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Excellent tips."On a whim I dialed the number and a Mr. Benson answered. His voice was low and well modulated a voice that inspired trust. He explained to my great joy that the job did not involve any office work."You will be dealing with live people here, not lifeless pieces of paper," Mr. Benson told me. Your personality, your willingness to please, your sexy looks, that is what your customers are looking for."That made sense. After all this was a men's club and they want some eye candy. I resolved to give them plenty of that if I got the job. I even bought a sexy dress at a boutique for the interview. I had been told not to wear a bra for the interview and I didn't mind, I was very proud of my boobs. They are firm with just a hint of sag. My large aureoles get dark when I get excited. And I knew that my nipples are sexy, except no one besides my husband had ever seen my boobs or my nipples.Mr. Benson greeted me with a firm handshake and an appreciative look. He was the perfect. "She felt the powerful masculine thrust of his working buttocks, enjoying his involvement and then reached into his crack to expend him as the book said."AHHHHH, HEAVENNNNNN!" cried Sam.He froze just like a man, strained up. His eyes got big. His whole body trembled in ecstasy. Then he burst his cock into her cunt, spurt, spurt, spurt."Ohhh, wheeee," she gasped as he flooded her. The burn in her cunt was impossible now. She jerked and twisted. She humped a few more strokes, whined, and gave up her womanhood to the machine. Throb, throb, throb. It was absolutely as good as her husband. She spent fully and completely, reveling in her new openness and understanding of her own powerful sexuality which might even approach the machine's.She worked it all off, enjoying Sam's slow, steady fucking as he took her through her orgasm until she tapered.Back on her sex high, as earlier, she un-cocked Sam and sat up to look around the lab dazed. It was empty, silent. No one had come to the door to.
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The handsome man continued to stare at her and she became uncomfortably self-conscious. She didn’t look like a hooker, which was the client’s specific request. She was to wear normal clothes (she picked a light, flowery mini dress, very appropriate for the hot Chicago summer), no clown make up (light mascara and a few generous sprays of expensive perfume was all she went with) and basically she was to look more like a librarian than the prostitute she really was, even though she tried not to think of herself as such. Escort service was quite a misleading term. Out of all dates that she had had, only one required an actual escorting involving a cocktail party thrown by one of the biggest advertising agencies in the city. All the rest were purely about sex. Blow job, hand job, straight sex and anal, a client demanding to be called “daddy”, taking liberties of calling her “bitch” or “slut”. It had taken her a while to get used to it all, but now she found herself to be bothered.

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