tousled, clean-cut, and thick.
This man may be God’s gift to humankind, but to me, he’s a transaction.
“It’s nice to see you, Cara,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets.
The good doctor’s arousal presses against his wool trousers, giving me an exact idea about the shape of his cock. Not that I haven’t seen, held, and tasted it before. I find myself in this office for one hour every six weeks, like clockwork.
“Hello, Doctor.” I pull the pin from my hair, letting the brown tresses fall over my shoulders and down my back just as he desires. “I’ve missed you.”
I haven’t.
I haven’t given Dr. Coston a second thought since our last session, but it’s important to make the client feel like he’s special. It’s one thing to be a whore, but completely different to act like one. The trick is to determine what they’re looking for from each experience with me. After hours of listening and diagnosing lovesick, head sick people, Michael wants a break from the chaos. For two-thousand dollars an hour, I give it to him.
He twists the gold band on his ring finger until it’s off, and he hides it in a drawer for safekeeping. A hint of indecision darkens his eyes, but it’s not enough to keep him from laying the framed picture of his daughter facedown on his desk.
“Come to me,” he orders in a husky tone.
Dr. Coston gets off on feeling wanted. I’d wager a large percentage of his clients use him for their monthly bottle of prescription pills and nothing more, and I don’t know what kind of relationship he has with his wife. What I do know is I’ve been on his schedule for eight months now, and the man just wants me to want him. He’s thirsty for attention, and he gets what he pays for.
In another life, I might’ve sat on his couch as a patient to confess the trauma I’ve survived. But in this life, I sit on his face and lie about how good he makes me feel. Little does he know, there’s nothing to feel at all. I’ve mastered tuning out revulsion and sensation like I assume mothers learn to tune out their crying child. A script rolls through my head like credits at the end of a movie, keywords and phrases to boost his ego. They’re automatic, tailored to fit each client accordingly.
“No one eats my pussy like you do,” I lie.
They’re all the same.
“No one makes me come like this,” I say.
Another lie.
I don’t come.
I can’t remember the last time a client pleasured me to climax.
I can’t remember the last time I had sex simply because I wanted to.
“I woke up wet for you,” I moan, gently circling my hips. I tilt my head back and rake my fingers through my hair. “Oh, my God, Michael. I’m going to scream, baby. The entire office will hear.”
In the end, his performance is forgettable; I didn’t come, and I didn’t scream. But my show was on point, and as far as Dr. Coston is concerned, he righted all of my wrongs with the slip of his tongue.
“You’re still hard,” I say. I pull my hair up and pin it back into place to look as it did when I arrived forty-five minutes ago. “We have some time left on the clock. Do you want me to take care of you?”
He shies away and steps behind me to button the top of my dress.
“Not this time, Cara,” he says quietly. “My wife and I are going out tonight, and…”
And he’ll need to keep up appearances and fuck her.
“Lucky lady,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the red-faced man. “You’ll have to make it up to me next time.”
I use the last few minutes of our appointment to retouch my makeup, straighten my dress, and collect what’s owed to me for services rendered. A flat fee of two grand per hour is the agreed upon rate for my company—no exception, cash only. Inez and Hush get their fifteen percent at the end of the week. It’s a steep cut when I do the dirty work, but well worth the headache I avoid week after week.
Most of the girls at Hush work at the mercy of the client, at their beck and call during all hours of the day and night. I work by referral only, and not even a good word guarantees an appointment with me. I don’t fuck with actors or politicians, despite how much money they