Power Things



She sat alone, nursing a drink at a table in the hotel restaurant, a 
shapely mature brunette in a brown-patterned dress suit and ruffled 
white blouse, tastefully made up with a large gold clip restraining her
chignon.  It was after nine p.m. and most diners had departed.

He took up his mug of beer from the bar top and sauntered to stand by 
her table.  "Want some company?"

She had watched him approach, eyes raking him up and down, and answered
without smiling, "Of a certain kind."

He grinned.  "Young?  Old?  Male?  Female?"

Her eyes glinted.  "The paying kind."

He felt a moment's shock but had to chuckle as he dropped into the 
facing chair.  "I should've guessed from just the drink."

"You might have."  Her glance swept meaningfully past him towards the 
three or four other men at the bar then returned to his face.  "Don't 
waste my time."

His face sobered.  "Wouldn't think of it."

When he started to rise, she said quickly, "I mean if you aren't the 
paying kind."

He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully before settling back in the 
chair.  "I don't usually pay."

"But you might?"

"What could I buy if I did?"

"Anything you want that isn't too painful."

He studied her a moment.  Close up the oval face was even lovelier than
it had been in the bar mirror.  Still smarting from her abruptness, he 
said deliberately, "Up the ass."

She responded, "Whatever," and looked out the window beside her.

"All night?"

Her gaze returned to him.  "You understand of course that service and 
duration affect price."

He nodded.  "Let's be specific.  We go to my room and take a shower 
together.  You spend the night.  I putt every hole.  No condom.  We go 
to breakfast together."

She sniffed.  "'Putt every hole!'"  Her head tilted back.  "Anything 
else?"

"If I think of something else we'll renegotiate.  What's the charge so 
far?"

"Five Cs."

"Four."

"Four-fifty.  We go to breakfast at seven and you pay."

He smiled hugely.  "God, this is refreshing!"

Her eyes narrowed.  "What is?"

"We'd probably be discussing music right now if I was only trying to 
pick you up -- if we'd even got that far."

"So you like cutting to the chase."

"And the certainty of success.  I don't know if women feel the same, but
my balls are already tingling in anticipation."

She shrugged.  "No balls."

"Oh, you've got 'em -- between the ears instead of legs."

"Really!"  Her brow wrinkled.  "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"I mean you have courage."

She shrugged.

"All right," he said, "four-fifty and breakfast at seven, my treat.  But
we have to settle another point.  Do you have a purse?"

"Yes, beside my chair."

"I need to poke through it.  I won't take anything out."

She frowned.  "Put your hand in it?"

"Unless you want to turn it out on the table."

Her eyes locked with his.  After a moment she raised the purse.  It fell
to the tabletop with an audible thud that raised his eyebrows.

She verified, "You'll take nothing out?"

"I promise."

She sniffed but opened the zipper and pushed it to him.

It was a medium-sized black leather purse.  He hunched over it to 
conceal his actions from the other patrons, including those who might be
studying them in the mirror behind the bar.  His hand riffled a wallet,
compact, lipstick, tissues, tube of K-Y, douche pouch, condom pack, pen,
notepad, cell phone, calculator and a heavy rectangular metal frame 
about the size of an open wallet.

He tilted the purse and forced the metal frame partly through the 
opening.  "What the hell is this?"

She grinned.  "You thought it was a gun, didn't you?"

"What is it?"

"A credit-card impresser."

He blinked then chuckled incredulously.  "Wonderful!  I thought I'd have
to find an ATM."

"The charge on the bill will be _Court Food_.  You could even claim it 
on expenses."

"I see."  He pushed the purse back to her.  "One other thing: open your
wallet where I can see it."

She shook her head.  "Sorry."

"Is that where you keep your badge?"

Her eyes narrowed on his.  She shook her head again.  "It's where I 
keep my name and address."  She grunted incredulously.  "Are you 
worrying about john bait when you want to dip in the brown _wet_?"

He blinked then grinned disarmingly.  "Doesn't seem to make sense, eh?
But you're not skinny enough for AIDS."

She nodded.  "My conclusion too, unless you recently caught it."

"Well, I haven't."

"Good.  Now flip your coat open so I can see the inside pockets."

He obeyed and said, "No badge."

"What's that: your itinerary?"

"And return ticket."

She nodded.  "I won't ask to see your wallet.  I'll get your name off 
your credit card."

