic pursuits. He showed his parents and teachers that he was an intelligent kid at an early age, and since, nearly every aspect of his upbringing was to exploit this talent. It was construed as a blessing; he was to achieve big things in his life. And, in practical terms that he realized much later in life, accomplishing something significant always translated into making a lot of money.

Enough money to support a wife, 2 kids, a dream house, 2 modest cars, an occasional maid, and once-a-year vacations. Enough money to provide those 2 kids with a private university education. And thus the cycle would continue. However, in his case, he was expected to start that cycle, as his parents were cut of a middle-class, blue-collar cloth. He had received no perks of extravagant living.

He followed this curve, played the game, abused his skills, and succeeded. One April afternoon during his senior year of high school, he opened an acceptance letter to his dream Ivy League school. He tried not to let it go to his head. He tried to listen to his teachers warning him that the hard work was only about to begin. He tried to listen to his parents to maintain his discipline at the next level.

This was also the same time he really started to hear a word he would later loathe: potential. Everyone around him was using that term to describe him, potential. He had so much potential. He had the potential to create so many wonderful things for the people in his life. His potential was limitless.

Was. It turns out, all this did go to his head. Somewhere on that 3,000 mile flight to school, he became entitled. Entitled: another self-characteristic that would later be hard to swallow.

School was hard. Very hard. The competition was fierce. It didn't help that he was a pre-med chemistry major. Although his ambition never faltered, he began to grow apathetic. He wanted everything, but without placing more energy than the status quo. These, as he now knows, are the classic signs of entitlement.

His views also started to change. His family's traditions were the first to go. He started to date. His belief in love was next to go. He started to solely chase after carnal instincts. The count of one night stands, and emotionally abused partners began to add up. There was a time during junior year he had avoided going to the library just to avoid running into one of these victims.

His faith was the next domino to fall. He formed concrete views on life, but chose not to play the game. He believed in virtue and morality, but his own actions seemed to stand in the ever-expanding grey lines. He believed in volunteerism and charity, but considered himself immune to its implementation. These problems were for other people to solve, he was above it.

The competition was winning. But he wasn't defeated; rather, he was simply an incomplete, a spectator. You couldn't lose if you chose not to play the game. He applied for various graduate programs, but didn't stand a chance because he didn't work within their parameters. The system was flawed, and he was self-righteous. He wanted to change the system, but feigned defeat because the system couldn't be changed. By trying to stay real and self-righteous, he started to live in a fairy tale world. One where grades, scores, interviews, and chain-of-command didn't matter.

He still finished school, thanks to the beauty of a 97% graduation rate. So receiving his $140,000 credentials, he took the only job he could get: a $25,000/year research technician position in a biochemistry lab on campus. It paid for his essentials, and provided a strict budget for entertainment, but nothing else. The taxes of living in a big city.

When he started his job, he bought into the taglines that came with it: a stepping stone for students who want to advance in their career and pursue graduate or professional training despite curricular difficulties. He convinced himself that this was a loophole to the game, and placed all his efforts into it. If he could just advance without having technically played the game, he would still have won. He would have beaten the system. Hell, he would be better than that system.

He later learned that this was the problem with being entitled. You want to be that one exception to the rule. You want to bend the rules and make your own way. You want to play the game on your terms. He reasoned, with substantial wealth and position, entitlement did work. But he had neither, and sitting at the bar, he realized he never would.

He had squandered his one opportunity at gaining it.

But his 1 year-ago self didn't know any of this. He applied for hundreds of graduate programs, professional programs, significant job titles, but he did not obtain a single one. There wasn't even a tease of one within his grasp. The rejection letters quickly mounted up, and his self-worth exponentially declined.

This started to affect his work. He now hated his dead-end job. He hated the salary. He hated the potential it teased. He hated his colleagues playing the game and succeeding in life. Rather than using it as a humbling experience, his ego shot him in the gut, and left him out there to bleed to death.

This was when that final domino of vices fell over. First came the drinking. Sure he had drank a lot during college, as everyone did, but now it had grown to the state of alcoholism. He was drinking alone. He was adding alcohol to his morning and lunch-time drinks. He was drinking daily. He'd often show up to work with a BAC of 0.1.

Then the smoking started. Cigarettes and weed became a commonality. He transitioned into cigars. That first cigar, a 7", 54-ga Churchill Romeo y Julieta Habana Reserve, was the beginning of his more recent persona. He viewed it as a symbolic entity, the irony of his status. But his sardonic sense of humor made him appreciate it, revel in it. His ego enjoyed the abuse. The adrenaline kick from the nicotine created in him a link between that image and a facade of happiness. The puff of smoke it elicited shrouded his true image, and he relished in this obscurity. So he chased it.

It was with this that he acquired a taste for scotch. Expensive scotch. Bottles he would normally spend months saving up for and use up within two weeks. Logically, this was also when his credit debt started to accumulate (exclusive of his already outrageous academic debt).

Then, 2 months before this night at the Obsidian, he saw an advertisement for a particular forum on a cigar aficionado website. An escort rating forum. He had never considered escorts or hookers or prostitutes, as he had considered himself an honest and virtuous man. But this was before his self-confidence was shot. Before he continuously struck out with desirable women. Before he could no longer elicit a returned phone call from a similar-minded woman. Before his moral ambiguity had lost all senses of rigidity.

He quickly realized his desire to frequent this site overshadowed his compulsion to check his email. This was also the first time he ever paid for a forum membership. He had to that day never paid for porn, but he was so entranced, he had to pay for this forum in order to gain further access in learning about escort services and finding the good ones. Most importantly, he paid it to learn of the explicit details of what the escorts offered.

