“Someone in a massage parlor,” he replied. “How much extra should it cost for a hand job? On top of the massage price. This was our topic of discussion last week.”
“What’s a massage cost?” I asked.
“Hundred bucks.” He shrugged. “Give or take.”
I’d given a plethora of hand jobs in my days, but I wouldn’t jack off a random guy for any amount of money. If a massage therapist’s menu included hand jobs, I suspected they’d be priced affordably and within reach of his or her clientele.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Two hundred bucks?”
“Two hundred bucks?” He looked at me up and down. “For a hand job?”
I’d lived a somewhat sheltered life. Feeling foolish for my response, I scrunched my nose in dramatic fashion. “Is that too much?”
“I’m guessing for two hundred bucks you could have sex with half the staff.”
“Really?”
“It can’t cost more than a hundred for sex,” he replied. “I’m not speaking from experience. That’s just a guess. I bet it’s accurate, though.”
I couldn’t claim that I’d never had meaningless sex. I could, however, state that I’d never had sex for money. I saw the two as being completely different. Being a prostitute required a woman to have sex with anyone who could afford to pay for it. Having meaningless sex with a random barfly allowed the woman to choose her partner.
“That’s gross,” I said.
He chuckled. “Which part of it?”
“That someone would have sex for a hundred bucks.”
“What if they charged a thousand?” he asked. “Does that make it classy?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s still gross.”
“What about the hand job? Is that gross, too?”
In high school, I viewed sex as a sacred act. Consequently, I doled out hand jobs to my male classmates like ammunition to a deployed brigade of US Marines.
“Jacking someone off is different,” I replied. “It’s not sex.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s a hand job.”
He laughed. “You act like you’re experienced.”
“I’ve given a few,” I said.
“Define a few.”
We’d agreed to be transparent with one another. As much as I hated to admit the truth, I felt I had to. With some reluctance, I responded in a less than definitive manner.
“In high school, I didn’t have sex. With anyone. So, I gave hand jobs.”
He laughed. “Two-hundred-dollar hand jobs?”
“What?” I blurted. “No.”
“Earlier, you said a hand job should be worth two hundred bucks. Were yours worth two hundred?”
“I never had any complaints,” I replied, reflecting more pride in my response than I probably should have.
“I’ve never had a hand job.”
There was no way he’d gone a lifetime without being jacked off a few times by nervous high school girls who were saving their virginity for marriage. I suspected what he meant was that he never had a hand job worth mentioning. I wanted to hear the sordid details surrounding his haphazard hand jobs.
“You’ve never had a good one?” I asked.
“I’ve never had one, period.” He unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I alternated eager glances between his dick and his eyes. “You’ve never had a hand job? Not even a bad one?”
“No.” He calmly stroked his cock. “I haven’t.”
I pried my eyes away from his cock-filled hand. “Why?”
“Hand jobs are stupid,” he replied. “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even come.”
“Can I try?” I asked excitedly.
“Well,” he said with a laugh, “I didn’t get it out so I could play with it.”
A tinge of anxiety tickled my senses. Enthusiasm promptly replaced it. I sprang from my seat. “I’ll be right back.”
I ran to my bathroom and grabbed my lotion from the vanity. I had no doubt that I’d be a little rusty after two decades of hand job inactivity, but a bone-dry tug job would place me in a category where I clearly didn’t belong.
Nina Hartman might have been the homecoming queen of Gulf Coast High, but I was the unnamed hand job queen. I fully intended to prove it to a man who appeared to doubt my worth.
Lotion in hand, I returned to the living room. Hoping to dispel the myth that hand jobs were stupid, I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. “Jeans and boxers off, mister.”
“Oh. Wow. You’re serious.”
“That’s right.”
He rid himself of his boots, jeans, and boxers. As if it were an everyday occurrence, he took his seat and continued stroking himself.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
With his thick shaft clenched in his fist, he gazed at me with eyes of uncertainty. “Are you?”
I pumped a few squirts of lotion into my palm and met his doubtful gaze. I reached for his cock. “I am now.”
“Want to make a bet?” he asked.
I stroked his shaft once. “What kind of bet?”
“Whether or not you can make me come.”
“What’s the wager?”
“The winner gets sex on command from the loser.”
He had my full attention. I swallowed heavily. “On command?”
“Yep.”
If he won, he’d probably demand that I fuck him in my office or in the front seat of my Range Rover at some busy intersection. If I won, I’d come up with something far more interesting.
“I’ll take that bet,” I said with a nod of reassurance.
He playfully wagged his cock at me. “Get to work. Let me know when your arm’s too tired to continue. I’ll finish it off.”
I looked at him and smirked. “Just relax. This will be over before you know it.”
I stroked his shaft from the tip to the base a few times and then paused. “Are you opposed to standing?”
“Whatever you think might give you the edge,” he said with a light laugh. “But it’s not going to work.”
I inched away from the couch and removed my shirt and bra. I cupped my boobs in my hand and gave him an innocent look. “When you come, would you do it on my boobs?”
He stood. “You’re not going to have to worry about that.”
“Don’t be so sure of yourself, mister.” I gestured to his shirt. “Toss the shirt too, boss.”
He removed his shirt and added it to the pile. His midsection was chiseled to perfection. The washboard of muscles covered in tattooed skin tapered to a prominent V. Beneath it, a gorgeous cock that was arrow straight and as thick as my dainty wrist.
His body, in its entirety, demanded admiration. It begged to be touched. I knelt in front of him and traced my fingers over the ripples of muscle that separated his chest from the object of my current desires.
I reached for his cock. “Prepare to be defeated.”
He crossed his arms over his tattooed chest and glared.
I fixed my eyes on the prize and stroked his entire length with a firm—but gentle—grip. Hoping for reassurance that my efforts were pleasing him, I glanced up.