Through My Window
Authors: Jayne Rylon
Through My Window
“Through my window, a sea of strangers swirl and retreat like waves in an ocean of humanity. I brush my hair, fix my makeup and flip on the glaring red light in my booth before turning to face my audience on the other side of the glass.”
For Star, this is another night on the job, though no two are ever alike. Adaptable and perceptive, she becomes many things in the course of one evening—whore, lover, nurse, psychologist and friend. But above all, she’s still a woman. Join her, through her window.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
Through My Window
ISBN 9781419929946
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Through My Window Copyright © 2010 Jayne Rylon
Edited by Mary Moran
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication September 2010
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Through My Window
Jayne Rylon
Dedication
For my husband, who explored Amsterdam with me. Where are we going next?
Dusk
Through my window, a sea of strangers swirl and retreat like waves in an ocean of humanity. I brush my hair, fix my makeup and flip on the glaring red light in my booth before turning to face them on the other side of the glass.
They begin each evening like still waters. Ebbing and flowing past my window. Unaffected by buffeting winds or brewing desires. Eddying in swirls as they gather, peek around our infamous district with downcast eyes then scatter—awkward and unsure yet inquisitive.
Curious couples setting out on tandem adventures, young men high on the moral freedom of Amsterdam and clusters of women indulging in a wild night with friends all dip their toes in the pool.
Later, much later, they will roil and crash against the glass in a typhoon of wanton excess—of food, drink, drugs and sex—that never ceases to amaze me.
Or to infect me with its primal power.
Most women shoot me glances of pity if they look at me at all. I feel sorry for them, that they don’t understand. But some…some grin and nod.
Appreciation.
Respect.
Envy.
A select few go further, seeking my services so they can share in the rush for a brief time.
Men are more likely to notice my sincere yearning to please right away. All manner of them from young to old, rich to poor, thin to fat and virile to impotent appraise me with hungry eyes.
Cynics might say my killer curves, mile-high stilettos or long mane of platinum hair are responsible for their focused attention. I don’t buy that. I’m not the most attractive working girl on the block. But I’m one of the busiest.
Customers can sense I’m different than most. They recognize I’m here not because I
have
to be but because I
want
to be. I absorb their stares before returning some of my own. The authority they grant me is intoxicating and addicting.
I love enticing a kindred spirit to my lair for both our enjoyment and my profit.
The hot, red lights of my booth, along the canal slicing through the heart of De Wallen, glint off my silver-sequined costume. What little of it there is anyway. The warm air in the space caresses my bared skin each time my neighbors let someone in or show them out.
Satisfaction guaranteed.
Theirs. And mine. Ours.
Every thrilling encounter is unique. Each partner creates a new experience as their quirks mix with mine. I can’t wait to see what tonight will bring. To adore what you do and be able to make others happy in the process—while earning fists full of cash. What more could a woman ask of a career?
The worldwide economy might be in the crapper, but my business is
never
slow. Hell, bad times make for peak seasons around here. And I’m glad to do my part.
Take this man, for example. I’ve watched him meander through the hordes, coming closer and closer to my window on every pass. He almost manages to appear casual—comfortable in a den of hedonism—and worldly.
Until I notice the way his hands are fisted in his pockets. And the outline of his monster erection, proclaiming his desire to join our forbidden display. I could hang a flag on that thing. He’s no veteran to my scene.
As quick as that, I know he’ll be mine. For a little while.
Darkfall
The potential customer scans the available women. Many would like to please him. There’s something undeniably attractive about guiding a novice on their first foray into sin. Most of the girls shimmy, primp or pose to capture his attention. But I simply prop one hand on the indentation of my trim waist then wait for him to make the smart selection.
No one else will sate his craving for a novel jaunt into a taboo practice as I will.
When our eyes meet, the blaze of magnetism is clear. His pupils dilate. The man glances both left and right, then left again, before sidling closer to my window. Hesitance in these situations always strikes me as adorable in its ridiculousness.
The young man lifts one finger from his pocket to signal as he approaches.
The edge of my mouth curves in a sultry smile I don’t have to fake when I crack the glass for our exchange. I lean forward until my breasts press against the cool, smooth surface, anticipating how he’ll begin. I wonder if he’s done his research.
Maybe he took the day tour through the Prostitution Information Center. Probably asked a thousand and one questions too. Clean-shaven, button-down shirt tucked into his ironed jeans, neat wire glasses…he appears the type.
