by Annika Stratford
(06/23/04)

An excerpt from
The Hand Guide to Whoring

"Four hundred dollars an hour, eh?" I can hear him calculating. You can buy a lot for four hundred dollars, he's thinking. How do you calculate the fair market value of your own pleasure? What do you compare pleasure to? Is it a luxury item, or a basic necessity?

From my call display I see that he's downtown, not far away. I just walked into the studio, my cheeks chilled and flushed from a blustery, luminous Toronto day, late November.

I like to book my first caller of the day. It's a game. I tell myself it will bring me luck. But I try to balance the first-caller challenge with good client sense. Never allow greed to obscure intuition, I remind myself. And I do get greedy. What can I say? Sometimes my eyes are bigger than my mouth.

"More than you were expecting to pay?" I suggest, amused.

"Yeah, sort of...I hope I'm not offending you. This is my first time calling..."

"What kind of food do you like?"

"Huh?"

I'm sure he can hear me grinning. "What kind of food do you like?"

"Mexican. But I'm not sure what you..."

"Okay, so you're hungry. And you have a hankering for Mexican food. A craving. Now sometimes you just want a burrito, right? You want fast food, and that's great..."

"Oh..." he says.

"But sometimes you want a really exquisite meal, you know, to indulge yourself -- to linger over appetizers in a place with ambiance, have chicken mole or chili rellenos, some good wine."

He chuckles.

"So it's like that. If you're just looking for something quick and cheap, I'd be happy to recommend a place."

"Okay, okay I get it," he says, laughing. "So maybe I'm looking for the whole enchilada today. What then?"

"Ah," I say. "La doble."

The Whore's Intuition Test

Listen carefully. Does a potential client give you "the bad feeling"? Don't book him. Is he rude or curt? He won't be more charming in person. Does he sound wishy-washy? Chances are he's just wasting your time. Does he go along with the playful, conspiratorial tone you set, or does he wheedle for more and insist on you creating some gratuitous scenario while he breathes heavily? He won't show up; you've just given him free phone sex. Always listen to your whore's intuition. It's your first line of defense, and your ticket to pleasurable sessions.

We greet Ken at the door. Veronica's in a ridiculously short Catholic school uniform. I'm wearing a high-collared black dress and teetering stiletto heels: a stern yet indulgent headmistress. I like to pamper and reward my pets with a little pussy-rubbing, a little nipple-nibbling. So the story goes.

I previewed this for him on the phone -- and he said it sounded "muy rico."

"Hola, Ken. I'm Hope. Mistress Hope. It's very nice to meet you." I kiss him on the cheek, and lead him into our lair of purchased pleasures.

"And this very naughty student of mine -- Veronica -- might just need a spanking. You might even have to give me a hand. She's worn white cotton panties especially in your honor." I love role-play and I've discovered that clients are more inclined to let themselves go in a role-play, since it's not themselves they're representing. They can become their libidinous double and throw caution to the wind. They can be playful, silly even. Role-play opens up possibilities. I often suggest one as an icebreaker.

I lift Veronica's kilt to give him a peek of sleek hip and the promised panties. I stroke her flank briefly, inviting admiration.

"Welcome to la doble, Ken."

"Gracias," he says, eyeing Veronica's tits.

He's got a wide, earnest face and gingery hair. I wouldn't notice him on the street, but he seems big and open and honest, a strapping, freckled, well-mannered suit. He'll be easy -- and grateful afterward.

It's Veronica's turn to speak: "Ooh, I've been bad all right. But I can be good, too..." She settles Ken on the sofa.

"A drink, Ken? Some wine? Perrier?" I inquire from the adjoining kitchen. "I'm getting soda water for Veronica and myself."

Ken decides on white wine.

"I'm glad I took you up on your invitation. Or challenge," he says, getting into the act.

"So'm I." I stroke his shoulder, leaning in to pass his wine. Veronica is loosening his tie. She has a maternal or wifely way of handling clients -- of fussing over them -- which, combined with her sultry sex-diva persona, is very appealing. Ken sits back and starts to enjoy himself. His expression as he accepts the chilled glass, glances down at Veronica toying with his tie, and then takes in our studio says this is even better than getting bumped up to first class on a flight to Singapore.

I love that look.

Clients judge you by your joint, of course. We always sport ritzy digs. This is our work apartment; neither of us lives here. Some independent escorts work out of their homes, but we like to keep our work lives separate.

A tall bouquet of Stargazer and Casablanca lilies stands on the hall cabinet, a cluster of red roses in the bedroom. Scented Pier 1 candles glow on the coffee table. The place is lit with soft ambient lighting and sheathed in gauzy drapery. With all this -- and the Gauguin nudes on the wall, the Diana Krall on the CD player -- we are immediately deemed classy (even in a too-short kilt and white knee-high socks) when clients enter our two-bedroom, entirely beige, Jacuzzi-outfitted lakefront condo (sublet from an unsuspecting owner wintering in Florida).

In here we're high paid whores, turn-of-the-century courtesans really, while outside we live our other, less exotic lives. They're parallel or alternate realities: this sex-worker zone and the everyday world. Out there I'm a diligent grad student, in here a call girl -- currently dressed as a strict headmistress.

It's like my own personal Mardi Gras. In this play space we deck ourselves out in potential selves to see how they fit. I've had the opportunity to play many selves, to shape-shift my identity like skin.

"You really got me going on the phone, Hope. I couldn't wait to get here."

One of the refreshing things about sex work is the way you can jump right into "sex speak" without the negotiation that precedes it in the "real world." You can see the thrill this permission to talk dirty gives clients, like schoolboys suddenly rewarded for their naughtiness. I like it too. In the "real world" I rarely talk raunchy or say the things I'm about to say.

"Did you masturbate after we spoke? Did you play with yourself, Ken?" I cast a saucy grin.

"Well, yeah," he admits, running his hand over Veronica's shoulder and down to the gap in her blouse where her cleavage starts.

This is Ken's fortieth birthday present to himself, he informs us. A fine splurge.

Sandwiching him between us on the sofa, I lean in for a kiss and smell cigarette smoke and clean skin, feel surprisingly soft lips against mine. Then it's Veronica's turn. She's fiddling with Ken's buttons, running her hand inside his shirt -- it's time for us to move to the bedroom.

I prompt. "Why don't we all wander into the other room? But shall we get business out of the way first?"

Ken pays up, his hesitations about money far behind him. Eight hundred dollares for an hour of la doble.

With regular clients, I rarely refer to money matters; I let them pay before or after our session -- whenever they remember to. Often they like to slip the folded bills onto the counter or bedside table, or tuck them into my robe pocket, paternally, as if I'm their mistress, not their hooker. But with new clients I always get our fee up-front, and count it (discreetly). I do this while Ken excuses himself and goes to the washroom, washes his hands. Nice. Sometimes we have to suggest this to first-time clients.

Booking Tip

When I book a duo, here's my closing line: "Imagine four breasts in your face, four hands fondling you, and two mouths pleasuring you...two mouths are better than one. Sound good? Well, it is!"

As Ken comes into the bedroom Veronica bends over to light a candle on the nightstand. I lift her skirt from behind, stroke her white-cotton-clad bottom, and slap it ever so lightly.

"See, Ken -- aren't they pretty panties my little Veronica is wearing for you?" Nodded agreement from Ken, who sits himself on the very edge of the bed.

"O teacher! That feels good."

"You feel good," I say, taking her in my arms. I kiss her gently. She moans and presses her breasts against mine. "But have you been a good girl?" I ask, pulling back.

"Mmm, I've been such a good girl." She makes big coy eyes at me. "Want me to show you...how good?"

"Well, yes, you'd better show me -- and Ken here, too." (I cast a stern, schoolmistressy glance in his direction.)

Ken is taking all this in like a true adventurer. Viva la aventura. Viva la doble!

Veronica undoes the eyelets down the front of my gown and I step out of it. Underneath, I'm wearing a black lace-up number with old-fashioned ribbon garters, seamed stockings, and, of course, the stiletto heels. I'm enjoying myself. Usually I get cast as the saucy schoolgirl since I'm petite, long-limbed and small-breasted. The schoolmistress outfit is thanks to an earlier, regular client's request.

Veronica usually plays the dom in our duos. Almost every interaction -- sexual or otherwise -- has a dom in it. Veronica's tall, tanned and buxom, with breasts like volleyballs (truly -- and naturally) and a come-hither sashay. Today, she's solicitous and indulgent, easy enough, in fact, as she's affectionate and demonstrative in her personal life. But in "real life," Miriam Cole (alias Veronica) is also incredibly shrewd; she achieves her objectives with clear-eyed, ruthless determination. She's someone you wouldn't want to cross. She's currently breezing her way through Osgoode Hall Law School.

We observe Ken while we make out. His responses must be gauged.

Choreography

Our duos appear spontaneous and flirty, but they're as choreographed as a tango. Some clients get antsy when you're not including them. You have to judge how much a new client is enjoying the show, and how much they want to participate. What they really want, the antsy guys, is two women's attention lavished entirely on them -- the royal treatment, the king with his harem. With a little girl-on-girl kissing on the side perhaps -- or better yet some 3-way tongue action. Often the king-and-harem guys don't articulate their wishes. "A duo" or "A threesome" is all they say. So you have to watch and gauge. A threesome isn't for everyone. Some men connect better one-on-one. They leave here wondering what all the two-on-one hype is about, and wishing they'd rationed their funds to come back to see the girl they liked best twice. But at least they can offer themselves the consolation prize of "having done it." Some men like to play director: "Squeeze her nipples. Now suck them. That's right. Yeah, like that!" We indulge them, of course.

