0 comments/ 36434 views/ 1 favorites If you like Pina Coladas By: zeke81 John was nervous as he waited at the restaurant. He wasn't afraid that someone would recognize him...he was 40 miles from the town he lived in and this little restaurant seemed an unlikely place to run into someone that he knew. No...John was nervous because he had come to meet a woman that he'd met online. John had told his wife Kim that he was going to play cards with his friends. He kept looking towards the door and thought about what had led him to that point.... ....John and Kim had been married for 9 years. They'd been together for 3 years before that. After 12 years with just one person things become...routine...boring. John wanted some excitement back in his life. He'd started by looking at porn on the internet. For several months that had put a small spark of excitement back into John's life and he used it as inspiration to try to rekindle the fires of his love life with Kim. It didn't seem to work which had John disheartened. It was about that same time that he started looking at adult personal ads online. He didn't think he'd ever cheat on Kim, but that didn't stop him from reading some of the profiles. To read the full profile you had to create one of your own. John decided that he definitely didn't want any pictures of himself on a website like that so he didn't post any. He simply posted some information about himself including his likes and dislikes. He loved old movies, he played golf, he loved days when it rained, his favorite drink were Pina Coladas...things like that. John began searching the personal ads until he found a woman that seemed too good to be true. There were no pictures, but everything she listed in the profile was something that John liked or something that they had in common. Cary Grant was her favorite actor, she enjoyed most of the same authors, and she liked Pina Coladas. John got up the courage to send a message to the woman saying hello. She emailed him back and they began emailing regularly. They didn't exchange pictures and they didn't use their real names, just their screen names. It was fun, it was exciting, but it was still safe. All he was doing was emailing the woman; he wasn't cheating on his wife Kim. Then she asked him if he thought they should meet. John said he needed time to think about it. For two weeks he thought about the consequences of what meeting her would be. If Kim found out his marriage could be over. Was it over already? They'd both been so preoccupied by other things that they hadn't made love in more than a month. Finally John had gotten up the courage to agree to meet her. They set it up for a place that they could both get to easily but neither of them would be likely to be recognized. The woman told John that she'd be wearing a red sweater and John told her he'd be wearing a bright yellow polo shirt.... .....John was sitting near at a table within view of the door and was constantly watching the door for a woman in a red sweater when he saw her. John's eyes lit up...a woman in a red sweater walked through the door...she was absolutely beautiful...the most beautiful woman that John had ever seen. She didn't see him at first as she was scanning the whole room, but then she looked his way and saw the man in the bright yellow polo shirt and walked towards the table. He was very good looking. He stood up to meet her. "I never would have guessed." John said. "Neither would I." Kim said. "This does explain one thing though." John said. "What's that?" Kim asked. "It explains why RED-HAIRED-VIXEN seemed so perfect for me...I was already married to her." John said. "I guess we've been taking each other for granted lately...forgotten what we had." Kim said. "Not anymore. Well...we came all this way to have dinner...let's eat." John said. They sat down, and the waiter came over. "Can I start you two out with a drink?" The waiter asked. John and Kim looked at each other and smiled. "We'll take a couple of Pina Coladas." John said. "Coming right up." The waiter said. During dinner someone walked over to the jukebox and played the song "If you like Pina Coladas". When John and Kim heard the song come on they just looked at each other and laughed. If You Like Piña Coladas… "My mother was right – you're a goddamn whore!" David's words cut Sandra to the quick. "Seven years of marriage," she thought, "and it's come down to this." Her auburn hair seemed more of a flaming red at the moment, a metaphor for her livid mood. She drew in an angry breath, abandoning her practice of counting to ten before saying something she'd later regret. "Well, you always were a mama's boy!" she spat vehemently, her voice rising a half-octave. "You stupid motherfucker!" David stared at her, his eyes bulging and nostrils flaring. The veins in his neck swelled, seemingly pushing splotches of crimson upward to his cheeks. His balled-up fists spoke volumes about his inner fury. He prepared to launch a verbal barrage, but stopped before uttering a word. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Sandra slumped to the floor, her head hunched over her knees, her arms covering her head. Her shoulders heaved with sobs. Tears spilled onto her shoes. Slowly, she curled into the fetal position as a low, guttural moan erupted from deep in her belly. * * * * * * Three months had passed since the big blow-up with his wife. David had left and had not returned – not even a phone call. He made sure to return for his clothes when Sandra was away, so that he would not have to face her. David bunked at the apartment of his old buddy Matt for the first two and a half months after the shit storm. But even Matt grew tired of Dave's volatile and forlorn ways, finally asking him to leave a week and a half ago. Dave now lived at the local O'Malley's Inn, at least until he could figure out his next move. First his mother was gone, then his marriage, then his best friend. Dave was beginning to worry about his job being next, despite the fact that he worked at one of his family's multitude of international businesses. He'd already been warned by his uncle about recent absenteeism and poor performance. He wondered whether maybe he should have listened to Sandra when she told him that he needed to seek professional help. David still couldn't believe that he had stooped to calling Sandra a whore, much less leaving her with the impression that his recently deceased mother had thought that of her. Mom had passed away less than a year ago. Truth be told, Mom really liked Sandra, but early in his relationship with Sandra, his mother had been quite protective of her son. Mom had always wanted to be sure about the motives of David's love interests. The Ross family fortune was well known, and some of the girls Dave dated had dollar signs rather than stars in their eyes. Mom had wondered aloud in their early months of dating if Sandra was a "gold digger," and somehow in his warped state of mind, Dave had justified using the term "whore" on the basis of that marriage / sex for money connection. "God," David thought, "I was such an ass. I shouldn't have dragged Mom into that argument. I can't believe I turned the tables on Sandra's worries about me, and made it all about her." But then she had spewed those "mama's boy" and "motherfucker" epithets at him, and it had pushed him over the edge. She – more than anybody – knew how much he'd been hurting since his mother's death, yet she couldn't have chosen a more hurtful retort. The words had been spitefully chosen, designed to draw blood. If ever in his life he was going to hit a woman, it would have been at that moment. Thankfully, he hadn't. But his state of mind had been spiraling downward ever since the argument – actually, ever since he got the phone call about his mother's death. He was a basket case. David knew that he needed professional help. And yet he had a more basic need. More than three months without sex made a man even crazier. Dave thought about his options, now that Sandra was out of his life. He didn't think about his lady (I know that sounds kind of mean). He thought that maybe he should consider Tara, who worked in sales at the family business where Dave worked. She had been flirting with him pretty consistently over the last couple of years. She had even taken to calling him "Love Puppy." He always sloughed it off, but he had noticed her efforts intensifying since he had walked out on Sandra. Apparently his teetering marriage was part of the office rumor mill. Tara was an attractive green-eyed blonde, with a pretty face and bodacious figure. Maybe the Love Puppy should fuck the bitch that was in heat. But David remembered his father's advice from years ago. "Son," he had said, "when it comes to women, just remember – never shit where you eat." David had understood the euphemism as it was intended – never mix business with pleasure. Besides, he saw many of the classic character flaws of a "gold digger" in Tara. She was status-obsessed, catty toward other women, laden with a strong sense of entitlement. So Tara was out. There was always his trusty right hand as a back-up option, but it gave him no sense of intimacy. He needed someone to care about him while they did the deed together. That sense of caring was what he missed most about his mother. Not that he sexualized his mother or ever thought about doing the deed with her; he simply knew that she loved him no matter what. He could always see it in her eyes. He had seen the same look in Sandra's eyes when they were dating and throughout the early years of their marriage, but that look had seemingly disappeared in the months following Mom's death. It was replaced by a look of pity – something he couldn't bear. He supposed that was what had drawn such strength of wrath from him the fateful night of their last argument. David had a momentary epiphany of another alternative. He got up from the couch at his little one-room suite at O'Malley's Inn. He loped down the staircase to the lobby and approached the front desk. "Um, hi there," he said to the buxom brunette at the front desk. After seven years of marriage and the prior two dating Sandra, he had forgotten how this was done. "May I help you, sir?" the beautiful desk clerk asked with a megawatt smile. "Hi," he said again, "I'm Dave from 206." She waited for more, but he offered nothing. "Is there a problem with your room?" she queried, her smile diminishing. "No – no problem. I was just wondering your name," he managed to sputter. "I'm here on an extended stay, and I thought it would be nice to get to know the people who work here." "The name's Lindsay," she said, pointing to her name tag, trying hard not to roll her eyes. "It's nice to meet you, Mr., um..." Her fingers fumbled over the keyboard, struggling to find the last name of the guest in room 206. "Ross. David Ross," he answered, extending his hand. She returned his handshake. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ross," she responded. While grasping her right hand, David spied her left ring finger and saw that it was vacant. His own wedding ring had been in his pocket since the night he walked out on Sandra. Dave looked into Sandra's cobalt blue eyes as he shook her hand, managing to keep his eyes averted from her perfectly rounded breasts. She had kind eyes, empathetic eyes. He needed someone to care. She looked like someone who might care. He decided to take the risk. "I was wondering what time your shift is over tonight," he croaked, his voice reverting to an adolescent changeover squeak. Lindsay let go of his hand. "Listen, Mr. Ross," she returned softly but firmly, "I may be young, but I wasn't born yesterday. I can see the washed-out whiteness around your left ring finger. I'm not into married men." "But I can explain," he uttered with a mixture of disappointment and rising anger. Matt had been right; he was too volatile and too forlorn. "My wife and I split up three months ago." "I'm sorry, Mr. Ross, but I hear that kind of line all the time. If I believed all the men who tell me that they're from a recently broken marriage, I'd have to believe that O'Malley's Inn is a halfway house for recovery from back-stabbing women," she taunted. "Sorry, sir, I just don't buy it. I'm sure that most of the men who feed me that line are just horny while they're temporarily away from home." David started to defend himself, but then thought better of it. He needed empathy, not resistance. "Okay, you win," he replied, "or better yet, your loss." That last jab managed to draw a surprising smile out of Lindsay. With that beautiful grin and that awesome rack, he could well imagine that she'd be a pleasure in bed. But it wasn't going to happen, at least not tonight. So he picked up one of the local entertainment papers from the desk and headed back toward his room. He stopped by the vending machines on the second floor and picked up a Dr. Pepper and a bag of pretzels, tucking the paper under his arm so he'd have two hands free. When he got to his room, he had to put the Dr. Pepper can on the floor to get his room key card out of his pocket. Once inside, Dave flipped the remote switch to turn on the TV and sat down to his snack. Finding a football game to provide background noise, he began to peruse the entertainment paper just at the opening kickoff. The first few pages of the newsprint magazine contained notices of concerts, plays, movies, museum displays, and a host of other local events. Dave continued to turn the pages. His mind wandered back to Lindsay's perfect tits, and a boner started to sprout in his boxer briefs. As he continued to leaf through the entertainment rag, he saw ads for "gentlemen's clubs" and similarly labeled adult entertainment clubs. Strip joints, for lack of a better term. His thickening cock began to reach full erection. Man, he needed to get laid. As he reached the last few pages at the back of the magazine, he began to see a variety of personal ads. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the personal escort services were thinly veiled offers for the services of prostitutes. Dave began to wonder whether he should look for "professional help" of this variety for his present need. The more his mind lingered on it, the more he liked the idea. No commitments, no complications, no shitting where I eat. "I even live in a goddamn hotel," he thought aloud, "the perfect place for a rendezvous." The one mental impediment Dave faced in making the call was his need for emotional connection. He didn't think he could handle having a girl make him feel like a worthless asshole because he was willing to pay for sex. He'd never been with a prostitute, but he guessed they loathed their clients. He needed to feel valued, cared for, even treasured – just not pitied. He couldn't stand that. "Pity and revulsion walk hand in hand," his father had often said. Dad was always full of good advice during his too-few years on this earth. Perhaps Dad's early passing had heightened his sense of loss at Mom's death. At thirty-four, Dave felt like a lost little orphan. Truth be told, Dave needed to feel loved. It was a basic need for any orphan. But there was no way in hell he could expect that from an escort, a total stranger hired for sex. At halftime in the football game, Dave went for a walk to clear his head. He wandered around the corner from O'Malley's Inn to the 7-Eleven. He picked up a cold 6-pack of beer and a corn dog. Back in his room, Dave was halfway through the 6-pack by the end of the game. The bare wooden stick left over from the corn dog lay on the coffee table in front of the couch. Dave let loose a contented belch. He spied the entertainment paper at the end of the table. He picked it up and began turning the pages. Whether it was the beer talking or the blossoming erection in his pants, Dave picked up the phone from the end table. He dialed the number from one of the personal columns, where there were letters in red. The woman's voice on the other end of the line was low and sultry. "Intimate Friends, may I help you?" she said huskily. Dave's erection stiffened. "Um, is this the person that would be my escort if I decided to hire you?" he asked, somewhat guiltily. "Well, sweet thing," she said, "I sometimes go out on calls for special clients, for old times' sake – but I mainly look after the rest of the girls." "So, um, it's an – an agency?" Dave stammered. He couldn't bring himself to use the word "brothel" or, better yet, "whorehouse." Although he guessed those terms didn't apply, since their business wasn't conducted on-site. "Yes, honey bun," she drawled. "And, um – how does it work?" He was genuinely curious. "Well, sugar puddin', you tell us what type of girl you'd like, we send her out, you give her a hundred dollars for the agency fee, and then she works on tips from there." "And how much are the tips?" he asked. "Well, love biscuit, that depends on what you want her to do, and how pleased you are with how it turns out," she countered. "And, um," he ventured, "well, um – how far will she go?" "That's strictly between you and her, valentine," she replied, "but if you happen to work enforcement, the official line is that there will be no touching. You'll have to prove you're not in law enforcement if you expect otherwise." Dave was taken aback for a moment. "And how might I prove that?" he asked, genuinely confused. "Let's just say there are – certain actions – that no policeman would be able to take without constituting entrapment, buttercup," the woman bantered suggestively. "Oh, um – I'm not a cop," replied Dave. "I didn't think so, snuggle bunny. Unless you're the world's greatest actor, I'd say you've never done this before, and you're curious about what you're getting into." "That's right – that's exactly right," he answered. Finally – some empathy, maybe even some caring. Maybe he could convince her that he was a special client. "I've been separated from my wife for a few months, and I'm – well, a little bit, um..." "Stiff?" Her sultry voice taunted him. "Well – sure, I guess you could describe it that way," he capitulated. "And you could use some – relief?" "Precisely!" The growing sense of empathy and caring began to strip away Dave's doubts. "Well, what type of girl interests you, lamb chop?" "Um, well, I was kind of wondering – what type of girl are you?" he queried. "I'm flattered, for one thing, stud muffin. But I don't think I'm the one for you. I'm probably old enough to be your mama. Now, if you were to tell me one thing that was most important to you in the girl that I send to you, what would it be?" she asked. David reflected for a moment before speaking. "Well, it's not about hair color or bust size," he admitted frankly. "Probably the most important thing would be that she's not jaded by the work she does. I need someone who can see me as a person rather than just as a horny, loathsome asshole. Of course, it wouldn't hurt if she was good-looking." The woman paused, then let out a low, sexy growl. "Mmm – hmmmh," she exclaimed, "I think I have just the girl for you." "Really?" he asked excitedly. "Oooh, yeahhh. Tonight's her first night. You'd be her first client. She's a pretty little thing and has the kindest eyes. She's not the youngest chick in the henhouse – maybe early thirties. But I can see she's a romantic. Probably won't last long in this business. But she's definitely not jaded yet." "She sounds great – what's her name?" he inquired. "Let's just call her 'Lovely Lady'," she replied. "She can tell you her name when she gets there, sugar plum." "Send her out!" Dave exclaimed. "I'm in room 206 at O'Malley's Inn." "She'll be there in half an hour. She'll require the $100 agency fee in advance, in cash. You can work out the rest of the payment with her as the evening goes along, lover boy." * * * * * Dave found himself elated over the prospect of hooking up with a kind-hearted, first-time hooker. He was going to be the one to pop her prostitution cherry. It carried the potential to be memorable but with no baggage or strings attached. He walked quickly back to the 7-Eleven to use the in-store ATM. His daily withdrawal limit was $300, so he maxed it out. He hoped the extra $200 above the agency fee would be enough to extract every service he desired out of his much-anticipated "Lovely Lady." As he made his way toward the checkout desk, an idea occurred to him. "This is a special occasion. It calls for champagne. It's been years since I had some," he thought. He moved to the glass cases of refrigerated beverages and picked up a bottle of Mieux champagne. In the case next to it, he spotted some 32 ounce bottles of piña colada mix next to some bottles of rum. On a whim, he picked up a bottle of each. Passing by the pharmacy aisle, he also picked