Blow Job Princess

She could see the damage was done and studied me for a moment. I felt like a guy who had just been hit in the head, and there was now that memorable pause when the pain decides whether it will multiply or just fade away.

Any other woman might have taken the opportunity to humble me and my adolescent fantasies about her a second time, and yet she simply lightened the mood with a little raw humor. "At least," she said, "you didn't write that he cums on her tits. The focus is her face. I'd consider that a step forward in your mind."

My own face was no doubt turning red. It was one thing to sit alone at a desk and write out your fantasies, quite another to have the object of your desires read your words and expose them for what they were, albeit in the most friendly way possible.

"Ha...," I literally expelled my laugh as a hack. "See, guys can learn."

She regarded me now, I imagined, as a work in progress. It was a fine time to call it a night, and we both felt the need for a bit of distance. I, to lick my ego wounds, her to perhaps ponder what potential awkwardness I might bring to our next meeting. I was the first to stand up and feign a 'its late' stretch and she was already gathering herself by the time I finished.

We had actually done work, as weird as that sounded after I thought about the night. I lay down in bed and recounted the pages we had gone through, I thought about the changes, I imagined the scenes and saw the copious amount of her handwriting in red ink, because yes, she was a redhead. The more I thought about her, the more her mystery deepened. I acted like a neophyte around her - a clumsy virgin with a titanic crush. And what about her? She seemed always a polished professional, who made absolutely no sense working for Krakov or letting me grope her tits to prove the mechanics of a scene. She shocked me the easy way the words 'fuck' and 'cum' rolled off her tongue. The obscenity simply didn't bother her. I wondered what waited – if anything – for us.

Krakov called me into his office first thing the next morning. He wanted to talk about my 'research', my Hollywood mogul week off, the changes to the script, and what our own busty redhead had to say on the matter. Mostly, I rehashed the script work from the previous night, I recounted the changes to fix physical staging issues, but declined to mention the way Vada lay on the couch and beckoned me to play leading man for a moment. I mentioned that I was going to alter the "passion" of the first sex scene – it needed to be stilted in order to dramatize the changes later.

He sat back, enjoying the spiel, thinking in his bushy-eye-brow way. There was a refreshing mood in the air for once, as if even the attempt at making a thoroughly conceived porno film was redemption for the years of half-assing our way through our other projects. I couldn't help but mention Vada in glowing terms. She knew what she was doing, I surmised, and it made all the difference. Krakov let me go then, with only the ambiguous, "She should know what she's doing," to feed my imagination the rest of the day.

Again, I avoided the elevator and her desk. I felt that in-sum I had somehow moved a notch closer to her idea of 'interesting' over the night and didn't want to ruin my imagined win with another sweaty upper lip appearance. We were meeting again tonight, and I vowed to get two steps closer to drunk before she appeared at my doorstep, simply to take the edge off. It was only then that I understood my lust had somehow transformed into something more complicated.

The day crawled by in slow motion. I pounded out my latest script concerning the 'philosophy of diversity in hiring practices' for some faceless corporate giant. It was all pure dribble and I felt that old sensation of simply marking time while the RTD buses rumbled up and down the street. Sometimes I paused and then replayed the feeling of her tits in my hands and wrote clichés about team leadership while my cock quadrupled in size. There was the urge to chuck it all into some vast hole, and yet the thought of her kept me at my desk, fingers typing away.

"Sex is honest," she was saying. "It's more honest than love is, at least." I raised my eyebrow Krakov-style to demonstrate consideration of the point. She was sitting at my table, while I nursed a drink on my couch, wondering if my nearly-drunk plan had fallen into simply 'drunk'. We were talking and wandering around the topic at hand: love and sex.

Love, she said, was something you think about and it changes over time. With distance comes perspective, and sometimes you see that it really wasn't love at all, just some kind of strange fixation on a person that never grew into something mature. She looked out the window, "I've never changed my mind over time about sex. It was either good or not. There's nothing for it to turn into. No waiting for the other shoe to drop - I like that."

She turned to look at me then, probably wondering if I was still awake or off in my own little world. I didn't know how to answer or what to say to her theory. I raised my glass in an imaginary toast, "Well," I said, taking the conversation back to the task at hand, "you are certainly more realistic about sex than I am."

