The Sexual Complexities of Guilt

The Sexual Complexities of Guilt

We stand together in the lavish introduction area of LePenthouse Suite, beneath the soft romantic lighting, like reunited star-crossed lovers, and I’m holding his hand in a gesture of tendresse as we have a quiet conversation about the specialties I offer.

This is the Gold Coast’s finest and longest-established brothel, and I’m Maddie, high-class escort and the hottest erotic rendezvous lover to strut her sensibilities before the elite set of this Glitter Strip City by the sea.

My sensuous and voluptuous body, seductive brown eyes, lustrous brown hair, and exquisitely embroidered, black illusion mesh lingerie brassiere and transparent G-string, tantalize this swarthy but handsome thirty-something standing before me. I can tell he is sexually aroused by the way he positions himself, trying to accommodate the bulge in his pants; but he has told me he doesn’t want sex.

He explains his guilt complex by telling me he cheated on his girlfriend, again, and she didn’t get angry at him, didn’t leave him, again. He wants a role play where I turn him on with a bit of a strip tease, and then he resists, and then I submit him to a dominatrix reprimand for cheating on his partner. And that’s it. Sort of a catharsis so he can feel less guilty about his infidelity. He’s still willing to pay for the full service, but he says to me, “No matter what, absolutely no sex, even if I change my mind midway during our session. You promise?”

I smile and agree, but mentally cross my fingers. When he smiles, he looks a little like that actor Benicio Del Toro, the one that always plays Latino drug dealers, and was in that new Jedi movie. He’s a little taller than me, and his five o’clock shadow and tousled brown curls, highlight his soulful brown eyes.

“You look like my girlfriend,” he says this as we ascend the staircase to Suite One. I’m holding the satin sheets I will use to make the king sized double bed in the boudoir, with one hand, and the other hand is lightly placed on the gentle rhythmic sway of my hips, curled and kind of beckoning to him, with purple glossed nails and elegant fingers that want to hold him in all manner of sexual love clasps.

“That’s why I chose you,” he continues and I can feel his gaze move down my toned back and settle on my firm, full butt cheeks and toned tanned legs. I can hear him breathe in my scent, my perfume and my sex.
“No sex huh,” I think to myself, “We’ll see about that.” And I glance over my shoulder, catch his gaze and give him a bedroom stare that makes him stumble momentarily.

In Suite One, he is sitting on the hard-backed Victorian sitting chair, watching me as I finish making the bed, all prepared just in case he can’t resist. The smooth segue into our ‘non-encounter’ begins the moment I turn around, and casually walk over to him, holding his gaze, my cherry lips half-open and tongue on the tip of my teeth, fingers absently fondling my nipples through the transparent brassiere. I know he can see my hairless pussy, and tight pussy lips through the transparent G-string because that is where his gaze has fallen. “So, tell me, how long have you and your girlfriend been together?”

I’m standing before him now, his gaze level with my breasts, the waft of perfume drifting down into his lust-ridden face from the locks of my hair dangling against his forehead, my knees lightly touching his knees, his breathing becoming a little more urgent, one hand unconsciously moving to the still present bulge in his pants, the other reaching out to caress my thigh until he pulls it back a little and places it on the armrest, as he reminds himself to resist.

I unfasten my brassiere and let it drop away and my breasts are heavy and full of promise before his gaze, and his tongue licks his top lip, and then he catches himself and says, “We’ve been together nearly four years.”
“You can touch them, if you want?” And the sexual allure between us in this hypnotic moment, mingled with the combined heat of proximity begins to ignite an uncontrollable lust in this Latin-looking lover.

“Why did you do the dirty on her?” I hook one thumb under the curve of my G-string and pull it aside, exposing my pussy lips. He is breathing heavily now. I hook one leg up onto the armrest, so my thighs are spread and my pussy lips are open and he can see my stiffening clit as I start to finger it, all glistening wet with sex juice.
By now he is caressing my thigh. And I say, “You said no sex,” then I playfully slap his hand away. That makes his lust more urgent, and he reaches out with both hands and grabs my buttock cheeks and pulls my pussy towards his face, and he starts cunnilingus, growling my sex and gently nibbling and tonguing my clit so that an electric thrill runs up my body and I cry out a little.

My hands are in his hair, clutching his head, pulling his face as deep as possible into my sex. And I hiss under my panting breath, “Why did you cheat on her?” And I slap his bristled cheek, hard enough to stun him, hard enough to enrage him a little, just enough so he pulls back and looks into my eyes, and whispers back at me, “Because of gorgeous pieces of sex like you.” He stands now, and swings me around and puts me hard onto the chair. He pulls out his throbbing erection, glistening with pre-cum, and there’s a metal Prince Horn ring threaded from the eye of his penis down under into the beginning of the head of his erection, and there’s a droplet glistening on it.

I quickly find a condom, and fit it over his enormous shaft and start fellatio, sucking his full length, deep, deeper until I gag and spittle dribbles onto my naked breasts. He pulls my head back onto his erection, forcing his manhood down my throat, and I suck and drag my teeth along the shaft, and I bite and he moans a little, and then I gag again.

He suddenly pulls me up and spins me around again, and now he sits back on the chair. His pants are around his ankles, and his shirt is unbuttoned but he is too aroused to fully disrobe and instead positions me, awkwardly at first, so that my wet, wet pussy is over his erection as I stand above him.
He repeats himself, “I cheated on my girlfriend because of sexy, tight, beautiful women like you,” and as he says this he rubs his shaft along my pussy lips, rises up and thrusts the engorged head of his erection, through my pussy lips and opening, into me, once, then a little deeper as he lifts me up, and then he pushes himself all the way in.

I can feel his Prince Albert piercing brush against my engorged clitoris and I shudder, and then the hard bump runs along the insides of my sugar walls, and now he is pounding me rhythmically, frantically as he carries me to the bed, drops me on my back, and continues thrusting deep into me for what seems like endless moment upon endless moment.

I am moaning, and intermittently, he pulls his erection back a little and rubs the genital ring against my clitoris, and then plunges his length back into my sex. Soon, our breathing becomes more frenzied, he starts whispering words of hateful lust, and suddenly in three stabbing thrusts he pushes through into my G-spot and blows. The orgasm rocks me into my own climax, and our bodies stiffen together. Drenched in sweat and sticky pussy juice, spent and exhausted, we collapse together in a wicked embrace.

“I’ll try to resist you again in a little while,” he is smiling that swarthy smile with an untrustworthy gleam in his eyes, and I say, “Maybe we’ll have better luck in the Jacuzzi.”

January, 2018