“But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body.”

– Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being



I knew his body so well that I could feel the ghost of it. I could feel his weight pinning me to the mattress, and I could taste him. I walked through the front doors of our usual grand hotel and smiled at the doorman as I smirked to myself. I was laughing internally at the lie told by my pretty but chaste frock.

To the casual observer, I was just another attractive woman. But the casual observer didn’t know that I was an escort, or that my breasts were adorned beneath the demure button-down dress. A delicate yet unyielding gold clamp firmly gripped each rock-hard and extended nipple as per his request. 

They were his gift to me – sent by mail the week before – and I was his gift to himself.

My head began to swim a little as I neared the bar. I could feel my anticipation ascend with each click of my not-too-high heel. I bit my lip, and then I saw him. Or – more accurately – I saw his smile beaming at me from his vantage point upon a velvet chair.

And it was at that moment that I knew I was his once again. My breasts. My throat. That warm place between my legs. Every inch of me belonged to him, and I could never want it any other way. Historically speaking, my relationships are either based in a mutual distribution of power or are driven by my sensual command. But he and I have always been different. 



Our drinks were a pleasant blur punctuated by moments where his hand grazed my arm, and while our conversation was socially acceptable (we were in close quarters), our intentions were not. So we left after one martini.

There was an elevator, and then a hallway. A door. And then… Then his lips were on mine. And then I was on my knees. I nodded. “Yes.” when he told me to slowly unbutton my dress. I opened my mouth when told and took him deep inside. And as I worshiped him, he reached down and cupped each of my breasts. He gently rolled each metal-clad nipple between his fingers, and he groaned.

I couldn’t help but touch myself. The taste and sound and feel of him kept me on edge, and I could feel my wetness drip from my fingers to my wrist to the carpet below.



After milking him dry and savoring every last drop I fell backwards on the bed. A smile spread across my face as I licked my lips and grazed my thighs with long lacquered nails. “We’re not done.” I said. He knew what I needed and knelt before me. Now it was his turn to worship.

And he followed every direction with precision. Every change in tempo, pressure, location was brilliantly executed, and soon my thighs squeezed his face and goosebumps appeared. I collapsed in a glowing heap. My thirst was slaked.

But it quickly became apparent that his was not. He’d remained hard the entire time and touched himself as his gaze traversed my curves and lines and flushed pale skin. He whispered that he just couldn’t help it. And then I followed in kind.

As he came on my breasts – as he exploded for the second time in fifteen minutes – my breath reached a crescendo, and I saw stars yet again. And when I came to, I noticed that a little bit of sperm had dribbled down to the fabric of that demure dress we’d cast aside. I smiled at the poetry.