But it was only a passing fancy. He was good, of course. Why shouldn't he be? All his medical training was centered around snatches. He looked at them every day, fingered them, stared up them, diagnosed their ills and aches. Still, he didn't excite her the way Kerry did. Even after a sultry romp with Dr. Steinman, she was glad to get home to her husband and fuck him crazy, the way he liked to be fucked after a hard day on the job.
Just like today. She'd serviced three men this afternoon, and she'd enjoyed every minute she had spent with them, but it was still better – much, much better – to greet Kerry almost naked and let him ravish her on the rug before the fireplace. Anyway, Pam thought defensively, this little whoring gambit is just a passing fancy. I'll get tired of it one of these days and give it up completely. Right now it's just something that excites me and turns me on and helps me spend interesting afternoons that really get me hot for my husband. Who is it hurting? Certainly not me. What about all that money in the bank? The interest it's picking up, too? Over five thousand dollars, untaxed, untraceable, unreported – clear, extra income, just lying there, waiting for the day when Kerry and I might need it. If he wanted to know where the money came from, she'd made up a story about savings bonds her parents and grandparents had given her in childhood. No problem at all.
And certainly no adjustment problems. Patricia, after all, was the whore. Not Pamela. Pamela was merely a hot-blooded wife with a hot-blooded husband and a very full sex life.
Today, for example, she'd finished doing her face, fluffed her hair, and slipped a few extra items of clothing into a small bag and gone out to meet her clients. Each of them was a repeater, so she knew what to expect, and the prospect was one to look forward to.
Mr. Charles was first. She met him at his hotel, smiling as she recalled his request for an early lunch. Some people might think him slightly warped, but not Pam/Patti. As long as he wanted to pay her, she'd be delighted to help him live out his pet fantasies.
In Mr. Charles' case, those pet fantasies centered around pussy and the eating thereof. But not just eating – he had a whole production number he liked to go through. It began with Pam stripping sensuously, slowly, and for his benefit she'd gone the whole route with underwear and stockings and garter belt, just so he could get more glassy-eyed as she removed the plethora of clothing.
He was a smallish man, balding, skinny, and she'd never seen him naked. He refused to take off his undershirt and shorts, though he requested that she strip to the skin. If it was his scene.
Pam stretched out on the bed, finally nude. Her legs were open, her pussy on display. The front of his shorts thrust out, full of an erection, but he made no effort to haul out that erection and stab her with it. Instead, he sat on the foot of the bed, sighting up between her legs, small beady eyes glittering as he feasted on the sight of her pink gash.
"Oh, yes," he'd always tell her, "oh, yes, that's perfect, it's beautiful, so beautiful, I'd like to wrap it up and take it home with me…"
Then he'd begin. First by sucking and kissing her toes, his tongue sucking back and forth between them, around them. He'd suckle her ankles too, mouthing his way up each leg in turn, saving the pussy itself for last. He'd never touched any other part of her, not even the big breasts with their pink, ripe nipples. It was as if the only portion of woman that mattered to him was the region south of the navel. Well, if he was willing to pay for her pussy, Pam/Patti was more than willing to let him GET IT ON!
"I can't wait," he'd tell her, after kissing and licking and mouthing her thighs until every nerve in them twitched with anticipation and Pam's tits heaved with each gulping breath. "I can't hold back. Will you forgive me? Will you promise not to hate me afterwards?"
"I could never hate you, Charles," she'd told him the first time instinctively and, ever afterwards, by rote. "No matter what you did. No matter what." And she'd touch him gently, her fingers trailing lazily across his face as he blushed sweetly. He would smile then, and for the first time his ringers would dare to stroke the hair-fluffed mound of her twat itself. She suspected that he had some kind of pussy hang up. Maybe his wife reacted harshly when he tried to love her with his mouth. Maybe it was a holdover from childhood. Odds on, he was sublimating that hang up with Patti Wright and with whores in a dozen other cities. She didn't know and she didn't particularly care. Right now she was more interested in getting his mouth and her cunt into connection.
For his pleasure, she'd douched and touched up her cunt with a few drops of Jean Nate. Only, at the moment, the aroma of pussy dew was much stronger than the perfume she'd taken from the bottle, and she realized how, much she'd been anticipating her visit with Mr. Charles.
He had long fingers, slender for a man, and they moved across her pubic mound with precision and tenderness. Smoothing down the hairs, tracing the outline of her well-formed gash. She could feel her clitty throbbing inside long before he parted the lips and began to pet her volatile vulva.
"I know it's wicked," he would sigh then, "so wicked, so awfully wicked… But it looks so pretty, too, pretty enough to eat. May I? May I, darling? Eat it, I mean?" And to emphasize the request he would lick gently at the outer edges of her puffy pouting slash, the tip of his tongue scraping with a precision she found both irresistible and erotic.
"Yes," Pam would husk, coughing out the words. Her hands would come up and fit around her large breasts, cupping, squeezing until the nipples stood up like a pink barber poles. "I want you to do it. And don't feel ashamed, darling. I certainly don't."
"Thank you," he would reply, "thank you, my darling, you don't know how much this means to me."
And with that, he'd begin eating her. God, how he could eat!! His tongue stabbing into her hole, scooping out honey by the spoonful. His tongue gone mad, licking circles around and around her nubby clit, making the sweet love button hammer and pulsate. His fingers keeping the rest of her adjacent erogenous zones in heated, flurrying stimulation. He was good. Really good.
As he sucked and licked her pussy, he slipped his cock out of his shorts, fitted a fist around it, and began to masturbate. Pam watched, half conscious of what he was doing. The first time she'd tried to pull him closer, so she could do it for him – it seemed the least she could contribute – but he'd gotten all tense and nervous, and she'd stifled the urge quickly. He didn't want her to jerk him off, or suck him off, or fuck him off either, for that matter. Anyway – it didn't matter. As his tonguing grew more intense she closed her eyes and forgot all about his cock, losing herself in her own pleasure. It was a nice way to make a hundred dollars.
"I have to go now," he'd always tell her when she'd spurted girl-goo all over his hungry mouth. "I have to meet somebody." She understood. He'd exorcised some inner demon once again, and he didn't want her around, reminding him of that struggle.
The first time she hadn't understood. She'd gone to him, embraced him, kissed him. Her swollen tits rubbed on his chest, her hands slid up and down his back, and she'd offered him more – all the enjoyment of her body. "Don't you want to fuck me, too?" she had whispered into his ear, sliding a stray tendril of hair across his blushing face. "I want to fuck you. God, you made me come, darling! You made me come like a fountain!"
But it had been wrong. Once he was finished, he wanted nothing more from Patricia Wright except her speedy departure. He wouldn't even accept her kiss – it was as if he felt his mouth too dirty to be caressed by her lips – and he squirmed anxiously in her embrace. She could have held him, forced him – God, she was four inches taller than he, for one thing! – but it wasn't the right thing to do. He'd bought her time, she was there only to make his dreams come true.