Somewhat inappropriate for younger readers. 

Charissa’s slip puddled around her ankles, the silk shimmering in the candlelight. As was so often the case, the John stood awkwardly, practically drooling at the sight of her tawny flesh uncovered for the first time. Her own eyes were empty as she stepped over the discarded lingerie and sashayed seductively closer on her six-inch stilettos. Sliding her arms around his neck, she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his head back with a gentle tug. The man’s shirt collar was grimy, a detail that would have made her gag, once upon a time. Now, though, she simply closed her eyes and set to work, her full lips following the curve of his neck.

The salt of his sweat was disagreeably strong, a queasy reminder of the time she ate oysters with a rich customer who thought he was spoiling her. If only they knew. While her mind wandered, her fingers got down to business, simultaneously disrobing him and probing his unpleasantly clammy skin. She raked her well-manicured nails down his chest, not quite hard enough to draw blood.

“Do ya like that hunny?” She drawled in her husky country tones, as her hand slid to his belt and began to unbuckle.

He panted heavily, and she could feel him nodding in assent as he clumsily tried to assist her in the removal of his trousers. They always did that, she thought, got in their own way. If they couldn’t take control they should just relinquish it completely, make it easier on both of them. She batted his hands away gently and managed to remove the last articles of clothing without further ‘help’.

He pulled away from her then and stood before her grinning, proud of his unsightly body and undersized member. If self-delusion were currency he was her richest today by far.

“You know what I want, whore.” He gestured to the floor with a pudgy hand, the filth under his nails catching her eye and making her groan with anything but pleasure, though she disguised it well. Still, if she got this right then maybe he would be satisfied, too tired for the other.

With all the gracefulness of an ex-dancer, she dropped to her knees at his feet, grabbed the backs of his fleshy thighs and pulled him closer. A flick of her loose blonde curls moved them over her shoulder out of the way, as she buried her face in his crotch, employing every trick she had ever learned: with tongue and teeth; lips and fingers. If there was no risk of gagging from the size of him, the same couldn’t be said for the taste, rancid and unclean as he was.

When she felt his body stiffen and the hot spurt of liquid on her tongue she cheered inwardly but too soon. Rough hands pulled her to her feet and a sweat streaked face nuzzled her neck – a perfunctory effort at reciprocation that was lost on her. She pulled back gently, disengaging his greedy hand from her waist, but he wasn’t done with her yet. Not by a long shot.

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