She Makes Hungry

It was around 6 p.m. and I was labouring vainly on the “The Great Gatsby”, while idly fondling myself. I was trying to understand why Daisy cries into Gatsby’s shirts, when Gillian, the sophomore from the room below, called up the stairs.
“Jake! Phone!”
I lost my place and dropped the novel on top of a still unread copy of “Tender is the Night”. Pulling on a pair of jeans I grimaced slightly as the tip of my stiff penis grazed the cold metal fly. With my addiction to masturbating that title held a certain undeniable truth for me.
I went down to the lobby, grateful for the interruption, but a little self-conscious about the bulge in my pants. Gillian suppressed a grin as her eyes passed over my crotch while she handed me the earpiece. Immediately I recognised the sixty-a-day voice of Martha, from the escort agency.
“Hey, lover boy. Get those cute little buns of yours over to the Hotel Michigan. There’s an English lady by the name of Stern in town for the week. Play your cards right and she’ll hire you for the duration. And for Christ sakes put on a suit and a necktie this time.”
I liked that. Put on a suit, as if Martha was providing my wardrobe. I had one decent tux, bought after seeing Cary Grant in “An Affair to Remember”. I’d only been in the escort game for one semester. I planned to do it just long enough to pay off some urgent debts. But from what Martha had said, it looked like the coming week could see me clear. Scott Fitzgerald would have to take a rain check.
Things could have been better, I thought, as I leathered it down to Michigan Avenue in the pouring rain. Maybe after this lucrative little gig I’d be able to take a taxi next time. Right on cue a jet of icy rainwater was kicked up by a passing cab completely soaking my legs. I spotted a couple of young kids walking towards me laughing until the cab did exactly the same thing to them. They call Chicago the windy city but that’s only the half of it...
Luck wasn’t with me. By the time I got to the hotel I was not only late but bedraggled enough for the doorman to give me his best supercilious look. I wondered if he was beginning to recognize me. Even though I was late, I decided to have a quick martini. The Nixon-Kennedy debate was on the TV at the bar. Nixon was glistening with sweat and kept dabbing his brow and upper lip with a handkerchief. Kennedy was cool and immaculate, his head slightly cocked with a wry smile towards his opponent.
“That settles it,” said the guy next to me, while he rearranged his testicles. “Kennedy’s the man.”
If I hadn’t been so late I would have stayed in the bar longer to dry off, and watch TV make history. But room 29 beckoned, so, feeling more like Nixon than Kennedy, I took the elevator, padded along the corridor and knocked. I summoned all the insolence of my 21 years.
“Enter.”
And felt it vanish just as quickly.
A shiver ran through me. There was a certain tone to this woman’s voice. Not quite like anything I’d heard before. And in this last semester, I’d been around. Or so I thought.
I took a deep breath and entered Miss Stern’s world.
“Sorry I’m late, Ma’am.”
I always call them Ma’am straight away. It presents an opportunity for them to offer their name. It also tells me a lot if they choose to keep it secret. The quiet ones will always pay a little over the odds for extra discretion. But this lady didn’t seem secretive or coy. Instead she looked me up and down and told me to turn around, take a twirl. She smiled with the kind of familiarity that breeds contempt.
“I’m Jake.”
She waved this airily aside with an “oh” of indifference, as much to say it held no interest to her.
“I can’t abide tardiness. If you are to last the week you must make amends for this.”
To say this took me aback would be an understatement. Part of me was outraged that she dare talk down to me in this way. But the outrage soon gave way to humiliation as I realised she had the power to send me away without a cent. I simply had to take what I was given and be grateful.
She pointed wordlessly towards the bathroom. Inside, I moved to close the door behind me before stripping off.
Miss Stern cleared her throat as I reached for the door. I glanced over at her. She was frowning and shaking her head. I wasn’t to be allowed any privacy.
