Laura Meets Jeffrey by Jeffrey Michelson, Laura Bradley Page A

is a bed and privacy we’re fucking. If we are anywhere and there’s a bed and no privacy we throw people out of the room and fuck. Sometimes, if we’re anywhere with a bed and we’re with people, we fuck in front of them. Sometimes we fuck in express elevators quickly; sometimes we find closets and fuck. Sometimes we go up on a roof and fuck. Sometimes we pull the car over to a rest stop or just off the road and fuck.
    Every day after work Laura recounts the day’s eros-for-money adventures: The black U.N. diplomat who was very gentle, the old guy with the horse-sized schlong, the little bald guy who only wanted to suck her asshole and jerk off, the young, good-looking guy who paid her $250 to fuck her in the ass and then tried coming onto her for a date, the rich guy who gave her $200 just to squeeze his balls hard while he jerked off, the two “suits” who shared her and then gave her $200 cash and nearly $500 worth of their cocaine, the Japanese guy who spoke no English and had an amazingly rigid dick, the little American guy who had a small dick and was mean to her, and the many nondescript dudes that just came in, fucked, tipped, and left.
    Each little vignette ends with Laura telling me how she came for me, how she performed for me, how she was my slave, how she repeated, “This is for you, Jeffrey,” in her head every time she came, how she even startled a john by saying it out loud once and how he asked afterwards, “Who the fuck is Jeffrey?”
    Her description of each sexual encounter is exciting foreplay to me. I am the perfect boyfriend for a call girl. I have no jealousy. I approve of her having sex with other men.
    Just thinking about “my whore” pleasuring other men makes me incredibly hard. Sometimes I get so excited during the day thinking about what she is doing, I jerk off imagining her in that little room with men using her. I don’t consider the morals, I don’t consider the ethics, I don’t consider the psychic tax. I just love it, sick fuck that I am.
    Men’s horniness is just about the most interesting thing in the world to me. Starting with mine. I’m not sure where polymorphous perversity ends and homosexuality begins but while I have zero desire to be fucked by a man, watching men with their genetically engineered hard-ons use my woman as I did at 300 orgies or hearing about them use Laura as I do every day satisfies some compulsion.
    I am fortunate that my obsession is within the quasi-socially acceptable and quasi-legal limits of perversion. One more crossed neuron someplace else and I could have been a shoe fetishist, scat worshiper or worse yet a pederast. It’s just luck that I have my set of desires rather than some more hideous.
    Every day Laura reveals more of her personality.
    â€œThe first time I ever remember having an orgasm with anyone,” Laura muses, “was with this actor/film director whose name I’d rather not mention. I didn’t even know who he was. I’d never seen any of his movies. I was in this pub with friends and this guy started talking to me. My friends had to tell me who he was.
    â€œI must have had an orgasm before knowing him,” Laura laughs, “because I had so much sex, but I didn’t know it was orgasm. I just didn’t know the name of it or how to define it. It was just this good swelling feeling. Not that he taught me how to define it, but he—he just made it so obvious, the orgasm he gave me was just so profound, so much bigger than anything before—and with an explosion. And so never-ending, ha, ha, ha! He had a nice cock, normal size­—a nice size—but it was his tongue that first got me off.
    â€œHe really knew how to eat pussy!” Laura gushes, “oh God yeah! It was amazing! He really, really did know how to make me come!
    â€œAnd you know what his technique was? He was humming as he was going down on me, ha, ha, ha!