The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

When I was through hyperventilating and convulsing like a lunatic, Mr Santos was still holding me, smiling. “Did you come?” he asked, very pleased with himself.

I didn’t take the extra ten dollars that day, but I took him up on his offer to buy me dinner and that was the beginning of a new chapter in our “business relationship.”

He continued to pay me whenever we got together, but we talked more, he took more time with me, he felt challenged to give me orgasms in unexpected ways. Soon, he was paying for rooms in five-star hotels, where we’d disappear for entire days together, relying on room service for sustenance. He introduced blindfolds, light bondage, and spanking to the list of things we were now doing with each other regularly in a lavish king-sized bed.

“Do you ever eat pussy?” he asked me one afternoon. “I mean, do you ever get asked to do that when you’re out on a calls?”

I looked at him uneasily, not at all pleased that the world of my other tricks was even remotely entering into our time together.

“Do you even know how to eat pussy?”

“Of course I do.”

“You get paid to do that?”

“Sometimes.” I didn’t feel much like discussing it.

“I’d like to see you eat pussy, you know that?”

You and every other trick on earth, I told myself. The last thing I wanted was to bring another girl into our scene, a girl who might prove to be more novel than me, a girl who might walk off with his number in her purse and then I would lose my favorite trick. Mr Santos was now the man I fantasized about when I was home alone in bed. I didn’t think he would leave his wife for me, or anything like that, but I naively considered us lovers. I’d begun to hate the fact that he still paid me.

“What’s that face for?” he said. “You aren’t into pussy?”

“Girls are all right.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a woman – not a girl.”

He immediately piqued my interest. “You mean you have someone in mind?”

“To be honest, there’s a woman I’ve been seeing off and on for years, since before I was married. Occasinally, we get together when our spouses are otherwise detained and we have sex. I told her about you. How much fun you are. How amenable you can be.”

And whose idea was it to make it a threesome, I wondered suspiciously, hers, or his?

“She’ll pay you the same amount I do; you’ll get double your usual fee. It wouldn’t be a question of taking advantage. I would really like to see you eat her pussy. And I think she has an idea of a scene of her own. She’s very willing to pay you,” he repeated. “I don’t think she’s ever paid anyone to do a scene with her. Or to have any kind of sex with her, for that matter. She’s just a regular married woman, but a good friend of mine.”

She sounded harmless enough. But you’d think after my years of turning tricks. I would have known beyond a doubt that people who sound harmless can be the most difficult customers when it’s all said and done.

Still, I agreed to do the three-way. We made an appointment for an afternoon the following week. For some reason, we were meeting in a tacky hotel in midtown – gone was the luxury of the king-sized bed, the crisp white sheets and room service. Everything about the hotel they’d chosen was dingy, seedy, and low class.

Mr Santos had asked me to bring along an outfit that would be suitable for a naughty little girl routine. Even though I’d never gone to Catholic school myself, I had a vintage Catholic schoolgirl uniform that fit me perfectly. I figured Mr Santos would get off on the religion thing so that’s what I packed for my change of clothes.

I’d been getting steadily more into the idea of the three-way as the day approached. Anything that involved the unpredictability of Mr Santos’s lusty libido aroused my own sexual appetites. He was nothing like an average trick. So when I knocked on the hotel room door that afternoon, I was already horny, already sopping wet between my legs. Until Mr Santos let me into the room and introduced me to his woman friend.

Oh my god, I realized in sick horror, it’s Mrs Hamilton.

She’d been my tenth grade sociology teacher. A woman who’d made my life a living hell for an entire year. I was certain it was her. To this day, I don’t know if she recognized me, too. If she did, she never once let on. But I knew it was her. She was simply using a fake name, like a lot of tricks do.

“Call me either ‘Daddy’ or ‘Sir’ today,” Mr Santos was instructing me. “And this is your new stepmother, Louise.”

Louise? They couldn’t come up with anything less corny than Louise?

I had that feeling of panic in my gut that I used to get in my early days of hustling; I wanted to bolt. But then I focused on the money: one thousand dollars cash for a single afternoon’s work. It would be worth it. But I saw immediately that it was going to be just that – work.

Mrs Hamilton had never been an unattractive woman; it was just that she’d always been a mean bitch of a teacher. In my years since high school, she’d managed to stay attractive; she’d taken good care of herself. I figured that if she knew Mr Santos, she must have money, too, and that always helps women stay good-looking. Yet it made me wonder why she’d chosen to teach at all. Perhaps for the sick thrill of tormenting teenagers?

“Louise wants to help you change clothes,” Mr Santos told me. “It’ll give you two a chance to get comfortable with each other. I’m going to run across the street to the liquor store. This trashy hotel doesn’t even supply booze.”

Shit. He was leaving me alone with her. The dreaded moment was starting to look even worse. Not only would I have to get naked for Mrs Hamilton, I would have to be completely alone with her while it happened. No horny Mr Santos around to use as a buffer zone.

When he was gone, she went right into “efficient teacher” mode. “Come here,” she said flatly. “Let’s get you out of those clothes and into something more appropriate.”

She didn’t act like it made her at all nervous to be around a prostitute, to be doing a scene. I wondered if she was anybody’s horny lesbo stepmother in real life. The implications of that thought creeped me out. I had to force myself to keep my mind a blank.

Mrs Hamilton was going through my bag, pulling out my change of clothes. She seemed to recognize the uniform for what it was – something real girls wore in real high schools. “Are you Catholic?” she asked. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I went to public schools.” The sudden rudeness in my tone surprised even me.

She eyed me coolly, taking in that last remark. “Come over here,” she said.

Shit. She was actually making me nervous. But I went over to her. Without hesitating, she began undressing me. “Let me tell you something,” she explained carefully, unbuttoning my shirt with manicured fingers. “While we’re in the confines of this room, while we’re on the clock, so to speak, I have no qualms whatsoever about making it very clear which one of us is on top.” The sound of her words alone felt like a slap. She had my shirt off. She was moving to unfasten my bra then, her fingers were touching the skin on my back, her face was close to mine. I didn’t like it. “If you want to keep talking to me in that rude tone,” she continued, “go right ahead. But consider yourself warned. I’m not afraid of girls like you. I deal with your kind every day.”

My bra was off. My tits were right there in front of her, my nipples shivering to stiff points from the sudden change in temperature. How many times had I bared my tits for strange clients? But this took the cake for strangeness. I felt exposed.

She didn’t touch me, though. She barely even paused to look at my nakedness. She was already on to my tight jeans, unzipping them, tugging them down to my ankles.

I was in that state of half-undressed nervousness when Mr Santos came back to the room, carrying a fifth of gin and a large carton of Tropicana OJ.

Jesus, I wondered, how trashy are we going to get? Where was the top-shelf bourbon, or at the very least, some cheap champagne?

“Well,” he said, regarding us with satisfaction, “we’re certainly progressing here. Anyone want a drink?”

We all did. Mr Santos played bartender while keeping a keen eye on us.

Mrs Hamilton had me completely undressed, except for my panties. Those she seemed to want to take more