Star has seen it all as a sex worker in Amsterdam. She harnesses her intense sexuality to bring her clients satisfaction--or whatever else they desire. When one of her favorites, Rick, makes an unusual proposition, she accepts the rare opportunity.
She finds herself onstage, the lead in a naughty Christmas pageant, indulging in electrophilia where anyone can witness her client-turned-costar give her a present she'll never forget. The sparks between them grow into something more, forcing them to decide if they're strong enough to seek more than simple pleasure together.
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November 13, 2009
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Excerpt from Star of Christmas by Jayne Rylon
Through my window, snow is falling. Unique flakes dazzle me as they swarm and crash then disperse, earthbound, in the glow from my red light. Gorgeous and yet a pain in the ass--like so many things in life.
Let me count the ways.
Customers stay indoors to avoid the chill or romp through the rare weather, making for slow nights in Amsterdam's infamous district. Unless you factor in the men who seek alternative methods to keep toasty and stranded passengers from Schipol taking advantage their airline delays.
Slut shoes plus treacherous icy cobblestones equal a terrifying combination. I'm not the sort of woman who wears rubbers to work--at least not the kind that protect my investment in my Louboutins--only to slip on sumptuous six-inch stilettos at the last instant. My pride rebels. The mystique generated by my stacked heels is part of who I am.
Which is why I cringe when Rick, a frequent customer, fills me in on the news.
"Damn it, Star." He pants as his orgasm weakens him. My liquefied bones leave me unable to protest as he withdraws his softening cock from my pussy and crashes to the mattress in my booth's loft. The hint of frustration in his tone has me squinting.
"You're not satisfied?" A complaint would be a first for me. Not that whores have the equivalent to a corporate comment box system, but my popularity and the abundance of my repeat clients reassure me of my skill.
I sit up, crossing my legs, lifting his head to rest on my thigh as I play with his hair. Dozens of shared sessions with him have taught me I don't have to hesitate to explore in the aftermath of our pleasure. I figure he craves the interaction. After all, he purchased a full hour tonight when he never requires more than a quarter of that to reach satisfaction in my body, usually dragging me along with him.
Something about his honest craving for me--not just an easy lay--affects me. The chemistry between us makes serving him a pleasure. Sure, he hires other girls in the district from time to time. Then again, I sometimes try a new ice cream flavor before indulging in Rocky Road for my standard Saturday night treat.
"No. I mean, yes. I'm satisfied. More than."
I massage Rick's scalp until he rewards me with his content relaxation. Before I can gloat to myself, he shakes his head, caressing me with his thick mane. When he tilts his face to meet my curious stare, his nostrils flare in response to the scent of the arousal he's inspired.
He laughs. "I can't think straight when I'm near you. What I meant is, I didn't come here for this."
"You didn't?" What else would he seek from me? I'm providing his essentials.
Intimacy without responsibility.
"Not tonight." He levers upright, granting me the opportunity to admire his toned torso as he rests his shoulders on the wall beside me.
A far cry from baby's-butt smooth or steroid-strong. A natural ideal. Nice.
"Star, I have a proposition."