Of course with his recent infatuation with image, he first scoured high end escorts. The $500+/hr types. The ones that look like models, carry themselves as successful business women, dress like orange county housewives, and fuck like porn stars (or so the claims on the forum would have you think). His initial reaction was to scoff at the ridiculous price, mainly because he couldn't afford it. But they were fucking hot. Hotter than any girl he had ever had a chance at (Ivy League girls aren't known for their towering beauty).

He then started searching for mid-tier escorts, the $300/hr types. They were plenty attractive, and still seemed down for serious business. His search into low-tier hookers (because they clearly make no effort to appear as escorts) revealed them as too unreliable, fake, and risky. His dive in morality stock was independent of his intelligence, and he knew better than to risk being arrested over a few hundred dollars. He may not have had confidence, but the ego still remained.

On his rare days of relative clarity, most often found when walking along the river to work, on days he had not had that first 9am drink, he started to ponder where he was headed with all this. It was Neo's rabbit hole, so to speak. But his own, dark, silk-lined passage. A yellow brick road paved with faux gold, into a thunderstorm. Towards a city of moral ambiguity. Where did it lead to next? Hard drugs? Violent crimes? Poverty? Republicanism? What next would he need to do to just feel alive? He knew his definition of alive was not correct, but it was the most appropriate he felt he could use.

And if he fell into that, when, if ever, would he be revived? Could he live a normal life, the suburban one with the white picket fence that had been picked out for him when he was just in high school? Would he gain the strength to rebuild his life? Would he even want to?

Scotch usually made those questions go away. Hence why he was drinking it now, finishing his first double and ordering a second at this bar in the hotel where he was to meet a woman he would pay for sex. For the opportunity for him to fuck her, and step onto the elevator to his hell.

He knew before he stepped up to the batter's box he had to learn the rules of the game. It was odd how he chose to play within these rules, an irony he never realized. A game that, under societal law, was explicitly illegal. But he still wanted to play, and play under their rules. He convinced himself that it was because he was afraid of the risks of getting caught. But in truth, it was because in this realm, he was not entitled to anything. He was not entitled to fuck her. In this world, outside of the principles of the real world, money and power did not entitle you to fuck her on your terms. Not at this high a stage.

He found several escorts who were rather detailed in their expectations of their customers. The usuals being: be clean, wear a rubber, don't talk about the money, present it in an unmarked envelope, and don't ask for explicit sexual acts until she initiates. One thing he was surprised with was the list of gifts these escorts preferred. He supposed that fancier restaurants now suggested a tipping scale, and so escorts would do the same. But buying a $500 piece of lingerie as a gift for a service that you are paying $300/hr seemed lavish. Then again, he realized he wasn't the usual client. He was only an imposter. He did not have wealth. To him, $500 did not equal a special gleam in a woman's eye. Especially, if he was only going to fuck her.

After a month of research, he decided he was going to pay one of these girls for their time of service. He picked one from the hundreds available. He looked at his savings, and cut back on his other expenses, to save up enough plus overhead. He also decided to buy a gift, to fit in with those other clients. He also wanted more than 1 hour, and figured all this would add up.

The girl he picked described herself as a voluptuous black woman. He had never been with a black woman, and thought this was the way to go. He typically was attracted to blondes, but he tried to let go of as much of his old ways as possible. The forum showed great reviews of this woman, saying she had an insatiable appetite for sex, that she was enthusiastic to suck cock, that she knew how to milk a cock with her pussy, and that she took it in the ass. Anal was one of things he never got to experience in college, and this experience had opened up that possibility. Ivy League girls didn't typically like anal, who knew.

Looking at her pictures, she was average height, with long, voluminous hair. The kind of hair a man wants to grab while fucking a girl from behind. Her breasts were large, a self-described 38D, with large, heavily pigmented areolas and nipples. Her erect nipples were magnificent; they nearly protruded out an inch. She had light stretch marks around her breasts. She carried some extra weight on her torso. Her stomach seemed like it would have a generous jiggle to it as she took cock. Her groin also carried fat, with a couple of stretch marks towards her belly button.

Her thighs were heaven, he had thought. Creamy, thick, smooth, with a hint of muscle tone underneath. He figured she could probably swallow the life out of a man with those massive thighs. Similarly, her ass was something he had never previously experienced. Plump, round, with a good jiggle to it. He even rubbed himself to orgasm just thinking about violating her ass from behind, using a picture of her bent over an office desk as ammo.

She wasn't something he considered a head turner. But she had this aura about her. She had confidence in her body, in her poses, her text. She had a passion for writing, and her prose oozed sexuality. She never wrote explicit erotica, but her mannerisms exposed an incredibly sexual being. She presented a persona that one would suspect hardly wore panties due to a constantly wet, aroused pussy.

He made contact by email, asking very courteously for a meeting the following week after work. He also used her code words for the VIP package (anal), because using her specific words were part of the game.

He received a response pretty quickly, and the date was set for the following Tuesday evening. In preparation, he made a run to the bank, withdrew the correct amount of cash (because other forms of payment were prohibited, obviously). He also visited a local branch of a high end lingerie boutique, and purchased an off-white lace babydoll set, with matching thong. He was excited for how she would look in it. Even on the rack, he could image her ass swallowing that thong whole and never look back.

The morning of, he received a text with the location of the rendezvous, and he had set out an hour early from work to arrive at the hotel, and to drink to calm his nerves. On the train ride there, he was nervous holding the gift, and felt the eyes of the other habitants of the train peering at him. He felt as transparent as cellophane. As he stepped off the train, he immediately spotted the tower of the Marriott Hotel. He walked in, and took a spot at the bar.

