Cold air cuts across my chest as the door opens. As usual, they enter without knocking and, as always, I ignore the breach of etiquette. Being polite is a courtesy they offer to more welcome guests, so the show of disrespect is their less than subtle way of telling me that in a world of people who matter, I don’t. Besides, they have guns. When it comes to guns, I figure it’s easier just to smile and do whatever they want.
What they want right now is for me to be wearing the blindfold I’m legally contracted to have on between here and the client’s bedroom. Technically, it’s for security since my employer is paranoid about his public image, and the guards are paranoid about faces being seen; but in reality it’s overkill, considering I’ve been registered blind since birth and offer the full-package deal, privacy included. In any case, I’ve known my client for years - I know who she was; who she is. It’s why I got this job, despite her husband’s objections. I knew her way back before all his shit intruded. While the man may be rich as fuck, he’s got no class. He took her out of poverty and dragged her down to his level, and she resents him for it. So when he talked her into living out his fantasies, there was only ever one choice.
After all, you never forget your first love.
I’ve been ready for over five minutes now, waiting on them even though they’re late. While I’d rather not be standing here naked, it’s what they expect and so naked I am - my suit relocated to a hanger in the closet, my shirt and tie hanging right alongside it, and a cashmere robe laying on the bed ready for when my escort have finished their inspection. It’s a gift from her, not him. The first time I was here, I forgot to bring anything along to cover my modesty for the surprisingly long walk to their bedroom, resulting in embarrassment for me, amusement from the guards, and several inappropriate and rather lewd comments from the maids who made the erroneous assumption that my Spanish amounted to nada. The robe arrived at my house the next morning, couriered courtesy of Dior. I’m told it’s beautiful.
As per instructions, I showered on arrival and my skin feels soft and prickly. As it dries, I can smell the scent of ylang-ylang and jasmine extracts. Yeah, I know – hardly a masculine odour, but that’s the point. My employer will be sleeping with his wife when I’ve finished with her, and it’s been made clear from the start that he has no intention of smelling me on her skin; so out of respect for my bank balance I avoid aftershaves, and make sure to use the same brand of shower gel she uses. After all, I’m here to provide solutions, not issues. Dick size is what gets the customers interested, but it’s the little touches – things I do to keep my clients happy and content - that’s what keeps me on retainer.
Even before the door opens, I hear muffled voices out in the hall; the telltale tread of their approach signalled by the sad little squeak of synthetic rubber on marble flooring, as if the shoe’s owner is crushing small rodents underfoot with each step. By the time the key has scratched its way into the lock, I’ve already moved into empty territory mid-way towards the door, making sure I’m upright and clear of the bed with my arms held loosely by my sides, palms open, ready to be frisked for contraband items inside and out: possible toxins, sharp implements or – worse - recording devices. There are none, of course, since I’m neither crazy nor suicidal. I couldn’t tell you what would happen to me if I tried to smuggle something in, but I’m not going to give them any reason to let me find out.
If positioning is rule one, rule two is to stand as still as possible while one of them pats me down, which is harder than it sounds knowing his colleague will have a gun trained on me the whole time. And above all, under no circumstances should I crack jokes about cavity-searching another man’s ass. His colleague might find it funny but trust me, whoever’s doing the pat down sure as hell won’t - and some guys love to inflict pain just for the sheer hell of it.
Tonight they seem to be more eager than usual to get on with things. The search is perfunctory at best; the guard’s movements jerky as he runs brusque hands over my body. A hangnail on one of his fingers snags me more than once as his fat digits skim across my exposed skin, and for some reason it pisses me off enough to ignore rule two.
“Find anything good down there?” I ask, as the hands move towards my ass. “If you say 'Open sesame', I hear there’s treasure inside.”
“Fuck you, you faggot!” the guard snarls back, hands suddenly withdrawing. I hear his colleague snickering in the background; from the slight asthmatic rattle in the laughter, I know it’s Tony.
For a second I figure I’ve gone too far, bracing myself for a punch to the groin or a knuckle to the head, knowing there are places on the human body that can be damaged without leaving any obvious bruising; but to my surprise he just shoves me hard, making me stumble, barely keeping my footing. My robe is thrown at me, and I manage to tie it around my body before they grab my arms, one on either side, hands gripping just below my elbows, strong fingers digging through the cashmere and into my skin.
