October 2021

By Brian Ross



She stands there, at the bar, minding her own business, drinking something short and sweet. Her dirty blonde hair is cut just below her shoulders, and she is wearing a tight black skirt that clings to her ass like paint.  

She leans over the bar, towards the optics and away from him, but Billy knows she is doing it on purpose – that she is teasing him. A woman can tell when a man is looking at her that way, and Billy has done nothing but watch her since she walked in.  

He drains the rest of the same beer he has been nursing since the woman arrived, and walks over to her. “You know, I’ve got a bottle of that stuff in my hotel room. I’m just next door if you’re interested.”  

“Oh yeah?” She doesn’t lift her gaze from the counter or the glass between her fingers. “If I go back to your hotel honey, I promise you, we ain’t going to be drinking.”  

Billy pushes his glass towards the barman. “And what makes you think I’m interested in anything more than that?”  

Now she looks at him and smiles. Her blue eyes flash. “You’re a guy. You’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes. For the last nine you’ve been wondering what I’d look like naked, and I’d say for the last four or five you’ve been trying to figure out the best way to get my ass on the end of your cock.”  

Billy swallows hard. “You’re very direct.”  

“And you’re very slow.”  

“What did you have in mind?”  

“Why don't you pay for my drink, and in a few minutes you'll find out exactly what I have in mind.”  

“You got a name?”  

“You can call me Samantha.”  

Billy drops a five pound note on the bar. “I like it.”  

“Good name; bad girl,” Samantha says. “But does it really matter what my name is?”  

Billy shrugs. “I guess not. I’m – ”  

Samantha puts a finger against his lips. “I don’t care what yours is. I don’t want to know.” She finishes her drink and grabs her coat. “Tonight we’re playing by my rules, and that’s rule number one.”  

“Okay. Sounds like you’ve done this kind of thing before.”  

“More times than you, hon.” Samantha keeps those bright eyes trained on him. “Now let’s go. You’re about to make history.”  

Billy takes a lingering look at his wallet, before slipping it back into his jacket and leading Samantha out of the bar.  

*  

Billy unlocks the door to the room.  

The woman who calls herself Samantha pushes him up against the wall as soon as the door closes behind her, and pushes her tongue between his lips. Her mouth is eager and hungry.  

She drops her coat on the floor and steps back towards the bed where she lies down. She brings her knees up towards her chest and her skirt slips up her thighs. She eases her legs apart, just a little, and Billy can almost make out the swell of her pussy beneath the dark leather.  

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” he says.  

“Not when I see what I want, no.” Samantha begins to unbutton her blouse. “So you coming to get it or you just going to stand there?”  

But Billy doesn’t move. He tries to say something but the words don’t leave his throat.  

“Okay, fine. I’ll just have to do all the work myself.”  

She gets up, leads him towards the chair in the centre of the room, and pushes him back so that he falls into the seat. Billy doesn’t resist. She stands with her back to him, and begins to unzip her skirt, slowly and deliberately, because she knows that the longer she takes the hotter his breath will be against her back. Eventually, her skirt falls to the floor and Samantha slips out of it. Billy takes in her red fishnet stockings as she flicks her skirt away with the toe of one stiletto.  

Samantha hooks both thumbs under the seam of her delicate lace panties and draws them slowly over her ass and hips. Once they reach her knees she lets the material fall to the floor, where she steps out of them. She trails her fingertips along the length of her legs before taking hold of her ankles and bending over in front of Billy.  

“What are you waiting for?” she asks, still facing forward.  

Billy can’t speak, or chooses not to. He is transfixed by her body. She has a tattoo of a butterfly on her left ankle.  

Samantha releases her grip and tiptoes her fingers back up her stockings towards her ass, which she then pulls apart slowly for him, revealing her pussy, red and wanting between her legs.  

“You know you want it,” she says. “Just lean forward and take it. Go on.”  

