The Modern Lover

Niki Boyle



She comes in, scans the room; puts her bag on the chair. She’s not quite what he asked for – hair not blonde enough, legs maybe an inch too long – but he guesses she’s right enough where it counts. Henry sighs. He’ll probably end up leaving a three-star rating on the website.

‘Have a seat on the bed,’ he says.

‘Just a sec, sweetie,’ she says. ‘I’m just taking a minute to look around. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, of course. I understand that’s… that’s part of how all this works.’

She locks eyes with him for the first time and flashes him a bright smile. ‘That’s right. It’s a lovely room you’ve chosen. Show’s you’re a man with… good taste.’ It’s a superficial, meaningless compliment-slash-flirt, but Henry can’t help feeling a small blush of pride. Damn, they do their job well.

‘Although,’ she continues, ‘I know of at least 13 hotels around here that could’ve offered you a cheaper per-hour rate. Good reviews, too, if you want to hear more?’

Henry’s smile of genuine gratitude adjusts infinitesimally into the more familiar yes-I’m-here smile. ‘That’s lovely of you to offer, but I’m fine thanks. This place suits my needs nicely.’

‘Of course.’ That bright, flashy smile again – more sincere than mine, he thinks, but then cancels the thought immediately for its absurdity. Nothing she can do is sincere.

‘Why don’t you come and join me on the bed?’ he says.

She smiles and walks over, sitting next to him at that mathematically precise distance perfected by all the girls: close enough to suggest intimacy, yet far enough away that he has to make the first move – a firm, conscious decision on his part rather than just momentarily giving into pressure. The agencies have learned, after several lawsuits, that this is the safest approach. The clients are required to give clear consent.

He leans in, brushes her hair to one side, cups her cheek and presses his lips to hers. She responds, one hand behind his head (softly, though: not gripping, not forcing), another snaking under his suit jacket, round his waist. She teases him with just a hint of tongue then pulls back slightly, breaking off the kiss.

‘Mmm. This is a really nice suit. Where did you get it?’

‘Oh, er, this? Suits You, probably.’

‘It’s a good choice – I like a well-dressed man.’

He smiles again, and leans in to continue.

‘Maybe you want to check out Ellingham’s tailor, just round the corner from here,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve got a 20% discount I code I could give you, I’m sure they’ll have something you’ll lovmmmfff.’ He shoves his tongue into her mouth, silencing the offer (though admittedly not disregarding it entirely). She tastes of sex and strawberries. How do they all manage to taste of strawberries? Although, come to think of it, Dean at the office said he had one once who tasted of dark cocoa and Malbec. Dean’s always trying to act like a flash prick though.

He unzips her skimpy jacket and slides it off her shoulders; breaks off the kiss and moves down to suck on one of her perfectly round, perfectly pink nipples. (The website charged an extra $100 for her to show up wearing nothing underneath – said it was a down-payment against the inclement weather, which is damaging to the girls’ skin, though Henry couldn’t see how much warmth or protection $100 would provide. Still, after all the faff with the bra last time, it was worth the extra expense). She moans and lets him push her back onto the bed, his body falling on top of hers; still sucking her nipple, his hands fumble at the waistband of her hotpants; she raises her hips, giving him better access. He slides them down, and gives her nipple a gentle bite before tracing his tongue down over her flat stomach (briefly circling the perfect depression of her navel), down to probe the soft, wet, smooth-

He stops. ‘What the fuck?’

‘What is it sweetie? Oh, you’ve got my little pussy so wet, please don’t sto-’

‘What the fuck is this?’ He stands up, pointing between her open legs.

‘Wasn’t that how you wanted it, honey?’

‘No! I specifically asked for fucking pubic stubble! None of this synthetic, clean-shaven bullshit.’

‘Hey, that’s ok hun. Just give me a second to freshen up and I’ll be right back.’ She stands, collects her bag from the chair and walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Henry takes a breath and then sits back down on the bed, shrugging off his jacket and tugging at his belt. Might as well hurry things along on this end. Definitely not getting more than two and a half stars now. At best.

Jacket and trousers off, he starts pulling off his shirt. A plink across the room tells him a button has popped off. They’ll be getting billed for that and all.

The girl emerges from the bathroom, and Henry’s eyes immediately flick to her vagina. Good: there’s a dark shadow of stubble across the groin area now, with the odd stray hair sticking out an extra millimetre or two. He has to admit, that’s a nice touch. Attention to detail. She strides over and pushes him back onto the bed, crawling up his body and resting her knees on either side of his head, her vagina hovering inches above his nose and mouth.

‘Really sorry about the mix-up, sweetie. To make up for it, I’ve made myself 15% wetter, and introduced ambient notes of honey and vanilla, ok? On the house,’ she says, and smiles. She stares into Henry’s eyes, the only visible part of his face beneath her crotch. ‘Wanna try it?’

He buries his face in her vagina, thrusting his tongue in deep and lapping at the warm, viscous fluid oozing out. The pubic stubble scratches and chafes against his face, just like he wanted – he knows some real life women have mastered the close shave, so theoretically a bald pussy is as authentic as anything else, but the perfect smoothness can’t help remind him of the girl’s artificiality. He prefers a little bit of roughness to aid the illusion. Not too hairy, mind – he’s not some sort of pervert.

Monitor cardiac pulmonary feedback, sync initial orgasm peak with client tongue deceleration <indicative fatigue/boredom>. Discharge GasmoLube Honey & Vanilla Extract – 10ml max to prevent drowning <inactive: SexSquirt function $500>. Disengage, dismount, run postcoit.recline.coy subroutine: level 7 respire, use fingers discompose pectoral hair, abrade 11% nipple circumference <inactive: play.nipple.hard subroutine supplement $50>. Run vox.flirt.cus voxscript:’do you wanna fuck me baby'<consent:true>. Client mounts, inserts penis Real Skin Vagina Medium Fit Light Stubble <inactive: TightVag $500; PostPreg $350; BrazzTex Gaper™ $750>. Client pistons pelvis, accelerates. Run <inactive: subroutine vox.inter.scream $30 increments textscript:‘please consider your neighbours when accessing this function’>. Run Kegel Zero™ contraction subroutine <active: supplement $600>. Client orgasm 14 seconds; add inventory: 3.8ml ejaculate. Cache: E-Z Kleen Removable Uteral Cavitex <dispatch to Department of Health databank per subclause 57(b)(xxvii) Real Girls Agency user agreement textscript:‘if you would like to be exempt from this process, please uncheck this box’>. Run subroutine.

‘Mmm, baby, that was so good. You know how to show a girl a good time.’

Henry smiles, nods. He wishes this part would last longer. Just a few more moments of precious silence…

‘Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not sure I could even take another workout like that, but if you… maybe wanted to last a little longer, you know, for your own benefit-’

‘I’m ok, thanks though-’

‘- then I know there’s a sale on at – they’re cheap but also pretty trustworthy. I could give you a referral code for 20% off if you want?’

‘I’m fine. Thank you. I-’

‘Also, I couldn’t help smelling your amazing cologne – Deo-Man Strength, right?’

‘Er, yes but-’

‘Well, just so you know, it’s on multibuy offer at MaxiSave for only-’

‘Look, I know these… deals are part of the arrangement, but… I mean, is there any way we could skip this part? Just for once?’

She smiles her bright, faultless smile. ‘Have you considered our Premium Subscription package?’



Niki Boyle is a writer and freelance journalist based in Edinburgh. Read more of his work here, and find him on Twitter and Facebook.


Image by Jenny McDonald.


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