Charlene

Standing in my robe in the walk-in closet I felt the ineffable and compelling feeling reaching a crescendo. It was a jittery, nervous, compulsory, excitable urge that was not in itself pleasant, but that continued to push me forward in pursuit of an escalating sense of excitement. How had I come to this moment? With each increasing incremental commitment to today's events that feeling of nervous excitement had elevated, each small step leading to the ever-escalating sense of physiological arousal, interpreted somehow as a need to satisfy a craving for greater arousal, each time thinking, 'I am really doing this' until the arousal had reached a point at which it was self-sustaining.

A smaller version of the nervous excitement, a rung lower on the hedonic ladder, earlier this morning on the way to the airport, the appointment still registered as partly hypothetical. "Behave yourself while I am gone," said in a breezy, casual way, but making me freeze and catch at my breath. Could he have known? Was he, unbeknownst to me, all these years, an emotional savant with a preternatural access to all my inner feelings, thoughts, and plans? And yet, reassuring myself, still remarkably calm and composed at the prospect of his wife fucking another man?

Seeing my feet and lower legs beneath my robe on the soft carpeting, not an unpleasant hue to my skin, sensing my sex. Pulling out the thigh high stockings, placing each one on under the robe, another compulsory step forward.

My phone buzzing. Judith, Signal text, "Have fun today," wink emoji.

Judith. She is how I had come to this moment. Tall, lanky, blonde, California stylish, early 50s with slightly sun-leathered skin, ridonkulously flexible in yoga poses. Judith and white wine, to be more complete. A Saturday, Michael out of town, three of us sipping Sauvignon blanc at Judith's condo, her regaling us with the titillating details of her post-divorce sexual adventures, Ellen and I only able to offer as contributions self-deprecating mentions of occasional Sunday morning routine acts of marital coitus, punctuated intentionally with adjectives like 'dribbling' and 'flabby' for comedic effect.

"You know, Erin, you could experience the same type of sexual adventures if you wanted to," looking at me in a surprisingly sexual way after Ellen had left, pouring herself yet another glass. Holy fuck, is this woman trying to seduce me? Now, post-yoga, with my hair pulled back, moist skin, sans makeup? But no, as it turns out, sensibly.

"Can I confess something to you?" that same look from her.

Hmhm, nodding, sipping.

"Well, you know my matchmaking business, right?" Her face had popped up in ads on my laptop after checking out her site, a high-end dating site for men of means and women desirable to said men, stylishly produced, presumably expensive.

"Yes, sure."

"Well, uh, you have to promise not to tell anyone, but a secret part of the business has a little different type of matchmaking."

Holy fuck once again. The explanation had made some logical sense; some of the wealthier men would in the natural course of events try to entice younger women into relationships with gifts of monetary value, including money itself, to 'help them out,' the women themselves maintaining longer dating relationships in response to the inducements, until a gray area, consensual, mutually beneficial, sugary, quasi-romantic yet transactional space had developed its own ecosystem within their otherwise carefully managed site, and had attracted additional women through word of mouth to fill the resulting entrepeneurial niche. Judith had simply nudged and monetized this natural ecosystem in order to remove the gray area and dramatically improve efficiency.

"The service I provide to both parties is really valuable, actually. The clients are extremely well-vetted through the site, known to be respectable and well-off, with everything to lose. The providers [that word sticking in my mind] go through a similar process to register for the site, and we remove anyone with questionable trustworthiness. By being thorough, both sides are confident in the other person; no psychos or scam artists or anything like that. It is hard work to achieve this, basically really high-level risk management."

I had to admit, if anyone could pull this off, it was Judith. There were questions. How did they keep the legitimate dating part separate? How did they recruit married men, who must have been the main target clientele? There must have been a lot of work going into careful recruitment, having to get it just right.

And then, recruitment.

"You know, as an Asian woman, you would be in high demand."

The sultriness with which she purred those words softened their impact for me, but still, the room went strongly silent for a moment as I processed their meaning.