up a tube of KY Jelly and a box of condoms. As he waited with high hopes in line to pay for his merchandise at the counter, Dave began to picture his evening with his "Lovely Lady." He would hold her, kiss her, fondle her, compassionately fuck her – make her first time a positive experience. Since she was new to the business, he would even consider going down on her, especially if it would get him what he really wanted – something he had never had the nerve to ask for at home. No, not a blow job – even though Dave was her first lover, Sandra had always been a willing and quite able cocksucker. She even swallowed his cum, and seemed to enjoy it. No, his hidden desire was darker than that. He wanted to go anal – spear fishing for doodoo sharks, to borrow a euphemism. He had always wanted to fuck Sandra in the ass, rubbing her breasts and clit while hugging her from behind, pumping his cock gently into her rear channel and kissing her shoulders while she moaned with wanton pleasure. He always imagined her really enjoying it after the initial discomfort, but he was always afraid to ask. Now, with a hooker, he would be free to say what was on his mind. He was hoping his extra $200 was enough to get him what he really wanted. "Back for more?" asked the clerk, stirring Dave out of his reverie. Dave moved forward to pay for his purchase. He spied the clerk's name tag: Rupert. "Yes, Rupert, I'm back for more," he replied. "Looks like you're ready to party," observed Rupert, visually scanning the rather unique array of merchandise that Dave had selected. "You could say that," Dave answered, not able to suppress a smile. "Looks like it's with someone special," Rupert responded. "She's a lovely lady," Dave grinned. "Well – I'm nobody's poet, but that isn't half bad," Rupert smiled, handing the bag with the party supplies to Dave. Dave whistled a familiar tune all the way back to the hotel. Thoughts of dunes and making love at midnight danced in his head. Checking his watch as he closed the door to his room, Dave saw that his escort should arrive within ten minutes. He laid his bag of party supplies on the coffee table and headed to the shower. Lathered up under the warm stream of water, Dave resisted the temptation to relieve the sexual tension that enveloped him – no battling the purple-headed yogurt slinger tonight. He wanted his ammo to be at full strength for his impending encounter with the virgin hooker. "All night long," he said out loud, the sounds of Lionel Richie replacing the other tune that had been stuck in his brain. As he finished toweling off, Dave heard a knock at the door. "Shit," he thought, "I'm not dressed." He grabbed the hotel-provided bathrobe and wrapped it around himself. "Guess that shouldn't be a problem," he thought. "After all, the woman's a prostitute." He walked quickly to the door. Peering through the spyhole, he saw the back of her head. Auburn curls cascaded down her back. Her shoulders were shivering. She was either very cold or very nervous. Dave knew that the temperature in the hallway had been fine ten minutes ago. He continued to watch her for a few seconds, his heartstrings reverberating with empathy, until she turned to rap a tentative second knock at the door. He knew her smile in an instant; he knew the curve of her face. If You Like Piña Coladas… It was his own lovely lady. Dave, in a state of near-shock, opened the door. The woman's jaw dropped as she saw the face of her very first john. "Oh, shit," she exclaimed. This time, Sandra was the one to turn on her heel and walk away. Except that she ran. Dave noticed that she was in stiletto heels and evening dress as she fled. The random thought that she was likely to trip – whether due to the heels or her speed – bounced in and out of his brain. She didn't wait for the elevator, but instead took the stairs. Dave wanted to pursue her, but his brain was still processing this shocking revelation. He was too stunned to follow before she was gone. Besides, he realized later, he couldn't rightly chase her while clad only in a hotel bath robe. * * * * * Forty-five minutes later, he found himself on the phone with the sultry-voiced, pet name-calling madam who had moved him past his hooker reticence earlier. As before, she quickly gave him a sense of security, even caring. "Intimate Friends, may I help you?" she answered in a throaty timbre. "It's me, Dave – the guy from O'Malley's Inn, Room 206." "Well, sugar plum," she drawled, "You indeed make a big first impression." "What makes you say that?" he asked. "Well, love bug, in just one brief encounter at your bedroom door, you've managed to run off my most promising prospect in years. What exactly did you say to her?" "Nothing," Dave answered truthfully, "Not a word." "Well, honey pie, you certainly dissuaded her from her new career. She called in crying, said she was quitting and hadn't even collected the agency fee. Normally, we'd have made her pay it anyway for the referral, but in this case, I've decided to waive it." "Why?" he asked. "Well, bunk buddy, she's such a sweet thing and all. She seems like she's been hurt pretty badly. I'd even say she seems haunted by something – not the scary or freakish