This story is fiction and none of the events and characters described refer to real events, people or Corporations. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.
It was five to eight when the doorbell rang. The date had been for eight and by quarter to Roz had convinced herself Simon would change his mind, would not appear. "Dignity" she said, stopping herself running along the hallway. In an emotional moment thoughts can reach warp speed and the few second it took to reach the front door were enough for all the doubts, all the panics of the last week and a half to rerun. she was going to give this man the best he had ever had, the best she had given anybody. And what then. By doing what she planned she emphasised that her income was made by doing such things for men who paid. He made it clear he was not the type of man who paid. Maybe she could do what he wanted, give herself, but then what. She was still a prostitute and there was no guarantee that he was not just playing a game as Trish had suggested.
Simon brought wine and flowers, which lay on the step when Roz opened the door. He was getting something else from the car, a large box which, when he handed it to her was not heavy.
"Can I open it?" she asked after leading him into the house. " Listen to me. Why do you make me behave like a kid?"
"I didn't mean for you to leave it in the box. And I don't, if you want to behave like a kid....."
"You do. Its my house, don't argue." She tore at the wrapping, pulled the cardboard box open and lifted out an art deco vase. "Its beautiful." she turned the vase over. "Simon! Its a Clarice Cliff. Do you know how much these cost now?" He laughed. She hugged him and kissed his cheek, touching the place she had kissed as she backed away.
The meal Rosalind had prepared was good, she had mastered all the useful social skills while married to a wealthy businessman. Simon dealt with Trish's unexpected visit with his usual casual charm. Conversation flowed easily with no awkward silences and as the clock approached midnight Roz suggested bed.
"I though you might have some catching up to do."
"I'm enjoying what we are doing." Simon had seen the guardedness that came quickly to her eyes after she had spontaneously thanked him for the gift. He was sure that hard shell was brittle and wanted to smash it, get inside instead of glimpsing the real person only when a crack appeared. The irony was that this prostitute, this woman who sold sex for money was one of the few he had met in recent years who had shown little interest in how much he was worth. Now he was afraid that in the bedroom she would reinforce the shell, start being a prostitute again, which was the ultimate turn - off. He allowed himself to be led upstairs.
She started with a massage, expertly rubbing warm, scented oil into his body, occasionally letting a breast lie momentarily on his back or chest, straddling him to work on the broad shoulders and brushing his buttocks with her pubic hair or resting her weight on them so that he felt the warm moistness of her. Turning him over she found there had been no reaction. Abandoning the massage oil she became more direct. The tip of her tongue left a snail - trail of saliva as it traversed his thigh, crept through the valley of his groin and hunted along the flaccid stem of his penis.
"Rosalind please stop. I can't do this. We were having a good time."
"You hate me don't you? I know you like me but its what I do. It gives you a real problem."
"It isn't that. But I'm - twenty years ago if you showed me the hole in a doughnut I could get a hard on. Now? I need an emotional connection. Kiss me. Start from the beginning. Or let me lead you."
The alarm bells rang. She was already in way too deep with this man. Moving quickly she straddled his shoulders, pinning him, the mound of her womanhood only inches from his face. "If you want to kiss me so much I have other lips." He could not avoid seeing. The large outer labia were red, swollen, and slightly open like the crown of a ripe pomegranate, ancient symbol of fertility, revealing the soft, moist interior. She felt the signs his reaction and raised arms behind her head to lift and emphasise her breasts.
"What's that?" He twisted to free one arm and reached up to touch an angry bruise.
" Nothing." Oh shit, she cursed herself I've spoiled it again, just when I was getting through.
"Rosalind, That's a bad bruise. Its horrible. Somebody's really hurt you. And don't tell me you banged it on the corner of a desk. That is deliberate."
"Someone got a bit over enthusiastic. It happens. Don't worry about me."
Deflated, she had let him sit up and take control of the situation. He bent to kiss the damaged tissue. "Don't worry? OK, I can go away and not worry if you like. And when I get a message to say which hospital you're in I'll just think its sad but you're just somebody I met a couple of times, a tart, you never meant anything. You think I'm here because I'm stuck for arm candy? Bimbos are ten a penny, wide eyed and breathless, drooling over a gold card. They're all prostitutes of course. They drop it into the conversation very casually of course. They've seen a fabulous dress by Stella McCartney or somebody, then the price and how they wish they could afford it. And no matter how pretty or young the girl is you feel sleazy afterwards, like a dirty old man who gives children sweets and then exposes himself to them. You're honest at least, but you're still a prostitute in the bedroom. And if that's how it has to be, I'd rather stay downstairs and be a friend. I enjoy your company. Is that so hard to understand."
"You shit. Why are you such a nice person. Do you know how it makes me feel? No? Like a woman you bastard. Men don't treat me like that, they wank inside my body. When you are nice it hurts, if you treated me like something nasty on your shoe I can handle that, I've trained myself." Rosalind leaned forward and kissed him fully, letting herself flow into the meeting of lips, letting their tongues tease each other, feeling tears rise as the small, sensible voice that protected her whispered that she was a fool, that it could not be, that she had let down her guard and would be punished. She was arguing with the small voice, saying she could handle the situation as Simon hardened against her, the tip of his tongue now tracing the outline of her lips. "Stop now, stop, you have let him inside your defences," the small voice screamed. But in the physical plane she was feeling a rising pressure against her thigh. There was no stopping.
"Does this mean I can make love to you now?"
"All things being relative, I thought you just had."
They rolled together.
An hour later Rosalind lay, head on his shoulder, a long, elegant fingernail tracing the outline of his lips.
She said, "you're the clever one, you got us into this mess. Where do we go from here?"
"If you want me to be honest I can only say I'm fucked if I know. But it might be a rough ride at times."
The Kiss (part 1) ... (part 2)
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