Ken, the birthday boy, sitting on the edge of the bed with his shirt unbuttoned, his pants, socks, and shoes still on, is happy to take in the show, an erection bulging his pants.

"Teacher, want to feel my titties?" asks Veronica.

I rub her hard, fat nipples with the palms of my hands, teasingly, through her shirt, then help her out of the shirt and unhook her bra. She runs her hands invitingly over her full breasts.

"I want you to finger-fuck me, teacher," whines Veronica. "Hard."

"You would, you greedy little slut," I chuckle, squeezing her ass. "But what a dirty little mouth you have. I'll teach you a lesson," I growl, taking her nipple into my mouth. "And I have to teach you to eat pussy, my little pet."

"Oh Teacher!" She presses against me. "You're making me feel sooo good!"

"Just you wait. You'll feel even better soon -- when Ken slides his cock into you," I rub her sex through her panties. She's already wet.

"On your knees, young lady." The room has that charged-up group-sex atmosphere -- the quality I enjoy about duos. And I can lie back at times and just watch. I don't always have to be carrying the session.

"Mmm...Good girl" I say, stroking her hair and arching my back. Against my thigh, her cheek is warm and soft with peach-fuzz. I feel languid and loose-jointed, sexy. I feel a little drunk, dilated, as if I've just polished off a glass of red wine.

Veronica turns to Ken and he reverentially cups her breasts (ah -- the ceremonial passing over of the breasts).

Joining them on the bed, I take one of Veronica's nipples in my mouth; Ken takes the other. We suckle while she moans and rubs herself. Stuffing one hand inside her panties, she fingers herself in earnest, and comes extravagantly.

"Why, you've gone and gotten your panties all sopping wet. You naughty little thing! Take them off and show Ken that pretty little sopping-wet pussy of yours."

Ken touches her clean-shaven sex, cups it with his hand. Then he cranes his neck to lick the tip of her clit. He buries his face between her legs.

"Doesn't she have the sweetest little pussy? Like a peach."

Dick Inspection

Inspect not only your client's penis (including pulling back the foreskin), but the testicles and groin for abrasions, lesions, or swelling. Do you see suspicious-looking discharge other than pre-cum? When you run your nails lightly through his pubic hair, do any little critters come scuttling out to greet you? If so, politely refund his money, express regret over not being able to fuck him -- and send him on his way. Never assume someone is clean, no matter how pleasant or affluent they are. Your health is too precious to gamble with, and condoms don't prevent the transmission of some STDs.

Ken goes in for a second helping. I nuzzle her breasts and tell her how pretty she is, my little pet. Then I drop to my knees, unbuckle Ken's belt, tug his pants down to carefully inspect his erection. I do this sensually, massaging his groin and the base of his cock and exclaiming about how much I'm going to enjoy sucking and fucking him.

"I think Ken should get more naked, too." I wink up at him.

Ken hops up and sheds his clothes into a puddle on the floor. He's got a good physique, a sprinkling of body hair, and a raging boner. We stand on either side of him, pressing our naked bodies against him in an orgiastic three-way embrace, eyes closed, everyone moaning -- limbs, hands, mouths, all moving.

"Why don't you just lie back, Ken, and let Veronica and me spoil you rotten?"

On our knees with our rear ends facing him, Veronica licks Ken's balls (something I'm not wild about doing with clients) while I apply a condom, then lightly suck the head of his cock. Ken cranks himself up on the pillows so he can get a visual (most men want to watch this) and strokes both our pussies from behind. We kiss (with a show of tongue) over Ken's pulsing cock, my hands stroking and squeezing his shaft, Veronica's toying with his balls.

Then, giving Ken her signature coy stare, Veronica takes the head of his dick in her mouth and starts to suck harder, while I slide my mouth and tongue along his shaft.

"Fuck, that looks good!" Ken's visually recording this, saving every detail to tell friends or to recount to himself later on.

Veronica takes his whole cock into her throat and sucks deeply, greedily. She gives a flawless blowjob, but sometimes I wonder at the extent to which she'll work to win clients, to be the best. I indulge them, of course, but when you create such an intense session -- a superlative -- your clients expect it as the norm, and then on the lazy, uninspired days, on crampy menstrual days, it's hard to equal that heightened state. And then they think you've lost your touch.