kind of haunted, but the sad, romantic kind. I couldn't bring myself to come down hard on her." "I need you to call her back for me," Dave said. "Convince her to come back to me." "Why, precious one, what makes you think she'd do that?" she asked. "I know her better than you do," he answered. "Tell her I forgive her, and I need her forgiveness." "Forgive a perfect stranger?" Her voice sounded incredulous. "Just do it – please. I'll make sure you get your $100 referral fee, even if I have to deliver it myself." "Well, when you put it that way, puddin' pants, I guess a girl can't resist," she gushed in syrupy tones. "Hopefully," Dave replied, "she won't." * * * * * It was after 11 PM and a storm was brewing outside when Dave heard a hesitant knock at the door. He offered up a quick but fervent prayer for wisdom. Now fully dressed, he pulled his shirt tail from the waistband of his pants. "Gives a more relaxed look," he thought to himself. A second cautious knock resounded as he walked toward the door. He peered through the spyhole to make sure of his guest's identity, then he flung open the door. "Come in – please," he requested. "I – I'm not sure that I can," Sandra replied. He saw that her mascara was running. "Why not?" asked Dave. "I'm – I'm so embarrassed," she spluttered. "So am I! Come in, and let's talk about it," he offered. He thought for a moment that she was going to make another run for it. But slowly and haltingly, she overcame her resistance and walked into Dave's hotel room. He realized when she walked past him that her clothes were soaking wet. "Has it started raining outside already?" he asked. "Yes," she answered, laying her purse on the coffee table, "but I don't mind. I sort of like getting caught in the rain." "I never knew. Are you the same girl I've known the last nine years?" Dave jested. Sandra smiled, some of the tension leaving her face. She sat down on an upholstered chair, one that wouldn't be ruined by the dampness of her dress. "There may be more than you realize that you don't know about me," she answered. "Like that you wanted to be a hooker?" Dave regretted the words as soon as they left his lips, especially so when he saw her wince. But it was the elephant in the room; they had to talk about it. "Just like I never knew that you wanted to hire a hooker," she countered. "Touché," he said. "You're right, of course." "Besides, I'm not sure that I would have really followed through with it," she returned. "The agency said I was free to decline anything I wasn't comfortable with. I was sort of hoping my clients would be content with companionship. You know – somebody to talk to, someone to care about their problems." "I'm not sure the guys answering the ad would expect anything less than full-on sex. Have you seen the scantily clad girl in the ad?" he asked. "Honestly, no," she answered, "but yes, I knew there would be pressure for sex. I do at least have half a brain." "And you would have given it to them? What about us?" Dave had to know. "Let me ask you this: if a different girl had shown up at your door tonight, would you have had sex with her?" Dave swallowed hard. He knew the truth. And he knew that she knew the truth. But he had trouble accepting that the same could have been true of Sandra. Nevertheless, he couldn't lie to her. "Yes," he replied, "and I probably would have fucked her in the ass." "And the truth for me, if you can handle it, is that three months without sex makes a girl crazy. But I didn't take the job for the sex, and I really don't know if I would have gone all the way. I took the job for only one reason: to spite you for what you said to me." "When I called you a whore?" "Exactly. It's been eating at me for the last three months. If you and your Mom were going to think it of me, and you were willing to call me that, I finally came to the conclusion that you could damn well deal with the guilt if I actually did it. You pushed me over the edge that night, and this is how far I've fallen." "Sandra ... sweetheart," Dave answered lovingly, "I've got to cut through all this red tape. I felt I was pushed over the edge that night, too. But I don't blame you, at least not any longer. I realize now that you were trying to help, and I kept pushing you away. I've decided I need professional help to deal with Mom's death, and I'm going to make a call the first thing Monday." Dave observed tears streaming down Sandra's face, his heart aching. He leaned forward, reaching out to brush the tears away. "I'm sorry, Dave," she cried, "I'm truly so sorry. I saw you spiraling downward, and I didn't know what to do. I wanted so much to make it better, but I knew nothing could bring her back, and nothing could fill the hole that was left in your heart. At least, not without some time and some help. I didn't know how to stop – or even slow down – the slide. Baby, I'm willing to go with you for help. Hell, I probably even need help myself. After all, I'm so sad about my husband that I've turned into a whore." "Not yet, you haven't," Dave contradicted her, "but I have three hundred bucks in cash to make that fantasy come true." "Your fantasy, or mine?" she quipped. "Who the hell knows, just keep it between us. That is, all except the $100 agency fee – I promised your madam that you'd get that to them. But just promise to keep me as your exclusive clientele." She gazed into his eyes. "I promise," she said simply. Dave returned her gaze. A lump formed in his throat as he saw it – the look. That look. The look of caring and concern – but not pity. Her eyes assured him of more than words ever could. He knew that she loved him no matter what. Her body quivered as he watched her. "You're shivering," he said. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes." "Yes, let's," she returned, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Dave stood in front of Sandra and kissed her gently on the lips. She leaned into him, her mouth opening to him, her tongue claiming his. Dave's right hand reached around her and began sliding the zipper of her dress downward. He pulled the fabric forward, off her shoulders, and down to the floor. Sandra was clad only in satin bra and panties – and those stiletto heels. Dave's awakening boner began to rise in his Levis. However, he wasn't yet thinking solely with his penis. He decided it would be a good idea to go and get the bathrobe for her. Returning quickly, he was pleased to see that she pouted when he handed her the robe. Then, smiling, she tossed it to the floor. Next, she unclasped her bra and tossed it to the couch. Her familiar but still so tantalizing breasts jutted out toward him, her nipples pebbling as he ogled them. She then held her hand out toward him, rubbing her thumb against her forefinger in a demanding fashion. It was the universal sign for "pay up." It took a moment, but Dave finally understood. He pulled the three hundred dollars from his jeans pocket and handed the bills to her. She counted them slowly and carefully, then went to the coffee table and deposited them in her purse. She returned to Dave, clad only in silk panties and stiletto heels. She hooked an index finger in the waistband of her panties and slowly slid them down, turning away from him as she did so. Her luscious ass cheeks were revealed to his leering gaze. She slid the fabric over her stiletto heels and tossed the panties aside. When she turned back toward him, he discovered another surprise. Gone was the auburn thatch of pubic hair that had always covered her muff. Her vaginal mound was completely bald. Intrigued, he reached forward and traced his fingers across her smooth mons veneris. "I like the feel of Brazilian," he smiled, "and the taste of champagne." He turned momentarily, easing over to the coffee table and opening the bubbly. Still carrying the bottle, he took Sandra by the hand and sat her down on the couch. He knelt in front of her, spreading her legs to straddle his shoulders, while avoiding the spikes of her stiletto heels. He then drizzled some of the champagne onto her bald mound, letting it drip into the channels of her outer and inner labia. He then began licking her lips (yes, those lips) while again caressing her smooth, hairless mound. Dave began to nibble on Sandra's clit. He remembered thinking earlier that he would likely go down on his virgin prostitute. He was doing exactly that. She was so excited – it had been so long – that her inner moistness began to fairly ooze out of her snatch. Dave slid a couple of fingers inside her, pushing in and out while he suckled her clit. Before he knew it, he was fisting her – she was that loose, lost in the throes of passion. Sandra started panting. "God, fuck me, Dave!" she shouted. "But I want to make you cum, sweetie," he rejoined. "I want your cock, Dave – now! Stick it in me, and you WILL make me cum, baby!" Dave stood and stripped off his shirt and jeans. Sandra licked her lips as she watched him pull his boxer briefs off, too. She took his raging member into her mouth, laving it with love and enveloping it with her moist oral warmth. She brought it to full erection, then she stood and pushed her slippery crotch against Dave's upper leg. He took the hint and hoisted her slim frame up on his torso. She accommodated by grasping his dick and positioning it against her warm, wet nether lips. Dave let gravity do its work and lowered her pussy onto his love tool. He felt euphoric as his cock head penetrated just inside her warmth. Moments later, with gravity still his friend, he slid fully inside. The two were joined at the crotch and mouth – him standing, her suspended in mid-air, rocking on his cock with her legs splayed out, his left arm supporting her back while his right hand teased her nipples to erection. He felt his balls surging, ready to spew his seed like a volcano inside her. "It's been too long, baby," he breathed raggedly, "I don't think I can hold off for long." "Neither can I, my love," she answered, "Cum with me – now!" Dave pumped faster inside his lovely lady, the slick friction bringing both of them to the brink of orgasm. "Now?" he asked. "Now!" she affirmed. And with that, both of them slipped over the edge. A much better edge than they had slipped over at their last encounter. Dave's cock pulsated and spewed, his whole body convulsing as he held Sandra suspended in the air. For her part, she pulsated equally, milking