Peeling off my damp layers I studied her surreptitiously through the mirror. She was blonde but not the dizzy-looking Monroe type. More Lauren Bacall with that vague hint of danger and a voice deep and slightly husky. An immaculately tailored, expensive charcoal grey suit, with waisted jacket and pencil skirt, exuded a seductive authority. Her alabaster skin was almost as pale as her white silk blouse, which moulded her bust to devastating effect.
Jake realised that the roof of his mouth was dry. This hadn’t happened since his very first time on the job. What was going on with him? When he started this work he thought it would be so easy. Pretty soon though, the bodies began to blend into one, the conversations blurred and he lost interest in his personal life as it all too clearly began to merge with his ‘professional’ one. He just didn’t have the energy to romance a woman for real after faking it all day. But now... something about Miss Stern was definitely affecting him. Perhaps it was her seamed stockings on long, strong legs, which eventually found their way to a pair of five inch black stilettos? Perhaps it was the manner in which she stood, those endless legs placed slightly apart... a curious idea flashed through his mind. An image. Columns outside a place of worship. A temple. Her legs straddling the entrance to absolution. He blinked and chased the thought away as fast as it had come.
She was sexy. Incredibly alluring but classy. Intimidating, which was turning the tables for a gigolo. It only really occurred to him at this instant that this was what he was. A cheap whore in the presence of an expensive lady. He’d tried to kid himself he was a student getting by. But the others didn’t have to do this, so why should he? He did it because, sometimes, like right now, he liked it. But more than that, he liked her. He could feel his body straining to remain still under Miss Stern’s ice blue gaze as she studied him from top to toe. He felt like he was being categorized. Pigeonholed. Male species: the weaker sex.
Jake figured she must have been in her late thirties. The mature woman guys of his age fantasise about. She was absolutely stunning. This wasn’t what he was used to. Ageing heiresses or competitive lady broker types getting off on the power of their money, but not this. There was something beyond all that behind Miss Stern’s eyes. A feminine guile, no a feminine intelligence, which seemed to strip him bare... right down to his growing desire. Her profound femininity paralysed him. Somewhere he could taste it. The mounting fear and excitement welling up within was going to have to find relief...

She had especially asked the agency for a freshman and they didn’t come much fresher than this. When she saw those heavy lidded, open, slightly bulging dark eyes with their thick lashes and alluring submissiveness, she wanted to wrap him up in a towel and blow dry him, but thought better of it. She strode over to a wardrobe and opened it. There inside hung a suit.
Jake looked at it in disbelief.
“It’s dry. Don’t be silly now. You have to wear something to dinner.”
Jake stared at the chauffeur’s uniform with its brightly polished buttons glinting back at him out of the wardrobe.
“B-but,” he stammered.
“Don’t be silly now, boy. Put it on. My driver always keeps a spare when abroad”.
Jake dully registered she had just piled further humiliation on him by addressing him as ‘boy’. Things were rapidly getting out of his control. If that hadn’t been an illusion in the first place...
“BOY,” she said with more than a hint of threat. “I don’t like to repeat myself”.
“Yes Ma’am. Sorry Ma’am”.
His soft full mouth quivered as he hurried to do her bidding.
Her eyes played across his lean muscular young body as he moved towards the wardrobe. Like a chick just out of the egg she thought. She smiled inwardly at how she was going to enjoy breaking this young man beneath her yoke.
Jake reluctantly climbed into the coarse uniform and looked at himself. His polished boots and tight fitting tailored tunic made him feel like Eric von Stroheim in ‘Sunset Boulevard’.
He heard a curious tapping from behind him.
Shifting his gaze in the mirror, he could see Miss Stern tapping her fingernails on the stiff peak of a cap. A chauffeur’s cap. This was getting ridiculous. Did she really think he could go down to dinner dressed like this? But... she was paying the bills. He took a deep breath. Not his first, and certainly not his last of the evening.
“What shall I call you, Ma’am?”
“‘Ma’am’ will do very nicely. Englishmen seem to have forgotten the expression”.
