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Bare Legs
by
W. L. Telford
My tuxedo was draped over the back of a chair in our bedroom, where it
had been since the MIT genomics department Christmas party on the
22nd. This was now the evening of the 27th.
I picked it up, intending to add it to the pile of clothes to be taken to the
dry cleaner, but then had a thought. Holding the jacket at arms length I
decided it could still be worn.
Our bedroom occupies the third floor of the tall, narrow brick Beacon Hill
house that has been in my family for seven generations. Pressing the
intercom, I said, “Lisa?”
A few seconds passed before she replied. “Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“In my office. Why?”
“Let’s go out and have a drink some place.”
“It’s freezing outside. Far less than freezing. Let’s have a drink at home.”
“I’ll warm up the car for you and we’ll just go to one of the hotels around
Copley Square where we’ll leave it with the valet. You won’t be outside
more than five seconds.”
“What brought this on?”
“I thought I would wear my tux once more before sending it to the
cleaner.”
“How can I resist such an invitation? Give me a few minutes to finish this
page and I’ll be up.”
I was tying my cummerbund when I heard footsteps on the stairs and saw
in the mirror my wife enter the room.
“Don’t you look distinguished,” she said. “And what am I supposed to
wear?”
“Your new black dress would be nice and the black patent heels.”
“And?” Her reflection smiled.
“That’s all.”
“That dress is short and backless. I’ll freeze.”
“I’ve already explained why you won’t freeze. And after sitting across
from you and looking at your beautiful bare flesh while we have a drink or
two, I promise to warm you when we come home.”
“I need to take a quick shower.”
“Meet me in the garage in fifteen minutes?”
“It’s a date.”
As promised, I had the Mercedes comfortably heated when Lisa came
down.
Her hair, more blond when we sailed in the summer, now darker in the
winter, accentuated by her long black coat, caught the light as she
climbed into the car. As did a flash of bare thigh.
Copley Square was only a few blocks and, that evening without much
traffic, only a few minutes away. Some function was being held at the first
hotel we approached. Too many cars were backed up, so we drove to
another hotel overlooking Boston Common, which for reasons that will
become apparent I will not identify.
Once inside we went to the main bar, which is on the second floor and
has a clubby atmosphere, wood paneled, dark and quiet. A few mostly
older couples were scattered around the room. A tuxedoed waiter
showed us to a window table overlooking the street below. In view of
what happened I find myself trying to remember my first impression of him,
but, as should be true of any good waiter, I can’t. He was deferential and
faded into the background. Later I studied him more closely and
decided he was about my age, which is 50, of average build and looks,
thinning gray hair. He looked like a man who had gladly spent his life
discretely serving drinks at a five star hotel.
He murmured the usual banalities about the weather and the holiday
season before asking what he could bring us.
“A martini for the lady. Tangueray. With two olives, ” I said. “The same for
me, but with Plymouth.”
“Very good, sir.” And he gave me the non-tourist smile.
As we sipped our drinks and talked comfortably and inconsequentially,
my eyes moved between the headlights of the traffic outside and the
darkness of the Common to my wife.
In a world obsessed with looking younger, Lisa is the only woman I have
ever met who generally wants to look older. At 35 and a full professor with
expertise in a field that laymen, including me, can only vaguely
understand, she appears at least ten years younger and is often mistaken
for one of her students. In her professional life, she plays down her
appearance, but tonight, she let herself look beautiful. Her winter pale
skin made her green eyes dramatically deeper. Her breasts, larger than
her fine bones would suggest, and as I knew with great pleasure, firm and
perfectly formed, moved beneath the loose fabric. The dress I had given
her for Christmas was cut high in the front and was not tight, except at the
waist, rather it flowed with the curves of her body. At times I could see the
hard points of her nipples.
Catching the direction of my glance, she grinned. “Do you like what you
see?”
“Indeed I do,” I smiled.
Beneath the table her bare leg pressed against mine.
“Shall we have another or go?” she asked.
“Let’s have another,” I said. “I’m enjoying the anticipation.”