Billy continues to stare at her swollen pussy lips. His mouth is as dry as sand and he doesn’t think he has swallowed since she began undressing. Samantha reaches back and grabs his head between her hands and presses his face between her ass cheeks.  

“Smell it,” she says, holding him firm. “Get your tongue in there. Taste it.”  

Billy is breathing hard, struggling for air as his lips find the open invitation of Samantha’s cunt. She throws her head back and moans her approval as he gives in to her desires and pushes his tongue deep inside her, where she is already sticky and waiting for him.  

He probes her pussy tentatively at first – teasing her clit with the tip of his tongue – and then with increased hunger as Samantha climbs towards her first climax. He is greedy for her flavour. He draws circles with his tongue around the tight button of her asshole and dips inside with the tip of his little finger. Samantha’s pleasure is wet and warm.  

As she comes hard against his face, Billy pulls away and gasps for breath; his chin glistening with Samantha’s juices.  

“You done?” she asks. “You got your breath back?”  

Billy nods.  

“Good, now get your cock out and fuck me like the meter’s running.”  

Billy stands up to unzip his jeans and lets them fall to the floor unceremoniously. He is hard and ready, just like he was that night. Samantha is still facing away from him but is already moving towards the bed. She knows how this goes. They are like two dancers entwined in a choreographed performance they have spent many curtains perfecting. She stops and Billy bends her over. He slides his cock inside her effortlessly, just like he has done so many times before.  

She starts to moan almost instantly, but Billy knows it’s all part of the performance.  

As he thrusts back and forth, he begins to cry.  

*  

Some time later he finishes, and he is fully clothed less than five minutes after that. He tucks his shirt into his jeans, takes a handful of notes from his wallet, and counts them out on the nightstand. “There’s your five. Same as usual. You can count it.”  

“I don’t need to count it.”  

“I’ll be in the car when you’re ready.”  

“Wait.” She is still naked except for her heels. She reaches across from where she is sitting at the bottom of the bed and grabs his hand. “Just hold on a minute.”  

And then she doesn’t say anything, as if it is enough just to feel the warmth of his skin upon her own. She feels him begin to pull away and finally finishes her thought out loud. “Why do you do it?”  

“Do what?”  

“You know. This. Every time.”  

“I told you before: no questions.”  

“I know, but that was over a year ago.” She shrugged. “I figured I’d try again.”  

“Just leave it, Samantha.”  

“You know that’s not my name.”  

“Well tonight it is.”  

“Sure, tonight and last week and the week before that, and however many other times we’ve played this game.” She picks her panties and skirt up from the floor and steps into them quickly, the allure of the initial tease now a distant memory. “I’ve paid my dues. I think I’ve earned the right to know what’s going on here.”  

He breaks away from her and turns towards the door. He is about to leave when he catches the sadness of her reflection in the dresser.  

“If I tell you, you’ll probably never want to do this again.”  

She smiles. “You’re kidding, right? You’re clean; you treat me with respect; your money’s good; you don’t want to gag me or cuff me or choke me or any other weird shit; and you even drop me off at my flat afterwards.” She sits back down on the bed and reaches for her blouse. “Trust me: you’re one of my best clients. I look forward to Wednesdays.”  

Billy turns back to face her. He is still holding his wallet, from which he now produces a small photograph. For a moment he doesn’t want to let it go but finally he allows her to take it.  

“My wife always loved that picture of us.”  

“She’s beautiful. You look great together.” She hands it back to him.  

Billy looks at it for a lingering moment, as if he doesn’t see it on the back of his eyelids when he goes to sleep every night, and then slides it back into his wallet.  

“So you’re married,” she says. “Most of my clients probably are too. No big deal.”  

“Was married.”  

He pulls out another picture and tosses it on to the bed. This one is crumpled – a passport-style head and shoulders shot.  

“Who’s this? She looks like me.”  

He smiles. “Yeah, a little.”  