Just as they were about to head out the door, the phone rang. Miss Stern made no effort to pick it up. Instead she looked from Jake to the receiver and back again. He fetched the phone for her. He waited patiently by her side while she answered.
“Ah... Martha... Yes... Fine... Thank you.” For the first time Miss Stern’s face broke into a mischievous grin before a malevolent shade seemed to cross her eyes and took over.
“No. Really? I haven’t looked at his ass yet Martha. I’m sure we can stretch it a little. Thank you. I will. Good night.”
Without a word she replaced the receiver and left the room. He put the phone back and had to hurry after her.
“What was that about? What did Martha want?”
Miss Stern replied coolly, “Curiosity is not becoming in a servant... boy”.
Jake, in his chauffeur’s uniform, complete with peaked cap, escorted Miss Stern to the hotel dining room. Heads turned to follow this elegant woman with her strange servant. Jake had never been so embarrassed in all his life. And yet he couldn’t help but admire this charismatic and utterly free woman who walked ahead of him. He began to feel himself come alive for the first time in months. This alluring lady was somehow breathing life into him as surely as she stripped away his freedom and status.
At every opportunity Miss Stern thwarted Jake’s attempts to assert himself. He wasn’t allowed to order, or even tell the waiter how he would like his steak done:
“Well done, he has too much testosterone already,” Miss Stern had told the waiter. She made some joke about his being well done later, which he didn’t catch.
The waiter looked at Jake as if he was a crustacean from the menu. By the end of the meal he was fawning all over Miss Stern while hardly acknowledging Jake’s existence. At one point she even took his cutlery away, making him completely reliant on being fed by her. Perhaps he would have protested (or so he tried to unsuccessfully convince himself) but was absolutely starving and focused on her hiring him for a full week’s work. She appeared to possess a bank account for which the term solvent was a pale euphemism.
As Jake stared across the table, Miss Stern looked up from her plate and locked eyes with him. His newfound feelings of submission were awakening something in Miss Stern too. Only certainly not for the first time.
As Miss Stern observed Jake, she began to think to herself:

The flight has left me full of pent-up sexual energy. Visiting America always ignites my passion: a country supposedly founded on freedoms; a perfect place to exercise my creed of sexual independence through male subjugation. He looked exactly like photographs that Martha had sent. She had listened very carefully to my requirements and had understood exactly what I was looking for, a nice Jewish boy. I also had a list of his vital statistics and from what I had seen he was not going to disappoint. I did wonder if he would be a dud intellectually, but for a week it was not his mind I was interested in. Possession of a poetic soul in addition to his more physical attributes would have been desirable.
Dining out is one of life’s sweetest pleasures, but my appetite was scant. The meal a formal preliminary to the main business of the evening - getting my hands on his body and perverting his mind.
His patter was very predictable, rehearsed and practised to make his client feel special and utterly fascinating. Totally wasted on me. I don’t need any male to give me his seal of approval. That is for me to bestow or withhold from them. Mostly the latter. I cannot feel outdone by any women, least of all the ones he was likely to have encountered, with their girly attitudes. How could I consider these as rivals? My other dominant female friends had realised their superiority over the male and fully actualised themselves as women. With these I felt a sense of solidarity. Men, on the other hand, seem to waste all their energy being competitive with each other when what they really need is to realise that a woman is their superior intellectually, emotionally, spiritually and sexually. A woman is better seen from the correct perspective when she is elevated, high above them, not pulled down to their level. As this seemed to be hard for most men to accept and many females were happy to allow the current status quo of a patriarchal power imbalance, my friends and I were here to start a revolution of our own. Jake was yet another pawn in this procedure, inevitably I would break his heart but he couldn’t know this at the start. It amused me to see him struggle to keep business and pleasure apart as I opened his mind and body to this brave new world of the senses.
He was terribly gauche, with a very immature sense of humour, I imagined him fooling around with girlfriends, tickling them on the bed as they dissolved into piles of giggles - how dull! The positive side was that there was openness, almost innocence, about him that appealed to me. I would enjoy moulding him to my taste and it would be much easier to break him.