I signaled to the waiter, who was standing at the bar, talking to the
bartender. On this quiet night, they were the only ones on duty. He
nodded in acknowledgement and soon brought a second round.
A few minutes later, Lisa said, “Excuse me for a moment while I go to the
ladies.
I stood and pulled back her chair. “I’ll enjoy the view.”
“I thought you might.”
And I did as she walked away on long legs, the line of her spine and her
bare shoulders and back, the mysterious movement of her hips beneath
the short dress. I was naturally proud that the eyes of all the other men in
the room followed her too, including, discretely, those of the waiter and
bartender.
A few minutes after she left I noticed the waiter leave the bar, too, but did
not think anything of it until Lisa returned, sat down, and grinned. “Our
waiter thinks I’m a hooker.”
I gave a surprised, “What?”
“He must think I’m your escort. He was waiting for me just outside the
lobby and whispered under his breath that I should come back after
‘dinner.’ “
“Dinner?”
“I think that was his discreet way of saying after my time with you was up.”
I considered this for a few moments. While I am tall and trim, I am fifteen
years older than Lisa, who as I have said looks much younger than she is.
My temples are touched with gray. I wear a Cartier watch and my
clothes are those of the affluent real estate developer I in fact am.
Although I have never had to pay for female companionship, it was not
an unreasonable conclusion for the man to have drawn, particularly the
way we both were dressed. That we were wearing plain gold wedding
rings may have been outweighed by Lisa’s bare legs. Who else goes
without stockings around Boston with the temperature at 7º?
“I’m flattered,” she said.
“Probably a first for the faculty at MIT,” I replied.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she laughed.
“Well, perhaps not.” I paused before continuing. “Any other reaction?”
“Surprise, of course. Curiosity about the details. What he would say, what
would happen. Even, I admit, a frisson, a tingle of excitement. It is so out
of character, not a way I have ever thought of myself.”
“So do it.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“Why not? It might be interesting.”
“And how far do I go with this?”
“As far as you want. I doubt anyone is going to rape you. You can walk
away whenever you want, get a taxi at the door and be home in five
minutes.”
“You really want me to do this?”
I studied her. Despite the incredulity in her voice, her face was flushed,
her eyes bright, her breasts moving with rapid respiration..
“If you want to. It might make for some interesting talk when you get
home and we fuck.”
“How would it go?”
“We’ll finish our drinks and leave together.” I knew she had not brought a
purse and her dress certainly had no pockets. “I’ll give you a twenty for
the taxi. Put it in a shoe. I can’t think of any place else. You wait about
ten minutes and return here. I’ll drive home and wait for you with high lust
and expectation. You taxi home when you’re ready. And we fuck our
brains out while you tell me all about it.”
“Do you really think this is a good idea?”
“Only if you want to. I can’t imagine that anything will happen you can’t
handle.”
Taking a deep breath that did spectacular things to the front of her dress,
she exhaled, and said, “All right.”
Although we tried not to hurry, we more or less gulped the remainder of
our drinks. We both were excited. I know my cock was throbbing hard.
Leaving two twenties on the table, which included a generous tip--though
how generous his tip would be the waiter did not yet know--I stood.
Lisa took my arm and as the waiter opened the door for us and wished us
good evening, she gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
“God,” she said as we crossed the lobby, “My pussy is so wet I’m afraid it is
going to run down my legs.”
“Perhaps you should use the interval to go to the ladies room to cool off.”
Still under the watchful eye of the waiter who lingered near the bar door,
we entered an elevator and rode to the eighth floor before we got off
and took separate elevators back down. I went first. Just before the
elevator arrived, Lisa came into my arms, glued her body to mine from
breast to thigh and gave me a kiss of pure lust.
Breaking apart when the elevator door opened, I said, “See you soon.”
And rode down.
Finding the waiter no longer in sight, I walked to the main entrance, to
which the attendant brought the Mercedes, and drove home, where I
started to pour myself a scotch, before changing my mind.