"That doesn't sound very complimentary, but I suppose it's true." She was sitting sideways to me now on the chair, and to my horror and thrill her turtleneck sweater perfectly described her silhouette. There was her belly protruding just a bit too far, arms that were a bit plump, and her breasts that weighed heavily and jutted out an embarrassing amount. I had been nursing a half-erection all day with the thought of her, and suddenly again – alcohol or not – the edge was back and corrupting my thoughts.

Still, I saw I had hit a nerve and didn't want to throw some ill-timed comment at her, "I just mean that it's rare for a girl to see it as so factual. Usually it seems guys are the ones who talk about sex in those terms, that's all I meant."

She smiled and shook her head. "I was Krakov's first adult actress. That's why I can see all of the issues with your script and why it's so easy for me to fix them. I've been there, done that. And then I gained all of this weight, and it was thankfully over. That was years ago. No more porno." She laughed and avoided my eyes, "I'm sure that's why I can take sex apart so easily too... I suppose I lost something as well, but I'm not quite sure what it was."

I didn't know what to say. "Wow," my old standby was all that I managed to mutter. It was certainly no rare thing for me to be spend time with one of Krakov's girls, but this was different. She knew that and looked at me for a reading.

"You didn't know I did that sort of stuff, did you?"

I shook my head. I was stunned and yet not surprised in some manner. I thought about asking over the ridiculously busty redhead I saw online, and bit my tongue. It wouldn't matter to me one way or the other. She had told me her big secret; I felt my complicated, mixed-up mess of a feeling I had for her change yet again. I stood up and walked over to her, my clouded head fizzed with sympathy and alcohol, and yet my cock refused to be discrete in her presence. My contradictions would never end.

"Let's get back to work," she said as if reading my mind and wanting to stop whatever silly gesture I felt needed to be made. I wanted to gently stroke her hair and somehow treat her as a friend, not just an obsession. But there was the shared intimacy of work waiting, and I quickly understood that was enough for her. I would never know what she needed from me, if anything at all, but for now simply concentrating over a few pages of paper meant plenty.

That night, as we wrapped up the last of the changes, fixing typos and finishing the script to a fine point in a way I had previously only imagined I did, I felt a strange sense of relief. Perhaps I had passed some sort of self-imposed test. Over and over I had wanted to burst out of my pants like a peacock on display. Look at this, I wanted to say. See what you do to me? I literally feel lightheaded around you because all of my blood goes straight to my cock. And yet when she left, and gave me a hug at my doorstep, I kept my passion in check. I merely grabbed a smell of her hair and secretly shuddered in ecstasy as her tits smooshed against my chest. I resisted a sentimental platitude whispered in her ear, and only had to think of the pathetic way Jim Carry gushed over his love interest in 'Dumb and Dumber' to regain perspective on my own epic crush.

The morning slog at work was suddenly a victory lap as Krakov slapped me on the back after reading the new and improved 'Blow Job Princess'. Again he offered me the rare treat of his discount whiskey, which I accepted even before lunch, as I hoped it would quite the hangover raging in my frontal lobe. I looked anew at him, knowing that he and Vada shared some sort of slightly twisted relationship. I considered pouring through our misfiled and largely nonexistent 'archives' - essentially a group of dusty cabinets in the basement – in search of Vada's movies, and then removed the thought. It seemed like it would somehow betray a trust. That - and I was sure I would become strangely jealous of whatever guy she shared the screen with.

No matter, Krakov was pleased and was eagerly anticipating the coming Monday when cameras would roll and porn history would be made again. I knew of course that our enterprise would again fail to elicit the anticipated rewards, but there was a comforting satisfaction in pushing that rock up the hill, even knowing it was fated to roll back down as we approached the summit. The key girl, our Princess, had yet to be selected, but to me it didn't matter. I had played my version of Hollywood Mogul and now it was up the rest of our little family to make it real.

I decided my real reward was cutting out early, and so I shut down my computer and trash-canned the day's sticky notes – our office's primary form of communication – not long after lunch. This time to leave I walked towards the elevator rather than the back stairs, and thus towards Vada's desk. I caught a faint smell of her hair and that 1950's elevator fragrance which somehow now occupied a favored position in my smell-index. I couldn't help myself, and I smiled a full-on, full-frontal grin as she caught my eye. We were past friendly, and now far into friend. It was all I could ask for.

