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  Through My Window

  Jayne Rylon

  “Through my window, a sea of strangers swirl and retreat like waves in an ocean of humanity. I brush my hair, fix my makeup and flip on the glaring red light in my booth before turning to face my audience on the other side of the glass.”

  For Star, this is another night on the job, though no two are ever alike. Adaptable and perceptive, she becomes many things in the course of one evening—whore, lover, nurse, psychologist and friend. But above all, she’s still a woman. Join her, through her window.

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Through My Window

  ISBN 9781419929946

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Through My Window Copyright © 2010 Jayne Rylon

  Edited by Mary Moran

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication September 2010

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Through My Window

  Jayne Rylon

  Dedication

  For my husband, who explored Amsterdam with me. Where are we going next?

  Dusk

  Through my window, a sea of strangers swirl and retreat like waves in an ocean of humanity. I brush my hair, fix my makeup and flip on the glaring red light in my booth before turning to face them on the other side of the glass.

  They begin each evening like still waters. Ebbing and flowing past my window. Unaffected by buffeting winds or brewing desires. Eddying in swirls as they gather, peek around our infamous district with downcast eyes then scatter—awkward and unsure yet inquisitive.

  Curious couples setting out on tandem adventures, young men high on the moral freedom of Amsterdam and clusters of women indulging in a wild night with friends all dip their toes in the pool.

  Later, much later, they will roil and crash against the glass in a typhoon of wanton excess—of food, drink, drugs and sex—that never ceases to amaze me.

  Or to infect me with its primal power.

  Most women shoot me glances of pity if they look at me at all. I feel sorry for them, that they don’t understand. But some…some grin and nod.

  Appreciation.

  Respect.

  Envy.

  A select few go further, seeking my services so they can share in the rush for a brief time.

  Men are more likely to notice my sincere yearning to please right away. All manner of them from young to old, rich to poor, thin to fat and virile to impotent appraise me with hungry eyes.

  Cynics might say my killer curves, mile-high stilettos or long mane of platinum hair are responsible for their focused attention. I don’t buy that. I’m not the most attractive working girl on the block. But I’m one of the busiest.

  Customers can sense I’m different than most. They recognize I’m here not because I have to be but because I want to be. I absorb their stares before returning some of my own. The authority they grant me is intoxicating and addicting.

  I love enticing a kindred spirit to my lair for both our enjoyment and my profit.

  The hot, red lights of my booth, along the canal slicing through the heart of De Wallen, glint off my silver-sequined costume. What little of it there is anyway. The warm air in the space caresses my bared skin each time my neighbors let someone in or show them out.

  Satisfaction guaranteed.

  Theirs. And mine. Ours.

  Every thrilling encounter is unique. Each partner creates a new experience as their quirks mix with mine. I can’t wait to see what tonight will bring. To adore what you do and be able to make others happy in the process—while earning fists full of cash. What more could a woman ask of a career?

  The worldwide economy might be in the crapper, but my business is never slow. Hell, bad times make for peak seasons around here. And I’m glad to do my part.

  Take this man, for example. I’ve watched him meander through the hordes, coming closer and closer to my window on every pass. He almost manages to appear casual—comfortable in a den of hedonism—and worldly.

  Until I notice the way his hands are fisted in his pockets. And the outline of his monster erection, proclaiming his desire to join our forbidden display. I could hang a flag on that thing. He’s no veteran to my scene.

  As quick as that, I know he’ll be mine. For a little while.

  Darkfall

  The potential customer scans the available women. Many would like to please him. There’s something undeniably attractive about guiding a novice on their first foray into sin. Most of the girls shimmy, primp or pose to capture his attention. But I simply prop one hand on the indentation of my trim waist then wait for him to make the smart selection.

  No one else will sate his craving for a novel jaunt into a taboo practice as I will.

  When our eyes meet, the blaze of magnetism is clear. His pupils dilate. The man glances both left and right, then left again, before sidling closer to my window. Hesitance in these situations always strikes me as adorable in its ridiculousness.

  The young man lifts one finger from his pocket to signal as he approaches.

  The edge of my mouth curves in a sultry smile I don’t have to fake when I crack the glass for our exchange. I lean forward until my breasts press against the cool, smooth surface, anticipating how he’ll begin. I wonder if he’s done his research.

  Maybe he took the day tour through the Prostitution Information Center. Probably asked a thousand and one questions too. Clean-shaven, button-down shirt tucked into his ironed jeans, neat wire glasses…he appears the type.

  “G-good evening. How are you?” Slightly rough, his American accent beads my nipples. Definitely his first time.

  “I’m great, hon.” I toss in a wink and he chuckles, loosening up a little. “What can I do for you?”