After rekindling the fire in the fireplace, I turned on the television and tried
to be interested in one of those obscure bowl games named after a
restaurant chain, which I am not likely ever to patronize. I was not
successful, barely aware even of what teams were playing as the figures
scampered across the flat screen and the crowd, some of whom
apparently did care, screamed.
My eyes kept flickering to my watch. My ears were tuned to the sounds of
cars passing on the dark street outside.
No specific images formed in my mind. Rather there was an inchoate but
all encompassing awareness of sexuality, that something enormously
erotic was occurring at that very moment. The sensation was only
heightened by my not knowing exactly what. I loosened my bow tie and
removed my jacket and cummerbund. Once or twice I stroked the hard
bulge in my pants. If Lisa’s juices threatened to run down her legs, clearly
mine were seeping through my pants which were now unquestionably
destined for the dry cleaner. But I wanted to save it for her.
I didn’t really expect her for at least a half an hour. After that I grew
increasingly anxious, both with lust and, as the minutes passed, with
concern. What if I was wrong and she had walked into something she
could not handle?
It was with great relief that I finally heard tires crunch through the crust of
frozen snow in front of the house. By the time I reached the door, Lisa was
ringing the bell. She flew past me.
“Are you all right?” I asked her retreating back.
Stopping in front of the fireplace, she turned. Her face was split by a huge
smile. I noticed that her lipstick, which had remained intact through our
last kiss, was now almost gone. Strangely sexy. “Splendid. Perfect.
Wonderful. I have found my second career, my true calling. Science be
damned. In short, sir, I got the job.”
“What job? Tell me all about it.”
“Let me get warm and I will.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Yes. No. I’ve had enough. Two with you. And two more with Yves.”
“The waiter?”
“Yes. Well, most of two. I didn’t get to finish the second.”
She is a little drunk, I thought. But even higher because of something else.
I turned off the television and sat down on a sofa, where she soon joined
me.
“Think of me?” she asked when she had settled, kicking off her shoes and
folding her legs beneath her.
“Of course.”
“Worry?”
“After a while.”
“I’m glad. What did you think?”
“Nothing specific. I could picture the two of you talking in a room
somewhere in the hotel, fully dressed. And, of course, I could picture you
naked. But anything more was too vague. So what happened?”
She leaned forward and kissed me, full, open mouth, tongue. “Do I look
any different?”
“No. Other than preternaturally excited.”
“No. Not to myself either.” She sounded almost disappointed.
“Somehow it seems such things should show. But they don’t.”
“What things?”
“Let me go from the beginning.
After you left, I waited a few minutes then caught an elevator down to
the second floor, where I used the ladies room across from the restaurant.
A couple of dowager types came in and looked at me strangely: two
much skin for Boston in winter. It was rather exciting to see myself through
their eyes. But then I was so aroused everything was exciting.
When I returned to the bar, the waiter was not there. But the bartender
recognized me and as I stood hesitating, beckoned me over. ‘Did you
come back to see Yves?’ he asked quite politely.
‘The waiter who was here before,’ I was irritated at myself for almost
stammering.’
‘That is Yves. He went to make a phone call. He’ll be back soon. Can I
fix you a drink while you wait?’ he asked, directing me to a stool at the
bar.
‘No. Will he be long?’
The bartender looked over my shoulder and said, ‘Here he is now.’
I turned and saw the waiter just coming though the door. He gave a
pleased smile and came directly over, said to the bartender, ‘I’ll be gone
for a while.’
The bartender nodded, and the waiter, Yves, but I thought of him then just
as the waiter, took my elbow and brought me to my feet, gently but firmly.
He let go as we entered the lobby and made an sharp turn to a bank of
service elevators I did not know existed.
We were the only ones on the elevator. He pushed the button for the
thirty-third floor, which is, as I now know, the highest except for the
penthouse.
As we rode up he said, ‘I did not expect you back so soon. Or for that
matter at all.’
I shrugged my shoulders, which caused his eyes to drop momentarily to
my breasts before returning to my face. ‘We were through. The drinks
were the end of...my friend’s time.’