"Then we're all set."

"Yes."  She zipped the purse shut and downed the rest of her drink.

He stood up.  "Ready to go?"

Her answer was to stand up beside him.  He crooked his arm, she took it
and they ambled toward the lobby.

"What do I call you?" he asked, liking the odor of her perfume.

"Whatever you wish."

"Come on.  Tell me a name."

She hesitated and finally said, "Priss."

"As in 'Prissy?'"

"Just Priss."

"Miss Priss.  Okay.  I like it."

"How about you?"

"Wayne."

"Like John Wayne?"

"First name.  How is it you remember John Wayne?"

"He was in a movie.  Don't waste your time.  That one will only give you
$300 per day."

He had paused before the lobby ATM and opened his wallet.  "Thanks for 
telling me," he said over his shoulder, "but I have more than one 
account."  He inserted two cards and pocketed the resulting cash.

She sniffed.  "Guess I don't really need your name."

He grinned.  "Wayne."

She shrugged and followed him to an elevator.

They were alone in the car.  He pressed 6 and asked as the doors closed,
"Do you like to fuck?"

"Of course."

"Or do you like to get paid to fuck?"

She grunted.  "What difference does it make to you?"

"How about parties?"

She looked up at him.  "I think you mean orgies."

"Do you indulge?"

She shook her head.  "One john at the time."

"Parties can be very lucrative."

"And dangerous.  No control."

"You want control, do you?"

"I'll do just about anything you ask, but only for you -- after I've 
checked you out.  You've got one more test to pass."

"I do?  What test?"

"Taste."

He blinked and would have demanded an explanation except the car lurched
to a stop and the doors opened.  A couple waiting to board stepped back
and let them exit.  Still grasping his arm, she followed him into the 
corridor but paused before the coke machine, opening her purse.

"If you're thirsty," he said, "there's a stocked refrigerator in my 
room."

"Good."  She closed the purse.  "I'm not thirsty but I soon will be."

His room was near the elevator.  He swiped the key card, twisted the 
handle and opened the door, leading her inside, turning around to close
the door and throw home the deadbolt.  She tossed her purse on the 
table.

When he drew near, she dropped suddenly to her knees on the carpet.  Her
fingers found his zipper and drew down his fly.

He twitched.  "What's your hurry?  We start with a shower."

But he stood still and let her fish out the organ that was just 
beginning to swell.  She leaned forward, took half of it into her mouth
and sucked hard enough to make the skin squeal.

"Hey," he protested, "take it easy!"

She released him abruptly and stood up, licking her lips.  "That was the
taste test.  You pass."

"The ... the ..."

She turned to the table as he stared after her, bare penis dangling, and
took the wallet from her purse.  She faced him again and extended her 
hand.  "Four-fifty was the agreement."

He withdrew his own wallet but hesitated.  "What did you expect to 
taste?"

"Pee."

"Huh!  And did you?"

"Mainly it's about what I didn't taste.  Or smell."

"My god!  And if you _had_ tasted it?"

"I'd be out the door."

"Miss Priss, you are a remarkable woman!"

"You haven't seen anything yet.  Four-fifty, please."

He counted the money, mostly twenties, into her hand, adding, "You 
certainly proved you're not john bait!"

"And you're not a cop."

"How do you know?"

"You counted the money."

He grunted appreciatively as the bills disappeared into wallet and 
purse.  Moving to the inset wardrobe, she shrugged out of her jacket and
proceeded efficiently to strip herself naked.

He joined her in the same task but paused, still in his underwear, to 
admire the voluptuous flesh.  "Face, tits and ass!  You've got 
everything.  That is one sexy bod, Miss Priss!"

"I know."

"You mean, 'thank you.'"

"Should I be grateful that your eyes work?"

He chuckled.  "Aren't you glad male reaction is so reliable?"

"What else could it be?  A shower, you said."

In a moment he was equally naked, displaying a partial erection and a 
quizzical grin.  "What kind of compliment would please you?"

"You paid me that before I stripped.  This is the bathroom?"

She led the way through the narrow open door, glanced around the small 
room and went directly to the large tub, where she fiddled with the 
water faucets while he stood behind her, stroking the curves of her 
buttocks.  "Amazing!"

"What's amazing?"

"I thought everyone had pimples on her ass."

She smirked over her shoulder, "You have to take care of what's 
important."  She threw the rubber mat into the tub bottom and stepped 
upon it across the tub side.

