Chapter 92: 004/ POUNDING THE GIRL 001

Steve came twice more before the day was up, but that was nothing compared to Shyla, who came at least five more times by his count. Even when he got exactly what he wanted she still was able to get more out of it than he was. Their marriage in a nutshell.

After the last romp they were sitting naked on the couch next to each other, sharing a cigarette, looking like they could have been a happy couple. Then they started talking.

“If you would’ve fucked me like that earlier I wouldn’t have started cheating on you,” Shyla said.

“If you hadn’t started cheating on me I would have never known you liked to get fucked like that,” Steve replied.

“Well, maybe if you would’ve tried it you would’ve found out.”

“Maybe if you ever sober enough to fuck me I would have tried,” Steve said.

“Yeah, well maybe if you weren’t such an asshole I would have been sober more often.”

“And if you weren’t such a bitch I wouldn’t have been such an asshole.”

“Whatever,” Shyla said, standing up and grabbing the stack of papers from the table and handing them to Steve. “Just sign so we can end this relationship for good.”

“Fine,” Steve said. “Just give me a pen and let’s get it over with.”

Shyla reached into her purse, pulled one out and handed it to him.

Steve flipped to the last page and scribbled onto the line that called for his signature. He closed the papers up and handed them to Shyla.

Her relief was painted on her face as she folded the papers up without looking and stuffed them into her purse. Then she straightened herself out and without another word, turned and headed towards the front door.

A couple seconds later the door closed. Steve leaned back in the couch, pleased with himself. Not only had he just stuck it to his wife, he had done so in more ways than one. Unless she was married to Mickey Mouse, the signature on her divorce papers wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. Smiling, he turned the TV on and grabbed himself a beer. Life was good.

The End.

Book Title: POUNDING THE GIRL 001

First off, let me state right up front that I love escorts. I’ve been using them since I was 18 and I don’t expect the practice to end anytime soon. People always ask me why don’t I have a conventional relationship. Paying for sex is just so . . . nasty, they say. To which I reply, that’s exactly why I do it. Sometimes I feel like a nasty guy and it’s a hell of a lot easier to get truly down and dirty with a woman that you don’t have to worry about seeing ever again, unless you specifically choose to. I mean, seriously, do you want to kiss your girlfriend the morning after you came in her mouth? Or have her rub her hands through your hair the morning after she had her finger in your ass? Okay, don’t answer that. Maybe you do. But I sure as hell don’t. No, I’d rather live with the memory of that perfect night in my head, forever untainted, than deal with the reality of spending the next day together as human beings. I love the animal aspects of sex, the grinding, the sweating, the willingness to do things that you’d never consider doing under the harsh light of day. But the human part, the dealing with feelings and emotions and all that? No thanks. I deal with enough of that as it is; at work, with my family and friends, hell, even just observing strangers causes more anxiety than I like to deal with. No, I want my sex straight up, with no chaser. I want to fuck like an animal, without restraint, without having to think about the consequences in the morning, without having to wake up in bed the morning with my partner beside me and be embarrassed, to wonder what she thinks of me, of whether or not she liked it as much as I thought she did. I want to live in my dream world. I want my escort. I want to fuck. And so do you. After all, that’s what you bought this story, right? To read about the nasty stuff? Not to hear me ramble. So here you go. Enjoy.

She arrives at the door two minutes early, rings the bell. I looked out the peephole to check her out, my dick already hard in anticipation. The fish lens distorts her features just a bit, but nothing short of a circus funhouse mirror could have made her anything less than fucking perfect. She was done up exactly as I’d ordered: Short, platinum-hair in two pigtails, blue eye-shadow, cherry-red lipstick, her full, pouty lips turned up in a huge, innocent smile. Not too much makeup, showing off her lightly-freckled nose. She was even chewing gum, topping off the fantasy perfectly. Looking like she was straight out of high school, the epitome of my ideal girl when I was first hitting puberty.

I open the door and let her in. She’s a tiny little spinner, no more than 5’2” and somewhere right around 90 pounds. A full foot shorter than me and less than half my weight. She’s wearing a skin tight, long-sleeved pink T-shirt that ends well above her belly button, showing off her small but firm tits and rock-hard nipples the size of pencil erasers, which are threatening to poke a hole through the material. Her tan, flat stomach leads to the ultra-short, cutoff jeans, which in turn lead to her tanned, skinny but still shapely legs, all the way to the sandals covering her tiny little feet.

“So, what do you think?” she says, striking a pose. Her voice is bubbly, innocent. She plays the part like a pro. Which, of course, she is.

“I think you’re perfect,” I say.

Her smile widens. “Ahh, aren’t you sweet.” She sticks the tips of her finger in her mouth and giggles, then turns to check out the room. The frayed white ends of her jean shorts barely cover her tight, tiny ass. I can’t take my eyes off it. I can’t wait to see it in all its glory, bouncing on my cock

“Quite a nice room you’ve got here,” she says.

“You like it?” I say.

“I love it. It’s so big.”

She comes over and puts one arm around me and leans her head up against my chest. The top of her head barely reaches my chin. She drops her hand down to my crotch and looks up at me with a mischievous grin. “And it feels like you’ve got something else big waiting for me, too.”

“Maybe,” I say.

She giggles and slips out of her sandals. Then she turns around and gets up on her toes and presses the top of her ass against my crotch and starts to wiggle and shimmy. My cock is rock hard. It’s pressing up against my jeans as she rubs up and down against it.

Smiling, she turns her head and looks up at me. “So what’s on the menu for tonight?”

“Whatever you can take,” I say.

“I can take whatever you can dish out,” she says.

“We’ll see about that.” I say as I grab a fistful of her hair and spin her around so she’s facing me.

She yelps; part pleasure, part surprise, part pain. “Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh?”

“Yes it is,” I say.

I place my hand on top of her head and start to push. Not gentle, not rough, just guiding her down. Showing her the way. She goes willingly. Knowingly. And then her head is right in front of my crotch. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, her teeth biting the corner of her bottom lip.

“Is this what you like?” she says. “Pushing girls like me around? Making us do what you want?” There’s no malice in her voice, no fear. If anything there’s a bit of humor, as though she’s taunting me.

I nod.

“Then what are you waiting for big boy?” she says. “Pull it out and let’s see what you got.”

I undo my zipper and pull my cock out. It’s not the biggest dick in the world but it’s not the smallest either. It gets the job done. Especially when it’s as hard as it is right now. It’s stiff enough to hammer nails.

She starts to pull her shirt over her head.

I stop her. “Keep it on,” I say. Something about fucking a girl fully clothed just turns me on.