It wasn’t long, of course, before he asked me why I was in Chicago.
“You’ve heard of Saul Bellow?”
“Sure, ‘The Adventures of Augie March’, ‘Seize the Day’, ‘Henderson the Rain King’ - that one came out just last year.”
“Well, I am here to meet him for a publishing deal. Are you interested in literature?”
“I’m majoring in it. But I prefer getting high with my friends and hitting hoops. I was reading Scott Fitzgerald when I got the call to come and see you.”
“‘Already with thee! Tender is the night, /And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne? Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays.’”
“I beg your pardon, Ma’am?”
“Keats. Huge influence on Scott Fitzgerald. You might have recognised the title of his best novel in that little extract”.
“Yes Ma’am. But I’m afraid I’ve only read “The Great Gatsby”. so what did this Keats guy write?”
I inwardly groaned. He wanted me to think that he had a great love and feel for literature. He didn’t. I find younger men suit my purposes in this situation but older men are ultimately more to my preference. Fortunately I always trusted emotions and intellect over pure aesthetics. A slave back in England, who in purely visual terms did not measure up, held an attraction for me stronger than exercised by this boy’s perfect beauty. Perhaps he might have more appreciation for the theatre? Lacking imagination, seeing something tangible would help him. He needed a kick up the ass and I was only too willing to let my long legs give him the necessary treatment.
“I should like to be escorted to the theatre. What is on in Chicago at the moment?”
“There’s a new production of “Streetcar”.
“You like Tennessee Williams?”
“You bet!” He put on his Brando impersonation: “I am the king around here!”
“Yes, he does write some unfortunate dialogue.” How childish Jake could be. My fingers were itching to put him over my knee and spank him. His shapely and muscular backside, whose graceful curve was almost feminine and his firm thighs, down to his arching foot with its long delicate toes would make a very attractive sight bent over my lap.
“Boy, I want you upstairs in my room, now.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
He leapt from his seat to stand behind mine as I stood up. I was pleased with his manners, athleticism and keenness. I took hold of him by his belt and led him to the lift. Two salesmen types waited with us for a moment before losing patience. I noticed them both surreptitiously eyeing me up. They had all the charisma of whizzed-up pharmaceutical executives. I knew exactly what it would be like if I had seduced one of them, triumphant smiles when I undressed. Idiot leers when they came long before I had, (as if that was something to boast about!) and their general boorishness when the deed was done.
Once alone inside, I pinned Jake against the wall and began to undress him. Kind of. I pulled his jacket just halfway down his arms so that he couldn’t move them. I unzipped his fly and thrust my hand in. His cock was like a length of lead piping.
The look on his face as the lift opened and I led him by his piping to my room! A surge of power went through me when I saw the depth of shame behind his eyes. His need for me was greater than any misgivings. I saw his desire defeat his conscience as he gave in to what he knew was an illicit pleasure from which there would be no return. His addiction was nearing completion. Once tasted, I could never be given up. It seemed unlikely he would even now be capable or willing to take off the chauffeur suit which Martha had so carefully had made for him on my request. I smiled. This was turning out to be a good trip.
I placed him in the centre of the room, within my imperial precinct and ordered him to take his boots and socks off. I did the rest. I am over six foot in my stilettos but even without his shoes Jake was taller than me. There was a lot of him. And it was all muscle. And it was all naked. And it was all mine. I made him jut, pout and pose. I forced him to bend over double, his glorious ass stuck up in the air like a beacon to male impropriety.
Catching his wrist I drew his left arm up back through his legs towards his bottom. I let go and immediately he started to let it drop down to the floor. I slapped his ass hard. And again. And again.
“Please Mistress...” I heard him say as the pain built. It was a moment of epiphany for the poor boy, if only he knew it. He had openly acknowledged that I was truly his Mistress and he my property. He wasn’t so dumb after all. Just young and inexperienced.