He followed her but flinched.  "Ouch!"

Her lip curled at him.  "If it isn't hot, you don't get clean."

"All right, all right."

He stood behind her in steam that billowed in the hotel's cooled air and
reached around to squeeze her full breasts.  Shortly she spun in his 
arms and applied soapy hands to his now rigid organ.  She cradled his 
testicles and felt inside his anus.

"Fair for the goose --" he began.

"Soap your hands first," she interrupted.

Briefly he slipped three soapy fingers into her vagina before 
transferring two to her anus.  "How's that?"

"I'm glad your fingernails are short."

Hers were long and scarlet with the wide tips of fakes, but they had 
nevertheless failed to hurt him.

She did not dally in the tub.  Stepping out onto the tile, she unfolded
one of the bath towels and dried herself.  Her undamaged chignon had 
absorbed the moisture that fell upon it.  He turned off the tap and 
followed her, taking the other folded towel.

She dropped her towel to the floor and followed it on her knees.  Her 
mouth enclosed him again, sucking and tonguing, but tenderly in 
comparison to the earlier contact.  He finished drying except for ankles
and feet and simply stood to enjoy the spectacle of her bobbing head, 
stroking more than half the shaft, and the heavy breasts swaying beneath
it.  A rough tongue swabbed his glans while collapsed cheeks sucked 
continuously.  Her hands gently kneaded his testicles.

"God, I love that sight!" he admitted.

She sniffed interrogatively.

"Nothing looks better than your dick stuck in a pretty face."

She grunted and rolled her eyes.

He chuckled.  "I'll admit it might look different to you."  He took a 
deep breath.  "This feels good, Miss Priss, but I'm no teenager."

She raised her head, releasing him.  "I didn't think you were."

"Meaning I'm not ready to come.  Let's get more comfortable."

She rose to her feet, captured his towel and wiped escaped saliva from 
her chin.  Walking ahead of him toward the bed with waltzing butt cheeks
riveting his gaze, she asked over her shoulder, "Was that awful scar on
your side made by a bullet?"

He grunted, "No, but it looks enough like one to give me bragging 
rights."

At the bedside she stopped and spun around intently.  "What did it?"

He chuckled.  "Such curiosity!  Does it matter?"

"I can't believe it wasn't a bullet!  Were you in the military?"

He took a breath.  "For your information, Miss Priss, a pool cue thrown
in a bar fight speared half-way through me."

She blinked then made a face.  "I was hoping you were a war hero."

"Would that make you feel better when I spear half-way through _you_?"

Her hand closed on his penis.  "This is a nice one, Wayne, but don't 
exaggerate."

He grunted.  "You'd probably say the angle's wrong.  How about you 
kneeling on the bed with that round ass in the air?"

"One moment."  She slipped to the table and returned with her tube of 
K-Y jelly in hand.  "I assume you mean to do the brown."

"Let's avoid ambiguity.  I'm going up your ass."

She expressed jelly into her hand, slicked his organ, mounted the bed in
the prescribed position and thrust greasy fingers into her anus while 
staring back at him.  "Note: one fat ass in the air."

"I didn't say _fat_ ass."

"It's what you meant."

He shook his head.  "Well, of course it's fat.  A skinny-assed broad 
isn't worth much to anybody.  I said _round_ ass because of the lovely 
curves.  Hell, you've even got dimples...  I don't usually do assholes,
but I'm going to enjoy fucking yours.  You know to relax, I hope."

She faced away.  "Just get on with it.  I'll bet you won't come this way
either."

"Oh, I don't know.  I plan to come more than once tonight."

Passage through her sphincter was not difficult.  "Very good!" he 
declared, sinking to full penetration.  "Now how about clamping down? 
...  Hey, hey, a nice grip!"

He began long, full, slow strokes.  She sighed audibly.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"If you went faster you might come."

"You want me to come soon?  What's your rush?"

"When you come, you might take a break."

He chuckled sourly.  "I can't believe this is just work to you."

"Can't you?"

"No.  I know the money's important, but who would let a dick up her ass
just for money?"

"Interesting question," she responded dryly.  "Can you truly imagine any
other reason?"

"Well, I know women who say they like it."

She sniffed.  "If they're not getting paid, how else would they explain
it?"

"How about you?  Is money absolutely your only excuse?"

