I sighed softly. Jerome heard me and went on sucking with renewed fervor, apparently accepting it as a compliment to his own prowess. And rightly so, of course, considering my state of clitoral excitation, surely a tribute to the talent and technique of my dear old adoring and devoted cuntlapper. I sighed again, strictly for his benefit this time, sighing long and loud in response to the hot rasp of his tongue, happily aware of my approaching orgasm. True, I might have been even happier if his cheeks felt less scratchy to my clamped thighs. If his hands were smoother and daintier. The touch of his lips more delicate. If the odor in my flaring nostrils had a tinge of perfumed femininity, the scent of woman, ah yes, the lesbian thing, the smell of woman immersed in woman; and wasn't it odd that I should be feeling so little guilt?
Guilty or not, though, I had a definite block against yielding completely, even in these private fantasies of mine. I refused to bow down like the rest and let that big dark arrogant Pilar bitch boss me around. And when Jerome slipped into a haze again, it was to the other one that I turned for solace, the tall creature in the white gown. Only I saw her naked now, naked and amorous, beckoning me into her embrace. Blond on blond tonight! Such a classically sculptured face, so lovely even in the midst of its obscene invitation. Jut-nippled breasts, utterly enchanting. Slender waist curving in and out to deliciously dilating hips. And that flawless length of leg, shapely to the last seductive contour. A wealth of nudity shod in gold, appropriately enough, all perched upon the sexiest of shimmering golden high heels, a sex-image to drive this poor bewitched tourist lady to distraction!
No wonder the torrent stuck in a rush; who could drift with the tide now? Too soon, too soon, the climax already?, dammit, I hadn't even got close to her cunt yet! And besides, why was that bitch still there, the dark bitch with the luminous skin-sheen? Couldn't she keep her bossy nose out of my orgasm? What a time to be throwing kisses! And look at her, just look at the insolent bitch, smiling and winking and licking her lewdly voluptuous lips with that lesbian tongue of hers.
For the sake of peace and harmony, I remained prudently rational enough to make all the right sounds and motions, giving Jerome his due. Pleased with himself, the old darling took only a few minutes to wash up and fall asleep, obviously tickled pink to be starting our Mexican holiday on such a propitious note. Which left me exhausted but still somewhat unsettled, too jittery to drop off in the aftermath of that nerve-wracking climax. So I spent the next quarter-hour tossing restlessly and trying to calm myself down.
All in vain, though. The bedsheets felt wrinkled, the mattress developed lumps, the pillow turned stiff under my head no matter how many times I fluffed it up. Only it wasn't the sheets or the mattress or the pillow that kept me awake, nor was it even that silly orgasm with its candid camera snapshot of the stripper's teasing tongue; no, there was another reason why I couldn't sleep. A reason named Zoe! My own personal reason for this Tijuana jaunt. Zoe. Was I really prepared to face her? Prepared to brave the lioness in her den? I had figured on it, of course, but now there were certain doubts beginning to undermine my resolute stand. All because of that strip-show tonight, those naked lesbians!, wasn't it weird the way I had reacted td the sexy spectacle? The way I was still reacting, really, worried all over again about my imminent and highly imperative clash with the woman whose shadow had darkened my past.
My past; oh shit, why open that can of worms? I didn't even want to think about it. But at this point I pretty much had to; anyway, maybe it would do me good to get the whole mixed-up mess straightened out in my mind. And as long as sleep seemed so impossible…
About my past, funny thing, or pathetic, perhaps?, it dated back only to the time when I first met Zoe. Even though my life hadn't exactly been angelic previous to that! As a matter of fact, I was a professional prostitute then, a whore, to put it bluntly, and a damn fine one, with no childish qualms of conscience, no maudlin self-pity to puncture my pride. My sense of morality didn't relate to sin and such, it was more oriented to the old Puritan work-ethic, value given for value received, a good day's work for a good day's pay. And considering the kind of pay I got for just an hour or two of my services, well, it seemed no more than fair to shake my ass and assure the paying client of complete satisfaction. Then too, I had the best of natural assets for a kid in my profession, a genuinely beautiful face and body. All of which made me a pretty successful call girl, a lovely young blonde very much in demand.
I had begun whoring just to get through college, but formal education palled after a while and eventually became a bore. I soon lost interest and dropped out. So my way of life settled into a comfortable groove, quite pleasant except for one small but tiresome drawback. Loneliness. Oh, I was one lonely kid, all right. Business was great and I knew plenty of paying Johns, naturally, but they didn't count as friends. And the only fellows I knew socially just weren't nice enough. I had dropped college boys right along with college, and the more mature guys all seemed too interested in exploiting my talents as a hooker, prospective pimps, really, and who needed them? I had a good solid connection with a high-class madam; why should I give a rakeoff to some lousy pimp? But I was lonely as hell just the same, ripe and ready for a real honest-to-goodness friend. Ripe and ready to go gay, probably, although the idea of such a liaison never even occurred to me.
Odd about that, the way I simply avoided girls. I'd made friends with a few other hookers by then and could easily have attempted a closer relationship with one or another. Not a gay relationship, of course, since I considered myself strictly a man's woman and had no use for lesbians. But even aside from that angle, somehow the friendship of a female wasn't what I wanted, it just didn't seem like the cure for my kind of loneliness.
Anyway, I was ripe and ready for something. It got so bad sometimes that I'd actually sit and wait for my phone to ring, glad of the business but even gladder to have a human companion for a little while. And that was when Zoe came along. Almost as though fate had timed her entry into my life!
Chapter 4
We met on a double call-date. The two men were out-of-towners but not the noisy conventioneer type, and each had a separate bedroom in the hotel suite. During the preliminary get-together in the sitting room there was no hint of group sex, and I paid only scant attention to the other hooker. Zoe was a silver-blonde with the tawny skin coloration of a brunette; nearing thirty, she had been in the racket a long time, an experienced whore, almost an old pro. Or so she managed to convey to me later on. She was putting on weight but still appeared pretty enough, although somewhat coarse-featured. Coarse-mannered, too, as I found out shortly. A half-hour in privacy with my client left him exhausted, and I slipped into bra and panties to head for the bathroom and a quick wash in case he worked up energy for a second round of fun. As it turned out, though, Zoe was already ahead of me. Surprise!
Some surprise. The door wasn't even completely shut; I just touched the knob and pushed and walked in. And there she was, stark naked, parked on the can. I froze in the doorway, pretty revolted by the sight but too flustered to make a move. She smiled then, and even her voice sounded coarse: