Do it like Magic Mike (Regular Sex Issue 3)

Regular Sex 3 ~ Do it like Magic Mike

By

Kitty French

Welcome to the third issue of
Regular Sex, the brand new series of sexy half hour reads guaranteed to make
sure your weekend starts with a bang!

Enjoy, and remember to check out
issue 4 next Friday.

Happy reading,

Love Kitty x

Regular Sex 3 ~ Do it like Magic Mike

I fuck for a
living and I fucking love my job.

Some say that
makes me sleazy.

I say it makes me
lucky.

You decide. Hire
me.

Wait up, wait up.
I can practically see you frowning at your e-reader. It’s all well and good for
me to shout about my job because I’m a guy, but if I were a woman I’d be hung,
drawn and quartered for being so brazen about being an escort, and you’re
totally right. You’re right and it sucks big hairy balls, but hey, I didn’t
make the rules. I just live by them, okay?

But for the
record... you should totally think about hiring me. I promise you, you want sex
with me because I’m officially the world’s best fuck. Ask my very happy clients
if you don’t believe me, or read the testimonials on the back of my business
cards. I don’t make this shit up, you know; I’ve worked hard to get my
reputation. Really, really hard. Like as hard as it fucking gets. Check this
out...

‘Finn is my perfect
man. He’s got the manners of a prince, the cock of a donkey, and jeez, does he
know what to do with it.’ Ms. J, age 32

‘Finn made me
laugh in the restaurant and scream in the bedroom. I swear I didn’t walk
straight for a week.’ Ms. Y, age 47

‘Finn was a birthday
gift from my girlfriends - let’s just say I know what I’m putting on my
Christmas list! Send me Finn, Santa, I want to be a very bad girl again!’ Ms.
S, age undisclosed.

The list goes on.
I love women, and women love me back. What can I say? My life is pretty fucking
perfect.

Take tonight’s
booking. I get a lot of repeat work, but this is someone brand new. Newbies are
my favourite bookings of all; I get off on the excitement of not knowing what,
or should I say who, is coming. Perhaps they see my card or my website advertised
somewhere, or maybe I come recommended by a satisfied girlfriend. Sometimes I
escort people to a work function, sometimes I’m a fake boyfriend at family weddings;
I’ve even been a husband once at a school reunion. I make my ladies look good
in public, and then behind closed doors, I make them feel good. Better than
good. Book me and you have my cast iron guarantee that I’ll make you feel
fan-fuckin-tastic three times over before I leave you bow legged and in need of
twenty-four hours straight sleep.

A girl told me once
that she couldn’t orgasm.

Listen; don’t
throw the gauntlet down at me unless you have the chops to at least put up a
decent fight. Less than five minutes later she was singing the hallelujah
chorus and bucking like a bronco on my cock. That girl came so hard she gushed
as if she’d peed herself, and then she paid me double for my trouble. Believe
you me - it was no trouble at all.

I just
get
the female body. I’ve made it my life’s work ever since I was old enough to get
inside a girl’s knickers.

You know what my
favourite thing in the world is? A woman’s clit. I’ve seen more than my fair
share, and there isn’t one I haven’t loved. So secretive, so coy, peeping out
of its hood, beckoning to me. Do you ladies realise how lucky you are to have
an organ designed purely for your pleasure? You’re all so fucking beautiful
down there girls, it’s like you were created by a world class sculptor. And that
sound you make when I lower my mouth and start to lick you? It’s pure fucking
music, man.

I’m a diligent
student. I’ve read the books, I’ve studied the art, and I’ve practiced until I’m
perfect, but that doesn’t mean that any other guy could reach my standard if he
puts the hours in. Sure, I’ve done my homework, but that’s not the thing that sets
me apart. It’s an instinctive thing; when I have a woman in my hands, I just
know what she needs. It’s an intuitive talent, and it’s the reason both my diary
and my bank account is bursting at the seams.

Anyway, about
tonight. This girl contacted me by email, recommended by a friend of a friend, she
said. Calls herself Laurel, tells me she works in a bank and needs someone to break
her man drought. I tell you all of this with a healthy dose of caution, because
my customers often tweak the version of the truth they share with me.

I get that. I
could be a stalker, or a psycho, or god knows what else. Truth told I don’t
need their real names or their information; it’s not relevant for me to do my
job. In fact, I’m not a big sharer when it comes to personal details, theirs or
my own.

We’re meeting in
a restaurant downtown, I’ll pick up the tab, and then well... it’s down to
Laurel where we go from there. Hers? A hotel? Or I could just see her safely to
a cab. That happens every now and then, someone genuinely just needs a fake
date and doesn’t want the optional extras. I don’t take it personally; I’m a
big boy and I get laid often enough to not be needy.

I don’t know
which way it’s going to go with Laurel yet; she hasn’t given me much to go on.
She might be anything from eighteen to eighty. Actually, scratch that. She
works in a bank, so she’s likely to be sub sixty. Hey, I can see you sitting there
now with your brow furrowed again, but let me tell you something. I’ve had
several dates with older ladies and they have been pretty darn interesting.
With age comes experience; that’s all I’m prepared to say. A gentleman never
tells.

Right. I need to
hit the shower. I’ve got a hot date.

It’s a few
minutes after eight and Laurel hasn’t turned up yet. That’s another
occupational hazard; clients sometimes get cold feet. Call it fear of the
unknown, or call it fear of being upfront enough to pay for sex rather than coyly
dressing the situation up as a first date with some guy from Tinder. I kind of
like the clarity of doing things my way.

I pour myself
some water and eye the door, even though I don’t really need to; I’ve used this
restaurant often enough now for the ‘maître d’ to know me by name, give me a
secluded booth, and escort my date over when she arrives.

Speaking of
which... a woman has just come in alone. I watch her speak with Alfonse, and
then he glances my way. Game on.

I’ll give it to
Laurel, she has me intrigued. She’s pretty in an understated, classy kind of
way; nude makeup and a simple black dress that holds her curves the way I hope
I’m going to get to hold them later. She’s pulled her dark hair back in a clip
at the nape of her neck; that has to go. I might even hurl it across the room
when I take it out to make a point of how fabulous I think her hair is. Girls
like that macho stuff. I’ve listened to her talk over dinner, and ninety-nine
percent of that time I’ve looked her in the eye rather than the rack, which is
pretty fucking angelic of me given that she looks like she’s packing a mighty
fine pair. Okay, maybe ninety-
eight
percent of the time. And yes, I admit
to checking out her ass when she went to the bathroom a couple of minutes back,
but that’s to be expected, right?

I wish she wasn’t
wearing wedge heels. Why do women do that? You may as well tie hay bales to
your feet. I’ve yet to see a pair of legs that wouldn’t look a million times better
for a decent pair of heels.

Truth told, Lauren’s
got me on the back-foot. She’s hot, and she’s smart, and she’s pretty funny
too.

Why is she
suffering a man drought? She’s a tough cookie to read, but for me, that only
makes her all the more interesting.

I watch her walk
back across the room, and see more than one guy discreetly check her out.

Not tonight boys.
She’s with me.

‘Back to mine?’
she says quietly as I hold her jacket for her to slip into. I’m glad she can’t
see my face because I can’t keep the grin off it.

‘Hers’ turns out
to be the ground floor flat of a tall terraced house decorated in the same low-key
sexy style as its occupier. It screams middle of the road, and I sense that
beneath all of this light, polite facade there’s a bad girl itching to get out.
I think Laurel is silently screaming for a bit of kinky fuckery; she’s probably
read Fifty Shades and fantasised about painting her bedroom red. I bet she’s
even trailed a brave finger over the fluffy handcuffs in Ann Summers and imagined
herself buying them before leaving the shop to buy sensible knickers in M&S.

Oh, I see you, Laurel.
I see the sex goddess within you, hiding beneath your conservative dress and your
practical, short french polished nails. I glance around the bland lounge,
wondering if I can improvise for her before she gets back from the kitchen with
the coffee.

‘I slipped into
something more comfortable. I hope you don’t mind.’

I hear her words
before I see her, because I’m standing by the fireplace with my back turned for
an added air of mystery. Maybe that’s why I’m so fucking shocked when I turn
back around.

‘Who are you and
what did you do with Laurel?’ I almost splutter, shoving her discarded silk
scarf into my pocket. I’d picked it up to slide playfully around her wrists and
gauge her reaction, but there’s no space for it beside the MASSIVE LEATHER
CUFFS she’s now wearing.

