The VIP makes me feel the heat

Feel the heat
Feel the heat

“Don’t you have to be very talented to go to Berklee?” the VIP asks.

“No. You just need a lot of money,” I respond.

He thinks I’m texting my sister in Boston who is attending said music school but it’s really Mr. N on the line goading me about the fact that I’m not wearing underwear right now. My phone bleeps as another text message comes in.

Mr. N: What do you mean, bad memories? It was the best sex I’ve ever had, that night on the highway.

I grin. Wow. That’s a great compliment. Me? The best he’s ever had?

Me: Why, thank you kind sir.

I add three smiley faces to the message.

“Well, she’s certainly entertaining you,” the VIP says observing the smile I can’t keep off my face as I respond to Mr.N.

“I’m sorry. Do you mind?” I ask.

“No, no. Go ahead. Say hello,” he says.

Me: The sex was great, yes, the granny panties, not so much.

Mr. N: I liked them. I like everything about you.

Excuse, what?

Me: Who are you and what are you doing with Mr. N’s phone?

Mr. N: This is Mr. N and I approve this message.

Wow. This guy is confusing! He likes everything about me??? He was getting ready to kill me the other day and has just about called me every insulting thing you can throw at a person. I deserve most of it, I know. But still…

Me: Careful. You may cause me to lose focus here.

Mr. N: Is it that easy? I thought whores can separate work and play?

The jerk is back. I turn my phone off and toss it into my handbag. How annoying he can be!

“Something wrong?” the VIP asks.

“No. I can speak to my sister any time. All I want to do this evening is focus on you,” I say softly.

An hour later we are in his room, in one of those scenes straight out of a movie. Frenzied kissing, shoes being kicked off, clothes being ripped off. I’m so focused on getting Mr. N and his comment from my mind that I quite literally forget that this guy may have two sexual organs. The lights are off and we are now fully nude so it’s my chance to explore. I try and run my hands over his body but he pushes them away.

“Lie down,” he says.

I oblige.

“I know most African men do not know how to satisfy a woman. I want you to know that I do not have that problem,” he says.

For the next 20 minutes he proves exactly that. All thoughts of Mr. N, blackmail, and hermaphrodites are gone from my head. This is quite simply, an event. A concert. The gentle scrape of teeth against my inner thigh, followed by feather light kisses. The warm breath against my flesh, teasing, taunting, literally provoking my hips to move involuntarily. My sighs grow shorter, coarser, more labored. Mr. VIP is the maestro and I’m the riveted audience with front row seats.

Threads of pleasure slither down my legs making their way to the tips of my toes. What is most amazing is the fever. My body temperature is rising. Slowly and surely. The heat, oh the heat. The infusing heat of adrenaline coursing through my veins fills me with thirst. A thirst that can’t be quenched with water. I have never understood that Toni Braxton song until now:

The heat is moving through your body.

Temperature is rising

Can you feel the heat, the heat?

It feels like some sort of nuke has been detonated through my chest and lower abdomen. I let loose with wild abandon and hear a noise from my throat that sounds strange to my ears. Who is this girl? What is that noise? A moan? A whimper? A cry? Sounds worse than any of those. Jeez, it’s so hot!!!