He stood a respectful distance from me as we rode the rest of the way in
silence.
When the doors opened, he again took my elbow. It was an odd grip,
almost like a boy scout helping an old lady across the street. He seemed
more comfortable on this floor, less concerned about being seen. Using a
keycard, he opened the door to 3333, and stepped aside for me to enter
the living room of a suite. I must admit I felt something clench in my belly
when the door closed behind me.”
She leaned forward and gave my hand a squeeze.
“The room was large and nicely furnished.
‘Take a seat,’ he called over his shoulder as he went directly to a bar and
began mixing a pitcher of martinis.
‘Two olives,’ he said as he handed me a glass.
Although I had deliberately sat on a sofa where there was room for him,
he moved to an armchair across from me. He raised his glass, ‘To a
successful collaboration.’
I repeated the words and we both drank.
‘Are you a student?’ he asked unexpectedly.
Why not? I thought and replied, ‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No. Not really. I just want to get a feel for you. Is it too much to ask what
year?’
‘I’m a grad student. Biology.’
‘Interesting choice,’ he smiled.
I smiled back. ‘I suppose so. I hadn’t though of it that way.’
‘How long have you been working?’
‘On my degree?’
‘No.’
‘Not...not long. How did you know? I mean about me? It was the bare
legs, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. And he looked like a man who could afford high-priced company.
Do you like it or just the money?’
‘Sometimes both. Sometimes just the money?’
‘Good answer. Any problems?’
‘Problems?’
‘Have you ever been arrested? Do you have a record?’
‘No.’
‘Anywhere. Not just Boston.’
‘No.’
‘Where do you get your clients?’
‘An escort service.’
‘Which one?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘I’m not really trying to pry. It’s just that there are people in this town we
don’t want to poach from and toes we don’t want to step on.’
‘There won’t be a problem. I haven’t been with them long.’
He sated at me, seemingly weighing issues, then came to a decision. ‘I
assume that if you had, I would have seen you before. That clientele does
not have an extensive domain.
‘So here’s the pitch: come and work for us. This is what we offer: a fifty/
fifty split and absolutely no worries. You can work as much as you want or
as little The rates are a thousand an hour, five thousand a night. We
provide the rooms, all of which are on this floor. If you have any problem,
security is a buzz away. But our clientele is either already known to us or
referred by someone we know and does not cause or want trouble. All
you have to do is be beautiful--which you certainly are--and pleasing-which
I’m sure you can be.’
I took a sip of the martini and looked at him over the glass. Finally he said,
‘Well?’
I was enjoying playing the role and so, just for fun, slowly put down my
glass and did a Sharon Stone number on him. You remember the movie. I
slowly uncrossed and recrossed my legs. It was comical the way his eyes
so predictably looked up my skirt and wondered if they really saw what
they thought they saw.
‘I want two/thirds,’ I finally said.
Reluctantly his eyes came back to my face. ‘But,’ he protested, ‘We
have all the expenses, the overhead: the police have to be paid, some
other people, the hotel--the rooms have to be shown to the head office
as booked. A lot of things.’
Pushing himself wearily up from his chair, as though resigned to perpetual
disappointment at the world’s ingratitude, he trudged across the room to
the pitcher of martinis and returned to top off my glass and then his own.
‘You really have no idea,’ he continued when he was again seated. Then
when I only took another sip of my drink--and I must admit that I was
feeling the alcohol--this was now about two over my usual limit--he sighed,
‘All right. Sixty-forty. But that is the best I can offer. And only to you.
Don’t let any of the other girls know or the deal is off.’
When, I wondered, will I meet the ‘other girls’? ‘A deal,’ I smiled and
raised my glass.
Yves raised his.
After almost draining the glass, he said, ‘One more thing.’
I could feel muscles in my body tighten in anticipation. ‘I thought there
might be.’
‘Actually two things. No,’ he slurred the words, ‘Three.’
‘Two. Three. What difference does it make? First, your name. What
name do you work under?’