  “How much for a standard suck and fuck?”

  Ah, he knows the lingo. A good sign.

  “Do you need fifteen minutes or thirty?” I’m hoping he’ll take the scenic route. Not for the money but because I’d like to make the night he loses his prostitution cherry more memorable.

  “Uh… How about thirty? And I’d like to touch your breasts, with you totally nude. Two positions.”

  I grin. He has done his homework. Such a good boy.

  “First-time special, a hundred Euros.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  I smile gently. “Only to a professional. I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”

  He nods once then passes me a crisp note through the sliver of space between the frame and my glass panel. I tuck the bill into my drop-box, which is bolted to the floor, enter the transaction in m
y ledger then invite him through my window.

  The man trips over the raised threshold but catches himself against me in the narrow opening. I would mark the hazard, since so many others do the same, but it’s an easy icebreaker.

  Because now he’s touching me. I glance down to where he’s cupping my shoulders and I smile. His hands are soft, his grip is gentle. Nice. An easy start to the evening.

  “Excuse me.”

  “No need. Let me close up and we can get to it.” I reach around his trim waist, stroking him with the side of my arm as I pull the window closed. The lock engages with a click, securing us inside. I nod in triumph at Mari, in the window on the other side of the canal, when she blows me a little kiss for my win. Then I slide the thick drape across the glass, blocking the view from the teeming masses outside.

  I catch my client checking around, probably wondering what happens next.

  “All the booths in this building have stairs leading to bedrooms upstairs.” I approach him then slide my palm from his shoulder to his slightly sweaty hand. Our fingers link as I rub against him, gliding past him in the tight enclosure. “Follow me.”

  “How embarrassing.” He grimaces when I smile over my shoulder.

  “That you’re a virgin John? Everyone is once.” I explore the ridges of his knuckles with my fingertips. His hand trembles beneath mine in anticipation that I feel fortunate to share. His excitement is contagious, making my thighs damp as they slide across each other. “You’re doing great.”

  “Thanks.” He laughs, the chuckle sounding a bit surprised. “You’re really sweet.”

  “I’m whatever you need me to be.”

  I begin to climb the steep rise. Old wooden planks creak beneath my feet. How many others have made this journey to satisfy an age-old yearning? I am part of history, connected to my predecessors by a shared understanding of what it’s like to pay for comfort. For pleasure. For relief.

  Now this man is too.

  Like a psychologist or a chiropractor or a teacher, I’m pleased that my profession allows me to care for my fellow humans. And pumped that it is so exciting simultaneously.

  My client groans when my ass is presented mere inches from his face. The stairs do wonders for my form as I sway from side to side as we ascend. Women of all shapes, sizes, ages and nationalities offer services in the district. There’s something for everyone. I work hard to keep myself as I like best. Fit but not skinny, there’s plenty to fill a man’s eager hands.

  I take pride in the firm swells on display. His appreciation thrills me.

  At the top of the stairs, we enter a tiny room filled nearly wall-to-wall with a plush mattress. Soft lighting from a single incandescent lamp adds to the intimate ambiance. The bare bulb is obscured by a beaded lampshade Mari gave me for my birthday last year. A great inside joke. A cliché come to life. Sometimes it’s best to give the tourists what they expect.

  “Would you like to undress?” I turn my back to retrieve a condom from the tiny dresser along one wall. I want him to consider without pressure. In my experience, getting nude makes a man more vulnerable, but this guy doesn’t seem like a clothes-on kind of lover.

  “Yes, thanks.” He shuffles from foot to foot.

  “Let me help.” I reach straight for his fly, leaving him to strip his shirt from surprisingly powerful shoulders. The clock is running. My nails tuck into the loop of his belt, freeing his pants from his waist before I slide them to his ankles.

  He heels his shoes off then steps from the abandoned fabric. His socks stay on, but I don’t pressure him in case he needs some kind of security blanket. Instead, I turn my attention to the gray briefs askew on his hips, distorted by his bold erection, which the soft cotton fabric can barely contain.

  I maneuver the cloth over his cock, loving—as always—the moment the proof of a man’s longing pops into view. A normal, everyday guy surrendering to his primal side gets me every time. I place my palms flat on his toned abdomen then slide them lower to cup his balls, initiating him to my touch.

  “God yes.” His gaze is locked on my progress, waiting for me to continue.

  An overwhelming purpose consumes me, driving me to delight this man and myself in the process. I remove the condom from its wrapper and roll it over his full length. Not the biggest tool I’ve ever seen but far from the smallest. He’ll get the job done, which is more than I can say for a portion of my customers.

