My Personal Whore

Thank you again for reading about my beautiful Asian lady and our adventures together. Even though I don't know her real name as yet, I am smitten with her. In this, the third chapter, things begin to evolve a little change ...

As ever, all constructive comments very welcome.

****

Another week, thinking about her, all the time.

Especially in bed, hard, tissue in hand.

Fantasising, imagining, spurting.

My personal whore.

-- -- -- --

Wednesday, something of a surprise.

Evening business meeting, swish restaurant.

Down on the quay, lovely spot.

A along from the 'Pleasure Parlour', a minute's walk.

Dining with a lady, wealthy and formidable.

Taking the train, meeting her at the venue.

Strolling down the familiar street, seeing the five steps.

Glancing at the door, willing it to open.

By her.

Not a chance, all quiet, walking on.

-- -- -- --

Pleasant evening, taxi for the lady, a stroll for the train.

Breath of fresh air.

Reaching end of the street, slowing.

Feeling bold.

Could I?

No way, I couldn't.

Besides, not enough cash, that settles it.

Looking ahead, a hole-in-the-wall, an oasis.

-- -- -- --

Almost skipping up the steps.

Decent red wine, guaranteed to loosen inhibitions.

Tripping on the musty stairs, glancing at the time.

Meeting guy leaving reception, eyes down.

Don't meet anyone I know.

Apart from her.

Another receptionist, younger, smiling.

Ignoring matrix of faces, asking for her.

Checking the system, shaking her head.

Crushing disappointment, then worse.

No longer with the Parlour, last Saturday.

Last Saturday?

Licking her to heaven.

Desperation, asking questions, pleading.

Looking at the screen, then around, pencil, figures.

Pushing paper towards me, taking, grasping, thanking.

-- -- -- --

Streets seeming quiet, station not far.

Phone in one hand, unread paper in the other.

Glancing down, eleven digits, memorising.

Standing on platform, almost deserted.

Train in ten minutes, hesitating.

Thinking of possibilities, would she answer?

Don't know her name, her real name.

Won't recognise my voice, surely.

Looking up at the bay roof, shaking head.

Hopeless.

What would I say?

Only one way to find out.

-- -- -- --

Waiting, listening, praying, eyes closed.

Ringing on and on, too long.

Give it up, take it on the chin, lost her.

No voice-mail, no answer.

Lowering from ear, fingertip looking for cancel.

A click ... a voice, a woman.

Adrenaline flooding, sudden exultation.

"Hello, who's that?"

Starting to bumble, speaking quickly, incoherent.

"Remember me? You're my personal whore."

A second click, dead line.

-- -- -- --

On the train, moving out of the station.

Mind in turmoil, embarrassment, crushed.

Staring through the window, not seeing.

Picturing her, phone in hand.

Inspiration, her mobile number!

Text her, why not?

Hesitating, no, not now, leave it.

Wrong impression, stalking, shaking head.

Tomorrow is better, following day maybe.

Time to think what to write.

-- -- -- --

Friday lunchtime, pondering.

Have to text her, I just have to.

Fed up with pressing delete, endless false starts.

Keep it simple, non-confrontational, relaxed.

Reading fine at last, heart beating like a drum, sending.

"Please can I see you again? Frank"

-- -- -- --

Driving home, the end of the week, at last.

Parking up, a sound, a text, could it be?

Heart in mouth.

Oh please ...

"The Black Pearl, tomorrow at three. Wait for me."

-- -- -- --

Didn't sleep a wink, couldn't.

Thinking about her voice.

Looking the place up, once a provincial theatre.

Now a humble strip joint.

Arriving early, wandering around, killing time.

Huge bouncer, paying for entry, short queue.

Neon lit darkness, damp, end of the corridor, entering.

The stage, curtains down, rows and rows of seats.

Surprised, half-full, spread out, all blokes, all ages.

Taking seat in second row, central.

Crackling music, safety curtain rises.

A single wooden chair, centre stage.

-- -- -- --

Ten minutes, two artistes been and gone, forgettable.

Bored, going through the motions.

Speed the essence, parade, kit off, flash of pussy, gone.

Rustling of a patron opening packet, crunching.

Wondering when, and if ...

Appearing from the side, stopping breathing.

Patrons, murmurs of appreciation.

Hair loose, flowing.

Blouse, wrap-around miniskirt, fabulous legs in black.

Stepping easily to the chair, spotlight following.

Lifting a stiletto heel, gazing about the auditorium.

Unsmiling, seemingly searching.

Raising a finger, eyes meeting at last.

Just the merest hint of a smile.

-- -- -- --

Style and beauty, erotic in the extreme.

Those fingers, could make buttering bread look sexy.

Slipping the buttons, black bra, cleavage full.

Turning, draping blouse over chair, stockings with seams.

Unwrapping skirt, spinning around as it falls.

Suspender belt around waist, holding.

G-string protecting modesty.

Reaching behind, unclipping, holding breath ... yes!

Parading, side to side, turning, stopping to lean forward.

Hanging, pure perfection.

Stepping forward to front of stage, fingers on G-string tie.

Staring into her eyes, reciprocation, a smile.

Lifting garment with a hand, footlight focused.

Leaning forward, swinging, releasing.

G-string rising, falling, caught by a hand.

My hand

-- -- -- --

Waiting in the side street, stage door.

Reflections of her act playing in my mind.

Holding the audience in her hand.

Just as they fantasised she would.

A mesmerising performance, stunning.

The two artistes leaving, another venue, who cares.

Dusk descending, a bare light flickering.

Hearing the church clock strike six.

Heart jumping, door opening, at last.

"I knew you would wait for your personal whore."

-- -- -- --

Dinner, suggestion actively welcomed.

Strolling along the quay, arm linked in mine.

Not saying much, just enjoying her presence.

An Italian, welcoming, warm and atmospheric.

Wine helping tension disperse, giggling like children.

Chatting generally, not wishing to pry.

A question, would I give an honest answer.

Nodding, wondering what is to come.

Reflecting before speaking.

"Why did you choose me from the matrix?"

-- -- -- --

Declining dessert, replete, happy.

Requesting account, lingering over wine.

Hand outstretched, resting on mine.

Eyes engaging, shining, a smile.

Not sure what to say, remaining silent.

Leaning forward to whisper, breathing.

Another question, as before.

"Is there someone waiting for you at home?"

Shaking my head with a smile.

Looking deeply into my eyes, searching for honesty.

Pausing.

"Take your personal whore to your bed."