The customer is always right

 — Darling, any plans for the evening? — a voice purrs into the phone.

 — Ah, well, what plans could I possibly have? Just sitting and waiting

for your call. You haven't been favoring me with your attention lately.

 — What, beautiful, is it that hard to find a buyer for your little hole? Maybe you should adjust your pricing policy?

 — Sweetie, I'd gladly give myself to you for free, but life, unfortunately, is so expensive…

 — Anyway, I expect you today by 11. And, uh… bring everything necessary.

Everything necessary? I try to remember what he might mean. A maid costume? No, doesn't seem like it. He's a man with money.

It's the proletarians who prefer to fuck a whore dressed as a maid. Trying to assert themselves that way, I suppose. A whip? No, that's what gets old farts going for sado-maso. A strap-on? Vaginal balls? Probably those. Married men, they're like that. They prefer refinements. Their wives, if they're lucky, just spread their legs, and even that only on holidays, but to show some imagination—you can't get that out of them. Essentially, we prostitutes are the driving force of society. We help men relieve tension, taste life. No state can do without us. We are invincible.

To the tune of these philosophical reflections, I take a bath, give myself an enema (try letting a client in the back door when you need to take a big dump—you'll howl), check if everything is shaved, oil up my body. Keeping the work equipment clean—that's the main principle of our profession. Seems everything is in order.

I stuff my tits into a transparent bra with cutouts for the nipples. Panties—in name only—a thong, and even with a hole in the intimate area. Today I'll be in the image of a depraved nymphette. A short, puffy skirt barely covers my ass, my breasts are begging to escape from the small, tight-fitting top. A glance in the mirror—well, just lovely! And they still complain about the prices!

At a quarter to twelve, I'm at the client's door. He opens the door. I throw myself at his neck.

 — Ah, darling, you haven't called for so long! I missed you so much!

Smiling contentedly, he takes me in his arms. His hands immediately go under the skirt and start squeezing my ass.

 — Late again, you naughty girl? I've been waiting. I should punish you for being unpunctual.

Punish? Now I remember. Last time he spanked me, handcuffing me to the radiator. Nothing impressive, by the way. I've had more serious spankings in my life.

 — No, no. You wouldn't punish me for being 15 minutes late, would you? I won't do it again…

 — I will definitely punish you, — sparks of anticipation light up in his eyes, — it's for your own good. Little whores need to remember about time, if only to avoid overworking.

Saying this, he nudges me towards the table, bends me over, hikes up my symbolic skirt. For a couple of seconds, he studies my ass, then decisively pulls down the thong.

 — You've been asking for this for a long time, — he purrs, starting with a series of light, warming spanks.

I moan and gasp joyfully. Feels good, damn it! Sometimes he spanks right on the perineum, and then it's like little sparks run to my lower tongue.

 — You're too strict, — I babble.

 — Not at all. Such a lustful ass definitely needs to be spanked. — 

Smack! Now that's impressive. Smack! Smack! Smack! I squeal, trying to dodge. — Stay still, don't squirm! If you squirm, I'll get the belt. — I obediently freeze. Smack! Smack!

 — Good girl! Good little whore! Disciplined! — he laughs. The spanks continue. I whine pitifully—my ass is on fire.

 — Ah, poor thing! — he suddenly sighs feigning sympathy. — You came here to get fucked, and I'm not pounding your holes.

 — Yes, darling! My ass and pussy have been waiting for you.

He unceremoniously opens my backpack and shakes out an anal stimulator with beads.

 — You want this?

 — Yes! Please!

Without even bothering to apply oil to the stimulator, he shoves it into my ass all the way. I scream, supposedly in pain. Why supposedly? Well, first because my ass is wonderfully trained, and second, because I'm not a fool to go to a client without pre-lubing my hole.