Half way through his first scotch, he received a text. It read: 'Sorry hun, plans got twisted. Gotta cancel tonight. Email me for another night.'

He read it twice. He was pissed. He was really pissed. His thoughts went silent. He could feel his face turn red. He could feel his forearm muscles tighten. His brain neurons simulated him throwing his drink at the wall in frustration. His body almost responded in a mimicking manner. He almost lifted his arm off the bar. Fortunately, his neurons processed the consequences quicker than his motor neurons could translate a message to his muscles. His self-perception and wallet thanked him for the restraint. Instead, he lifted the glass to his lips and gulped the scotch, dropped $30 on the bar and walked out.

On his way out the door, he again read the text to make sure the alcohol and nerves weren't playing a game with his mind. The contents were the same. He picked at the word "hun" with profanity. Was she trying to be a pleasant bitch? Was she trying to be professional in a personal way? Fuck her. Well, that was the point, right? He laughed to himself on his pun, and made his way straight to the lingerie boutique to return the "gift."

At home, he poured himself another drink, and immediately hit up the forum to find another whore. He was pissed, and he was going to fuck someone. But it wasn't that easy. Higher quality escorts weren't available on the dime to new customers, most listed that explicitly on their sites. So he gave up on his quest, and passed out after his third double, not even bothering to masturbate.

The next few days, he turned to a feigned sense of faith. He started to call the events of the previous night a sign. It was destiny making her cancel, because it was a huge mistake for him to continue. He was saved. The gods had given him a chance to right himself.

This thought barely lasted into the weekend. His shit job kicked his ass, and the bookmark for the forum was burning to be clicked. He swore his eyes were playing a trick on him; the letters in the web address were bolder than the other bookmarks. He found himself visiting the site again before Sunday midnight.

This time he argued he had saved enough money for the top-tier escort. He found one after some deliberation. It was like choosing one's first Ferrari.

She was a contrast to the first. She described herself as a thin, curvy French courtesan. She was 5'10", with long, wavy dark brown hair, juxtaposing her very lightly tanned cream skin. She had an athletic hourglass frame. Her breasts were just barely a B cup. Her nipples were proportional to her breasts, and tinted a matte oak brown. Her ass was a perfect handful, toned and muscular. Her pictures showed her in a variety of cocktail dresses, lingerie, and a nude pose of her backside, with her bent over and turned to look towards the camera with her hair hanging on her side. The camera loved her; there was no denying she had spent time as a model.


An Entitled Nobody



Her English was better than conversational, but not perfect; she was well off enough to hire an intermediary to handle her appointments. Her "gift" list was even more extravagant, with many French designers he had never heard of. To play it safe, he decided against a clothing gift, and instead purchased a bottle of Vintage Moet Champagne.

He contacted the intermediary, and made an appointment. He was scheduled for Thursday evening at the Obsidian Hotel.

That was the past. Now for the future. The scotch had won the battle over his mind, and made this analysis very, very simple. He was going to go upstairs to a room number listed in her upcoming text, straighten his hair, knock on the door, and follow the rabbit down the hole.

His second-to-last sip of his second double, he received the anticipated text. 'Give me 5 mins. Room 1235, beautiful view ;).' His heart fluttered; this was going to happen, he affirmed to himself.

He stared at his remaining scotch. Most of the amber nectar was gone, and what remained was ice water with a hint of alcohol in solution. The light yellow hue of the drink suggested to him he had one last sip. He took it into his mouth, letting the cold from the ice and alcohol from the scotch battle to excite his tongue. Over time, the heat dissipating from his tongue reached equilibrium with the cold liquid, priming his slightly numb tongue to activate from the remaining carbs of the scotch. His tongue battled the harsh environment of the drying effect from the alcohol and rehydrating from the dense solvent. When he finally felt a tingle on his tongue from what he was certain was the alcohol, he opened his throat and swallowed the expensive, smooth concoction. Immediately, his mind jumpstarted and overtook the slaughter from the alcohol to remind him of his nerves. He paid his tab, and walked away.

As he was heading towards the elevator, he visited the restroom. After utilizing the urinal, he washed his hands thoroughly, and used a wet towel to freshen his pink, flush face. He could feel the heat resonating in his puffed cheeks. He had showered before arriving at the hotel, but the bar was warm, to provide safe haven from the snowy roads outside. He took a big breath, staring at the eyes peering at him in the mirror. His mind was again clear, as his thoughts disappeared down the sink drain. His hands were steady, and his breath was normal. He reminded himself, 'you can do this.'

He looked himself over to ensure he was presentable. He was dressed elegantly. He had on black, pin-striped dress slacks, a soft grey button-up shirt with poplin collar, a green/grey striped silk tie, and pin-stripe matching 2-button coat. It was the same suit he had used on countless failed interviews.

He stepped out, and waited anxiously at the elevator. When it arrived, he stepped in, and pressed the button for floor 12. No one else entered the elevator. It was faster than he expected, Einstein again failing him. When he reached his floor, he followed the sign towards his appointment. He found it at the end of the hall and knocked twice, confidently.

She opened the door. Her eyes quickly looked him up and down. Her mouth showed a convincing smile. She turned slightly to let him enter, mouthing "come in." She placed a do not disturb sign on the outer handle, closed the door, and turned the deadbolt.