She did not answer immediately.  He continued his slow thrusts.  She 
looked back over her shoulder with twinkling eyes.

"What?"

"At moments like this I always wonder how many other women in the world
are in the same state."

"Dicks up their asses?"

"For money.  Would you guess a million?"

"Surely not!"

"How about ten thousand?"

"Why does it have to be for money?"

"Wives and girlfriends evidently won't let men do it to _them_."

"Is that what the johns tell you?"

"The brown is so popular."

He thought about it.  "Apparently butt-fucking doesn't do much for you."

"Huh!"

He shoved harder though no faster.  "Your clit is supposed to feel it 
through the flesh."

She laughed scornfully.

His hand went around her hip and under her belly to finger the lumps at
the vulva top.  "How's this?"

"You think that's going to feel good with a big cock plunging in my 
guts?"

"Why shouldn't it?"

"Because it's distracting.  You ever look at fag movies?"

"Well ... once or twice."

"You must've noticed that the guys getting their butts reamed don't have
erections."

"Well ..."

"I don't believe you didn't notice!"

"Okay, you may be right."

"You know I am!  And I know the reason: a fat dick squirming in your 
brown is just too unnatural."

"You mean you don't think it's sexy."

"Not a bit."

"What _do_ you find sexy -- stimulating, I mean?"

She fell silent, holding herself still, merely rebounding to his 
thrusts.  He looked down on creamy skin, broad buttocks, rounded 
shoulders and narrow waist.  The underlying bone was nowhere evident, 
not even the commonly perceivable row of vertebral bumps, though he 
could feel her hipbones faintly beneath the flesh.  With knees braced 
against the bedside, he leaned forward and caught a swinging breast in 
each hand.

He declared, "Butt fucking is sexy to me."

"It's a perversion, you know: a power thing."

"You think so?"

"Yeah."

He slapped her cheek gently.  "I'll admit it would probably _feel_ 
better if I stuck it in your cunt instead.  So maybe you have a point or
two.  A woman's mouth and asshole are definitely attractive, even 
though, as you note, using either is perverted."  He chuckled in 
anticipation.  "So turn around her and let me pervert your mouth."

She said as she wheeled about, "Straight from brown to tongue -- that 
really turns you on, doesn't it?"

But she didn't hesitate.  Her lips closed completely over the glistening
shaft.  Wet sounds arose.  Despite the contempt in her tone, her 
expression was indifferent.

He shook his head.  "Frankly, my dear, I don't understand how you can 
stand to do that."

She grunted and withdrew enough to repeat derisively, "'My dear!'" 
before resuming her suction.  

"It seems right.  Any woman willing to submit this far is a dear one, 
however the man pays for it."

Her eyes rolled skeptically up to his.  Again she released him 
momentarily.  "Does she have a choice?"

"Not to taste her own shit?  Of course she has a choice!"

The woman chuckled, still eyeing him, then began to laugh despite her 
recovered mouthful of penis.

He looked hurt.  "Did I say something funny?"

She shook her head and continued to suck, but her eyes now held a 
twinkle.  Her arms went around his buttocks and head ceased to bob.  
Instead her mouth sank slowly on the shaft until her lips were hardly 
an inch from the pubic pad.  Her nose wrinkled in response to the
tickle of pubic hair.  She gagged audibly.

"My god, Miss Priss!" he exclaimed, feeling the flutter deep in her 
throat.

Gagging or not, she did not back off.  Her lips worked as if trying to 
stretch to his belly.  He began to thrust gently.  At that she released
him explosively, spraying saliva.  Red faced, she looked up at him and 
grinned.  "Almost!"

"My god!" he repeated, staring down at her, feeling the rising thrill.
"Do that again and I'll come."

"Youbb--"  She paused to gulp and swallow.  "You'll strangle me if you 
do."  But after gasping for breath, she re-enclosed him, mouth sliding 
deeper.  He groaned in climax.  At the initial squirt she withdrew, eyes
turned up to his, and squeezed his testicles tightly.  The penis head, 
now barely within the wide open mouth, spurted toward the back of her 
throat then dribbled on her tongue.

When his flood ceased, she again mouthed half the shaft and sucked it 
clean, causing him to shudder and moan inadvertently.  His hands caught
her temples and freed himself with an audible pop.

She had been kneeling on the bed.  Now she sat back on her heels and 
grinned up at him with satisfaction, original makeup undisturbed beyond
a thinning of the lipstick.

