is a lot of money.”
“Depends on what you’re expecting?”
Stuart Renly sighed. What he was expecting from this woman was that she followed instructions and acted like Bailey Howard. He had it all planned out, the perfect romantic evening, but her personality was getting in the way.
Being alone tonight would be worse, though, he decided. At ten o’clock at night, it was too early to ward off depression if he grabbed his money back and sent this woman home in a cab.
He said, “I want you to act like this sweet, young girl I know named Bailey Howard. She’s seventeen. She’s smart. She’s shy. And she treats me with respect. I’m her teacher. Does that clear it up?”
“Oh, you’re one of those ,” the prostitute said. “Yeah, that clears it up. Mr. Renly, can you teach me how to fuck? I mean, how to loose my virginity?”
“Go into that bedroom,” Stuart Renly said, pointing.
She walked over and peeked into the bedroom.
She turned back around, giving him a bizarre look.
“You have a hospital bed in your house?” she asked.
He had pointed to the bedroom where his grandmother had died. In her final years, it had been easier for her to sit up and eat in a hospital bed, because a hospital bed inclined. Plus, the rails kept her from falling out.
“Go in there, shut the door, and disrobe. Everything but the tank top,” he instructed, “and don’t forget the perfume.”
Shaking her head, the prostitute went into the bedroom. While closing the door, she said, “This is getting twisted. I’m probably going to leave.”
“You’re fine,” Stuart said. “Tell me when you’re on the bed and ready.”
This experience was a far and pathetic cry from what he’d envisioned. In his imagination, he had dreamed of spending a quiet evening with Bailey Howard—incarnate, so to speak—romancing away the hours and watering the bud of their mutual respect and affection. They would probably have started on the couch, her holding an Algebra textbook in her lap, wearing shorts, of course, knees exposed, smooth and soft, and, of course, wearing her revealing tank top. He would masterfully explain quadratic functions, a beautiful thing, until she finally understood, and then in her gratitude, she would start to slip closer and closer to him—which he would notice—and she would eventually take his hand and place it on her bare leg, to feel how smooth, say, or whatever. From there, they would move into his bedroom, not his grandmother’s, where she would first light two candles, then crawl over the bed atop him while he reclined, now nude, on the pillows. And she would lower those lovely, lilac-scented, womanly blessings onto his face, and then they’d do whatever else they wanted to do. And such would continue all through the night. In the morning, she might cook him breakfast. Then he would drive her back to her parent’s house on Wilton.
Something like that, had been in his mind.
But this particular prostitute, although her hair was similar to Bailey’s, was about as opposite to Bailey Howard as opposite could be.
And everything this skanky harlot said and did ruined the vision he held in his mind of how things would likely develop with Bailey Howard.
“I’m ready,” she called.
He opened the door and went in.
The room illuminated with pale light that filtered in from the living room.
“Bailey?” he called softly, role playing, trying to make the best of it.
“Yes, Mr. Renly. Come to bed. I’m horny.”
Stuart Renly cringed. Bailey Howard would never have said that, he knew.
“Keep your mouth shut,” he told her.
“Yes, Mr. Renly. But before you close the door, I have a condom for you to wear.”
He cringed again!
Stuart Renly wished this woman, this whore, would simply quit talking! She was ruining his fantasy!
Ignoring her, closing the door, he whispered, “Hush, Bailey. Let’s just snuggle a while.”
“Your money, dude,” the whore said. “Do I need to stay awake for
“Depends on what you’re expecting?”
Stuart Renly sighed. What he was expecting from this woman was that she followed instructions and acted like Bailey Howard. He had it all planned out, the perfect romantic evening, but her personality was getting in the way.
Being alone tonight would be worse, though, he decided. At ten o’clock at night, it was too early to ward off depression if he grabbed his money back and sent this woman home in a cab.
He said, “I want you to act like this sweet, young girl I know named Bailey Howard. She’s seventeen. She’s smart. She’s shy. And she treats me with respect. I’m her teacher. Does that clear it up?”
“Oh, you’re one of those ,” the prostitute said. “Yeah, that clears it up. Mr. Renly, can you teach me how to fuck? I mean, how to loose my virginity?”
“Go into that bedroom,” Stuart Renly said, pointing.
She walked over and peeked into the bedroom.
She turned back around, giving him a bizarre look.
“You have a hospital bed in your house?” she asked.
He had pointed to the bedroom where his grandmother had died. In her final years, it had been easier for her to sit up and eat in a hospital bed, because a hospital bed inclined. Plus, the rails kept her from falling out.
“Go in there, shut the door, and disrobe. Everything but the tank top,” he instructed, “and don’t forget the perfume.”
Shaking her head, the prostitute went into the bedroom. While closing the door, she said, “This is getting twisted. I’m probably going to leave.”
“You’re fine,” Stuart said. “Tell me when you’re on the bed and ready.”
This experience was a far and pathetic cry from what he’d envisioned. In his imagination, he had dreamed of spending a quiet evening with Bailey Howard—incarnate, so to speak—romancing away the hours and watering the bud of their mutual respect and affection. They would probably have started on the couch, her holding an Algebra textbook in her lap, wearing shorts, of course, knees exposed, smooth and soft, and, of course, wearing her revealing tank top. He would masterfully explain quadratic functions, a beautiful thing, until she finally understood, and then in her gratitude, she would start to slip closer and closer to him—which he would notice—and she would eventually take his hand and place it on her bare leg, to feel how smooth, say, or whatever. From there, they would move into his bedroom, not his grandmother’s, where she would first light two candles, then crawl over the bed atop him while he reclined, now nude, on the pillows. And she would lower those lovely, lilac-scented, womanly blessings onto his face, and then they’d do whatever else they wanted to do. And such would continue all through the night. In the morning, she might cook him breakfast. Then he would drive her back to her parent’s house on Wilton.
Something like that, had been in his mind.
But this particular prostitute, although her hair was similar to Bailey’s, was about as opposite to Bailey Howard as opposite could be.
And everything this skanky harlot said and did ruined the vision he held in his mind of how things would likely develop with Bailey Howard.
“I’m ready,” she called.
He opened the door and went in.
The room illuminated with pale light that filtered in from the living room.
“Bailey?” he called softly, role playing, trying to make the best of it.
“Yes, Mr. Renly. Come to bed. I’m horny.”
Stuart Renly cringed. Bailey Howard would never have said that, he knew.
“Keep your mouth shut,” he told her.
“Yes, Mr. Renly. But before you close the door, I have a condom for you to wear.”
He cringed again!
Stuart Renly wished this woman, this whore, would simply quit talking! She was ruining his fantasy!
Ignoring her, closing the door, he whispered, “Hush, Bailey. Let’s just snuggle a while.”
“Your money, dude,” the whore said. “Do I need to stay awake for
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