His Personal Call Girl 3

By Veronica Sloan

With her boyfriend back in town, Catherine puts her prostitution on hold. Tom agrees without argument, but for some reason Catherine can't stop thinking about him. He's satisfied her in ways no other man ever has - and he's the one who's been paying her! Backdoor fun, lewd phone calls and a threesome with Sara are all in her future. But which man does she truly love, Bobby...or Tom?

EXCERPT:

Where I was conflicted before I was now much less so. I still considered myself with Bobby but I saw my arrangement with Tom more and more as another job, one I happened to actually like. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't about to sell myself on the street. But it's pretty hard to dislike having a man massage you, make love to you, then pay half a grand and be on his way without pushing any other agenda. When I thought about it like that I almost felt like Tom was getting shortchanged. But then again, I was what he wanted, and I did what he wanted.

Case in point, it was near the end of January and I was sitting at home in a tight green apron that I'd found in my mother's closet. It was small, and very old, but it suited the purpose I had for it. I watched myself tie it around my naked body in the mirror, making sure that it was as knotted as it could be (Tom didn't want it to be too easy), taking note of the generic floral print running over the borders and the way it faded and frayed at the edges. I smoothed it over my front and stomach. The frilled bottom just barely covered my upper thighs. I checked myself on the sides. The round slopes of my breasts were clearly visible between my arms and the apron front. After that I sat down and applied makeup. More makeup than I would have, than any girl would have past, let's be honest, 1955.

I read in the paper the other day that when men and women get depressed, they tend to get more sexually active (something about wanting to pass our genes on while survival seems low). That could have been it. I didn't like my current career; and while I didn't expect to be a secretary my whole life, and was almost certain that, somehow or other, I'd eventually get to graduate school, and then a real career, it was all still so far away (it seemed). And I didn't like it. In fact, I hated it. That I took pleasure in what Tom and I were doing was a relief to me. So, when he'd mentioned the apron and the makeup, I went to the gym earlier in the day and came home to prepare. I told him to come by at the usual time.

When the doorbell rang, I blew myself a big red kiss in the mirror. Working a little more wiggle into my hips, I traipsed to the door and opened it slowly...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veronica Sloan
• Release date: Feb 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311328601

Veronica Sloan

Veronica Sloan writes dirty stories and naughty romances. Her erotica is explicit and steamy, and no topic is too taboo. A Chicago girl at heart, Veronica graduated from the Columbia School of Journalism with every intention of writing very important things about very important people. Currently, she spends her days writing about pop culture and her nights writing about lusty men and women and their naughty predilections. She loves big dogs, hot yoga and songs that are stupidly catchy. Visit her at https://www.veronica-sloan-erotica.com/home/.

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His Personal Call Girl

© Copyright 2016, Veronica Sloan, All Rights Reserved

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental. This story contains explicit content and is intended for adults only. All characters depicted are over the age of 18.

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Chapter 1

As soon as I saw Bobby I ran to him. I practically threw myself at him. He saw me and was ready. He threw his arms wide and I pushed myself into his arms, let him feel every part of me that he might have forgotten about, and I gave my mouth to him and let him kiss me, taste me. His hands reached up into my hair (I'd just gotten it done the day before) and I listened to him take a deep breath of my perfume.

God, he said when we broke apart, you look amazing.

I smiled at him, half with lust and half with what I'm sure looked like wonder. He was back and he loved me.

He'd flown in the night before and I'd had to work. I would have loved to have seen him then but without a car and with his place one too many el stops for comfort, we put off seeing each other until the next day, which turned out to be the same day as a back-from-college kickback we were all more or less socially obligated to attend. He told me he was jet lagged and had to see his family, otherwise he would have driven to see me. I didn't care; he was here now.

I would have dragged him upstairs, but we didn't have the time; plus my parents were home (but would be gone later that evening). So it was just a few minutes of merciless making out in the doorway and then I was clinging to his arm as he led me back to his car. We drove up to Evanston at about eight o'clock, chattering about everything we hadn't talked about, things we had.

I was playing the part of the perfect girlfriend. As soon as I saw him, I wanted it to be true. Little annoyances were marginalized, his taste in music was not a big deal, nothing was wrong. And I looked good. Obviously I'd done my time at the gym and I was wearing a tight but tasteful black dress that hugged my hips and reached nearly to my knees; it was pretty conservative overall but the slip in the side and the ample décolletage balanced it out (I suppose that is to say: a tight bra and my tits balanced it out). I liked Bobby looking and I told him to keep his eyes on the road. But he put his hand on my thigh and squeezed and I laughed.

(A few weeks ago on the back of Tom's motorcycle, he'd slipped his free hand down to the same leg and laid his hand on my knee. It was a smooth, comfortable gesture. There was certainly something possessive about it but it happened so naturally, as if that was exactly where his hand needed to be. It bothered me at the time. I guess it bothered me now.)

When we got to the party it was full, and since we were all at least graduated from one university it was a laid back affair, one where we saw a lot of friends we hadn't seen in a while and no one got too drunk or made too much of an ass out of themselves.

Though towards the later end of the evening Tom (who I'm convinced was dragged there by Allison so she'd have someone to drive her home - though she ended up going home with a random rugby player from UPenn) went down to the kitchen to grab a beer and Allison started talking about his idea to pay a girl for S-E-X.

By the time Tom returned to the group nearly the whole party was talking about the plan and whether or not it was a good idea. Bobby thought it was a great idea. We all need a few more prostitutes in our life, he said. Some girl laughed. I can't believe she laughed.

Tom looked into his beer and said, It's not really prostitution.

Bobby took that as a challenge. Um, paying someone for sex? Yeah, Tom, that's prostitution.