his cum with the clenching of her pussy in a cataclysmic orgasm. As Dave walked her over to the bed – still connected at the crotch with her still suspended in the air – he looked at the clock. At first, he thought there may have been a power outage, as the digital display showed 12:00. But the display was not flashing. "Do you like making love at midnight?" he asked her. "In the dunes of the cape," she replied, "or in a hotel room – anywhere, anytime with my dear sweet husband." He lay down on the bed, cradling her on top of him. A short while later, his flaccid cock flopped out of her love channel, leaving a stream of cum dripping out of Sandra's pussy, down Dave's ass and onto the bed. They lay there together for another ten minutes, each grateful for their passionate reunion. Sandra nuzzled her nose against his, then kissed him on the lips. "We haven't fucked like that since we were newlyweds," she giggled, her breasts pressing into his chest. "Time to get into a new rut," he laughed. Sandra smiled at him, a gleam in her eye, the cogs in her brain clearly turning. In the afterglow of their lovemaking, Dave suggested they retire to the couch for a celebration. He removed the bottles of rum and piña colada mix from the 7-Eleven bag and moved the barely-used bottle of champagne next to them. He strolled across the room, his limp prick flopping as he walked, and returned to the coffee table with the ice bucket and some glasses. Sandra looked at him quizzically, lifting an eyebrow. "I like piña coladas," she said, "and I am into champagne." "Ah – I never knew," he replied. They laughed for a moment, both still naked, and shared glasses of both beverages. When they were done, Sandra led Dave back to the bed. She had finished cogitating over Dave's innocent comment about getting into a new rut. "Dave," she whispered huskily, placing her glass of piña colada remnants on the bedside table. "You said earlier that you probably would have fucked your prostitute in the ass. Would you – would you do that to me? Please? I mean, after all – I'm your prostitute." Dave responded with actions rather than words. He sprang off the bed, grabbed the tube of KY Jelly from the 7-Eleven bag, and returned to the bed. Unscrewing the cap, he dabbed some lubricant on his middle finger. He smiled as he leaned into Sandra, kissing her forehead and nose. He then reached under the juncture of her legs and rubbed his slippery finger around the rim of her lovely puckered anus before slipping his digit inside her back door. After loosening her up with his finger, he moved behind her and began gently working the head of his once-again-erect cock into her well-lubricated rear entrance. It took some effort and time, but it was worth it. Just as he'd imagined, once he got past her initial discomfort, Sandra began moaning with wanton pleasure. He wiped the KY Jelly off his finger with a hand towel that was on the bedside table. For several minutes, he massaged her shoulders and found an unhurried rhythm of penile thrusts that seemed to please her. He moved his hands down her ribs and began massaging her hips, his cock still thrusting into her ass. Dave lost all track of time. He was lost in an erotic haze. Suddenly, he felt her squeeze his rod with her ass cheeks, nearly making him cum. He began to thrust more precipitously. He reached around her in a firm embrace, trailing kisses down her back, then slid his right hand down to her vagina while kneading her left tit to a turgid peak. He found her clit with his right thumb and began rubbing it between his thumb and index finger. Dave could feel Sandra's pussy walls begin to clench again. He kissed her shoulders and the back of her neck. "I want to curl your toes," he whispered. "Then fuck my ass harder, and ram a few of your fingers into my pussy," she invited. Dave accepted the invitation, testing her pussy with first two and then three fingers, as he thrust with his penis from behind. Her feminine crevice was so warm and loose and wet, he pushed a fourth finger in, while continuing to stroke her clit with his thumb. He was amazed that with the back of his index finger, he could feel the thrusting of his own dick through the thin membrane between Sandra's pussy and her ass. "I want to feel you spurt your load in my ass," she grunted, "Just keep stroking my clit, and I'm sure I'll cum with you." It was an invitation that Dave couldn't refuse. He began bucking and thrusting with his cock for all he was worth, all the while strumming Sandra's nub with his thumb. He could feel Sandra's slit begin to spasm around his fingers. "I'm cumming!" she shrieked. "Give it to me, baby!" A most incredible thing happened. The constriction in Sandra's cunt also constricted her ass around Dave's love wand, causing him to dump his spunk deep into her rear chamber. It was an experience unlike any exhilaration that Dave had ever known. His penis spewed and throbbed for what seemed like two minutes. He was sure his balls were completely empty. Dave cleared his throat before speaking. "I never knew – that you liked piña coladas, and getting fucked in the ass. I'm the love that you've looked for – cum with me, and escape." THE END