His eyes first scanned the room, half expecting something out of place that would define the situation for what it was. He took in a deep breath, noting that it looked like an ordinary hotel room with a live-in suitcase placed in the far corner. Slowly, his senses started coming in. He heard soft R&B playing, the greatest hits of Seal. He relished in the beautiful view of the nightlights of the city. All the curtains were drawn, and the view was magnificent. The room was full of her fragrance. A keen nose would place the smell with Chanel No. 5. But his was not a keen, cultured nose.

Finally, contact. He felt a light, feminine hand placed on his shoulder. He instinctively turned around, and before he could realize, her arms were around him in a somewhat awkward embrace. She held her position close to him, with her arms wrapped around his tall, solid, square frame. His neurons started to process the situation, and he wrapped his hands around her waist. His nose nuzzled her neck, and he breathed in more of that same aroma. It was sensory overload and he could again feel his neurons freezing up.

They broke their embrace, and she walked over to the table, where she took a seat on the sofa, quickly crossing her legs. His nerves again spurted some processing power, and he remembered the gifts. He pulled out a thick but inconspicuous white, security-grade no. 10 envelope and placed it on the nearest side table, and awkwardly looked at her and provided a pathetic nod. He then opened his sling, and pulled out the Champagne. He said, "I figured this would be a great way to celebrate."

Inquisitively, in a moderate alto, French influenced voice, she asked "Oh. What are we celebrating?" She offered a magazine cover smile.

Being as vague as possible, he replied assuredly, "the first step in a new direction."

She quickly stood up, grabbed the bottle from him and replaced a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay in an ice bucket. There were 2 clean white wine glasses near the bucket. Was this evidence of a previous client? Or did she need a little lubrication for the night's events? He dare not ask; rules were rules.

"So, how has your day been?" She asked him, as she took her seat. She motioned for him to sit next to her on the spacious sofa.

Taking his seat, he replied, "it was alright. Finished up a little early at work, and took care of some last minute things at home."

"I see... And what do you do?"

"I do medical research. I work on heart disease models."

"Wow, that's fascinating. I could never imagine running a scientific lab. Biology was never my strong suit in university." He chose not to correct her generous projections.

"Yea. What about you? What have you been up to?" Speaking to her was making him a little more comfortable. He was finally able to admire her appearance.

He tried to focus his gaze into her green eyes as best he could, but at the same time really soak in her look. She was exactly the woman on the website, only saturated. She was a Pirelli pin-up filled with protein, carbs, and lipids (however few they may be). She was a firecracker condensed in a sugar cube.

She was wearing a white blouse with over-exaggerated ruffles, and a long, black pencil skirt. The skirt was sitting well above her belly button, and stopped short of her knees. She appropriately crossed her legs, exposing her smooth, creamy stems. Her calves were sculpted with precision; she had to be a runner. She was wearing black pumps with a modest 2" heel. Her hair was perfectly tame, as if it had been done professionally. Every curl and wave was in the exact position it was supposed to be. The outward vectors of her hair were proportional to her head and shoulders. She had very light makeup on, as her natural beauty didn't require much, if any. She did have on burgundy lipstick, and her lips moved quickly as she spoke of her days events.

Every last detail of her appearance must have been scrutinized until she achieved perfection. She not only achieved it, she had exceeded it. The perfect 10 scale did not apply to her. And she knew it. She teased with the boundaries, in control of the game.

She had a skill to talk about nothing, and do so using as many words as possible, filling the air with pleasant, French-toned sounds. He found himself nodding and responding with a "yea" very frequently. After a length paragraph, she stopped, and replied, "You're cute."

With that she leaned in and kissed him. It was a short kiss, but started to create a stirring in his boxer briefs. It was a very passive kiss, in which he felt very little force coming from her vector. And yet, she was the one initiating. She got up and went to grab the Champagne, and he stayed on the sofa to reminisce about her lips. They were very soft. But they were full and warm. Her lower lip hung over her chin defying the rules of gravity. Newton himself would have second-guessed his most prized accomplishments.

She brought the bottle back, with the 2 glasses. She handed the bottle to him to open, and stated, "Let's loosen up a bit. It's time to have some fun."

He agreed, and returned the kiss. He guessed correctly that this too was a game. He just had to play along. After all he was spending so much money for a short amount of time; it was time to enjoy it. He popped the bottle and poured 2 glasses.

"A toast?" she asked.

"Ok. Let's just keep it simple. To an eventful night." They clanged glasses, and took a sip. He leaned in and laid another kiss on her lips. This time, he intended to hold it a little longer, and get a taste of her tongue. He quickly parted his lips, and tasted the bubbles still fizzing on her tongue. She playfully returned the intensity of the kiss momentarily, and broke away, flashing a naughty smile. She seemed to like games.

They returned to conversation and Champagne. She started to talk about a recent shopping trip, and went on about some of the celebrities she ran into. She liked to name drop, probably because it made her feel accomplished. She compared herself indirectly to them, and how much prettier they were. He played along and reassured her that she was very sexy.

After a refill on the Champagne, she continued talking about her interest in art. She considered herself an artist, and enjoyed painting. Then, again, out of nowhere, she blurted, "Let's move over to the bed shall we? This sofa just isn't comfortable anymore." Her green eyes sparkled, and she lightly bit her bottom lip.

She led the way, holding his hand, pulling him along. She sat him on the bed. She laid her hands on his knees, spreading them, coming close, and placing her lips on his. Again, it was a short kiss. Her lips did almost no work against his. She parted and leaned back licking at his upper lip. Coupled with the anticipation of what was to come, he could feel himself getting more excited. The dress slacks were becoming uncomfortable.