  I plant my knees on the pad I’m sure he didn’t notice in the artificial twilight of our nest then guide his shaft to my lips. I relish the first contact of my tongue on his latex-coated cock. Some girls hate the taste of rubber. It’s not my favorite, but I’ve come to associate it with the pure adrenaline of my intense—never casual—sexual encounters.

  I concentrate on teasing the head of his cock before guiding the entire shaft deep into my mouth. He’s long enough to reach my throat and I relax to allow him entry. My pussy dampens when he moans his appreciation. I take him to the base on several consecutive strokes, but his ragged shout and the sudden contraction of his balls alert me. He’s straying too near the brink of orgasm.

  It’s only been two minutes, we can’t have that.

  Lesser prostitutes would allow him to spurt as soon as possible. The fee is the same, no matter what he chooses to do with his time. But I want it to be good for him. As good as it can be.

  That’s the only way it’s good for me too.

  So I wrap my fingers around the base of his erection and squeeze deep on the pressure point guaranteed to return his control. I’ve learned many tricks from my customers and other window dwellers over the past several years.

  “Thanks.” He pants as he settles his hand on my shoulders, recovering a tiny bit. He shakes his head ruefully then flexes his hips, urging me to suck him again. “I’m all right now. Sorry.”

  I paint my lips with the tip of his penis so he can see my genuine smile. “Never apologize to a woman because she drives you wild. It’s a fantastic compliment.”

  The lines flanking his eyes as he considers my advice disappear, replaced by desire when I welcome him back to the warm, wet depths of my mouth. I suck him hard but steady, just below his threshold for ultimate pleasure. When his thighs begin to shake beneath my caresses, I know it’s time to move on.

  Besides, I’m eager to feel him inside me. The unpracticed fuck will be ambrosial—raw and a little clumsy. I don’t come with each customer, but I’m sure this man will bring me gratification. Sharing his journey fires my blood.

  I pull my lips from him with a slurp for effect then nudge him toward the bed. “Lie down. Get comfortable.”

  He complies while I whip my top off and strip out of my fringed thong. I kick away my platform heels then crawl beside his supine form. Splayed on his back, he folds his hands behind his head, as though to keep himself from touching me.

  “What positions did you have in mind?” I remember how specific he was at the window.

  “Woman on top.” His answer is raspy, but his inhibitions are melting faster than an ice-cream cone in the dead of summer. Being ultra-horny will do that to a person. Especially when I amplify his lust by cupping my breasts, molding them together in a decadent show. “A-and missionary.”

  “Nice combination.” Sexy and sweet. Just like him.

  I straddle his hips, prepared to swallow his cock with my swollen pussy. Thank God he’s smart enough to let me drive first. I can blow both our minds like this before turning it over to him for the homestretch. By then he’ll be mindless with need, able to hump like a dog in heat. And I’ll love every second of the untamed ride.

  But when I cant my hips, reaching between us to align his erection with my saturated opening, he balks.

  “Wait!”

  “You’re not ready?” I tilt my head to study him. Painful arousal etches grooves around his mouth. It almost makes me rethink my no-kissing-on-the-lips rule.

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Wh
at’s your name?”

  “You can call me Star.”

  “How can I have sex with a woman if I don’t know her real name?”

  “It’s not my name you’re fucking.”

  His frown disturbs me so I snuggle closer then whisper into his neck. “It’s not you, honey, I don’t tell anyone.”

  “Well, at least you should know mine, Star.” He grinned up at me then confessed, “I’m Jonah.”

  I notch the tip of his erection in the opening of my cunt then sink onto him as I say, “Nice to meet you, Jonah.”

  His heels drum on the slightly saggy mattress as I engulf him in my heat, working my internal muscles to massage his cock.

  “Ah!” He grunts, shuddering beneath me as I begin to move, delivering what I’ve promised. When his fingers dig into the sheets at his side, I cover the tense digits with my hands.

  “You asked permission to touch me.” My mentoring penetrates his haze of ecstasy. “Go ahead, play with my breasts.”

  “They’re beautiful,” he sighs. “So huge.”

  “Thank you.” I ride him with steady, escalating rocks of my hips. I take him to the root then lift off until the bare tip is all that remains locked inside me. I fuck him with several short strokes that tantalize his sensitive head before beginning the circuit again. When he still stares, lying limp and spellbound, I lift his hands to my chest then massage myself through his flesh.

  Have the women he’s been with before never showed him how to please them? This is not a matter of a man paying to be serviced so he can be selfish. Poor Jonah has no idea he’s lacking.

  The least I can do to help is give him some pointers. When he returns home, wherever that might be, maybe he’ll keep the next girl he fucks. He seems nice enough and steady. Now he needs some carnal skills to enhance his respectable nature.

  “Pinch my nipples, Jonah.” I keep my rhythm steady as he gawks at me.