Margie and Me

I intended to do some fairly serious drinking, so I called a cab. This was all pre-Uber, Lyft, or any of the other ride-sharing programs.

"I've been away for a decade," I told the cab driver, "is

Taylor's

still in business?" I was asking about the only true "Supper Club" I knew in town. You know, one of those with a real restaurant and bar but a real band and dance floor too. A place where adults, not college students, gathered and the volume was low enough to allow conversation.

It was also, I happened to know, the place where conventioneers went for their transactional companions.

In other words, this would be the place where, if anyone thought Margie was for rent, she'd be asked.

The high heels, I noted as we walked to the entrance from the cab, did good things for her walk. That big ass was moving like the proverbial two little pigs fighting it out in a gunny sack, and the calves below the swaying skirt were tensed dramatically with the angle of her feet in the heels supporting her weight on the balls of her feet just behind her toes.

She looked, in other words, terrific and expensive.

Taylor's

looks, inside, like something out of one of those B-movies from the 60s. Round, four-top tables were scattered around in a way that looked chaotic but was carefully designed to make it easy for wait staff to maneuver without spilling drinks, soup, or prime rib on the customers. The tables were arranged around a semi-circular dance floor in front of a large raised stage. You would not be surprised to see Cab Calloway or Louis Prima conducting the band.

Tonight, the entertainment was a simple five-piece band, more rock and roll than Big Band. The frontman played a decent rhythm guitar, the drummer had a good bass voice on harmonies and a fair hand on the kit, the base player looked like Charlie Chan or maybe Dr. Fu Manchu, the lead guitarist might have stepped straight out of the surf, and the guy at the keyboards was really good during the interludes as well as providing a truly good high harmony. It was, all in all, a good house band, playing at a volume to allow conversation, that featured a mix of fast and slow music. Dancing was encouraged and at any time there would be anywhere from a six or seven to a couple of dozen couples dancing.

Margie ordered a screwdriver and I ordered a beer. When the band settled into something slow,

Blue Velvet

by Bobby Vinton, I stood, offered my hand, and we danced. We danced well together, and I enjoyed having her in my arms. As we danced I let my hands roam freely and patted her ass, showing the world my claim.

Dinner was prime rib for me and the filet mignon for her, the full-size filet, not the petit. We ate and made small talk, discussing what was on the news right then. I was happy with Nixon's election, maybe his "secret plan" to end the war in Vietnam would finally bring that bit of insanity to an end. I told of my lust for a Plymouth Road Runner and she laughed at my stories of the tiny cars we had driven in Japan.

Dinner done, including a couple of screwdrivers for her and a couple of beers for me, we went back to dancing. I spun her away into a pretty good jive, making the fringe on her skirt snap with her movements. We did two more pretty fast dances,

La Bamba

and

Twist and Shout

, the same C Am F G7 chord progression carrying through and making a cute little medley.

As I walked her back to the table, a guy at the bar caught my eye and gave me a little two-finger salute.

At the table, I didn't seat her. Instead, I leaned close and said, "I think you have your first taker. Why don't you go into the ladies' room and when you come back give me your panties."

Her eyes got big but then a smile spread across her face, and suddenly I could smell her excitement.

She headed for the facilities and I sat. As I sipped my beer, waiting, the guy at the bar looked at me quizzically. I raised on finger in the universal "just a minute" gesture and he nodded.

Margie came back and I stood, like some character out of an old movie. She smiled at that little courtesy. I didn't miss the way she was blushing as she reached across the table and put her panties in my hand. I couldn't help but notice they were damp.

"Okay," I said, "Let's see if I can get you a date."

She was blushing and smiling, visibly nervous with her bouncing knee and slightly trembling fingers, and said, "David, don't hate me because I find this so exciting."

"Not a chance, Beautiful," I said, stood, and walked to the bar.

"Is your girl available?" he asked and, looking at him I thought he would probably be exactly the kind of man Margie would have as a client if she was to turn pro. He was, I guessed, low 40s, with a sprinkle of grey in his dark, well-barbered hair. He was good-looking in that blow-dried hair kind of way that guys like me always laughed at, even as we knew with no doubt at all that he would make more money than we could even dream of. His suit was distinctly NOT off the rack. I guessed it at a thousand dollars easy, and possibly more. His shoes were equally high end and his watch, while not a Rolex, was an Omega with three dials and three buttons that I guessed at something over $5,000. I expected that his business card would read "Vice-President of Seven Boring Things" for a Fortune 500 company. He was that kind of a guy.

"She is," I said, trying to flash a conspirational smile although it felt silly on my face.

"What's the price?" he asked, looking past me to find Margie at the table, sitting straight and looking prim. As I watched she let a slow smile cross her face and I wondered if she practiced that look in a mirror.

"Five thousand for the night," I said, "and that's unlimited vaginal and oral sex. All bareback. Extras are, well," and I forced a little chuckle, "extra."

He kept looking at her and I thought,

" Oh, fuck, he's going to say yes."

I took the panties out of my pocket and laid them, casually on the bar. That amazing womanscent hit me right in the groin. He looked down at the panties and then up at me.

