She lets out a short, raspy, derisive laugh. “So yeah, actually, that’s an option. But I haven’t been able to work a lot this year, and I’m a contract worker, so money’s just really tight.” She gestures to the room before I get the chance to question why she has this suite if her finances are bad, not that I would have. “This was a booking error. Err, like, when they upgrade your plane ticket?”
I nod, familiar with the process although it’s never happened to me. I’ve mostly only ever flown on chartered flights and private jets. If I’m on a regular plane, I’m already first-class, so I’m not getting upgraded. “Okay, yeah,” I agree, unsure of what else to say. In the absence of good words, I tilt her head up and kiss her gently. “You lie down. I’m going to just grab a washcloth so I can clean you up. Don’t fight me on this.”
She grins, but I see the glimmer of tears in her eyes. I’m not sure if it’s over her frustration with her health insurance that I guess doesn’t cover this or if she’s upset that I’m going to touch her more, but she lies down for me, and that’s the important thing.
Her bathroom is giant. Cavernous. Gleaming white, which draws my attention right to Trixie’s toiletries. Pill organizers similar to the one I keep my supplements in when I’m travelling, but she has three, and a quick glance through the translucent lids shows she needs them to fit everything she takes. A full tube of toothpaste, which I steal a dab of to freshen up, scrubbing my teeth with my finger even though our tongues have been all over each other’s everything tonight. I’ve used another person’s toothbrush before — traveling with a herd of boys in their high school and collegeyears was definitely a hygienic carnival — but that’s a permission thing.
I get a warm feeling in my heart when I notice a tube of the same lotion my Gammy uses tucked behind the spread of grayscale cosmetics Trixie used for her costume. Not sexy, but sweet. Cozy.
Then I make quick work of cleaning myself up with a washcloth I throw into the hamper before grabbing another to soak in warm water for her. I’ve made a big mess of her, so I figure I’ll need more, but there were only two in the stack of towels. I poke around the bathroom, looking for a second stash of towels since suites usually have a stupid amount of towels, finally pushing back the shower curtain to see if they stashed some on a shelf in there.
I’m confused for a second before I realize that the peculiar design of the bathtub — which I should have noticed before I looked in because the tub basin has a door on it so users don’t need to step over a tall wall to enter — is for accessibility reasons. It hits me again how fragile Trixie must be or must have been, how close to death she truly was. The hotel probably didn’t have enough rooms for everyone who needed ADA accommodation, and that’s why she got this ‘upgrade’.
“Hey, Trixie?” I call, taking stock of what I’ve got to work with here. “On a scale of one to ten, how dirty of a whore areyou?”
Chapter 6
Tilly
I probably shouldn’t have told John that I’m fucking filthy, but he asked me that question when there was a wall between us and gave me a second to think about it, so I took advantage of the silence there and decided to go for gold.
I do feel filthy. But when I lie there, feeling his cum leak from me down my thighs and ass, onto the bedding beneath me, that feeling of filth morphs from the ever-present disgust I feel over how I look and the cancer that may still fester inside me into the sexy filthy I love to wallow in.
And I feel . . . human. In a way I haven’t in so long.
I limp into the bathroom, expecting to shower together, but the seat in the tub is opened and John is sitting on a stool next to the tub. The way he’s seated, man-sprawled, his cock half-mast, has me thinking he’s planning to stay there awhile. Heinsisted he was going to clean me; I suppose he’s realized that the ADA tub is the easiest way to do it.
But the way he stares at me, leaning forward on that stool, his eyes darkened to maritime storms, makes me think he’s planning more than just cleaning.
“Finish undressing yourself, Trixie. I want it all off.”
I swallow at that. It’s another thing that wouldn’t have been all that strange for me a couple years ago. However the clothes get taken off works for me. But even before, I wouldn’t have been comfortable with the bright lights of this bathroom.
But I’m a good escort. I can take control of this situation, bring things back to mood lighting. A dimmer room would make everything sexier, I figure. Hell, this could have been his plan all along.
“Yes, John,” I say in my silkiest voice as I lean against the wall and flatten my hand over the switch, casually nudging the dimmer.
“No,” John snaps, his voice sharp. Serious.
“Oh, uhh, it’s a little too bright in here, don’t you think?”
“I need to see what I paid for. I need to inspect my purchase.”
With a flutter of nerves, I nod again, finding my inner balance. I like how firm his voice is, actually. I like the challenge. I don’t like being made uncomfortable, but the way he speaks adds a perverse excitement to it. Things got too real for a minute there. I was genuinely worried that the serious talk had ruined the rest of the night, but he’s right back to treating me like a prostitute. That’s what I wanted.
That’s what I want.
So I’m smiling to myself as I push my stockings down. I’m not sexy about it, not any sexier than the act itself is. I don’tplay with them. I don’t flick them at him. I simply drop one, then the other to the ground.
The gloves go next, plucking one finger at a time to loosen them before tugging them off and dropping them with the stockings. The various bits and pieces of chunky jewelry go, too, leaving me completely bare except for the wig.
He looks up at it. I see him contemplating. But he doesn’t say anything. A lot of men don’t know the amount of work that goes into wigs and the mess that’s typically underneath, but he nods and gestures to the tub. “Okay, now you’re going to wash yourself for me. Use the wand. I need you clean, Trixie. Squeaky fucking clean.”
I keep the temperature lukewarm, not quite hot enough to make my skin redden any more than it already is. The moment it splashes my nipples, they harden. I stand there next to the seat, ignoring it as I scrub my chest, arms, and legs, lifting my ponytail and spinning eventually so the water runs down my shoulders and back.
It’s sensual. Intimate. It hits a spot that creates a unique bond for two strangers who have shared only the physical but have shared it at a level that seems impossible without more. I don’t even think I’ve said the word ‘cancer’ to him, although I imagine he’s guessed it. And yet I’m washing myself in front of him, allowing him to see this most banal but private moment, and he watches me as though the act itself is sustenance.
“Now sit and show me how filthy your pussy is,” he commands in a low, casual voice, commanding but not rude. Not meant to offend. He’s just as pleased that my pussy is filthy as I am.