He took a very deep breath and said quietly, "Well done, Miss Priss."

"Thank you.  Now I'm thirsty."

"Even though you just had a drink?"

"I'm being polite, you know.  I could say I want to wash your taste 
out."

"Is it so bad?"

"Well ... I wouldn't say it's _bad_."

"What would you say?"

She thought about it.  "You once took Chemistry, didn't you?  I'd say a
lot of the time it tastes flat, like distilled water."

"Really?  Not chicken soup?"

"Perhaps chicken soup with no salt.  If he's had a vasectomy, distilled
water."

"In my case?"

"No vasectomy."

He turned away to the refrigerator.  "Beer?"

"As a chaser.  I'd like a taste of whisky first, if you have any."

"No whisky.  Here's a pint of Drambuie."

"Too sweet.  I'll try the beer."

He opened two bottles and brought them to the bed, where she had taken a
seat on the edge.  "There's plastic cups in the bathroom.  Do you need 
one?"

She reached toward him.  "Thank you, but I can drink from the bottle."

He sat beside her.  Both took long pulls, burped explosively and 
laughed.  He said, "You're a real woman, Miss Priss."

"Not just a set of jugs?"

"And I'll admit my surprise at that."  His hand squeezed the closer 
example.  "Though you do have a very fine set."

"Yes, I do, don't I?"

"Priss, I think you're a tiny bit narcissistic."

"Don't I have good reason?"

He blinked.  "Have I caught you fishing for compliments?"

"Just confirming the assets."

He laughed.  "Well, you've got them.  And more.  I've asked a few women
how semen tastes.  I don't recall a good answer until now."

"Perhaps they lacked experience."

He nodded.  "Some of them.  How much have you had?"

"Never enough, I hope."

"Oh?"  He pretended amazement.  "I thought you were only doing it for 
the money!"

She grinned.  "Did you ever hear of anyone who thought she had enough 
money?"

"Come on, admit it.  Even with a dick -- how'd you put it, squirming in
the brown? -- you must have felt _something_ good."

She finished her beer, burped again, and regarded him askance.  "Do you
really give a damn what feels good to me?"

"Of course."

"Why 'of course?'  I'm a whore; you don't have to be concerned with my 
feelings."

"Maybe not, but I'm always concerned about my date."

"So you can date her tomorrow, right?  Again, not an issue with me."

"Still."

"This must be some enhance-your-manhood thing."

"Well ... sure.  If I can make my woman feel good, I'm obviously a 
better man than one who can't.  What was so funny a minute ago?"

She produced a slow grin.  "I had just realized why men like for a dick
to go straight from brown to tongue.  They believe the girl's pretending
not to mind the taste of shit -- another power thing."

"Well, isn't she?"

"Not tonight.  I took an enema before I came to work.  No taste."  She 
laughed triumphantly.  "Fooled you!"

"An enema!"  He made a face.  "Doesn't that give you cramps?"

She shrugged.  "Not if you use the right amount."

He shook his head.  "Sounds very professional."

Her eyes twinkled.  "Trick of the trade."

"'Trade.'"  He sighed.  "So you're right: you do this for the money."

"What else?"

He finished off his beer before answering.  "I've known women who loved
sex even more than I do, and they had no reason to fake it.  Sure, I can
see how money might be the deciding factor for a girl who only half-way
wants to fuck, but for it to be the _only_ factor ...  I can't believe 
it."

"Why can't you?  Isn't it better for you that way?"

"Better for me?"

"You said it makes getting laid a refreshing certainty.  I agree it's 
fast with no entanglements, which seems ideal from a man's point of 
view.  I've never understood why men want to make whoring illegal."

"Men?  Mostly it was legal until we gave women the vote."

She shook her head vehemently.  "Male legislators outlawed it, not 
women.  Has it ever been put to a popular vote?"

He shrugged.  "Who knows?"  He dropped his bottle on the floor and stood
up.  "Let's see if you mean what you said.  Come on in the bathroom."

Her eyes narrowed briefly.  "Another kind of shower?"

"Yeah."

She was closer to the bathroom and entered it first.  She stepped into 
the tub, rolled up the shower mat, knelt upon it, clutched the tub edge
in her hands and leaned slightly forward, staring unblinkingly up at 
him.  She said, "I hope that wasn't your first beer."

"My third."  He shook his head.  "Prissy, I can't believe you."

