Test
Drive
by
Jill
Morrison
******
PUBLISHED BY:
J Z Morrison Press
Copyright
© 2012 by Jill Zeller
Cover art by
http://depositphotos.com
Smashwords
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Test Drive
He had a large cock, Ella could say that for him, but the rest of the lovemaking experience subtracted value from that asset. He made no move to lick his tongue over her pink nubbin, and when she suggested it, his eyes widened in anxious surprise. Minus ten points for that, and even when he tried it, he didn't seem to know what to do. Ella had to give instruction, but she could tell he wasn't happy about it.
His passion increased, though, when Ella pulled gently on his ears and his tongue raced up her body; unable to restrain himself, unwilling to prolong the foreplay any longer, he plunged into her.
This he was good at, and sustained his erection a very long time. But when she signaled that she wanted to change position, he resisted. Subtract another 5 points.
II
“This is very disappointing.” Loretta Lumli lay the guilt-edge scroll on her monkeywood table. The setting sun's golden light made bright squares on Mda Lumli's Alzanian azure tile floor; odors of muskleaf and the fresh-cut starfruit on the table filled Ella's nose.
Ella was jealous of her client's homes. Rich, spoiled, the women were heaped in lavish possessions such as this rare sand-glass table and the warm, strangely soft tile floor fashioned in secret ways by the hard-working Alzanians. Ella had no such luxuries. She lived in a multi-story complex of flats, a very nice complex, new, clean, and expensive by any other standard; she needed to have such a place to impress the men her clients hired her to evaluate.
“What do I do now?” Loretta curled her feet underneath her, every toe ringed with a precious jewel.
Ella sipped the weak floral infusion tea brought in by the Lumli butler. Not the best tea, she noticed, for a lowly employee such as herself. “Most women at this point would create a list. Pros and cons. If he means a lot to you, if you love him, then you will put that on the pro-list, along with his ability to make money, and how much he appreciates you.” Ella recited her speech, so often given, and watched as Loretta Lumli smoothed out Ella's report to scribble notes on the back of it, as if she were taking dictation.
The sun was down by the time Ella stepped out into the street. The chill, spicy wind of the nearby desert tasted good in her throat. She felt herself uncurl, relax, as she made her way along the quiet boulevard of opulent houses in the Garden District. It was a long way back home; feeling oddly content, Ella decided to walk.
Recently she had begun to charge more money for each encounter. The wad of bills in her belt-wallet felt good, safe. Above her, as she moved along the sidewalk, palm fronds made black swords against the pearl dusk.
Life was good. Ella's red-trunk leather book was filled with names, clients to call and meet with to create a plan. It also held assignations already agreed upon; some where scheduled, some—the ones she liked best—were left to a chance encounter where she would, after some observation plus information gathering, entice her mark into bed.
She was hungry; on her way here in the taxi, they had passed along a street of shops and restaurants, taverns and nightclubs. Normally, Ella disdained these places in the Garden District, disliking the cold, judging looks of the regular wealthy clientele. But tonight, she would eat in the most expensive one, buy the most expensive wine on the menu.
The wine was delicious; the waiter fawned over her after she gave him a flirtatious smile, bringing her tastes and samples. The restaurant overlooked a pool bordered by a lawn. Colored lamps were strung in the twisted branches of ancient oaks. Life was good.
Gradually she became aware of someone staring at her. This wasn't so unusual. She was used to it. But this stare came from one of the kitchen workers, a tall, slender man with the dark skin of one who spends a lot of time in the desert. In his white garb and apron, he looked like a dishwasher. Leaning his elbows over the railing, near the barely visible back kitchen door, he gave Ella a long, sideways gaze.
Yes, Ella was used to the attention of men, but this one bothered her. He was bold for his station; she wondered at the restaurant manager who would allow one of his employees to linger so long on his break, visible to diners.
The next promised husband was fine. Better than fine. Prolonging the foreplay, running his hands along her body, lingering at her breasts, he slid down between her thighs without being asked. He took a week to crack; Ella started riding the train the same time he did, was always at the station when he got on and off. By the end of the week they were flirting heavily, and she got him to her quarters for a drink before taking the home-bound train.
He paid special attention to her moist pinkness; with skill, his tongue and lips sucked her into ecstasy. What a lucky wife my client will be. Fingers deft and sure, skin like silk stretched over muscle, cock a normal size but by then, as she pushed him to his side and mounted and rode until he came with a shout, it didn't matter.
Her client, Omilia Crossi, lived in the Garden District, not far from Loretta Lumli. Ella's clients came to her through word of mouth. She never had to advertise. Ella carried the scroll to a patio surrounding a pool the color of aquamarine, where Omilia lounged, two small dogs sharing the chaise with her.
“Oh, how fine. I knew it.” Omilia fondled the scroll as she might her fiance's cock. “He's eager. I can tell, but he's being a gentleman and waiting until after we're married.”
Omilia said, as she handed the envelope to Ella. “You should stop at the carnival on your way home. It's especially fun this year. There's a troop of Alzanian players doing fabulous stunts, with songs and recitals, and telling fortunes. Marvelous fun.”
A generous tip was included in Ella's payment. Ella had seen the carnival's colored flags from the Avenue, where a giant rocket swing full of screaming riders spun across the sky and others leaped from a scaffold, bouncing up and down by suspended ropes. She thought, why not? Life was good. She had no worries, she was earning a rich living doing something she was very, very good at. Let's have some fun.
The carnival food was delicious, succulent skyfruit drenched in honey, pork grilled in tongue-burning spices. Ella thought, as she often did, how the taste of good food and the touch of a man's tongue on her brought the same joy. Odors of roasted corn and musk nuts filled her nostrils, as rich as the scent of a man.
As she wove her way through the crowds, gazing at kiosks stuffed with colorful knick knacks and tents filled with wonders from around the world to goggle at, the aroma of Alzanacense filled her nose, pushing all other thoughts from her mind.
A bitter-sweet, familiar odor, reminding her of warm summer nights at home, at her parent's farm. She missed the laze of the passing river, cricket-song, her father's soft music. She especially missed her sister and brother whom she had not seen for five years or more, since she moved to the City to begin her highly specialized trade.
The odor came from a colored tent fringed with bright flags. Cursive script on a painted board advised that a fortune-teller was within, and for a small fee would reveal one's future.
The thought of knowing her future made a closed fist of Ella's stomach, but she joined the line, mostly women, who waited with a similar goal in mind.
She watched, along with the others, the faces of each person as they exited the tent. Most wore an expression of joy; joined girlfriends and began to talk excitedly about their prospects in love and wealth. Sighing, Ella shook her head, knowing this to be a temporary hope. Reality would set in hard for most of these young girls, and they would soon forget how rosy the future had once looked.
She had long ago given up on love. It was, she realized, an addictive drug, something she couldn't control. Her life now, test-driving the sexual skills of future husbands, suited her just fine.
When it was her turn, Ella pushed aside the tent flap and entered a space with a soft woven carpet. There was only a simple bare table; before it an empty chair, and standing on the other side of it was the kitchen-worker from the Garden District restaurant.