 — And now let's continue! — more spanks, though not as strong this time. Has he run out of steam, or what? Spanking on beads—that's what I call it. Many of our girls don't like it, but in vain. With every spank, the ass involuntarily squeezes the beads, sending jolts of arousal. O-oh! That's it! Yes!

 — Oh, you're a good girl! — he says approvingly. Turns me towards the mirror. A bright red, burning ass, with a stimulator sticking out of it. He pulls off my top, skirt, panties, I remain in my whorish bra, stockings. Oh, right, and with a foreign object in my anus.

 — Does your little ass hurt? — he inquires solicitously. — I'll comfort you now.

He slowly crosses the room, sits down in an armchair. A snap of his fingers. — Crawl over here. I have a little gift for you.

I get on all fours, quietly crawl over, part the flaps of his robe. — You are so kind to me.

His cock isn't big, but it doesn't fit entirely in my mouth. I stroke it lightly with my hand.

 — Don't slack off! — a shout from above, reinforced with a slap on the back of my head. — If I wanted to jerk off, I'd manage myself. You work with your mouth!

 — Sorry…

I suck intently, changing pace, positions, sometimes grazing with my teeth. A blowjob is an art. The main thing here is to understand what gets the client off. Everyone needs their own approach.

 — Lick my balls!

Oh, good—licking balls is easier than sucking a vacuum cleaner. The jaw doesn't get as tired. My ass is probably sore by now. Maybe he forgot about the beads, and they can be discreetly taken out somehow?

 — Good girl, my little cocksucker! Now let's go fuck for real!

He takes my hand like a little girl and leads me to the bed. Gently tugs on the beads sticking out of my ass.

 — Charming little tail! It suits you very well!

 — If you wish, I'll wear it without taking it off.

He lays me on my back on the edge of the bed and, with the air of a seasoned gynecologist, proceeds to examine me. Gently strokes my pussy. Notes with satisfaction:

 — Eh! You've been wet for a long time! Starved? And what a tight little pussy! Has it been a while since you got fucked? And what about your ass? Let's take out this sausage already.

The beads are finally extracted from my ass. Caring fingers immediately apply cream to my aching anus.

 — Get on all fours. I'll comb your little bush.

 — Do me the favor.

I get down on all fours. He slowly inserts his cock into me. Ah-h! Yes! Finally! Holding me by the hips, he fucks me thoroughly and deliciously. His balls smack against my perineum, he gropes my tits, even manages to pinch my nipples. Everything is spinning, I'm floating on waves of pleasure.

 — My sweet little slut! Do you like getting fucked?

 — Yes! Harder! — I gasp.

 — Don't give orders! — a demanding spank. He slows the pace to a minimum,

finds my clit and slowly-slowly, gently-gently starts massaging it.

 — A-a-a!!! Please! Ah, more! I'm going to come!

 — Not time yet, — he removes his hand.

I'm ready to cry. How can that be?

 — I hope your ass has had time to rest?

Clearly a rhetorical question.

He pulls his cock out of me (What an inexpressible feeling of loss!), but immediately replaces the real cock with an artificial one (when did he even get it out of the backpack?), and he himself is already approaching my still itching ass.

 — Oh! It hurts!

 — Don't pretend. Your holes are quite functional.

Despite this statement, he moves very slowly and carefully. Somehow he manages to fuck me with two cocks and at the same time pay attention to my wonderful little button, my center of pleasure, my clitoris, in a word.

 — O-oh! Oh, how good! Oh, please, keep going! Don't hold back! Harder! Fuck me! Fuck!

Abandoning all tenderness, he fiercely digs into my sides and pounds, pounds…

 — A-a-a-a!!! I'm coming! — Come! Come, you bitch! — he drives into me furiously.

The light dims before my eyes, convulsions run through my body. From behind, my magnificent fucker collapses onto me, exhausted.

Catching his breath, smiling, he points to the clock:

 — Seems I still haven't taught you to keep track of time.

I smile back:

 — Seems I'm entitled to a bonus. And you can teach me punctuality next time.