“Keep your hand on your ass, boy. Separate your cheeks.”
With his fingers splayed he did his best to spread his cheeks for me. I had to try hard to suppress a giggle. He looked so ridiculous like this. I’d have to do something about all that silly hair which covered his genitals and his ass crack.
I took hold of his other hand and placed it on his butt too. Taking a sachet of K-Y jelly from the dresser (now that’s what I call room service!) I proceeded to smear it over his own fingers before promptly plunging them deep inside him. The yell of pain was sweet. The groan of pleasure immediately following was even sweeter. My boy was a natural.
His penis was a raging hard-on as I manipulated him with his own body. He was pushing back towards me, thinking I wouldn’t realise what he was up to, thinking I wouldn’t notice his desperate desire to make contact with my body, no matter how briefly. That was all his feeble little mind could muster as his body continued to play merciless tricks on his already shamed libido.
“Please, Ma’am... please... I beg you,” he groaned.
“You beg me to what boy?”
“I beg you to touch... me... Ma’am.” It was getting hard for him to speak as the intensity built in his ass.
“Very well boy. I will. Would you like me inside you?”
His face lit up!
“Yes Ma’am!”
It was quite apparent to me that he had misheard, no doubt through wishful thinking, exactly what I had said.
“You must stop playing with yourself without my permission. Forever,” I said firmly. “Will you do this for me?”
“Oh yes, Mistress. I won’t touch myself again without your permission,” he gushed eagerly.
He had no real idea what he had just promised, but luckily I did. I smiled to myself as I thought of the metal belt in the back of the wardrobe, lying waiting for him. Another product of Martha’s measurements, and just as finely tailored as the chauffeur suit to Jake’s physical attributes. It’s amazing how much more compliant males get when they think a woman is going to service them in some way.
I pulled on a surgical glove and squeezed the remainder of the K-Y onto my index finger. With precision, I went straight to Jake’s prostate and began to rub vigorously.
“Uuuunnnhhh.... what are you doing, Ma’am? Please.... stop... this is very... strange... uuuuunnnhh”.
But Jake had asked for this, and he was going to get it. If I ask him what does he want, his reply should be, ‘whatever pleases Mistress’. He’ll learn in time.
He began to leak rather than ejaculate and I could see by his expression he had little understanding of what was going on. I thought, perhaps I should recommend he do a little pre-med next year...
“Mistress?” He sounds frightened as he sees himself limply coming without actually feeling anything much in his penis.
Sure he is empty, I grab him and slap him hard across the face. He concedes a gasp, winces and purses his lips - as if for a kiss. I am bringing him to that sacred place where beauty and wretchedness, delight and disgust, ecstasy and torment, all conspire to lose themselves in each other. Polarity ceases to exist. I do not let him run from his own dark desires. Instead I hunt him down and exploit his need to feel my touch, his adoration holding him prisoner as surely as chains.
Now that he has been milked, he is ready to service my needs. Without a nasty ejaculation building, he’ll concentrate so much better on me. Or at least he’d better if he doesn’t want to feel my crop.
“On the bed, on your back and keep the hard-on.”
I took off my jacket, then my blouse, and my shirt, showing chilly restraint, which belies my real desire to ride that erection.
“Who gave you permission to look? keep your eyes on the ceiling.”
“Yes, sorry, Ma’am.”
“What are you?” I demanded.
“Your sex slave,” he whispered. His voice was shaky.
“Good. And what is the purpose of a sex slave?”
“To have my body used without question.”
“You are my whore and you will know what it means to be my whore”. My fingers were in his hair, my grip tight, pushing him before me.
I wasn’t wearing knickers. If I had, coercing his need for me would have soaked them. This was no prearranged script. I had seen something in him, something he himself was barely aware of, and drawn it out. I always keep my stockings and stilettos on for sex. I was almost ready. There was just the matter of a blindfold, gag and rope to get from the suitcase.