“No, she looks a lot like me.” She turns it over. There’s a scrawl on the back. “Her name’s Samantha.”  

Billy lowers his head, hoping she will put the jigsaw together without having to pass her the pieces, but instead she just carries on staring at the picture, stroking it with her thumb.  

“Abby – my wife – she was at the gym one evening, same as always. It was her Wednesday ritual. I was meant to pick her up as usual, but instead I was here, in this hotel room, fucking her.” Billy gestures towards the picture. She doesn’t say anything, but waits for him to continue. “She called and left half a dozen messages, but instead of doing the right thing and being the husband I had promised to be, I was on that bed right there, breaking every vow I had made to her over the years, and loving every moment of it. You know, like the scumbag prick that I obviously was. I don’t know, maybe I still am.”  

She puts the photograph on the bed and holds her hands in her lap.  

“So eventually Abby figured I was either working late or was out with the guys, because I really shouldn’t be anywhere else or be with anyone else, and she decided to take a cab home, only she never made it home because some drunk driver ran a red light on the corner of Glendale and sent Abby’s head through the windshield.”  

“Oh my God. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” She picks up the picture again. The similarities are uncanny: same shoulder-length hair, with the same dirty blonde streaks. That same playful look in their pale blue eyes that felt horribly out of place right now.  

“Then I guess I probably had a few more calls, this time from the police who had arrived on the scene shortly thereafter. But, you know, my phone was switched off and I was still here having my cock sucked by some fucking girl I’d met only a few hours earlier in the bar next door, so I didn’t really give a shit about in sickness and in health, or ‘til death us do part, or that they found Abby’s head seventy-five feet away in the gutter.”  

Billy stares out over the motorway. He can’t tell if it’s rain on the glass or the reflection of his tears. He wonders if Abby would have been spared had the roads been dry that night.  

“So all of it – calling me Samantha, the gin and tonic you tell me to order, the scripted conversation in the bar, the sex, making me wear these clothes and this goddamn wig.” She pulls the hair from her head and throws it to the floor. Her real hair is a shade darker and much shorter. “It’s all, what? The way – ”  

“The way it was that night, yeah. The way I remember it, at least. You know how long it took me to find someone who fit the part? How many girls I had to go to?” Billy shakes his head and closes his eyes, realising how ridiculous the question is. “Don’t answer that.”  

She wants to be angry with him, for making her a part of all this, but all she can find within herself is pity. “But recreating everything like this. It’s not healthy.”  

“Not everything. After this I won’t go home to find a cop car outside my house, or have one of them sit me down to tell me that they’ve spent the last half hour cutting Abby out of the passenger seat of a taxi she would never have been in in the first place if I’d been the fucking husband I always promised myself I would be, instead of standing there dumbfounded, with the taste of another woman’s pussy still in my mouth!” Billy holds up his hand and takes a deep breath. “Trust me, some of those moments don’t need to be recreated. I relive them all the fucking time.”  

“You need to talk to someone. Maybe that will help you get past this.”  

“I let my wife of ten years die, because I was horny.” Billy lets the sentence hang there in the hotel room. “Do you understand that? Do you know what that kind of knowledge does to a person?” He shrugs. He throws her an empty smile and wipes away a tear. “What part of this story makes you think I deserve to be helped?”  

She doesn’t know what to say but doesn’t feel comfortable in the silence of the moment either. She reaches for his hand again, but he is already on his way out.  

“Get dressed, I’ll be waiting in the car,” he says, speaking from the doorway. “Don’t forget your money.”  

He pulls the door closed behind him, leaving her alone on the bed with her thoughts, and the memory of their conversation. She looks at the picture of Samantha and then at the post-coital version of herself in the mirror. She reaches across and collects the money he left for her on the dresser, and then finally she picks up Samantha’s hair from the floor.  

Billy is waiting in the car.  

She wonders how long it would take a person to get over losing someone like that.  

And she wonders if he is even trying.