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I was standing in the small room, in front of a curtained window. Paul's hot breath on the back of my neck was doing little to dispel the tension that was tying me in knots, even though that's exactly what we were here for. The room was pretty dreary really; just this curtained window and a padded massage table behind us against the wall. Tired paint on the walls, scruffed tiled floor and ceiling, as if men before us had been walking the ceiling and dragged across the floor, which, for all I knew, was exactly what had caused the scruffing. A set of loudspeakers above and at the corner of the curtained window. Paul's arms came around me, and he started to unbutton my shirt and pull the tail out of my jeans even before he pulled on the curtain cord.

I didn't want to lose Paul, and this might be my last chance to keep him. We'd met at a book event. He was the author, and I was the fascinated reader. We'd talked while he autographed my copy—and I'm afraid I'd gushed about his book. He had taken that in stride and had invited me for coffee after the signing. I was a young, impressionable college student, and he was a good twenty years older than I was—but very distinguished and handsome. Gray at his temples and dancing green eyes that held mine. Thick, sensuous lips, a cleft chin that made him look very urbane, and a well-toned bod. We weren't finished discussing the exotic sub story line in his book when the café was closing, so he invited me to his place for a nightcap. His apartment matched my suppositions in sophistication; we kissed on his deeply upholstered couch, and he had my fly open and had sucked me off, with me shooting ...

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