"Extras?" he asked.

I tried for the grin again. "Oh, you know. If you want her ass, that's another grand. Want to spank that big beautiful ass? A thousand bucks. If you want to leave bruises, another twenty-five hundred." I was pretty much winging it now.

He sighed, dramatically.

"Damn," he said, "Those boobs have milk?"

"Sorry," I said, "We're working on it, but not so far."

He sighed again and said, "Damn. Sorry man, but that's outside of my budget."

"Hey," I said, "We'll write you a receipt. Our invoice reads 'Morgan and Morgan, LLC, Professional Marketing Consultants.' Some of her clients can get it covered on their expense accounts."

He laughed at that.

"Excellent," he said, "But, well, sorry. I'm going to have to pass."

I sighed theatrically. "Okay," I said, "give me a business card."

He looked at me quizzically, but reached into his pocket, brought out one of those little leather cases made specially for business cards, peeled one off, and handed it to me.

I looked, actually, I studied it. After Three years in Japan that was my natural way to handle a business card. I chuckled. I had been right. The card read, "Brian Josephson, Vice-President, Material Acquisition" with a company name that I recognized, an email address, phone number, and street address.

"Pen?" I asked, and he produced one.

On the back of his card, I wrote, "For Margie, call David," and then our phone number. Remember, this was 1972, cell phones might have been a figment of some geek's imagination but that was it. The number was the landline to the house.

He looked at the card when I handed it back, smiled, and said, "I'll keep it in mind."

So I picked up the panties, stuffed them in my pocket, and said, "Well, sir, good luck then. There are plenty of girls around but remember, Prime costs."

He nodded, and I thought I saw real sadness in his face.

Back at the table, Margie's eyes were bright.

"Well, Toots," I said, sitting and taking a pull on my beer, "If you're going to turn pro I guess we'll need to lower the rate or at least offer an introductory special."

"David," she said, "Take me home, please. God, I'm sitting here in a puddle I'm so excited."

"No dessert?" I asked, chuckling.

"Please, Baby," she said, "Don't make fun of me. It's been a long time and, well, I'm kind of desperate."

So I grinned and stood.

"Come on, my little hooker-in-training," I said, "Let's work on your skills."

When she stood her scent was strong and when she moved in front of me I could see that she hadn't been kidding at all. There was a distinct wet spot on the back of her skirt.

"Sashay on your way out, Margie," I said, "Get that ass moving. Let everyone know you're a pro."

She giggled but her ass was moving as we left.

Outside, as we waited for the cab, I said, "You know, if you were a real hooker, I'd get a blowjob right here while we waited."

She looked at me speculatively for a second and then started to sink to her knees.

I stopped her.

"No, Margie," I said, chuckling, and noticing that she looked disappointed, "We'll wait until you get your union card for that."

She smiled, kissed me, pressed her whole body against me, and said, "I will if you want me to."

"I know," I said, "but the cab will be here soon and I do hate to rush a good blowjob."

"So do I," she said, giggling.

In the cab, she snuggled against me like a teenager cruising, and we necked.

At the house, as soon as we got inside, she grabbed me.

"There's no cab coming now," she said, "Let me be your whore."

I reached into my pocket, pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet, and tucked it into her cleavage.

"There's another one if you're good," I said, smiling but not kissing her.

She eased to her knees with a grace that surprised me.

"I'll be the best you ever had," she said, smiling up at me as her fingers got busy at my belt.

With the belt undone, she made quick work of the button of my khakis and then unzipped me and pulled my pants down just far enough to give her access to my immediately hard cock.

When she opened her mouth to accept me, thick saliva overflowed her lower lip. It was obvious she had been careful to not swallow so she'd have plenty of lubrication available. When it overflowed and dropped in a thick rope to her cleavage I thought that was as purely sexy as anything I had ever seen.

Then she took me into her mouth and it was so slick and warm and wet that I almost came right then.

She seemed to sense how close I was and held still, just holding me, looking up at me, with her mouth open offering no friction, and that drool kept running to drip onto her cleavage. If she had touched me, put any pressure at all, I would have lost it. But she just kept smiling and holding me in her mouth as she drooled and waited.

Again, she seemed to sense when the crisis had passed and she closed her lips, just holding me, that tiny big of pressure taking me closer to release but, in some odd way, pushing the point of no return away a little. She was SO good at this I wondered if there was really some sort of courtesan training in her background.

That blowjob, although it is hard for me to use such a crude term for something so damn beautiful, lasted for some measurable fraction of eternity. She could sense when I was close and then stop, doing that thing, just holding me, loosely in her mouth, the drool running down her chin. Her blouse was soaked by then, the drool turning it almost transparent. And damn if that wasn't just about the sexiest thing I had ever seen.

When she finally did finish me, I was surprised when she pulled off and accepted my ejaculation on her face and in her hair.

And she was smiling, the smile that makes you think of nuns before the crucifix. She was happy in that way only a woman can be happy after she has satisfied her man.

She was absolutely beautiful right then.