She grinned wryly.  "It's what we call 'full service.'  But you know 
this is outside our agreement."

"Fifty bucks."

"A hundred."

"Eighty."

She took a breath.  "Don't aim at my eyes."

"I'm going to put it in your mouth."

"Another power thing.  Someday I mean to write a book about men's need 
to belittle women."

He grunted.  "Think of it as overcoming nature."

"Sure.  Like walking on the moon."  She tilted her head back and opened
her mouth wide, eyes converging on the approaching penis.

He laid the head on her tongue and released his sphincter.  The 
fluid that overflowed the corners of her mouth was clear.  It fell in 
two thin streams along the insides swell of her breasts to merge in her
groin.

"'Like walking on the moon,'" he repeated and grinned evilly.  "You 
know, this is the right thing to do to a sarcastic mouth."

Her eyes burned on his but she held herself rigidly.  Her nostrils 
flared with breath.

He backed away and shook out the last drops.  "How was that taste, Miss
Priss?"

"Kith me."

"I believe I'll pass."

She spat a mouthful into the tub.  "Then you'll never know."  Getting to
her feet, she turned on the shower head, let it play on her body briefly
then directly into her mouth.  She spat again, turned off the water and
took the bath towel he offered her.  He waited until she could follow 
him into the bedroom, where he went to the refrigerator and opened a 
beer for her.  She took it and turned it up.  He turned to his britches
hanging over a chair back, removed money from his wallet and laid it on
the table.  "Eighty dollars.  Come on back to the bed."

She looked askance at his groin and grunted.  "Does paying a woman make
your dick rise?"

"_You_ make it rise, Miss Priss.  I believe you're the sexiest broad I 
ever knew as well as the willingest."

Her eyes rounded.  "To _that_ I'll say thank you."

"For my last putt I'm giving you a treat."  At the bed he exposed the 
bottom sheet and stretched himself upon it on his back.

She took another pull of her beer, set the bottle on the table and came
to stand at bedside with arms akimbo.  "A treat."

"My second shot always takes its time.  You get on top and do whatever 
you want that pleases you."  He grinned.  "Anything that doesn't hurt."

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  "After that you'll let me sleep?  I 
have an important meeting in the morning."

"What kind of a meeting?"

"Business."

He grinned.  "I can imagine.  You working girls get together, trash the
johns and pay off the cops, right?"

When she didn't answer, he asked, "What time's your meeting?  We've got
breakfast scheduled at seven."

"It's not the time.  I need to be sharp for this one."

"So you need sleep.  Well, the sooner you get my juice again the sooner
you can snooze."

Her eyes sparkled.  "Anything I want to do, is that right?"

"If it doesn't hurt."

She retrieved his empty beer bottle from the floor and held it up with a
grin.  "I don't _think_ this will hurt."

"I meant hurt _me_."

"So did I."

She took up her tube of jelly and slathered first the small end of the 
bottle then his penis.  With the bottle in one hand she crouched on the
bed between his legs and captured a pillow.

"Raise your butt," she directed and slid the pillow beneath him.  "Now 
relax," she added, and presented the narrow bottle mouth to his anus.

He flinched.  "That's cold."

"No, it's cool, which will feel good."  She twisted it, thrusting 
forward.  "Relax, I said."

"What the hell are you doing, Miss Priss?"

"Pleasing myself, as you said."

"Damn it --  Ouch!"

"I don't believe that hurt.  Your dickhead is twice this diameter."  The
slippery glass surface penetrated to the bottle shoulder.

"Well, okay, it doesn't exactly hurt.  But explain something: if 
butt-fucking didn't feel good to you, why do you think it will to me?  A
finger-wave -- or a bottle-wave -- won't work for the second shot."

She scooted atop his groin, slipped a hand behind her to hold the bottle
in place and slowly impaled her vagina on the greased penis.  She 
grinned at him from her perch over his belly and said while pistoning 
the bottle into him, "Actually, Wayne, fucking you up the ass does feel
good to me."

He sniffed and glared.  "Must be a 'power thing!'"

Her grin widened.  "At last you understand the brown."  Leaning lower, 
she began to slide her hips forward and back atop him, dragging the 
clitoris through his pubic hair, strongly flexing the penis between 
opposite pressure points inside her, breasts swinging like twin 
pendulums.  Her smile faded and her eyelids lowered.  She released the 
bottle to lean even lower, until her lumpy nipples plowed his chest 
hair.

