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I’m in Los Angeles for an overnight stay in the middle of a two-week long business trip. There are hundreds of reasons why I love L.A., not the least of which is its high-quality escorts. As the porn capitol of the world, the misnamed City of Angels has no shortage of sex workers plying their trade. You can get whatever kind of girl you want—any hair color, any attitude, any race—with nothing more than a phone call to the right person. And I know all the numbers by heart. I call one of my favorite companies and arrange for a specific type of girl to come to my door in exactly thirty minutes, then I open a bottle of $200 merlot to let it breathe and sit back and allow my excitement build.
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Exactly thirty minutes later there is a series of hard knocks on my hotel room door. I go to answer it, a glass of wine already in hand. Just before I grasp the handle there comes another series of knocks. Harder than the first one.
“Open up already,” says a husky, incredibly sexy female voice from the other side. Impatient, demanding, used to being in charge. Exactly what I ordered up. My entire body tingles with anticipation.
I open the door and she steps in and grabs the glass of wine out of my hand and pushes past me before I even have a chance to get a good look at her from the front. But the back is shaping up beautifully. Straight, jet black hair hanging down beneath her shoulders. Short black dress hugging her voluptuous curves perfectly, ending just above her knees, accentuating her round ass perfectly. Gorgeous legs, toned to perfection, not too skinny, not to muscular. Calves you just wanted to take a bite out of. The same height as me in her 2-inch heels. My dick is already rock-hard just from looking at her and all I can see is her backside. This is going to be a great night.
She drains the glass of wine and pours herself another. She glances over her shoulder for just a moment but still doesn’t turn towards me. It’s obvious she’s torturing me, making me wait, playing her game. And I’m loving every second of it.
She finishes the second glass and finally turns to face me. I can only stare, barely able to catch my breath let alone speak.
“From the look on your face I take it you like what you see,” she says, her voice slightly mocking.
I nod and take her in. Big brown eyes with a naughty edge to them, dark blue eye shadow, full nose; not big, not small, lips painted bright red. One corner of her mouth is turned up in a little smirk. She looks at me with a hint of disdain, as though she knows she’s better than me. As if I’m her little plaything. As if she’s running the show. Which she is.
And her tits, oh my god. Large but not unnatural, they hang perfectly from her frame. Practically hanging out of her black dress, they were things of beauty; if not real, than an absolutely perfect augmentation.
“Oh, you like these, do you?” she says, grabbing her tits with and pushing them together. She smacks them, makes them bounce. Then does it again. And again, laughing at my reaction. Nipples like pencil erasers poke through the material, mocking me.
And then a tit slips out of her top. Just one. I almost cream my pants. This absolutely slays me, irrationally turning me on in ways I can’t quantify. I shiver, take a deep breath, force myself to calm down.
“You’re one jumpy little fucker, aren’t you?” she says. “What is this, your first time or something?”
“It sure feels like it,” I say, hoping my self-depreciating manner will somehow bring my excitement down a notch. But no such luck. Nothing short of an ice-cold shower could have that effect on me, and the way I was feeling tonight I doubt even that would do the trick.
“Well, you’re in luck,” she says as she takes a step towards me, her eyes sizing me up with deadly seriousness, like a lion eyeing a wounded zebra. “Because I’m a pro. And by the end of the night, you’ll be one too.” Another couple of steps and now she’s within arm’s length. “And there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you cum until I’m damn well good and ready for it. Got that, mister?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Mistress,” she says. “You call me mistress.”
“Yes, mistress,” I say.
She is nearly standing on top of me, her tits pressing up against my chest. We are face to face, almost exactly the same height. She eyes me up and down, inspecting me like a piece of meat.
“So, you like a woman who takes charge, do you?” she says.
I nod my head and lick my lips. I don’t trust myself to speak.
