He locked eyes with me. “Don’t fake it.”
I nodded, but he wasn’t satisfied with that. “I mean it. You said this is about what I want. What I want is for you to really come. No matter how long it takes or how much direction you have to give me. Just don’t fake it.”
“Okay,” I whispered, nodding urgently.
Who the fuck is this guy and where did he come from?
He circled his thumb around my clit, instantly proving me wrong. He had no trouble whatsoever locating it.
The kids are alright.
He pressed his tongue where his thumb had been, making me gasp as he circled with gentle pressure. It felt so good, but my mind was randomly focused on the question of whether he was even in the same generation as me. There was an almost fourteen-year age gap between us.
Oh my God. I was having sex when he was an infant.
I choked on a hysterical laugh at the invasive thought, wondering how the fuck men bridged age gaps far bigger than this without blinking.
He hesitated and I covered my face, cringing in embarrassment. I was better at my job than this.
But usually my job meant focusing on other people’s pleasure, not having to silence my mind enough to come. That was hard enough when I was on my own, far less with a stranger. I could go home and masturbate to thoughts of what I’d done with clients, but almost never actually got off with a client.
I was glad he wanted to make me feel good, but worried I wasn’t going to be able to get there because I was too anxious, which would leave me with the choice of faking it after promising I wouldn’t…or making things super awkward and disappointing for him.
Which just added pressure.
Which made me more anxious.
Which made it less likely I was going to come.
He must’ve sensed my tension because he stopped and said, “How can I make this better for you?”
I stroked his arm. “What you’re doing feels so good. I just…sometimes it’s hard to get out of my own head long enough to get off.”
I felt like I was killing the moment, but stressing about that more wasn’t going to help.
He looked pensive for a second and then rocked back on his heels. “Show me how you do it.”
For a sex worker, I was suddenly awfully shy. What was it about this guy?
“I promise what you were doing felt good. I don’t think I need to show you.”
He smiled. “Thought this was about what I wanted?”
I spread my thighs open wider and slid a hand down between them, slowly and softly teasing myself. He watched me hungrily, staring at my most private place as I demonstrated what I would do for myself.
It wasn’t like a client had never asked me to masturbate for them before, but I’d usually done it in a showy way, faking an orgasm. They wanted the fantasy of me masturbating, back arched and making sexy noises after only taking minutes to get there…not the reality of me making awkward faces, taking twenty minutes to come, and tensing like a dying insect when I did.
But he’d created such an honest space for us by admitting it was his first time that even if I hadn’t promised him I wouldn’t, faking it felt wrong. Like I’d be failing to honor his vulnerability.
I touched myself the way I liked, closing my eyes and trying to pretend I was alone, but I swore I could feel his gaze.
I opened my eyes and found him watching my face instead of what I was doing with my hand, which was inexplicably erotic.
With that jolt of lust, I sunk into the fantasy of him making me do this for him. He was the young prince and I was a lowly servant forced to obey his desires. That fantasy had always worked for me, but I’d never been in a situation where it actually felt real.
I wasn’t having to fake anything anymore. It still didn’t happen quickly, but his gorgeous blue eyes watching my every move eventually got me there. There isn’t anything dignified about an orgasm, but I offered him that real piece of myself as though he was entitled to it.
I lay there panting for a second, then moved to sit up, ready to turn the tables.