Humor was the only apparent avenue of escape. A forced chuckle, "At 48 years old? Judith, you may need to look into some corrective lenses." But there was a tension, the first just-noticeable experience of the nervous energy, that made my attempt at deflection fall flat.

"Really, they would find you exotic, especially being highly educated and successful."

"Uh-huh," sipping.

"Let me ask you this," the seductive voice from her again, "do you have submissive fantasies?"

This made me stiffen a bit in surprise. I did, in fact, have such fantasies, shared with no one. Was she some type of predator with a well-tuned ability to sense others' secret vulnerabilities to target them for recruitment?

"Because this is the ultimate submissive fantasy. You submit to your clients' desires, doing whatever they pay you for, but with limits defined by you and men that you know are safe."

"Judith,..."

"No, just consider it. Think it over. I wouldn't suggest it unless I thought you would enjoy it."

Driving home the only thing being seriously considered was switching yoga classes and blocking Judith's texts. I resolved to bracket this off as a curiosity and simply go about my weekend.

The next morning, awakening alone in bed, I removed my pajama bottoms and panties and began to rub my clitoris. An image of me, in stockings, on my knees, fellating my client, a faceless man with the approximate body shape of Michaelangelo's David, perhaps a little taller, some reasonable chest hair added, firm, supple, muscular legs, and a smooth, symmetrical, perfectly erect, beautiful cock in my mouth, slurping and sucking on it smoothly, holding his toned right thigh with my left hand and the base of his statuesque penis with my right. Sucking intensely but at a comfortable depth, bobbing my head somehow gracefully, tasting and sensing the exquisite shape, pressing myself faster and harder, anticipating the smooth release of semen into my mouth, but then climaxing intensely and in fact finishing before David.

Phew, on with my day.

I did not, as it turns out, switch yoga classes or block Judith's texts. We had exchanged only perfunctory greetings at yoga but without the slightest sense that anything was different. Michael, home for an extended stretch before his next trip, was his usual presence, comfortable, regular, predictable. One act of intercourse since his return; our usual sequence: after brief foreplay and initial entry, flipping to my knees, head down sideways in the pillow, reaching back between my legs to rub myself while he thrust into me a couple of minutes, a small, quick orgasm for me, followed by his release, then clean up. Filed into some memory folder of indistinguishable episodes, then forgotten.

The only change since the curiosity at Judith's was in the content of my fantasies. I had always kept a rich fantasy life walled off separately from actual sexual behavior, sometimes aided by various and sundry videos and readings. But now, all fantasy was internal, no Literotica stories or implausible porn movies, only my internally generated imagery and narratives. And each case was a variant of the escort fantasy: different men, different requests, various sex positions, locations, payments, noises. There was an excitement from the realism associated with the fact that I could, in a moment of poor judgment, contact Judith and actually experience this world. Masturbation had become more frequent but also more urgent, less sating, the fantasies fading in their ability to produce pleasure despite an intense desire for more of them.

This nervous sexual energy extended to work, highly annoying in that context, compelling my attention, inhibiting my productivity. I had taken to wearing pantyhose more frequently rather than pants, my fantasies having often included some type of nylon lingerie, and this cue, so within my control to avoid, triggered even more of the nervous, excitable urge. I craved more details about the special matchmaking arrangements, if only, I reasoned, to improve my fantasies and calm my urges.

And so, at the next wine-soaked gathering at Judith's, I intentionally stayed back as the others left. Judith smiled, sensing victory.

"So, I was curious about the details of your special matchmaking," the words coming out of my mouth steady and calm but their production having triggered a little jolt of sexual excitement.

"Sure, Erin. Since you're not single, you couldn't be on the website, so I would handle the introductions for you, finding pairings that work for both parties," intentionally making it about me, it seemed, rather than some abstract description of procedures.

"How much do these sessions cost?" This a detail that my fantasies demanded to increase their realism, and having come this far in a Chardonnay-addled state of mind, I decided to just be direct in my inquiries.