She stood, showing that odd, unexpected, grace, and laid her palms on my on my chest, lightly, meeting my eyes.

My semen was dripping from her chin when she said, "Now you know why you're never supposed to kiss a whore on the mouth."

She kissed me and it was a good kiss.

And, suddenly, it hit me. This was beyond desire. This was a full-blown compulsion.

As soon as she broke the kiss I dropped to my knees before her.

I said, "Your turn, Margie."

Then I lifted her skirt and dropped it over my head like one of those photographers you see in movies with a big camera and a little T-shaped thing held up to provide a flash.

She was flowing. The inside of her thighs was shiny and all of those words you hear in lockers to describe a woman's excitement flashed through my mind. Her pussy juice, her cunt honey, her twat slop, her box nectar, her squirt, and my favorite although I hadn't heard it yet at that point, her grool, that mashup of girl drool, was running down, soaking the dark tops of her nylons. Later, as I took a class in the

History of Sex

I would learn the term "Nectar of the Gods," and I believe that is the best, but I didn't know it yet.

The sight was enough to make me shiver with my desire.

But more than that, her scent, in the small tent of her skirt, the pheromones were so thick they almost made my eyes water, got to me down at the lizard brain. Way back in the brain stem, back there where the sole functions of an organism are to eat and procreate, something primal, something dating to our million times great ancestors still living in trees, those most basic needs took over.

I buried my face between her thighs, inhaling her womanscent deeply, tasting her womanneed with my tongue, feeling her womandesire on the skin of my face, feeling her womanwant in my hair.

"I'm addicted,"

was my last truly sane thought of the night.

I caressed slowly up the backs of her legs until my hands cupped her ass, pulling her to me.

I used my forehead to bump her

mons Veneris

, that beautiful mound of Venus of her sex, encouraging her to part her legs like a calf bumping his mother's udder to stimulate milk flow.

When she parted her legs, she kept flowing, that grool, think and white, hanging in a fat teardrop was so utterly sexual that I just looked at it, the way it wobbled a little with the tiny motions of her breathing captivated me.

I didn't use my tongue. Instead, I rubbed my forehead where she was flowing.

It was thick and hot and sticky, and I loved it. I wanted to bathe in it, in her excitement. I looked up and buried my face in her. That thick, coarse hair on her nether lips was scratchy, but her thick grool lubricated her nicely.

I still didn't use my tongue. I masturbated her with my face, feeling each little wave of pleasure and enjoying it.

Down there at the lizard brain, I realized I was, in the only way that mattered, giving myself to her. But I wanted it. I wanted to be hers. Hell, I wanted to stay right where I was.

I felt the sudden tension in her ass as she came and I felt it, thick and hot, on my forehead at first but I moved quickly to cover her with my mouth, drinking her ecstasy like fine wine. She was salty and oily, there was a faint aftertaste I couldn't identify, and I swallowed it greedily.

When the tension left her ass I started with my face again, loving the sensation of accepting her release on my face and in my hair. I

was

bathing in her.

I took her through a half dozen orgasms like that until, suddenly, she yelled, pulled her right leg up, and I was holding her up with my hands on her ass.

"CRAMP!" she yelled, reaching back.

I got out from under her skirt and helped her to lie down on the rug. I could see the knot in the back of her leg where the big muscles that pulled her lower leg up gave her legs their interesting shape.

I pushed on her heel, trying to straighten her leg while she reached back.

I finally managed to get her leg and foot out of the way, and then started on that knot. I tried to use my thumbs but it was just too hard so I dug in with my knuckles, leaning forward, letting my weight and gravity do what the muscles in my hands couldn't.

I leaned forward until most of my 165 pounds was concentrated on that knot of muscle. When it relaxed it was so sudden that I lost my balance and fell across her back.

She sighed, a long sigh of relief, and then giggled softly. It turned out the giggle was infectious and in a few seconds we were lying there, me still on top of her, almost collapsed, laughing uncontrollably.

Eventually, I got myself under control and managed to roll off of her. When she looked up, the semen on her face had run and smeared and now had little bits of unidentifiable flotsam stuck to it, accumulated from the rug I suppose.

Her eyes met mine and she smiled.

"I wonder," she said, and the tone was so casual, so conversational, that it was surreal, "if a whore washes her face after a night like this."

"I don't know," I said, struggling to match her tone, "but my whore doesn't."

After a pause I added, "And neither does her pimp."

I managed to get to my feet and then help her up.

"Come on, Margie," I said, smiling, "let's go to bed. It's been a long evening and I'm tired so we'll sleep and then make love in the morning and then we're going to talk about this little kink in you I seem to have exposed."

She blushed prettily.

In the bedroom, I undressed her. I had the surprising thought that I should leave her bra, wet from her drool, on but I got it off of her along with the rest of her clothes.

I kissed her as she sat and peed and then she held and aimed me as I did the same. We brushed our teeth side by side but did not wash our faces.

I kissed her as we snuggled into bed, played with her nipple for a few seconds, and said, "I still want your milk."

Then we went to sleep. I'm not sure which of us was snoring first.