Until then I don’t think I had realized that we had avoided that social
nicety. It brought back into focus that were weren’t there having a
pleasant little conversation. He was a pimp and I was a whore, albeit
both of us of the highest class. My mind went blank. ‘Liz,’ I blurted out.
‘Elizabeth.’
‘I’m Yves, Elizabeth Thatss good. Very good. Reserved. They’ll like that.
You’ve probably already discovered that they like fucking girls who they
imagine are students at Harvard or MIT. If they couldn’t get in themselves,
they’re getting even. If they could, still most of them couldn’t get the
beauties. And if they could, they like to renew the memories or get off
thinking of their current friends’ nubile daughters. Or even their own.
You’re going to make a lot of money for us. And yourself, of course,’ he
hurriedly added.
‘Now how do you want to work?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How often. How many nights a week? Which ones? What about days?
A lot of men are free at lunch or in the afternoons before they have to go
home to their families in Newton or Wellesley or catch a plane back to
New York or Washington or somewhere. A few of the classiest girls can sit
at the bar. You can if you want. What about dinners in public? Some
don’t want to be seen. All that.’
I had to say something, so I said, ‘Two nights a week. During the week.
No afternoons. And I am one of the ones who doesn’t want to be seen in
public.’
‘All right. You live here year round?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so or you’d be home now. When can you start?’
‘After the first of the year. Tuesday and Wednesday nights.’ I just said
whatever popped into my mind. After all it was play-acting. Then in a
sentence, it changed.
‘Stand up.’
I knew I could of course stand and turn and walk out. He won’t have
stopped me. He couldn’t. But I didn’t even consider it. I was too much
into the role by then and I wanted to see it through. I even though of you
sitting here and my coming back and telling you about it just as I am. I
thought you wanted me to. So I stood.
‘Take off your dress.’
Not wanting to appear too eager, I raised an eyebrow.
‘I need to see. To be sure. These days a lot of young girls have tattoos
and stuff that some men don’t like.’
‘I don’t have any tattoos or ‘stuff’.
Confidant that having come this far, I would do it, he kept staring at me.
My fingers were trembling so much--in excitement, not fear--well maybe a
little fear--that I fumbled with the catch in the back. I didn’t want to ask
him to help. I wanted to strip naked myself, and finally the catch came
undone and I pulled the zipper down. The dress naturally started to fall.
Before it dropped below my breasts I crossed my arms and caught it, held
it for a moment, watching his eyes, which were on my chest. They
opened wide when I let the dress go, then dove toward my groin. His
tongue actually ran over his lips, I don’t think he was even aware of it. I
shook the puddle of material from my feet and took a single step to the
side, and stood completely naked, but for the black patent heels. ‘Oh,
yessh,’ he slurred. ‘Oh my word, yessh. You always keep it shaved?’
I almost said, ‘My husband likes it that way,’ but caught myself in time and
merely said, ‘Yes.’
‘You are going to make some real money, honey. They’ll like that. It
makes you seem even younger. But you’ve obviously already learned
that. Turn around. Slowly. I want to see the other side.’
I was dizzy. Maybe from the martinis. Mostly from the situation. I had
never just stood naked before a total stranger, had never felt so exposed,
so on display, as though I were a tribal captive or a Roman slave girl or
something. On wobbly legs I turned, which was not so easy. You know
how high those heels are; you gave them to me. When my back was to
him, I could feel his eyes burning into me, into my thighs, into the crack of
my ass.
‘Hold it there. Just like that.’
I stood, my feet apart. I heard the rustling of clothes and a zipper. ‘All
right. Turn back.’
I knew he has exposed his cock, but still it came as a shock, sticking out of
his black pants, a fleshy purple flower blooming below his tux, as he sat
there.
‘Is this part of the job?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he croaked.
‘Just you?’
‘And Kevin. The bartender.’
‘I met Kevin.’
‘Don’t worry. We know that time is money. And you aren’t the only girl.
One more quick blow job every now and then won’t kill you. And…’ His
voice stopped.
