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A New York Escorts Confessions

“Hey! No! Sorry. Doesn’t get out much. Stop it.”

“That’s alright.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine really. Hello. What’s his name?”

“His name is Beez. He’s Beez.”

“Bees? Like in, wait, as in buzzing and pollinating?”

“No Beez. With a Z. Short for Beezelbub”

…you’re dog is the devil?

He took a great sigh. “Sometimes.”

While Z and I had been preoccupied with trying to get the muddy paw prints off of my coat and making sure I hadn’t busted a heel, something else entirely was going on below us. Apparently Clarice and Beez had already gone through sniffing each other’s butts. They had breezed by sniffing each other’s underside. And now Beez was fully mounted and giving Clarice the works.

“Didn’t I say he doesn’t get out much? Beez really. Show some restraint”.

Rather than dashing away, as she probably should have given that Beez had a good 35 pounds on her, Clarice turned and presented her backside. Beez didn’t hesitate to take the invitation.

“Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. She seems to be…sort of into it.”

“Is she fixed?”

“I don’t know. I think so. She’s my brother’s. Is he?”

“Yeah…”

The way he said it I had to laugh. Well really, why not? They were dogs. Where was the impropriety? So when Beez mounted her the third time, neither of made a move to stop them.

Nor did we stop them the next time. Or the next. We kept letting them have their way with each other. In the park. In the street. Behind the art museum. Daily. Twice daily. Pete wanted to know why Clarice no longer wanted to go for walks with the kids. I didn’t have the heart to tell him she was way past PG and was heading towards XXX.

All the while this was going on, it was hard not to recognize the subtext. Z was clearly itching to play Clarice and Beez with me and him. The thought had crossed my mind. Z was funny. I was up for laughs. But penetration? I felt so locked inside of myself I didn’t think it was possible.

Of course when Z called me the other day and told me he was coming to the city, that was a whole different ball game. Before I had even gotten all the way into the executive apartment Z had me thrust up against the wall hard. I dug my heels into his backside, arched into him. He came with his full weight on me. I grabbed his shoulders for support as we slid down to the floor.

“Hi,” he said finally.

“Hi”

“I knew it was going to be good.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“Beez couldn’t get enough of Clarice.”

“Oh then I guess you should be fucking my brother, huh?”

He laughed, then asked if I wanted a drink. I said yes—hell yes, actually—and he ducked into the kitchen. He was back not two minutes later. With an opened jar of peanut butter and a knife.

“That doesn’t look like a drink.”

“Some people like PB&J. I like PB&P.”

“…Pussy?”

“I warmed it up…”

The knife was serrated. The peanut butter, smooth, oily, hard little nuggets here and there going over me. He caressed me with the blade, sometimes making tiny swirls, tracing every curve, every peak. Thin strokes, thick strokes. He unbuttoned my shirt, pulled back my bra, bit at my nipple. It began to melt. There were nuts tangled in my hair, on the soft creases of my thighs, on my lips, down between my cheeks, inside. He coated his fingers, pushed into me, the tightness oozing, rubbing me up to my belly. Melting all over, the smell of PB and P, rich and dank and deep. His tongue on me suddenly, his warm mouth, his teeth like the serrated blade. His fingers inside me harder everywhere. More and more fingers until I came with a force, this sexy, feral, stickiness, coating me, filling me. And his mouth was on mine. I tasted me and peanut butter. And him.

“Why peanut butter?” I said finally, whispering, tasting the sweat and salt on my upper lip.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Dogs like it.” He smiled.

That they do.