Conversation is the last thing on my mind right now, but even without a word being exchanged, I can tell Tony is on my left hand side by the feel of his college ring pressing into my forearm, and his strange, rolling gait that always leaves me tilting slightly. The guard I pissed off is on my right, but I don’t recognise him. Usually it’s Ray, but one of the maids tells me he’s visiting family down in Kissimmee. I don’t mind Ray; he’s not as rigid about rules as Tony and passes the time talking, whereas the new guy just grunts as he walks, and smells of breath-mints and tobacco - and underneath it all faintly of beer, which is a definite no-no if anyone else catches it.
The first time I made this journey I wore loafers, but these days I prefer to do the walk barefoot, savouring every step. Truth is I can probably navigate this section of the building better than my escorts. Six paces from the bed get us to the door, plush carpet pushing up between my toes every step of the way. Then the corridor outside runs another twenty paces of smooth marble that’s always cold to the touch no matter what season, before we get to the staircase – and if one of the guards has had a particularly shitty day or is feeling in the mood to be a cunt, here’s where they’ll try to tip me on my ass. In any case, it’s six steps up; face left for twelve more, then right for another six; and suddenly the floor transitions back to luxury carpeting as we reach the residence’s private quarters. This is the danger zone; the point of no return where self-preservation kicks in and I take extra care not to do or say something stupid that gets me shot.
Finally we come to a halt. I hear muffled voices, and my arms are released as one of the guards knocks on a door – judging from the faint clank of metal, I’m guessing it’s Tony’s ring scratching against the wood. After a few seconds it opens, expelling a gasp of warmer air than we have out here in the corridor. A a hand placed in the small of my back unexpectedly shoves me forward so that my toe catches on the door jamb and I end up hopping into the room rather than confidently walking in. The door discreetly clicks shut behind me, cutting off the sniggers of the two assholes outside.
My employer's aftershave is heady and overpowering, and a fog of stale tobacco envelopes him like a sour thought. I trace the scent back to his position close to the door, almost cut off from the rest of the room as if he’s just a spectator – which, for tonight at least, he is - before muting it out, pushing it away as I search for her presence.
Unlike her husband, she wears no perfume; her skin is sweet enough without the need for sensory adornment, and it cuts through everything else in the room to grab my attention. He’s my employer; just another man wealthy enough to afford my services. She’s my client – and my focus, as always, is on her, and her alone.
She closes the distance between us and reaches out; soft fingers curling around mine, making a little pearl of warmth in the coolness of my palm as she gently draws me away from her husband and towards the bed – pulling me towards her. When we stop moving, it’s so she can unfasten the knot at my waist, sliding the cashmere robe off my shoulders. She’s already naked, having disrobed at some point whilst waiting for me, and now she takes my hands in hers and brings them up to her skin, letting me run them across her face and body. To anyone watching, it would seem nothing more than a simple gesture of two lovers reacquainting themselves with each other which, in a way, we are; but as I touch her, I can’t help wondering exactly how sighted people cope by just seeing things in two dimensions.
My fingers brush gently across the tiny ridge on her nose - broken in a horse-riding accident when she was six years old. They touch the delicate scar just below her shoulder, the legacy of inoculations at age nine. I feel the gentle curve of breasts that still retain a hint of firmness despite her age; the flat softness of her belly, despite having had two children. Other men will look at her and see the map, but with my hands I see the whole territory, and it is magnificent.
She lets me marvel for a few moments longer before her lips push against mine, her tongue making hesitant darts into my willing mouth. My hand finds one of her nipples and I gently roll it between thumb and forefinger, making her gasp, her kisses suddenly more frantic. From a galaxy far away, I hear the chair by the door creak as my employer shifts position, enjoying the sight of his wife’s arousal.
Her hands slide across my chest and she breaks off mid-kiss, leaving my mouth aching for hers. I lean forward hoping to continue, but she holds a finger against my lips. Undeterred, I kiss the finger and she giggles - a luxurious sound that always prompts butterflies in my stomach.
“Lie down,” she says, her breath brushing against my earlobe. “I want you to lie down on the bed.”
She senses my hesitation and places hands on my shoulders, slowly but firmly guiding me until I feel the edge of the bed against my thighs. I sit down, inching my way back until I’m able to stretch out fully. The bed sheets are cool, crisp, and clean under my skin, and the sadist in me knows I’m going to enjoy mussing them up for my employer to sleep in later. The mattress bows slightly as her weight is added alongside mine, and then I feel heat from her body; her hair tickling my chest as she kisses a line down my torso before finding my swollen cock with her soft lips.