He found the bottle easy to expel, as if it were feces.  His hands 
worked her breasts for awhile, thumbs on nipples, then wandered to the 
firmer butt cheeks.  Increasing the vigor of her motion, she began to 
pant.  He was aware of heat in his groin and a rising odor of spice.

He arched his back, mildly thrusting in time with her motion, hands 
roaming over her body.  Suddenly she drew her torso up straight, body 
straining and quivering, face contorted, and produced a peculiar little
scream through a tight throat.  For several seconds she held that pose 
then sagged back upon him and resumed her sliding motion, though at a 
slower pace.

He chuckled.  "See: it's not entirely for money."

Her eyes were clenched shut.  Her hands, which had lain upon his 
shoulders, closed on either side of his head in a gesture of tenderness,
he thought at first.  Pushing and pulling, they added impetus to her 
slide.  His hands clasped her hips to assist.

Her sphincter, closing in the same rhythm, eventually stimulated him to
climax.  Perhaps sensing it, she straightened for the second time.  He 
lifted her knees off the bed with the power of his upward thrust.  If 
she screamed again he did not hear it above his own.

Panting heavily, she rolled off beside him and turned her back.  
Groggily he rose to his feet, pulled the bedcover over her and slipped a
pillow under her head.  Having turned off the lights, he slid back into
bed and spooned their bodies together.


* * *


"Did you hear what I said last night?" he asked after sipping the 
restaurant coffee.  "You proved my point."

She was drinking orange juice through a straw.  The dining room, now 
proclaiming itself the _Breakfast Nook_, was well patronized, its air 
full of conversation and the clatter of crockery.  Low sunlight 
brightened it through tall windows at one end.

She regarded him.  "You mean your claim I don't do it just for money."

"Right."

She grinned.  "You called me remarkable.  So are you, Wayne.  How many 
men tell any woman, let alone a whore, in effect, 'Here I lie, please 
yourself?'"

"Even so I'm confident anyone who screws voluntarily gets some kind of 
pleasure from it."

She nodded slowly.  "Maybe, if you include more than sexual pleasure.  I
think men tend to be contemptuous of whores and of course the opposite 
is also true."  She grinned.  "It's a power thing."

"So you admit women indulge it too."

She shrugged.  "Why not?  We're human, and all humans need power."

"'All humans need power,'" he repeated.  "That's an interesting 
opinion."

She grunted.  "The less you have of it, the more you need it."

He studied her.  "Does that square with all you were willing to do last
night?"

Her eyes twinkled.  "You think it doesn't?  What really changed between
us because of last night?"

"Um...  Assuming I didn't impregnate you and we didn't pass any disease,
then aside from the memories -- which I'll have for a long time -- I 
don't think anything --"

She gestured impatiently.  "The money, Wayne, the money.  You're $530 
poorer and I'm that much wealthier, which is the only real change."

He blinked.  "So you won?"

"Of course.  It's whoever's more powerful in the morning that counts."

At that moment their breakfast orders arrived and they fell upon the 
food hungrily.  When it was half consumed, he noted around his mouthful
of eggs and toast, "You certainly worked up an appetite."

She smiled.  "It's true.  Normally I have Danish for breakfast but after
all our grunting and groaning, I need something more substantial.  Pass
that butter dish, will you, please?"

He leaned back in the chair and watched her finish her meal.  "Miss 
Priss, you eat heartily but daintily.  I find myself much impressed.  I
doubt lurking in hotel restaurants is all you do."

She winked.  "Though sometimes it pays very well."

He nodded.  "And no taxes."  He took a deep breath.  "I'll be sorry to 
see you get up from this table."

Her eyes softened.  "Will you, Wayne?"

"I wonder if I can make some kind of appoint--"

He stopped speaking as her eyes rose above his head and widened 
dramatically.  A nearby woman's voice declared, "Ms. Meecham, I've 
finally found you!"

"Ah, ah," stuttered his companion.

The new voice was familiar.  His head spun around.  The association 
secretary stood at his shoulder with a bright smile directed across the
table, until her eyes dropped to him, whereupon the smile vanished.  
"Dr. Clarke!" she exclaimed.

Overcoming a sudden numbness, he recovered quickly.  "Good morning, 
Lacey.  What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't get through to Ms. Meecham last night or this morning to 
tell her about the postponement."  She took a breath and her smile 
returned.  "But I see you've already met.  No doubt you told her."

