by Liv Bennett
“Okay.”
“Are you on the pill or using another birth control method?”
“No.” It seems like all my answers to his questions will be negative.
He types something on the computer. “Are you in a relationship?”
I don’t know how to answer that one. Does the contract I have with Michael count as one?
“To be more specific, do you have a man with whom you have sex on a more or less regular basis,” he asks without looking at me, and I’m glad for that because his questions aren’t exactly the easy ones.
“No.” Huh, another no.
“Good. How many sexual partners have you had?”
“I don’t see why it’s relevant to my experience as a client here.” Particularly when I’m not even sure if I’ll use their services.
“These questions are prepared by my employees. They want to know their clients before bedding them. I guess that’s not too much to ask considering the nature of our business. Your answers will be registered in the database under an alias for my employees to review. Only those interested in your looks and answers will appear on the list of potential partners for you.”
“Does that mean I won’t get to pick any man I want?”
“That’s right. Now, where was I?”
“Three men. I slept with three men.” That number would label me as a slut in my aunt’s eyes, but here, I guess I’ll be perceived as virginal.
Mr. Ice doesn’t show any reaction hinting at his perception of me though. His face muscles are so rigid, they don’t even move except for when he speaks. How would he look while having sex? Likely with the same indifferent, robot-like look on his face, even while he hits the heights of orgasm. A sudden urge of laughter makes me snort at the thought of him sweaty and breathless, but his damn lips remain pursed as if he’s reading politics in the Los Angeles Times.
He tears his eyes from the screen to glance at me, his eyebrows rising. Finally, a reaction. “When was the last time you had sex?”
I look away, hardly stifling the laughter. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice coming out high-pitched with my laughter. I bet he thinks I’m laughing because his questions are making me uncomfortable. That thought is better than the real reason behind my laughter, namely seeing his robotic face while climaxing.
I try to distract myself, while trying to remember the exact date of my last sexual encounter. It was when I was in New York with a guy I met in a bar. I don’t even remember the guy’s name, but at least I remember using condoms for the two times I let him fuck me. “About nine months ago.”
He turns his solid gaze back to his computer, his face not revealing any emotion. I want to slap his face just to get some reaction out of him.
I examine his face harder to figure out what he’s thinking, but it’s not an easy task because I find myself distracted by his good looks, the long blond lashes framing his blue eyes, the strong jaw, thick, pursed lips, and the perfect and spotless pale skin. His shoulder-length, wavy hair is full and shines like in shampoo commercials. He’s like a painting, beautiful to perfection but motionless. The pink shades on his cheeks make me wonder if he has dimples, but what good would it do to have dimples if he never reveals them along with a smile.
“What kind of sex do you enjoy?” he asks, pulling me out of my silent reverie. “Vaginal, anal, oral? How about sex toys or orgies?”
I can’t believe he can ask all those below-the-waist questions so casually as if he’s talking about the weather. Perhaps the lack of reaction in his demeanor is what’s called for in this situation. Just like my gynecologist keeps a straight face when she’s fingering me or lowers her head down to between my legs to check me. If that’s the case with Mr. Ice, I should praise him for his professionalism rather than be making fun of him.
What kind of sex do I enjoy? Not a very hard question. “Vaginal, for sure.” Is there any woman who doesn’t enjoy it, save for health reasons? “I don’t do anal. At all. I like oral,” I say, feeling heat spreading over my body.
“On you or…”
“Both.” More heat radiates over my face and also down to my pelvis region. Strange how talking about sex, even with an emotionless guy like Mr. Ice, can awaken my sexual desire.
“Regular fellatio or can you do deep-throating too?”
Fellatio? I roll my eyes, unable to look at him, while I feel his gaze on my face. “Yeah, deep throating, too. But it has been a while. I’m not sure how my gag reflex is doing at the moment.” It shouldn’t matter, right? I’m the client here. The skillfulness of the men working as gigolos here should matter more than my gag reflex. But no, I am interrogated as if I’m being interviewed for a prostitute opening. No pun intended.
He nods again nonchalantly like our talk is the most ordinary talk two strangers can have. Yeah, the weather is a bit windy today, don’t you think?
“Sex toys?”
“Only dildos,” I reply. “I bet you want to know about the size of my favorite dildo, too.” I smile as mischievously as possible to draw a reaction out of him.
“That was my next question. What size?”
My smile spreads, and I cover my mouth to hide it. “Ten inches.”
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. My biggest toy is seven inches, but what’s the deal if I tell him an over-the-top number? Will his ego be wounded to know that we women like it bigger? Will his world shudder with the fact that the size-doesn’t-matter cliche is a big, fat lie produced by male magazines to keep their male readers’ egos to the highest level? Not sorry to burst your bubble, hun.
I wonder how big his is. You never know with men. Some very tall, handsome men, like the last guy I had sex with, have only the length of my middle finger, and some men with an unusual body shape and average height have close to nine inches. So, there’s no way of telling how big Mr. Ice’ is without directly looking at it. When he’s hard.
His skin is light golden and spotless, making me wonder how his penis looks. Must be light-colored as well, with a pink head. That thought makes my wetness grow by the second, and I wonder if he’s also available on the menu.