Holy fuck! I couldn’t
have read this girl more wrong.

The black dress
has gone in favour of a PVC catsuit that looks as if she’s just sprayed it on; frankly,
I’m baffled how she’s got herself into it so quickly. Practice, I assume, a
thought which sends prickles of unease down my spine. Call me old-fashioned,
but I like to be the one in charge and Laurel suddenly looks like she isn’t
going to take kindly to being told what to do.

Oh god. I want my
mum.

‘Did you make
coffee?’ I squeak.

‘Did I tell you
you could speak?’ she growls.

I swallow hard.
She looks a lot taller than she did in the restaurant, probably down to those skyscraper
thigh-high boots she’s wearing. I try not to look at the rows of lethal looking
studs running down the sides of them. Bring back the wedges, all is forgiven!

Is it hot in
here? I’m breaking out in a sweat.

‘This way,’ she
says, then turns and extends her arm for me to walk ahead of her down the
hallway. I shuffle forward, shooting a hopeful glance towards the front door.
Belatedly I remember her turning the key after we arrived. At the time, I
marked it down as another sign of how organised and practical she is, but now I
see it for what it really was.

I’ve been
kidnapped.

I consider
telling her that my parents don’t love me enough to pay anything over twenty
quid as a ransom, but then she boots me up the backside to hurry me up and I
can’t help but be struck by how high she just got her leg. Man, she’s bendy. I’m
torn between being turned on and terrified, which is a novel combination even for
me.

‘In there,’ she
says, close behind me as I hover in the bedroom doorway. I squint through
narrowed eyes, but I’m relieved to see it looks relatively normal. Well, it’s
not red, so that’s a start. Maybe she’s not so scary after all, I think,
grasping at straws. Perhaps she just watched those Cat Woman movies and fancied
the outfit.

Oh shit. She’s
just locked the bedroom door, and when I turn to look at her, all I can focus
on is the strap system on the back of it. God, I hope it’s some kind of extreme
exercise she does.

‘I’m going to
strip you naked now.’ She strides towards me purposefully.

‘I can do it myself,
no trouble,’ I whisper.

She narrows her
eyes and yanks my tie until we are nose to nose.

‘My house, my
rules,’ she breathes, and I swear her eyes flash red.

I nod. I want to
please her because I fear she might actually kill me if I don’t. She could
rupture my windpipe with one of those spike heels without even breaking a
sweat. The words praying mantis run around unhelpfully inside in my head.

She makes short
work of my tie, sliding it off and then hanging it around her own neck like a
trophy, not dissimilar to the way a warrior might wear fresh scalps.

‘Do you like my
outfit?’ she asks, raking her nails down my chest before she starts to unbutton
my shirt.

I nod.

‘You look sensational,’
I whimper because it’s true. She’s got rid of the clip holding her hair back, I’m
presuming she probably hurled it across the room herself far harder than the
way I’d imaged I might earlier. Her raven hair falls in big soft waves all the
way down to her waspy waist, and that catsuit is fighting the good fight to
contain her tits. Despite the fact that I’m petrified, I’m surprised to find
that I’m still keen to slide that zipper down and peel her out of the PVC. God,
I’m professional.

I see pleasure register
in her crazy eyes at my compliment.

‘You bet your
sweet fucking ass I do,’ she says, abandoning her mission to remove my shirt so
she can execute a slow twirl in front of me. She reminds me for a second of the
ballerina in a music box my sister had as a kid, graceful, her hair fanning out
from her body as she moves.

I finish the job with
my shirt myself and chuck it on the floor while she spins, and she bangs her
hands down on her hips like Mae West when she comes to a stop.

‘Do something
without my permission again and I’ll make you pay,’ she purrs, then prowls
around me.

‘Stand fucking
still,’ she whispers when I twist from the waist to follow her progress with my
eyes. As she speaks, she drags her nails down my back. I feel the skin ruck and
my cock twitches in response.

Then she presses
her body against mine and slides her hands down my chest, pausing to twist my
nipples sharply.

‘You like that?’
she says.

No, I don’t. It
bloody hurts. ‘Would you like it if I did it to you?’ I say, then realise I’ve
said the wrong thing because she twists them even harder.