His gaze swung back to the face across the table, much paler now, eyes 
round as marbles.  He nodded to Lacey.  "Yes.  Yes, of course.  Ah, have
you had breakfast?"

"Yes, sir.  I'll just get on back to --  Ms. Meecham, are you all 
right?"

A napkin rose to the lips across the table.  The woman cleared her 
throat noisily.  "Something I ate.  Excuse me.  I'll be fine."

"Oh.  Well, then, I'll see you both at the meeting.  Enjoy your 
breakfast."

The secretary turned away.  Over his shoulder he watched her depart the
dining room then turned back to his companion of the night.  "You're 
April Meecham?"

The woman swallowed.  "Y-yes.  And you're ... you're Dr. Ransom Clarke."

"Ransom _Wayne_ Clarke.  Would you mind telling me what's going on 
here?"

The late Miss Priss took a deep breath but her face had calmed and 
regained color.  "That seems rather obvious.  I'm here to accept the job
you offered."

"The _job_."  He chuckled dryly.  "Field Agent for the Collegiate 
Athletic Association.  Is that the one?"

"Yes.  Yes, of course."  She returned his stare unblinkingly.

"Your resume, your credentials, your experience on the Olympic Committee
and Alford's enthusiastic recommendation is the reason for tendering you
the offer.  Did he know you as Miss Prissy too?"

"No."  She took another deep breath.  "I didn't mean for Dr. Clarke to 
know it either."

He nodded.  "I'm sure that's true.  How do you explain last night, Ms. 
Meechan?"

"Why must I give more of an explanation than you?"

He grunted.  "As you say: a power thing."

She sighed.  "I'm toying with the idea of telling you where to stuff 
your job."

"That is certainly an option -- for both of us."

She straightened in her seat, a red spot appearing on each cheek.  "I'll
explain my part if you'll explain yours."

He shrugged.  "My office is in Cleveland.  I flew out here to meet you 
and assign your duties.  Having last night free, I tried to pick you up
for obvious reasons."

"Because you're a man who saw an available-looking woman."

"Yes, of course.  Obvious.  But you --  Ha!"  His eyes sparkled.  "Don't
say it was to recover the cost of your trip.  You know CAA is picking up
the tab."

"Yes, I know that."

"Even if we abort its purpose right here."

She shrugged.  "All right, _Wayne_.  I'll tell you.  I've been with the
Olympic Committee for five years and done a lot of traveling.  A few 
years back, while idling in restaurants awaiting the next day's meeting,
I discovered I didn't have to just give it away.  Men of a certain age 
and affluence are only too happy to pay me for attention.  Such men tend
to be clean and businesslike -- safe, in other words.  So I've spent a 
lot of evenings with legs and mouth open.  And I mean to keep on doing 
it.  All I need for that is a job with lots of travel."

"Which this one offers."

"Yes.  To every college in your association."

He sat in thoughtful contemplation.  "Do you still want the job?"

"Is it still open?"

"It's an unusual ... opportunity."

"For whom?"

"For me, of course.  There's no question of your qualifications for the
CAA job.  What's striking is your other skills.  And willingness.  The 
offer is still open if you'll agree to consult with Cleveland fairly 
often."

"With Cleveland?  With you, don't you mean?"

"Actually you'll consult with my assistant during the day, with my dick
the evening before."

She stared at him and shook her head in evident disgust.  "Thus opening
yourself to a charge of sexual harassment.  God, the chances you guys 
take in your power games!"

"You think that's my reason?"

"What else?"

He chuckled.  "Miss Priss, you keep getting the cart before the horse.
I want to keep that luscious body open to me.  You see, men don't fuck 
to feel powerful; they seek power to have reliable fuck partners."

Her brow wrinkled.  "I'll have to think about that."

"So what do you say?  Are you in or out?"

Her eyes narrowed.  "You won't be my only man."

"Oh, yes, I accept that.  You're discreet and I'm confident you'll keep
yourself clean.  We're not getting married, Miss Priss.  You'll still 
have your strange dicks."

"Yes, I will.  Lots of them."

He grinned.  "Maybe after a while you'll even tell me about the more 
interesting ones."

Her eyes twinkled.  "Maybe I will."

"Then welcome to the Collegiate Athletic Association, Miss Priss."