Her back arched off the bed as his tongue snaked a trail from her hardened nipple to her belly button. Grasping at the pillow cover, she peeked down to watch Michael’s head make its way further down, to her center, already dripping wet and ready. He kissed it once…twice…three times, his lips touching her lips from her hips while her lips uttered incoherent phrases of pleasure. Her arms struggled to be freed from the silk scarves currently wrapped around her tiny wrists, struggled to be able to grasp Michael's head as he rewrote the Kama Sutra on her clit one position at a time. Over and over, she called his name, moaning then screaming it as his tongue brought her closer and closer to the edge. He lifted his head quietly, letting his chin stimulate her clit as he whispered to her, “you coming, baby?” “Yes, oh God yes, please…”, she cried as her hips climbed up and up, the sounds of club hip hop booming around her…
Wait. That wasn’t right.
Ariane awoke with a start, her alarm blasting the latest in hip hop and R&B “trash”, as she called it – there was nothing like classic R&B. Sitting up in her bed, she looked around for signs of Michael, her ex, and, finding none, even went so far as to feel the sheets to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming. Except that she was. Her sheets were wet from her sweat, her body was throbbing, sitting on the edge…Michael wasn’t here, he was gone with the next trick, for lack of a better word, and she was here…alone. Alone and, now, horny as hell. They always said that you shouldn't turn a 'ho into a housewife'...but Ariane never saw herself as a whore. Granted, there were no cliche reasons for her previous lifestyle: she wasn't a struggling college student or a back-against-the-wall single mother in desperate need of some cash. She, quite simply, came from her parents' money and didn't want that lifestyle to change when she was forced to move out. For what it was worth, the money that she had saved from the countless escapades she cajoled her way into paid off handsomely. Coming back from her distant memories, she jumped in the shower and turned her shower head on to pulse, placed it directly on her Pandora’s box, let the water stream over her clit, leaned back against the wall and moaned, brought herself to a gentle orgasm that was a poor substitution for the real thing she was used to getting.
This was some real. Live. Bullshit. Sigh.
As she showered her dreamed lust off her, her hands caressed her honeyed skin, moved down it's dangerous curves, massaged the remainder of her weak orgasm down the drain of her mother of pearl inlaid shower tile. The advantage to her former lifestyle was the inevitable material perks - the humongous bathroom splashed in mother of pearl...the four bedroom house with wall to wall New Zealand plush wool carpet...her massive, label heavy wardrobe, complete with a separate closet for her shoes. Ariane always thought that continuing to have what she had would make her happy. Even growing up, her parents, before they parted ways, stressed the importance of looking important and 'fresh', whether it was a black tie affair, or to the local supermarket. As a result, Ariane grew up with an overwhelming sense of entitlement, reflected in her choice of boyfriend (and sometimes girlfriend), as well as in her sense of style, down to her eating habits. After a few years of turning tricks and playing in assorted 'clubs' throughout the area, she grew tired of using her body to get her what she wanted - but she didn't know any other way. One of her favorite hookups, when talking to her about her dreams, suggested community college as a means to find, well, herself. She enrolled in City Community and got her AOS in Massage Therapy. She still used her body to please others - simply in a less direct way now.
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