"Well, that depends. The usual rate is $500 per hour for basic services, but more for extras. I have to get a little explicit to explain the service; is that OK?"

Nodding, aware of an involuntarily serious and rigid expression on my face when I preferred to appear entirely casual and merely curious.

"OK, well, uh, basic includes uncovered blowjobs and vaginal intercourse with a condom. They either finish in the condom or point it into a tissue or something. There are a few standard extras." Pausing, fidgeting, a more hushed tone, introducing these. "Swallowing or facial cumshots are a standard extra, at $150; basically, they can cum wherever they want. Deep throat or oral thrusting is also $150. They should hold still during blowjobs unless they have paid for this. And the big one, anal sex is an extra $500."

Making mental notes of each of the amounts, still unable to dislodge the ridiculously serious look on my face.

"Two hours is double, but beyond that usually some discounts for additional time. Overnights are in the $3-$5k range, with $4-$5k including all standard extras. Overnights usually have one or two rounds of sex the first day, and a third one in the morning, but it is expected that you will get some time to sleep and rest; more than three would require special permission or a larger donation. Other extras just depend on the girl in question and are negotiated individually. Things like light bondage, spanking, costume role play, stuff like that. I could give you some ballpark figures if anything like that comes up. Kissing is up to the girls but it is customary not to charge extra for it if you allow it. You should use condoms for all intercourse; some guys will offer to pay more for raw but in the long run it isn't worth the disease risk.... I think that covers the basics."

This came out pretty fluently, apparently well-rehearsed. I felt myself shaking just a little and so refrained from sipping wine lest the tremors became visible to Judith.

"Well, that is interesting..."

"This could be fun, Erin. Your husband goes on frequent business trips, your kids are away at college, so scheduling would be a breeze."

(OK then, if scheduling is easy, no forseeable downsides)

"I know you said Michael has a trip coming up next week. Let me send out some feelers to some of our nicest guys just to see who might be available then. Don't answer now, just let me ask around, see if there might be a good fit."

"Oh, I forgot to mention. I charge a flat fee to the men for each introduction but 25% of the earnings for the women. It seems like a lot, but it is really hard to curate a good client list and I do a good job with it."

"How much of your company's profits come from this part of the business?"

"Oh, honey, it is the majority..."

To my relief, work deadlines largely occupied my attention throughout the rest of the weekend and Monday, only occasionally interrupted by small flare-ups of the sexual tension, and I felt that I had at last regained some amount of repose. That is, until Monday night when a text appeared.

"One of the nicest ones available later this week, really easy-going. Can I send a description of you?"

The nervous tension coursed over my entire body, seizing my consciousness, heart racing at the sight of this. This knocked me so off-balance that it took a moment for my mind to interpret and label the feeling, which might have plausibly ranged from dread and horror to impending ecstasy. I settled on excited anticipation. Holding the phone vertically in my left hand, I pecked very quickly with my right, "OK" and then immediately hit send. I then pressed the power down button rapidly and firmly, eliminating my ability to rescind the message. This brought the excited tension up yet another increment, to the point that, for a very brief moment, I thought that I might climax standing right there in the study. I put the phone into a desk drawer and ran a hot bath. Deep breaths in the warm water had brought my arousal back down into a normal range.

I knew that I had not committed to anything yet. A description was not an agreement. I could explore these feelings by taking various steps but then politely decline. This left everything still plausibly in the realm of fantasy. Judith might be a little annoyed, but she had to know that I was not the typical woman for this job and that I might back out at any time. These thoughts brought the tension down, but as if to bring it back up--to keep the adrenaline hit coming--I took another deliberate step toward the actual event: I logged onto Amazon.com and ordered condoms of various sizes, as well as a water-based lube. Given two-day shipping with Prime, they would arrive by Wednesday.

I nervously powered up my phone on Tuesday morning but was surprised to see no texts. Surprised and a little relieved.