She catches my eye. From his taut balls and the twitch at the base of his cock, she's gauging Ken to be near coming. We slide up to fold him in a three-way embrace.

Come Again?

Coming too early in the session can be ultimately disappointing for clients -- and more important, some will want to try for a "second round," which throws off the flow of the session. Most guys' second boner takes longer to achieve and longer to work to orgasm; this is not in our plans. When we know in advance that a client wants to come twice in a session, we'll work them up quickly the first time, leave leisure for a glass of wine and pillow talk, and then wind them up slowly for the grand finale.

We both kiss Ken, all three of our tongues exploring each other's mouths. He groans. Greasing him up with some K-Y Jelly, I stroke his prick, squeeze it. "Do you mind if I take a little ride?"

When Ken nods, I climb aboard and lower myself slowly over his cock, feeling his width and hardness expand me.

Half an hour ago, I'd never seen this man; now I'm fucking him. And I may never meet him again in my life. How strange. How wild. These are the paradoxes of the sex trade that thrill and excite me. Moaning, I grind my hips and press him all the way up inside.

The three of us kiss, tongues flicking and probing, Veronica kneeling beside us. He and I massage her ample breasts, licking and sucking. The whole scenario is a ritual, an indecent drama. I fuck Ken with a steady, slow rhythm then slide off and let him catch his breath.

"So do I get to fuck Ken too?" Veronica asks, grinning.

"All in good time, my little princess. First I'm going to make you eat some pussy."

"Oh yeah," Ken contributes as I apply a fresh condom to him and scoot up on the pillows.

Usually we wrap up our duos in this position. Veronica kneels in front of me, winks, waggling her ass in the air, a clear invitation to Ken. Kissing the inside of my thighs, she drags her tongue towards my freshly-fucked sex. Ken watches entranced, his condom-clad penis standing out comically from his body. Then he slides himself into her, doggy-style, gripping her ass hard while Veronica cries out and pretends to lick me.

His groin slaps her ass, a steady rhythm of flesh on flesh, faster and faster. This is about as good as la doble gets in the world of paid partners, and Ken's making the most of it, riding Veronica so hard she's jiggling all over.

"Oooh! Ah!" she makes exaggerated porn-faces at me, and I have to fight not to laugh out loud.

With a growly grunt, Ken pumps to a grand fuck-finale, while Veronica and I moan and exclaim in accompaniment. Shuddering, he presses against Veronica's buttocks with his fingers dug into her ass.

Then he's spent, limp and satiated -- all that frenetic energy drained away into a teaspoon-full in the condom, the condom still inside Veronica.

"Aah, that was perfect..." Veronica eases herself away, gripping the base of the condom to hold it in place.

Condom Check

Reach frequently and check that the condom is still firmly in place, making this contact sensual by toying with the guy's balls. Sometimes a condom rides up, or if a guy gets soft during intercourse, it can even come off inside you. Some clients are known for removing the condom when you're not looking. After your client comes, gently pinch the condom and hold it at the base of his cock while you extricate yourself from him.

Veronica rubs her bottom where Ken's finger marks show up white, etched in red. He was a little rough with that ass-grip (both of us bruise easily), but otherwise Ken has been a perfect two-on-one participant -- eager and amenable, letting us set the pace, and fully enjoying the pleasures we have to offer. We'll see him again if he calls. He'd be a desirable regular -- either for duos or one-on-ones.

A group hug, a group grope, some pillow talk, and we start to gather up our clothing from the floor, chatting easily. Veronica fetches a warm washcloth and applies it to Ken's spent penis after she peels off the condom. What service! He sighs in delight.

"So, does this qualify as the best birthday yet for Ken?" she asks archly and he agrees, laughing, that yes, indeed it does. He tips generously to prove it. We wrap him up in his scarf, kiss him with fondness and ceremony, and bundle him out the door.

Then we tidy up the bedroom, shower, and head out for lunch. Thai food today from the place below, we agree. If we order immediately, we'll have just enough time to eat our food and get back to the studio before our afternoon appointments.

Lunch Break

"You know what I get such a kick out of? Truly," Veronica asks in the elevator.

I raise my eyebrows in suspense.

"Being looked at like that -- like we're making their day, making their whole life. Like we're these absolute goddesses, and they just can't believe their incredible good fortune at having the privilege of paying to be with us. Especially duos. It really turns me on -- and it goes straight to my head!"

"Ah, omnipotence," I say. "Good for the goddess complex."

"It spoils me for sex outside of work, you know. That look. Boyfriends forget to look at me like that eventually."

I nod. "And not paying four hundred dollars an hour helps them forget."

"Mmm," she agrees. "Working spoils us for real life. But who needs real life? It's so much less lucrative."

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