‘And?’
‘And Rolf.’
‘Who is Rolf?’
‘The hotel manager. He has some peculiar tastes. Some of the girls don’t
like him; some do. But don’t worry; it’ll probably be a long time before he
gets around to you. And he understands if it is a one time thing.’
I pretended to be irritated. ‘So I have to keep three of you happy?’
‘I told you not you alone. Just every once in a while. It’s nothing.’ He was
almost pleading.
I kicked off my shoes. I wanted to be completely naked. There was
something primitive about it, atavistic. Nothing civilized. No shoes. Just a
timelessly naked woman. I walked across the room and in one motion
knelt between his knees.
His cock is average, I suppose. As you know I haven’t seen all that many,
and none but yours for the past six years. It is smaller than yours and
seemed somehow old. The end was shiny with pre-come. I wanted to
taste it. I wanted to devour him. To swallow his cock whole. He moaned
when I leaned forward and licked the fluid seeping from the tip, then
wrapped my lips around him and engulfed him, sucking him deep into my
mouth.
I don’t know what it tasted like: mushrooms perhaps. And the texture was
different than yours, less hard, more spongy.
I gave him an all time great head job, if I do say so myself. But then so did
he. I used my lips and my tongue--those little feathery licks you like--and
my hands. Because he is not so big, I could take the whole thing into my
mouth without choking.
Whenever I felt him swell that extra little bit that cocks do just before they
come, I stopped, sometimes squeezing the base with my fingers,
sometimes removing my mouth until his breathing slowed, sometimes
sucking his balls into my mouth and licking his scrotum. The zipper was
digging into him, but he didn’t complain.
And it was strange, because while this was absolutely about his pleasure-he
didn’t touch me, didn’t lay a finger on me, did nothing for me--I was
just here to serve him, just a hot mouth into which to spill his seed--as I
sucked and stroked, I realized that I had the power, this tremendous
power. He was the one who was helpless.
His breathing was ragged. I made his gasp. Whenever I slowed, removed
my mouth, he groaned. His legs twitched. Except for his cock, which
remained hard, I turned him to jelly.
Finally my jaw got tired and I let him come. I wanted it. I wanted it all. I
actually had a mini-orgasm when the first spurt splashed against the roof
of my mouth. I milked his balls. I milked his cock. He came a lot. No
doubt he’d been fantasizing about me while you and I were having our
drinks, but not really expecting it would happen. I sucked and swallowed
and sucked and swallowed, until I had sucked him dry. When his deflated
cock plopped from my lips, I opened the tip with my fingers and greedily
licked that last drop of come from the canal.
I had never done anything like that: just gone down and sucked a
strange man’s cock. Not the slightest semblance of affection. Just sex.
Just bringing him to orgasm. I was surprised at myself: I loved it. If I hadn’t
had you to come home to, I would have sucked that plain little man back
to hardness and fucked him senseless. But I liked just ending it there too.
Abruptly. He did not move when I sat back on my heels. Nor when I
stood and crossed to get my dress and shoes, which I carried into the
bathroom.
When I came back out, he had zipped up his pants and was standing at
the bar.
‘That was the best I’ve ever had,’ he said. ‘The very best.’
‘Thank you.’
I started for the door.
‘How will we get in touch with you?’
‘You won’t, I will get in touch with you.’
‘You’re on for next Tuesday?’
‘What time?’
‘Early. 6:00.’
‘O.K.’
‘See you,’ I said and blew him a kiss across the room before opening the
door and leaving. I found the guest elevator, rode down, got a cab,
came home, talked to you, and,” Lisa rolled from the sofa onto her back
on the carpet, lifted her skirt and opened her legs, “now I very much need
to have my brains fucked out as promised.”
Deliberately I unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock just as Yves must
have done, before falling on her and sliding it home.
She screamed with an instant orgasm. Then came again as I continued
pounding into her and asked, “Are you going back Tuesday?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Maybe,” I gasped and flooded her with my come for the first of many
times that night.
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