The tension was back during work on Tuesday. Coming in waves, veering between a positive expectation of intense pleasure and an anxious sense of panic. Conversations appeared on two levels, especially with men, one with the actual semantic content of the exchanges and the other entailing me thinking about myself providing sexual services while searching their faces for any subtle signs that they could recognize what I was thinking. This was, to the say the least, an unsustainable state of affairs.

The next text arrived Wednesday evening. Seeing a notification light up as I washed dishes, slipping the phone quickly into my pocket, then going to the bathroom for privacy.

"Wants to meet you! Friday at 3 PM, about 30 min S of you. Don't mean to rush, but need an answer soon."

My heart raced again. Michael's flight had been delayed until Friday morning, but that would still leave plenty of time. I tried to use the same speed technique as Monday without giving myself time to think, and typed as fast as I could, "yesd" but then saw the error. Hitting backspace slowed me down and I paused to think. Staring at the yes on the phone, my heart pounded out a slow, deep THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP, feeling like it was actually echoing, recalling the shoes in the dryer metaphor from Infinite Jest. Staring further, the slow, deep thumps continuing, then knowing an instant before that it would happen, as though only observing and not deciding, my thumb hit send.

"Great! Will text the address. I need a name for you to use."

"Charlene," send.

Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I removed the robe and looked at myself in only the thigh-high stockings. My A-cup breasts were small but by virtue of that remained firm and upright despite my age. The weight I had added also gave my hips a slightly more rounded appearance than when I was younger. The dark hair of my natural bush seemed to complete the look, acting as a natural visual focal point when taking in my body. It was a decent look, I decided. A thought occurred to me that, after going to the bathroom to count the money as Judith had instructed, I could remove my skirt and blouse and come out to Paul in only my stockings and heels, surprising and arousing him with my naked body.

Looking at the phone on the bathroom vanity. Between here and 30 min south the phone could still cancel, though now was the natural time and each subsequent movement otherwise would steeply change the probabilities.

I had thrown out my only thong a couple of years ago and decided that my fully covering cotton panties were unacceptable, thus entailing that I wore nothing under the black skirt. A white blouse without a bra made my breasts appear too small and nipples protrude awkwardly, and so my laciest bra went under the slightly shiny white top. Small heels would complete the look, though white sneakers for driving. The outfit was one I owned previously but I judged it fortuitously appropriate: still plausible as a business suit for the walk to the car (especially in sneakers) but sexy enough in heels to make me fuckable.

The walk to the car was stilted and awkward and generally an out of body experience, again as if observing my actions rather than controlling them. Setting the address into the phone. It was an utterly beautiful day, with soft, golden light from the afternoon sun. The tension still somehow allowed my motor programs to function sufficiently for driving, causing me to infer that I could also, in theory, perform sex acts, but still not entirely believing that I would go through with this.

I thought about the services conversation as I drove, how it might go. Judith had relayed that he had not decided on any extras and wanted to meet me first. I was so preoccupied by the more existential decision of whether to cancel that I had not thought directly about my position regarding the extras, and found at the moment that I still did not want to make such concrete plans, an impulse that I took to mean that the events were still hypothetical.

When passing a Starbucks I recognized, I realized that I was more than half way there and my heart sped up, my mind thinking 'I am really doing this' once again. I allowed myself to imagine sucking an erect penis and felt my vagina starting to lubricate.

It seemed only moments later when Siri announced, "At the next stop sign, turn right, then the destination is on your left." I thought to myself that there was something very fundamental about the practical possibility of implementing a desire, with concrete, achievable steps, that changed it from something one could simply calmly imagine to something that one was essentially compelled to pursue, as though the achievable proximity of the desire drew one closer to it until you crested an Event Horizon from which it was impossible to escape its gravity. Seeing the house, thinking to myself, 'Event Horizon, for fuck sake, Charlene, that astrophysics elective at Stanford is really paying off.'

Siri, in her cheerful, chirpy voice: "Arrived!"