She took a step back, and stepped out of her heels. She twirled, and playfully jiggled her hips, enhancing the teasing mood. First to come off was her skirt. She started to unzip it from her left side. She stated,"I hope you like my lingerie. I wasn't sure what color you'd prefer, so I kept it simple." She tried her best to build suspense, and he only feigned playing along. The Champagne helped with that.

The skirt came off, exposing a very intricate baby blue lace thong. It reminded him of the gift he had purchased for the previous whore. Of course, her thong alone made the previous set he bought comparable to fruit of the looms. Maybe it was a good move he didn't purchase a set for her.

She stepped closer to him, and mounted his right thigh. She got as close to him as she could. She again kissed him, but this time with more force. Her lips were not as soft as they had been, and her aggression was showing. She sucked on his lower lip, and pulled on it. When she released it, he leaned forward to reciprocate, kissing her intently to retaliate with a show of dominance. He watched as her lips grew even redder, the blood outshining her lipstick shade.

She leaned in again, and whispered in his ear, "Can you feel how wet you've got me? I've always been turned on by the strong, silent type." Was she lying? Her extremities certainly did feel warm and moist on his thigh.

She quickly kissed him again, and dismounted. She turned around, giving him a view of her toned ass. The thong certainly did her curves justice. His eyes were fixed at the curvature of her cheeks. There wasn't an ounce of cellulite. He didn't even realize she was unbuttoning her blouse.

She removed the blouse as she turned around, giving him a new view of her matching bra. It was just as intricate as the bottoms, and did wonders pushing up her breasts, creating soft cleavage. She again mounted his thigh and pushed her cleavage into his chest. She kissed him with a little more fire again, and his hands started to explore her ass. Her soft skin was quivering under his hands. Why would she have to be nervous? Perhaps, it was his intent gaze, examining every inch of her. He tried to calm her, "I think you look beautiful."

She replied, "You're not here to think. Just enjoy." Her words were now whispers, and were followed by that million dollar smile. Her confidence was back. He realized she needed control of the situation. It had to be what got her off. Probably what was getting her so wet. Her having control over a wealthy, powerful man. If only she knew the truth.

She started on his clothes. She wanted to take her time with him. She unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled the fabric over his shoulders, kissing and licking her way up his arms and shoulders to his neck. She pulled the shirt from his pants, and pushed it off his body, using it to playfully handcuff his hands behind him. She was certainly very playful. She continued to kiss down his neck to his chest. Though he was no athlete, his pecs were in shape, and carried only trace amount of fat onto his stomach. He was sure to shave his chest before the meeting, to accentuate the work he put into maintaining a strong core. She kissed her way all over his chest and stomach, using her tongue lightly on his nipples. She would occasionally stop to look back into his eyes, teasing him with a naughty smile. She ran her hands through her hair as she reached his waist.

Teasingly, she placed a finger under the waist of his trousers, and asked, "This is always my favorite part." Now that definitely had to be fake, he thought.

She unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, slowly lowering them down and off his legs. His underwear wasn't nearly as sexy as hers. Hell, they weren't sexy at all. They were boring. Just grey boxer briefs. 

She pulled his boxer briefs off, and immediately took his cock into her moist mouth. He had always maintained a sense of confidence in his cock. Though it was average length, and slightly above-average girth, he knew how to use it. His slight curvature worked in his favor, and hers.

From the reviews, she wasn't much of a cock sucker. She did her duties but there was nothing to write home about. And this was certainly the case, he thought. However, one thing he didn't account for was the view. The view of the city only a few feet from him was an eyesore compared to the beauty between his legs. Sucking his thick cock really accentuated her high cheek bones. Her slight dimples popped out every so often as she tried to create a vacuum between his cock and her plump, red lips. The sparkle in her green eyes outshone the sun. She was hungry, and there was nothing more erotic than an off-the-scale 11 devouring one's manhood.

She continued rubbing her soft lips along his cock. She liked to tease his bell-shaped head, placing her tongue along the bottom ridge, and licking up to the slit. She looked up at him with another naughty smile. Quickly, she went straight down, taking his cock deep into her mouth, touching the back of her throat. She couldn't take all of him, but he appreciated the effort. Besides, he was never one for deep throating. He always preferred fucking over getting head.

She gave his cock one more kiss, licking off another appearance of pre-cum and stood up. She stepped back and started to gyrate her hips to the music. She reached back and popped off her bra. She slung it to the pile of her clothes, and walked towards him. Her breasts were smaller than he expected; the bra really did its job. Her nipples were a median tone between her creamy skin and dark hair, and were standing at full attention. She cupped her boobs, and tried to strike a sexy pose. It was the first time that night she appeared more of a whore than a model.

"I noticed you were really eyeing my ass. So I figured I'd let you do some of the unwrapping." She turned around, and bent over very slightly. She pulled her hair over her shoulder and gave him a wink and a smile, imitating the image from her site that required him to replace his keyboard. He decided to take his time with it. He started by kissing the shallow dimples in her waist. She wasn't ticklish and continued to hold her hair over her shoulder as she looked down on him, intently gazing the slow movement of his lips. He continued on, placing his lips over her ass, and eventually work his way down to her thighs. Her thighs were a little more sensitive, and he noticed her tilt her neck, looking up to the lights overhead.

He worked his way back up to where the waist band of her thong sat. He wrapped the waist band around his finger, and slowly started to pull down the thong, kissing every inch it traveled over. As it dropped to the floor, he slowly slid his hand between her thighs to really feel her wetness. The heat from her thighs was radiating, and she jumped slightly when his fingers grazed her pussy lips. From behind, he firmly added pressure to his fingers, rubbed the length of her pussy lips, penetrating the top layer and using the lubrication of her wetness to guide his direction. By then, his lips had worked their way down to her outer thighs, kissing and sucking on her chiseled thighs.