“G-good evening. How are you?” Slightly rough, his American accent beads my nipples. Definitely his first time.
“I’m great, hon.” I toss in a wink and he chuckles, loosening up a little. “What can I do for you?”
“How much for a standard suck and fuck?”
Ah, he knows the lingo. A good sign.
“Do you need fifteen minutes or thirty?” I’m hoping he’ll take the scenic route. Not for the money but because I’d like to make the night he loses his prostitution cherry more memorable.
“Uh… How about thirty? And I’d like to touch your breasts, with you totally nude. Two positions.”
I grin. He
has
done his homework. Such a good boy.
“First-time special, a hundred Euros.”
“That obvious, huh?”
I smile gently. “Only to a professional. I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”
He nods once then passes me a crisp note through the sliver of space between the frame and my glass panel. I tuck the bill into my drop-box, which is bolted to the floor, enter the transaction in my ledger then invite him through my window.
The man trips over the raised threshold but catches himself against me in the narrow opening. I would mark the hazard, since so many others do the same, but it’s an easy icebreaker.
Because now he’s touching me. I glance down to where he’s cupping my shoulders and I smile. His hands are soft, his grip is gentle. Nice. An easy start to the evening.
“Excuse me.”
“No need. Let me close up and we can get to it.” I reach around his trim waist, stroking him with the side of my arm as I pull the window closed. The lock engages with a click, securing us inside. I nod in triumph at Mari, in the window on the other side of the canal, when she blows me a little kiss for my win. Then I slide the thick drape across the glass, blocking the view from the teeming masses outside.
I catch my client checking around, probably wondering what happens next.
“All the booths in this building have stairs leading to bedrooms upstairs.” I approach him then slide my palm from his shoulder to his slightly sweaty hand. Our fingers link as I rub against him, gliding past him in the tight enclosure. “Follow me.”
“How embarrassing.” He grimaces when I smile over my shoulder.
“That you’re a virgin John? Everyone is once.” I explore the ridges of his knuckles with my fingertips. His hand trembles beneath mine in anticipation that I feel fortunate to share. His excitement is contagious, making my thighs damp as they slide across each other. “You’re doing great.”
“Thanks.” He laughs, the chuckle sounding a bit surprised. “You’re really sweet.”
“I’m whatever you need me to be.”
I begin to climb the steep rise. Old wooden planks creak beneath my feet. How many others have made this journey to satisfy an age-old yearning? I am part of history, connected to my predecessors by a shared understanding of what it’s like to pay for comfort. For pleasure. For relief.
Now this man is too.
Like a psychologist or a chiropractor or a teacher, I’m pleased that my profession allows me to care for my fellow humans. And pumped that it is so exciting simultaneously.
My client groans when my ass is presented mere inches from his face. The stairs do wonders for my form as I sway from side to side as we ascend. Women of all shapes, sizes, ages and nationalities offer services in the district. There’s something for everyone. I work hard to keep myself as I like best. Fit but not skinny, there’s plenty to fill a man’s eager hands.
I take pride in the firm swells on display. His appreciation thrills me.
At the top of the stairs, we enter a tiny room filled nearly wall-to-wall with a plush mattress. Soft lighting from a single incandescent lamp adds to the intimate ambiance. The bare bulb is obscured by a beaded lampshade Mari gave me for my birthday last year. A great inside joke. A cliché come to life. Sometimes it’s best to give the tourists what they expect.
“Would you like to undress?” I turn my back to retrieve a condom from the tiny dresser along one wall. I want him to consider without pressure. In my experience, getting nude makes a man more vulnerable, but this guy doesn’t seem like a clothes-on kind of lover.
“Yes, thanks.” He shuffles from foot to foot.
“Let me help.” I reach straight for his fly, leaving him to strip his shirt from surprisingly powerful shoulders. The clock
is
running. My nails tuck into the loop of his belt, freeing his pants from his waist before I slide them to his ankles.
He heels his shoes off then steps from the abandoned fabric. His socks stay on, but I don’t pressure him in case he needs some kind of security blanket. Instead, I turn my attention to the gray briefs askew on his hips, distorted by his bold erection, which the soft cotton fabric can barely contain.
I maneuver the cloth over his cock, loving—as always—the moment the proof of a man’s longing pops into view. A normal, everyday guy surrendering to his primal side gets me every time. I place my palms flat on his toned abdomen then slide them lower to cup his balls, initiating him to my touch.
