Suzanne, my sorta-boss-sorta-partner, went on with the details over the phone as I jotted them down.
“Hold up,” I said. “What kind of professional organizing job happens at a high-end department store?”
“We're branching out!” She sounded like she was peeing her pants with excitement, but of course she would be. She got paid off the top and didn't have to go out and do some job she had no experience in.
I protested, but she assured me I was “confident and stylish,” (flattery gets you everywhere) and that these personal shopping clients mainly wanted someone to keep them company while they bought a bunch of overpriced stuff they didn't need.
Grumpily, I said, “Sounds cruel. They shop while I watch? Why not take me to a creampuff bakery and make me watch you eat creampuffs.”
“Only on my birthday,” Suzanne said. That was one of our little jokes. I'd name something ridiculous and she'd threaten to make me do it on her birthday.
“Did you get any feedback about the job at the Thorne mansion?” I asked, feeling hopeful. “I feel like I could have done more. Can we call them? I'll go back for an extra day, no charge, just to follow up. They could be a great long-term client.”
“I don't think so.”
“Suze. You gotta get me back in there.”
She didn't say anything for what felt like an eternity. “Lexie,” she said, my name sounding like a dirty word. “You f**ked the pool boy, didn't you? You have the worst taste.”
I started to argue with her, but stopped myself. “Yeah,” I said. “I totally nailed the pool boy when I was there. You know me!”
“Tell me how you did it,” she said.
As we were talking, I was still in bed, enjoying my morning coffee with most of me under the covers.
Suzanne and I had been friends since we were teenagers, and we used to call each other every morning after dates and tell each other everything, no detail too gory.
“Tell me how you f**ked the pool boy,” she repeated.
“Alright, you sick lady. You sound pretty hard-up over there. Your husband not giving it to you? Honeymoon over?”
Her voice flat, she said, “I live vicariously through my single friends. Shannon's pregnant, so that just leaves you. This pool boy. How old was he? Oh, tell me he was blond. Blond like a surfer.”
“He was blond!” I said, thinking about Mr. Thorne, who had dark hair. Aside from his identity and hair color, I told her the story of what had happened with Mr. Thorne, pretending it had happened with the pool boy. Funny thing was, I didn't even know if the Thorne mansion had a pool! Suzanne didn't know any different, so what did it matter?
As I recalled all the delicious details, my mound start to hum with happiness at the memory being replayed in my head. A big smile crept up on my face, and I was giddy.
She stopped me, “Wait, why was the pool boy up on a ladder outside the window?”
“He's a pool-boy-slash-handyman.”
“Tell me about his dick. Was it straight? Don't tell me it was one of those skinny ones with a big mushroom head. Eugh.”
“No, Suze, it was perfect. It was the most beautiful c**k I've ever seen. He could earn extra money by doing casts of it, to be used for sex toys.”
“Ohmygod. Don't stop. What did it taste like?”
“That's the thing! I don't know. We ended up boning almost immediately. It felt really good, along with the rest of his body, but it was over so fast.”
“Mmm.”
“I know this makes me sound extremely slutty, but I really regret not getting to suck on it a little.”
“Lexie!”
“So, you've gotta get me back over there for another job. I'll do anything. I'll do cleaning. Housekeeping!”
She said she'd do what she could and get back to me, then she held the phone away from her mouth and spoke to her husband, saying something about where clean towels were for his shower. Suzanne had everything. She had a man there twenty-four-seven to satisfy her whenever she needed it. She could hang up the phone and be grabbing onto his manhood, feeling it stiffen in her hands, and then slipping it into her mouth, within seconds.
How I envied her.
Yeah, I had my toys for pleasure, tools to get the job done, but you never, ever feel sexy sticking a chunk of silicone in your mouth. For some things, there's just no substitution.
* * *
I bought lollipops.
I bought lollipops and I sucked them as I waited for my personal shopping client, at the coffee shop across from the ritzy department store I'd never been inside.
I felt like a goofy kid, sucking away on my big, round, red lollipop. A few guys and one girl gave me a funny look, and I liked it. I wished the lollipop could have been Mr. Thorne, and wishing made my loins hot with desire, but wishes aren't reality.
When the shopping client approached me, I thought she had to be someone asking for directions, because she wasn't alone. She had a man with her, a classy-looking guy with silver hair. A silver fox.
“I'm Alison Hubert,” she said, reaching for my hand. I spat out the lollipop and dropped it on the coffee shop's plate before I shook her hand.
“Mrs. Hubert,” I said. “I'm so delighted to meet you.”
She eyed the big, red lollipop, still shiny from my saliva. “God, I haven't had a lollipop in years.”
I reached into my purse and pulled out another one, green, and offered it to her.
“I don't know,” she said, hesitating. “Green?”
The silver fox with her guffawed.
I rummaged around and pulled out a purple one. Her eyes lit up and she took it from me.
“Where are my manners?” she said. “Lexie Ross, this is my better half. He keeps an eye on me when I'm shopping, so I don't spend too much.”
“Mr. Hubert,” I said, shaking his hand. His steely blue eyes raked over me, all the way down past my hot crotch to my shoes, then back up again, stopping at my br**sts. He grunted acknowledgment, but he seemed to be a man of few words.
I guessed he was somewhere in his fifties, and fit, by the grip of the hand. Mrs. Hubert looked like she could be Mrs. Hubert Number Two—no, Number Three. She was in her thirties and had a giant rock on her wedding ring finger. Good for you, Mrs. Hubert the Third, I thought.
We left the coffee shop and crossed the street over to the ritzy department store.
When the doorman opened the glass door for us, I got hit in the face, full-blast, with the scent of riches. It made me twitch, deep inside. This was where they kept the good stuff, away from people like me.