She pushed his head back and stated, "God my pussy is already on fire. I'm ready for your cock."

She mounted him on the bed, and grabbed his cock. She slipped a pre-lubricated condom onto his hardened prick. She aimed it at her pussy, and sat on it. Her facial expression showed appreciation for his cock. Her eyes intensified in lust, and her mouth parted slightly. Her eyebrows quickly rose. An inaudible "uhh" escaped her throat. He smiled, he had, even if briefly, gained control. He laid back and let her do the work. After all, she believed she was in control.

Her grinding quickly picked up. It quickly escalated from passionate fucking, to animalistic mounting. He admired her tight PC muscles as his cock head could feel the ridges in his pussy. After working up a good rhythm, she turned around, offering him a splendid view of her toned back gyrating. And her athletic ass bouncing up and down on his cock. He couldn't resist grabbing her hips.

She maintained her enhanced rhythm with his guiding hands, dropping down with harder and harder force. The bitch was enjoying it, he thought. She started to learn further back, trying to rub his head against her g-spot. From the reviews, he was informed she got incredibly wet from g-spot stimulation. He certainly felt little resistance sliding in. He focused his hands onto her wide, strong hips, helping to pull her onto his cock, creating more friction between his cock and her pussy wall. His fingers pushed aggressively into her creamy white skin. With it, her moaning quickly shifted from over-exaggerated, porn-like "fuck my pussy" and "god yea", to a slightly more believable mumble of French-accented gibberish.

She also started putting her whole body into it. She was rotating her hips aggressively, trying to rub every inch of her pussy walls on his cock. Her torso was gyrating, working her toned core. He could see the muscles in her abdomen contracting rapidly through a conveniently located mirror behind the bed. Had she placed it there? Her adequate breasts were bouncing slightly, her arms were bent to pull her hair up over her neck, her eyes were closed, and her lips were moving nonstop. The feeling of her slowly contracting pussy was nice, but he was much more enjoying the view. He convinced himself that she had to be enjoying herself.

He reached up and tried to cup her breasts, but was twice slapped away. She preferred cupping them herself. He didn't complain as it left his hands free to grab her toned ass. He even lightly slapped it, to see what would happen. She didn't object, and he did it again.




An Entitled Nobody



She started to slow down, and he rolled her over onto her back. As he climbed on top, she quickly checked his condom. He replied, "I haven't come yet," as he slid his thick cock back into her glossy pussy. Sliding his cock completely into her, he could feel her tiny patch of pubes scratch his groin. He moved his arms under her back and grasped her shoulders, to gain leverage. He wanted to really fuck her, and witness the look on her face from his new point of view. He tightened his core muscles and stroked his cock inside her pussy faster and faster, building solid momentum. She was extremely vocal, making constant moaning sounds. The harder he fucked her, the louder she got. At first it started tame, "fuck yea", then "god I love your dick", and the occasional "why the fuck are you slowing down?" Either she was a really bad actress, or had an even worse orgasm face. Either way, he was enjoying it. Her pussy was tight, but the condom didn't do much for him. But the entertainment of it all. And the view. Fuck, the view was worth the price. Well the gift, he wasn't decided on the price of his morality.

They again slowed. They both needed a break. She unconsciously covered her pussy with her left hand as she got up and walked away. She walked over to guzzle down some Champagne. She poured herself some more, as he walked over to her. He walked closer to her, trying to kiss her, but she was back in her playful mind. She back-stepped her way to an uncovered, full-length window. As she felt her foot against the glass, she dropped to her knees in one swift motion. She grabbed the back of his ass, pulling his semi-erect cock within inches of her lips. She used her tongue along the length of his shaft, maintaining her hands on his ass. She started to slowly caress his ass, maintaining a circular pattern against his hairless, bountiful ass.

She looked up at him as she started to part her lips from his now fully-erect cock. She looked into his eyes, and teased, with his cock tip on her lips, "Enjoying the view sexy?" She was regaining her control. Or had she been in control all this time? Was she flaunting her control over him? He realized he was looking at her way more than the city lights.

He smiled and looked up. He tried to slow his thought activity, and enjoy her moist mouth fucking his engorged cock. But his face was flush, his skin covered in a thin, glistening layer of warm, sticky sweat. Gazing out, he noticed that the window could be opened. He leaned over, at the same time pushing his cock further into her mouth, and opened the window slightly. A fresh, cold breeze blew in, numbing his thoughts. Her spongy tonsils felt great against his cock head. After his previous thrust, she aggressively focused on driving his nerve endings into overload with her salivated tongue. She moved further down, licking the base of his cock, occasionally moving her tongue onto his balls. His balls shriveled violently, from the cold air and contact with her burning tongue. She took one of his balls into her mouth, warming the hairless skin, and pulling back. The sensation was enough to force him to groan out an elongated, "Fuck."

Noticing where he was standing, he had his own 'I'm on top of the world' moment. As she continued to suck on his balls, working her thin hand over his shaft, he groaned out louder "Fuck Yea," and threw his hands up against the frame of the window.

She laughed, and teasingly replied, "Quiet. You're going to get us caught." She smiled, flaunting her control over the precisely engineered environment. How many times had she done this exact move?

The draft was getting colder, and he closed the window. They took a break. She made a quick bathroom run. He sat down on the sofa, naked and erect, and gulped his Champagne. She shortly joined him, nuzzling her naked body up to his for warmth. He poured them both a final glass of champagne. As they drank, he rubbed his hands over her body, exploring the occasional birth mark on her creamy skin.

