John W Partington
suspend disbelief - have an adventure

A Call Girl in a Small Town

My name is Jessica Silver; almost, but not quite as good as gold. That was the joke in high school. My trade name is Busty Morgan. I’m a call girl. I’d like to think I am a high class, sophisticated call girl, but the truth is that in the small town of Richmond I’m the only call girl and my clients are mostly retired men in need of comfort. Richmond has a population of about three thousand, most of those are stay at home, bored housewives with husbands that go to the big city during the day, or retired folk who wanted someplace quiet to comfortably await death. I am one of the former, the bulk of my clients are the latter.

I stand on the slightly dilapidated stoop of a house on Royal York Street, late Tuesday morning. It’s a middle-class neighborhood–except for some of the new developments all of Richmond is middle class–near the Jock River. I’m wearing a slinky black dress, push up bra, fancy underwear and stockings. I haven’t dressed like this in years, but it feels like putting on an old glove. I have a purse full of condoms, though I’ll probably only need one. Men usually believe they are stallions, but reality falls far short. I really don’t know what to expect. A confession: this is my first call.

A bead of sweat forms in the divot of my upper lip as I start to press the doorbell. I lick the sweat away, the salty taste reminding me that there’s probably going to be a lot of sweating in the next short while. A man opens the door, he looks me over; I look him over, separated only by our clothing and the rusty screen door.

He’s not old, but not young or handsome. He’s about mid-forties, ten years older than myself, with the moderate beginnings of a beer gut. He’s dressed in boxer shorts and a stained tank top. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and when he talks my nose revolts at the scent of stale beer on his breath.

“Busty?” he asks.

“That’s me,” I answer in my most sultry voice.

“I’ve never done this before. I’m not sure of the protocol,” he says in a confused voice

“Generally, you invite me in, and then we have sex,” I answered.

“But uhm... the cost is one hundred dollars, anything goes? Right?”

“That’s right.”

I had done some research on the internet. One hundred dollars was very cheap for a high society call girl, but anything more would discourage clients from my hunting grounds. There were only four buses out of Richmond in the morning, and four back in the early evening. I had a captive market, but they were going to be cheapskates, so one hundred dollars was the price I set.

“Come in,” he offers as he pushes the screen door open, it squeals in protest.

I consider backing out at that moment. The house is a mess. There are empty beer cans everywhere, old pizza boxes from both Richmond’s pizza parlors, crumpled newspapers, and bags of garbage that didn’t quite make it to the curb last Friday. John sits down in the only oasis of cleanliness in the house: a beat-up chair in front of the television with a large cooler standing sentinel beside the seat. With no other seating area except for an old couch covered in trash, I slide onto John’s lap and playfully run a finger on the underside of his jaw.

“So, what do you want?” I ask.

“I’d like you to take off your dress, slowly,” John answers.

John wants a strip show; that’s okay. My husband likes it when I undress to the undulations of a sultry Latino beat. The slow music of a tango dances through my mind as I peel out of the dress. I look at John’s crotch to see not much going on in the arousal department, but he’s already had a few beers by this point in the day. It’s not quite ten in the morning. My kids are at school; and won’t be home until four in the afternoon. I’ve got time to get John up to speed.

“Now?” I lean into him.

“I’d like you to take the vacuum,” kinky, I thought, “And vacuum the carpets.”

Interesting. What happens next:

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