I find myself gazing at his stomach beneath his shirt, the last point that’s not concealed by the desk he’s sitting behind, when I hear him clear his throat. Ooops. I snap my eyes back to his face, hoping my shame for being caught while analyzing his body won’t show on my face.
“How often do you masturbate?” he asks.
“Do you have more absurd questions to ask? Because I’d prefer answering them on a piece of paper than directly to you.”
“I’m sorry. Did I offend you in any way? This is the usual procedure that I conduct with each new client. The main point with this interview is to get to know you better so we can accommodate your needs the best way possible. Reading your answers on a piece of paper won’t give me half the information I’m getting by having you answer my questions directly to me.”
“All right. Once a day, sometimes twice.”
“The frequency of your masturbation?” he asks.
I nod, trying to avoid his gaze. I haven’t shared that information even with my ex, while we were together.
“Does it go up to four or five times?”
“Yes.”
“How often does that happen?”
I laugh again, shaking my head. “Are you sure this information you’re collecting is going to be kept confidential? Because not even my gynecologist knows so much about me, even though she has seen my private parts.”
“We’ll come to that, too. And, yes, Miss Doheny, the information will be confidential. Only my men and I will have access to it. So, will you please answer my question?”
He’ll come to what? Is he going to examine my vagina too? I shouldn’t be surprised after those questions. But there’s no way I’ll let him see whatever I have beneath my dress.
Speaking of dress, I glance down at the skirt of my dress and notice it’s way past my usual mid-thigh level and bordering close to my panties. Nonch
alantly, I shift in my seat to pull its hem down, while trying to remember his last question. “It happens every once in a while, but mostly when I’m closer to my menstruation or just past having it.”
“Do you watch porn? If yes, what kind of porn?”
“Yes, I do. But, not often. It’s mostly what you’ll call soft porn with only a man and a woman having vaginal and oral sex.”
“Do you have special interest in pegging?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“That’s fucking a man’s anus with a strap-on dildo.”
I cringe. “Eww, no. Not interested at all.” Is there any woman who might like it?
A knock on the door makes him stop shooting more questions, and a beautiful Asian woman, possibly in her thirties, enters with a white box in her hands. “Hello,” she says to both Mr. Ice and me and sets the box on his table, while pulling a chair beside me to sit on. She holds my arm and sticks a needle so gently I wouldn’t have noticed it, had I not been looking. But, a rush of pain hits my arm when she starts filling small tubes with my blood. Hell, I’d rather have a dozen inappropriate questions by Mr. Ice than this pain.
“Hasn’t Dr. Smith arrived yet?” Mr. Ice asks.
“No, sir. He called in sick,” the nurse answers.
“Among all the employees, he has to call in sick,” he says. Oh my god, was that a joke? Has he just made a joke? “That means, Miss Doheny, you’re saved from a medical checkup for today.”
Shall I be happy about that?
“Which means we will not be able to add you to our database yet,” Mr. Ice continues.
“I can live with that.”
“Maybe you can, but I promised to Mr. Hawkins to give you a taste of our services. But, you can’t have sex with any of my employees without the medical checkup and test results. That puts me in a difficult situation with Mr. Hawkins.”
I try to glance at the nurse with my peripheral vision to see if she’s giving me judgmental looks. She must be thinking what a whore I must be for coming to a place like this, but she’s not even looking at my direction, instead, she busies herself with the tubes, and leaves us alone in a matter of seconds.
“That’s okay. I don’t have to have … sex with anyone today.”
“No, I can’t accept that. This problem might change Mr. Hawkins’ opinion about paying for our services. Let me think for a second,” he says and cups his chin between his thumb and index finger. His expression softens as his gaze looks far away, his mind deep in thoughts, making me think, or even hope, he’s not as harsh as he’s presenting himself to be in his private life. Maybe he has a cat at home, helps out at the food shelter, or has a sick mother whom he visits frequently.
He opens his mouth and rubs his lips together to moist them, taking me away from my assumption about his personality. “I think we can still give you a glimpse of what you can experience at our establishment.”
He grabs his phone to place a call and orders someone named JJ Triple X to his room. I squeeze my arm in pain to swipe away the laughter that’s coming upon hearing the name. JJ Triple X. It’s obviously not his real name, but why the hell would someone choose that name as an alias?
Not a minute passes before a knock on the door makes my head turn, and a gorgeous man appears at the doorway. A tiny voice in my head is whispering to me that I should be mad at Dr. Smith for not showing up at his work today.
6 - The Sex Bomb
Tall figure. Straight, brown hair reaching down to his ears. Shimmering honey-colored eyes. Sun-kissed skin covering firm muscles. And, yes, no shirt concealing those pecs and abs. Only a pair of blue jeans wrapping up his long legs. That’s what the guy who opens the door looks like, and I think I’m beginning to like this place. If all the men are going around shirtless, I’ll even consider moving in here.
Unlike Mr. Ice, this man is radiating warmth and easiness. His stunning looks aside, I can easily picture myself being friends with him. Friends with benefits, that is.
“Well, hello,” he says, bypassing the niceties with Mr. Ice, and moves toward me. “I’m JJ Triple X, and I’ll be at your service this afternoon.”
I gaze at my hand getting lost between his and shiver when his lips leave a moist kiss on my knuckles, while one of his hands moves down and brushes my forearm. Tickles spread all around my arm, making goose bumps multiply.
I smile. It’s impossible not to smile while looking at the contagious grin on his face. “Hi, I am—”
Mr. Ice cuts me off. “Don’t share your real name.”
“Oh,” I murmur.
“I’ll call you Beauty in White until you pick a name for yourself. And, you can call me JJ.” JJ lifts my hand above my head and makes me spin around, while judging me appreciatively with his hot gaze. “A beauty, indeed.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling dizzy with the spin and the tiny distance between us.
“We don’t have her medical reports yet. That means no action for today. Condoms won’t protect you or her against genital herpes. Do you understand, JJ?” Mr. Ice warns.
“What a bummer.” JJ pulls me gently toward him, letting our bodies crush into each other, and my body turns into a high-alert mode at the feeling of his hot skin against mine. “We can still have fun together, right?” He stares down at me with enigmatic eyes, an eyebrow raised playfully, and my sex clenches in response. Oh, he’s a professional all right, for turning me on without even kissing me.
“Let the fun begin.” He heads toward the door, and I have no option but to follow him as his arm is wrapped around my waist.
“Wait. I’m not sure what this is supposed to be.” I manage to tear my gaze away from JJ and turn to Mr. Ice. “I just came here to check out the place.”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do, sexy,” JJ answers.
Mr. Ice nods. “You won’t do anything you don’t want. You’re the client. Your comfort and pleasure are our responsibility. Go, enjoy a few hours with JJ in one of our luxurious suites. Order whatever you feel like eating and drinking. Everything is on the house on your first day at Pleasure Extraordinaire.”
I should give it a try. I should give it a try. How many times in my life will I get a chance to have a day at such a posh place? Likely, this is the only time. “Nothing will happen without my wish?”
“Absolutely,” JJ says. “You’ll be my queen for the afternoon.”
“No action,” Mr. Ice reminds us, and I roll my eyes. I may have had a one-night stand with a random guy but to my defense, I was drunk. So there’s no way I’m going to let any cock inside my body with the clear head that I’m sporting right now. Or not?
“Follow me, my queen.” JJ pulls my hand and ushers me into the corridor. Nick stands and nods at me, wishing me a wonderful afternoon. JJ rubs the back of my hand with his thumb as we enter an elevator. “You’ll have an unforgettable afternoon with me. It’s a pity we can’t enjoy each other fully, though.” His scorching eyes leave me light-headed as we press our backs against the wall, and I figure I might not need alcohol to get drunk.
He leads me into a suite that’s larger than my apartment and gestures at the queen-size bed in the middle of the room. It has dark-velvet bed covers, matching the armchairs and sofa across from it.
“You go lie down, and I’ll order lunch for us,” JJ says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well then, I’ll order some hors d’oeuvres and champagne.”
While he gives our orders on the phone, I toss my handbag on the sofa and throw myself to the bed. The soft mattress pulls me in, helping my tense muscles relax. I can’t let go fully though, because JJ is watching me with lustful eyes. Does he really find me attractive, or is this just a show to make me, as his client, feel special and open up easily to him?
After the phone call, he moves toward the bed, each step cautious, each movement precise. I sit up straight and pull my legs together, straightening my short skirt over my thighs without much success.
Instead of sitting on the bed beside me, JJ kneels down in front of me on the floor, and grabs my foot, taking off my shoe.
“You have beautiful legs,” he says while running his fingers on my toes.
“I don’t feel comfortable when you shower me with compliments,” I blurt out.
“Why? Do you think I’m lying?”
I don’t reply and let my silence answer his question.
“Oh, girl. Then, you haven’t understood the main criteria behind this enterprise. The clients don’t pick us. We, men, pick our clients.”
“Is that true? How could you pick me? You didn’t even see me.”
“I saw you through cameras, when you entered the building. I liked your looks instantly. You made my cock stir when you tried to pull down your skirt while you were getting out of the car, and if I may be so blatant, I’m still hard.”
I don’t dare to look down below his waist to test whether what he’s saying is correct. Not yet. “Weren’t there any other men interested in me?”
“Who cares about others? I was the first to press the button, and I’m here with you right now. That’s all it counts.”
“There’s a button?”
“There’s always a button,” he says, smiling mischievously, making me wonder whether we’re talking about the same button.
“How does that work?”
“The permanent ones who live here have access to the camera recordings and get alerts when a client arrives at the mansion. Those who like the guest press a button. Sometimes the first one gets the guest. Other times, the one with higher ratings gets lucky. I’d get you anyway. I’m one of the highest-ranking permanents here. So tell me, do you find me attractive?”
I grin, most likely blushing, and bite my lower lip. “I don’t believe there exists a woman who wouldn’t find you attractive.”
“Oh, nice.” His hand move up to my knee, then my thigh, but I stop him, grabbing his hand, before he can go any further. “I was just going to get rid of your nylons to massage your feet. Would you let me?”
