all the things i sold

He’s been with escorts before; I can tell by the way he handles the money. But he’s never done this, never felt wanted like this with an escort girl, my fingernails dragging down his back, grabbing his ass, pulling him deeper inside me, the warmth of my breath whispering hot little bursts of nonsense against his chest. 

This is what I do. This is my mindfuck.

He comes in my door with a moron punter’s mental shopping list of fetishistic pursuits to have crossed off his bucket list, but he’ll leave looking every bit the babbling first-timing fool. He’s long and lanky, not my type, a dancer, it turns out, but strong. I give myself willingly and generously, and he stays longer than he paid for, and longer that he should. 

I sell him the sweet music of a fragile, girlish giggle, a giggle that’s still ringing when he’s between my legs half an hour later, sometimes bubbling over into a dark, husky moan.

I sell him a blur of kissing, sucking, licking, spitting, fucking, grabbing, caressing; he stretches out on the sheets, and as his muscles tighten up, I sell him the Goddess.

He’s holding me down, and I’m letting his lips explore my skin, drinking invisible pearls of moisture from where my thighs meet my hip, tracing my breasts with his warm breath, his tongue drawing up the outline of my areola, inhaling the scent of my skin, then wandering back down towards my pussy lips, gripping my ass tightly and pulling me against him, his tongue stretching to etch deep lines of desire up my thighs, from the nape of my neck out towards the inside of my elbows, savouring every form along the way, the perfection of every curve, the softness of every inch, letting my scent roll over him, burrowing his face into my hair.

My lips on his stomach, me, breathing warmly and heavily, moving greedily around on his skin. That just shuts his brain off completely, as it always does; I move on him pulse racing, sweat tinkling, erection growing, lungs gasping for air until a grown man completely unravels.

I sell him fulfillment, and he will be back. But troubled, because he will think this was something else entirely. Nothing like punters and escorts, but passion and intimacy. So overwhelming that it will make him question himself, his life, his wife, whatever story he has. They always do. He will want it to be real, desperately want it to be real, and feel pathetic for wanting to. 

And he’ll go home, and for a while say never again, because that’s what they say, when they’re back with their lives. But they’ll remember me glowing with lust, deep, soulful eyes beaming through ruffled hair, my body radiating, my skin glistening with our sweat. How I made them want me like nothing else, and made them feel wanted in return. And they will need to come back, just to hear me say it was special, they were special, he was special.

Mindfuckingly unforgettable, that’s what I sell.