She moaned back in encouragement. He took it as a sign to dig further down, re-exploring her pussy from the front. She was still slightly lubricated. Her hand found his now semi-erect cock, and began to lightly stroke it. As they continued to deliver hand jobs, he asked, bending a rule, "how often do you find yourself coming?"

In a frighteningly candid remark, she answered, "hmm, it's definitely not often. I tend to have my most intense orgasm with g-spot toys." Her next phrase broke any intimacy he fostered in their exchange: "Hmm I'm definitely enjoying your cock as my next toy though." With it she swiped her thumb over his now erect cock, rubbing his pre-cum into his pink head. His body reacted, squeamishly.

He moved his lips onto the back of her neck, kissing his way from her shoulders to the back of her left ear. She asked him, "I should be asking you the same. I'm surprised you haven't come yet." She flashed her million-dollar sign, continuing to stroke his now fully-erect cock.

He replied, "Yea, I've had a hard time staying out of my head lately." He continued to rub his rugged finger tips against her clit hood. On his way down, he slid two fingers into her opening, pulling out strings of her wetness. He tasted her, neutral.

Confidently, she retorted, "Well I think I know just the solution." She let go of his cock, and kissed him square on the lips, with a new sense of force. This kiss had been her most aggressive yet, pushing his heavy lips into his teeth. He rebounded and was able to kiss her back, sliding his tongue into her mouth with similar aggression.

She broke off the kiss and got up, offering him a view of her tight ass, as she walked over to the bed. She climbed up on all fours, looked back at him, and replied "Let's see how long you last when you fuck me from behind."

He was definitely up for the challenge. He walked up to her, and placed the palm of his left hand on her pussy, using his index and middle finger to spread the labias covering her clit. With some force, he began to create a circular motion, being sure to apply even pressure over the entirety of her pussy. She leaned over to grab a condom, and handed it to him.

He replaced his hand with his tongue, coating her pussy with an extra layer of lubrication. He tore open the condom and rolled it onto his thick cock. He stroked his condom-covered cock to ensure it was on right, and climbed up behind her. Her hand approvingly grabbed his cock, first to ensure the condom was on, and second to play with his balls and guide his cock into her ready pussy.

He grabbed her ample hips, and used it as an anchor to leverage his cock into her pussy. He started out grinding slowly, taking his time to gyrate his hips to let her appreciate his girth against her pussy walls. He found a good angle to just nudge her g-spot with the bottom ridge of his cock, and began to create a rhythm of steady, sturdy, stern thrusting. Her again tightened PC muscles started to put substantial pressure on his cock. She was making each thrust harder for him. She was trying to regain control, making him earn his way into her pussy.

He decided to fight back, and started to put immense effort into pounding her pussy. His core muscles were contracting with all their might maintaining their collaborative effort focusing on her inner pussy wall. Her pussy was getting wetter, lubricating his condom-covered cock as it worked its way creating friction on her front pussy wall. His pressure was so intense, he was certain she could feel the ridge of his bell head. He could feel the contractions in her ridges. His effort was so orchestrated, so exhaustive, he could barely hear her now louder moaning. He too was moaning, encouraging her to take his cock. His lust to rub her pussy wall raw with his cock was blocking the neurotransmitters from communicating to his neurons, and he could feel his balls slowly swell. His words were also coming from a stream of unconscious processing, a slew of ego-filled, dominant phrases, which he could barely make out.

Her moaning changed intensity to match his animalistic aggression. As she sensed his balls boiling with cum, the vulgarity in her language began to increase, as she continually begged him to fuck her cunt. Her throbbing cunt. Her tight cunt. His cunt. Then she uttered entranced words that broke his stream of unconsciousness: "Fuck my whore cunt." That word, acted as an enzyme catalyzing his thought process neurons.

He quickly started to slow his pace. Fuck, after all this, she was still in control. She had to remind him she was a whore, and that he was paying her to pound her pussy like an enraged dog. A bitch if you will. He was her bitch. He should be enjoying this, but she reminded him these were her rules, that she was in control.

As he slowed down, she leaned over, pulling his erect cock out of her slobbering pussy, quickly sat down on the bed, and leaned her face towards his cock. As she pulled off the condom, she looked up with an innocent face, asking, "Are you about to come sexy?" Before he could answer, she was stroking his cock while her closed her eyes and tilted head awaited streams of his manhood, a trophy offering for the façade of his victory.

He disappointed her, "No not yet. But that feels really good." There was no vulgarity in that statement, no sense of urgency. The conscious choosing of each of those words was palpable; she must have sensed his self-defeat.

However, she started to suck on his throbbing cock. His head may have not been totally in it, but his cock was begging to come. The arteries up his shaft were plump with intense heat, waiting for release of his erection. His balls were still very tight, and her attention to them never wavered during her lips-lead assault of his thick, infuriated cock.

He wiped his face with his hands, sliding them through his hair to clear his mind and get a fresh frame of thought. Or lack of thought.

As she realized he wasn't going to come this time around, she shifted to sit comfortably, and reduced to stroking his cock. Her other hand went to her pussy. Was it possible she was close to coming?

"Hmm, I still want that thick cock inside me. Which position did you like the most?" she asked, as she continued to slide one hand over his now saliva-coated cock, and the other rubbing her clit with considerable speed.

Instead of speaking, he replaced her hand over his clit, and pushed her down onto the bed. He climbed on top of her glistening body. Her complexion was now a golden cream, immersing her skin with a thin layer of sweat. It reflected light back onto his darker, tanned skin tone. Her hair was still the way it was when they first met.