Her mouth is warm, and wet, and willing, forming a perfect sheath as she takes me deeper and deeper, creating a little vacuum of pleasure that quickly has me bucking my hips in time with the bobbing of her head. But unseen, it’s her tongue that’s the undisputed star of the show she’s putting on for her husband’s benefit as much as mine. It feels alive – feels like it’s a separate entity to the rest of her as it snakes endlessly around the end of my cock, coiling and twisting and making little light dances across the tip. It takes almost all of my self-control not to ejaculate there and then, my fingers tightly crushing once-pristine bed sheets. I’m almost whimpering as she slowly withdraws me from her lips.
“Don’t stop,” I say, arching my hips up, trying to find her mouth again – a pathetic action rewarded with another one of her melodic laughs, and a playful slap to my thigh as she gently pushes me back down to the bed. “Please don’t stop!”
Her head stoops back down to my penis and this time her tongue stretches out to lick along the length of my hard shaft, tracing a languid line that takes my breath away. When she takes one of my balls into her mouth and gently hums, the vibration almost tips me over the edge. I actually growl; and this time, I’m the one prizing her mouth away, my fingers entwined tightly in her hair.
“Take your blindfold off,” she says. I obey, hands shaking slightly as I struggle to unpick the knot I’d tied earlier. “Now, lie back. Lie back, and put your head flat.”
The mattress grumbles again as she shifts positions, her legs framing my head on either side as she scrambles on top of me. I feel the gap between us shrink as she lowers her hips down and at the same time takes my cock back into her mouth, continuing where she’d left off.
It’s her confidence that unnerves me slightly, because normally she’s content to allow her husband to dictate events. At his request, sixty-nines are usually done with me on top driving my cock down into her mouth until she gags – his wife’s discomfort seemingly bringing him a great deal of satisfaction, although it’s not something I’m in favour of. But tonight she’s taken the lead, directing things to her own pace, and for a brief moment I find myself wondering if something serious is happening elsewhere that I’m not privy to, and if he’s failing to notice that he’s not in full control of things here in the bedroom. Then her pussy lands gently on my lips, and everything else is forgotten.
This close up, I can smell the muskiness signalling her arousal. It’s all the invitation I need as I reach up to grab her ass, pulling her closer as my tongue seeks and discovers the gap between her labia. I push in, eager to taste her, curling the tip of my tongue to aid penetration as I make little stabbing motions into her wetness; my probes rewarded with a surprised squeal of delight before she takes me back into the warm velvet of her mouth.
These are the moments I dream of, when we’re not together. Her pussy is plump and as soft as warm summer fruit - sweet and tart at the same time, and oh so delicious. Instinctively, we move into a rhythm of our own. She grinds her hips against my face with increased fervour, matching the movement of my tongue as it finds her clitoris, the tiny patch of curls above her sex brushing against my chin as she moves. At the other end, her mouth continues its motion up and down my cock, her teeth gently scraping the length of my shaft as she increases the pressure incrementally - just enough to tease, and not enough to bite. I respond by adding a finger to my tongue, pushing in as far as the second knuckle to stroke the sensitive areas inside her cunt.
From somewhere on the very cusp of my senses I hear the faint rasp of a zipper unfastening, and the unhurried grunts of my employer satisfying himself in his chair as he watches our performance. The desire to show him what he’s missing always spurs me on and I purse my lips around her labia, sucking and rolling them in my mouth to her immediate and obvious enjoyment. The swell of her stomach rises and falls against my chest as her breathing quickens and she momentarily forgets about my cock. When she finally remembers, she suckles me with renewed energy, one hand lazily toying with my balls.
“Please!” I beg, trying to move my hips away from her mouth and failing; her lips practically glued to the tip as she follows me down every inch of the way. “If you don’t stop now, you’re going to make me cum.”
“Let him cum, honey!” My employer’s voice has a thick, almost hypnotic drawl to it that has somehow always drawn people to doing exactly what he wants. “Let me watch him cum all over your pretty little face.”
My client withdraws me slowly from her mouth, carefully pinching the shaft just below the head with her thumb and forefinger, my cock twitching helplessly in her hand as she expertly cuts off any oncoming orgasm.
“No,” she says. As always, her voice is light and melodic, with just a hint of the steel I remember from our high school days; the days she led the cheerleading squad to the state championships – go Wildcats.