Surveying my handiwork, my little battery hen, I smiled down at the blindfolded, gagged and bound figure with his feet and hands tied spread-eagled to the bed. That young American so helpless with this wild English woman on top of him in complete control, her grip incredibly strong. I bet he was wondering right then, as my fist slowly closed around his testicles, where was the famous British reserve and sense of fair play he had heard so much about?
I wrapped my tongue around his, drew my sharp nails, leaving deep scores, all over his body. Pain washed over him and his body went momentarily as rigid as his cock as I twisted his nipples hard. The gag stifled his cry and my fingers continued their terrible work.
I mount him. I let my lips encircle the tip of his penis, all red and quivering in the air, like a child; desperate, but too short to see what’s going on over the heads of adults. I pause, letting him feel me hovering over him. As he arches his back and pushes his buttocks up towards me, I lift a little on my powerful thighs, not quite letting him come inside me. His frustration is palpable. His moaning is escaping from the edges of the gag. His desire for me is almost unbearable. Almost. Soon it will be. But of course, he’ll have no choice but to take what I give, and give what I take. And then I do it. Not for him - for myself. I engulf his penis with my very self. I surround him and draw him within me. Draining his energy, his potency, his maleness and subsuming it within my own power. I am the rider and he is the steed. And it is a full speed ahead gallop with hurdles, fences, water jumps, ditches the lot...
“Make sure you keep that hard-on,” I repeated harshly. He mightn’t have thought this would be a problem, but... he’d never been so excited in all his life! And that was the problem. He was so turned on that he could barely hold back. The way I was treating him, even the fact that I was paying to be serviced by him was incredibly humiliating for the boy, yet exciting at the same time. He was my toy, my plaything and he had to let me use him. Forget his ideas of TV romance, or those dark secret rape fantasies some of his clients had, or even his size, which I could easily beat with his plastic double... no this time, the tables were well and truly turned.
I could tell he was repeating some mantra to banality in an effort not to shoot his load, probably the Chicago Redsox scores, in an effort to synch up with me. He would find all this effort well worth the reward.
I leant back stretching and slowly placing my body weight on his cock, straining inside me. Back, back, until I could hear his ragged breathing as pain kicked in. A whimper escaped the gag as I leant back one final inch, ensuring he couldn’t slip out of me, as I grabbed a carefully positioned riding crop. I began to whip his thighs. I saw sweet oblivion just around the next bend and pushed my boy that little bit harder. We came as one. A mighty shudder and a draining of all strength. My thighs exerting a powerful lock on his body as I drained every last drop from him.
“You little whore,” I tell him.
I slumped forward onto his chest. We lay together in a space where there is free passage between the reality of my body and that of my desire.
“You are such a whore,” I said again, this time under my breath, as much for my benefit as his.
I removed the blindfold and gag.
“Good boy,” I told him, stroking his face like a pet and smiling. His eyes said it all. He felt so grateful for that smile.
“Thank you Ma’am. If you’ll untie me, I’ll get dressed.”
“Oh no, I haven’t finished with you yet. Not by a long way”.
I put Jake through his paces another five times that night and he ate a hearty breakfast in the morning. I didn’t desire him as much as I lusted after him. There was no balance of force, but a perpetuating imbalance of power. My dominating him was the spark that activated the excitement. He brought his youth and beauty to me and I viewed him as I would a zoo specimen or an art object. He didn’t need to have any sort of conception of self because I played him like a conductor plays an orchestra. Each day I would take him shopping, trailing him behind me carrying my bags. Then it was sex before and after dinner and through the night, the way I like it, the woman on top and in command. He started out athletic but soulless in bed. By the end of the week he had been imbued with the soul of St. Sebastian and had vowed to remain at my side forever. I am glad to think that cerebral, witty and beautiful women will enjoy the fruits of my tutorial as I pass him around my friends.
Throughout my interview with Saul Bellow I was distracted by the thought of Jake’s gorgeous and helpless body, spread for the taking on my bed.
“Your eyes, they gleam,” Bellow said as we shook hands and parted.

Marquise