She grabbed a condom as he maintained his hand on her pussy, probing her opening with his manly fingers. Once he was covered, he leaned down, and entered her pussy. There was no sense of slow thrusting this time, as she grabbed his shoulders tight and pulled him into her deeper. He recognized the urgency and tried to quickly reflect back to the intense rhythm of steady, sturdy, stern thrusting.

He focused on grinding his groin into hers, as he thrusted deeper into her tightened pussy. He rubbed his pelvic bone onto her clit each time he thrust his thick cock into her pussy. He could feel her PC muscles tightening around his cock, each ridge creating friction along his shaft. Her language maintained its sense of vulgarity, begging for her cunt to be filled. He switched to shallow, strong thrusts deeper into the back of her raw pussy. His pelvis failed to lose contact with her clit. The interrelationship between the two was magnetic. Her clit was quivering from the enhanced blood flow, glowing a deeper pink as it continually grazed the base of his cock.

His focus was solely on the feelings along the length of his cock, droning out her intense, crude, loud moaning. Her nails were digging deeper into his back, and the pain was helping him keep his mind from exploding with thoughts. Her legs wrapped around his hips, locking tightly, pulling him as close to her as he could. The vibrations in the ridges of her pussy were becoming more intense. Her cunt was gushing around his cock, lubricating the stern thrusts he maintained with absolute metronomic rhythm. Her wetness spread, allowing higher current electricity between her clit and the base of his cock.

Her mostly gibberish moaning was coming backing into his head with the utterance of one word: coming. Was she asking if he was coming? Was she coming? Was she begging him to come? He summoned every ATP molecule in his core muscles to pound her cunt harder. The contact between his pelvis and her clit ceased as he began to thrust the full length of his cock into her pussy, using the magnetic force to drive her into oblivion. His cockhead again found the ridges on her front pussy wall, and her g-spot. After a few more aimed thrusts, he heard it again: coming.

As she lingered on the mmm of that words third utterance, she grabbed his shoulders, unlocked her legs around him and used every ounce of leverage to turn him onto his back. He realized the urgency in her hands, and complied. She rotated over with him still inside her, mounting on top of him. Her PC muscles clenched the shaft of his cock, not letting a single inch out. He couldn't think of a single Ivy League girl who could pull that move off.

Without realizing the shock of the transformation, he maintained pounding her cunt with the full length of his cock. Her words, clearer now, matched the look in her green, shiny eyes: "Make me come." The intensity of those three words was enough to tighten his balls. She could feel this happen as she continued to grind his cock, gyrating her hips into his.

He could feel her orgasm slowly build through each ridge of her cunt wall. Her words had turned to a mash-up of French and English; all he could make out was "come" "fuck" "again" "almost." Her hands were cupping her breasts, and her eyes were fixated on his. When he looked down to admire her cunt grind his pelvis, she noticed.

And that's when it happened.

Smack!

She slapped his face across his left cheek. The color in his face reverberated quickly from a blank white to a flush, intense, burning red. With the force of the slap, he felt the neurotransmitters in his brain gush out along with the motion of his head. Then she uttered the same words in a demanding manner he had never heard: "You're going to make me come." She started to gyrate faster, slightly bouncing to increase the force of his cock head on her g-spot.

He was entranced by her words, that specific word, and was focusing on hitting her g-spot as much as he could. And it happened again.

Smack!

Again, her whip-like right hand landed squarely on his left cheek. In the daze of his recovery, he noticed something different. Her hand was firmly around his neck. All his thoughts stopped immediately. She leaned her weight forward onto her right hand, the one that grasped his neck, and consequently, her clit into his groin. His eyes stared at her lips, mouthing, 'Fuck I'm coming again!'

He couldn't process her words. All he could sense was the tight grip around his neck, blocking oxygen from reaching his brain. Her grip getting stronger. Stopping his oxygenated blood in his engorging neck. And he could sense all the friction on his cock. The spasms of her cunt ridges along the shaft of his cock. The feeling of her shivering pelvis around the base of his cock.

And he could sense through his eyes. The best view in the city. The ripples of her orgasm quivering quickly through each muscle of her body. Her eyes shut tight. He lips mouthing the words, 'I'm coming,' over and over again.

And he could feel her orgasm through the shivering of her fingers around his neck, each inducing an electric shock with his skin. He could feel his pulsating neck, waiting to burst. To fill its arteries with the warm, viscous blood his brain needed.

It was sensory overload that quickly saturated within his balls. His pulsating balls that ached to burst. He felt her fingers loosen around his neck, as the ripples of her powerful orgasm subsided. That slight release was all he needed to throw him over the edge. He felt his cock ready to erupt in her still quivering cunt. His tightened balls started to seize. The ripples of the spasm propagated through the length of his cock, and erupted at the cock head. Spurt after spurt of his white, burning, viscous ejaculate was trapped inside the condom, inside her demanding cunt.

She released her grip on his throat as she collapsed next to him. Both took a moment to breathe and gain some energy to move again. Thoughts started to come back to him. That certainly wasn't in the reviews.

"Wow that was fun. We definitely need to do this again." She replied. Was she serious? Had she really come? Twice? More?

She helped him take off the condom. She tossed it, mounted his flaccid cock with her mouth. He gave her a look of confusion, looking at the clock, which read well past the 2 hours he had scheduled.

She replied, "I think for my orgasms, I at least deserve to taste one of yours." There was gaze of seriousness in her eyes. A look of dominance. She was in control. She had always been. He had played the game perfectly. Her game. And he followed every rule. Her rules. She made sure of it.