The American Consular, Part One

I don't really have a type, unless you consider 'wealthy' to fall under such a heading. And so, when Maggs asked if I'd be interested in dressing up the arm of the American consular for a third time, a man known to be quite well-off, I was eager to accept. Within 30 minutes of giving Maggs the okay, a young courier arrived, unabashedly ogling my perfect breasts as he handed me the cream-colored parchment and accompanying envelope.

I smiled coyly and asked if he was still a virgin. He blushed (naturally, most young men would) and scurried back to his motorbike, leaving me with a lovely parting view of toned, firm buttocks. Closing the door, I padded across the Italian marble and tore the envelope open; I was to meet the consular at one of the capital's palaces in less than an hour. Fortunately, I'd bathed an hour earlier, soaking my delectable pussy in a creamy swirl of rather expensive bubble bath -- I was 90% ready. One sleek, floor-length couture gown, a pair of seamed black stockings and lovely black heels were all it would take to bring out the sex kitten so many eagerly paid me to be.

As the driver helped me into the Mercedes, I pulled my dress upward and over my hips, relishing in the sensation as my bare inner thighs slid along the cool white leather. I heard his breath catch -- rather a familiar sound in my line of work -- and I glanced up at him. "My apologies if I've offended or embarrassed you..." I traced in the inside of my thigh with my right palm. "I might've torn my gown if I hadn't exposed myself in this crude manner." I licked my lips softly, keenly aware that this man has heard nothing I've said, his eyes glazed over with lust.

After a long moment, he seemed to shake the clouds away, muttering something in the local language which I could not understand. Closing the door, he rounded the car and climbed into the front seat, all the while avoiding my gaze in the mirror. But I knew he was desperately aware of my presence and I smiled to myself, unable to suppress the tiniest amount of pride:

After 10 years in this business, I'm still as potent as they come.

It's not that I'm a natural beauty. I'm pretty enough, I suppose, and I'm sure I should thank the Gods for gifting me that much, but the real attraction is my confidence: I know that men want me, and I know what they want to do to me. They're drawn, helplessly, to my blatant sexuality. A sexuality I've always been keen to express, and one which has always placed me higher on the pedestal than mere beauty could do.

Many think me a prostitute, and, I suppose, that in some ways I am. But I much prefer to be called a whore, as the sex is something I do for myself. It's the only part of my job which is truly, truly honest, for I am not a prostitute in the sense you might imagine. I am not hired by these men (and the occasional woman) to fill their beds -- I am hired by someone else. The purpose of such things is better saved for a future chat (when you and I know each other better, perhaps) but for now I must ask that you assume what you will and leave me to my secrets.

In the meantime, I'm sure the what and the how will more than make up for not knowing the why?

The American Consular was eagerly awaiting my arrival; he opened my door before the driver had even fully stopped the car. His firm fingers had wrapped around my wrist and yanked me from the backseat before I'd even had the chance to adjust my gown. Pulling me close to his body, he shimmied the black material down over the softness of my hips, his eyes never leaving mine as he took the liberty. Smiling coolly in return, I leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "Must we stay the entire time... or is there somewhere we might fuck on the premises?"

The question, asked with great salacity and a very steady gaze, would have sent most men running for their mothers. But not Michael; he simply smiled and led me through the massive iron doors. In the distance I could hear the din of politicians and socialites as they gathered round for a tedious game of cock measuring -- but instinct told me that it would be some time before Michael and I joined them.

My instincts would prove correct...

Debauchery Is The New Black

Greetings, and welcome to Memoirs of an American Whore. 

There was a time in the not so distant past when I might have apologized for the salacious title, but it would appear that immorality is flavor of the decade, and I see no reason to provide even a cursory warning, as the only people interested in this subject matter are bound to be heathens themselves.

I'm not quite the same category of whore as you might expect; I'm paid for my services, but not in the way you're accustomed to imagining. In fact, most of the men I've slept with have thought me genuinely interested. And before you think me a whore hired by friends and family to provide an otherwise unattainable mercy-fuck; I assure you, that is not the case.

I may choose to explain that remark at some point, but for now I ask that you simply enjoy the bawdry nature of the job I've so come to enjoy.