She passed me a note. It was silly-covert, like we were playing Spy in grade school, and she laughed a little when she did it, with a wink in her eye. "Don't read it until around seven or so tonight." I knew what I hoped it said – or some variation on the same - but tempered my thrill with the recurring image of Jim Carry, his ridiculous haircut, and my passing resemblance to his overboard infatuation with a girl he barely knew.

Still, on the way home, my mind worked overtime and I played a game with myself: If I imagined the most likely scenario, then the opposite would be come to pass. I tried to come up with something friendly and non-committal from her; a message to attend an upcoming company birthday party, or something else that was absolutely a zero in my book. And then I jumped to the idea of her again appearing on my doorstep and somehow confessing her love for me in a show of overwrought emotion. Considering her cool demeanor, that was about as likely as a spontaneous telephone explosion.

And so when I drove into my driveway I turned off my car and sat in silence for a minute. It was still the middle of the day, an odd time as any to be sitting in one's car just starring off into space, and yet I sat there, wondering. I decided I wanted the let-down earlier rather than later, and so I fished out her note, unfolded it and read what she had to say approximately five hours too early:

'We have unfinished business. Room 717. Hotel Teatro. 8:00 pm'

I stuck the word 'business' in my head and came up with every conceivable meaning and double meaning, but even my coy hopes could not hold back the flood of anticipation. I was meeting her at a hotel room. Tonight. There was only one reason I could imagine for us to meet at such a place. I honked my horn and let out a "Woo Hoo" that started the neighbor's dogs barking.

I opened the door to the hotel room. I was an easy ten minutes early. Driving over, my foot kept pressing down on the accelerator and my car gained pace to match my heart rate. Only the thought of a ticket and the delay it would cause made me check my speed. And so when I rushed into the lobby I barely caught the eye of the game-faced porters and clerks who probably thought I was simply a harried traveler.

Mozart played softly from the bedside radio. I heard the shower running from behind the closed bathroom door. I was not surprised to find a gorgeous seventh-floor view of the mountains and an elaborate bed, complete with mints on the pillows.

"I'm early," my voice rang out louder than I intended and betrayed my every feeling. Calm Blue Ocean. Calm Blue Ocean. I repeated a supposed relaxing mantra I remembered from some TV show and found it really did work, no matter the humorous overtones. She called back, "You're REALLY early! I'm not even out of the shower yet." I heard her laughter and I settled onto the bed. After a moment I spoke more reasonably: "Take your time, I'm just going to lay here and enjoy this for a change. I've got my eyes closed. I swear I won't open them until you tell me to."

And so I stayed there, letting the sounds of the music and the shower combine with the thoughts circulating around my head.

The water turned off. She puttered around in the bathroom a few minutes longer. "Are your eyes really closed?" She was now nearby, probably just peaking around the corner and towards the bed.

"Yes." The smile on my mouth translated into my voice and I simply stayed still, trying to imagine the scene unfolding before me. I flashed to the idea of her breasts, uncovered, completely exposed and mere feet away from me. An unconscious tremor moved through my body and I stretched in a strange erotic motion, trying perhaps to diffuse the urge building inside.

I felt the bed move and knew she was now beside me. I felt her eyes covering my body the way mine had once covered hers and I wondered just how obvious my lust for her was.

"Okay," she said. "You can open them now." Her voice had that softness I craved. I blinked and looked, not knowing what I'd find.

She was there, reclined as I had seen her once before on my couch. But now she was in that same white bathrobe, her feet wearing those same 50's starlet slippers with the little feathers on the toes. She was gorgeous, beautiful. I smiled and wanted to say something perfect. And then she moved just a bit and let the robe open and I saw as she parted it to reveal more and then more. Her breasts spilled out, uncovered and I simply lapped up the sight with no concern for my raging lust. "How did you know?" I blurted out and then laughed along with her. "Even down the little slipper-shoes? Amazing!"

I had fantasized over just such a scene a thousand times before it seemed, never sure just where I would first plant my lips or my hands. And yet this time I went straight for her mouth, wanting nothing but a lasting kiss that put feelings where I always tried to put words before. It sent shudders down my back and I felt a pull bring me even closer to her. We stayed like that for countless moments, our lips interlocked and our breath flowing into and out of each other.

And yet there was a strange prudish desire that ran through me that wanted to keep her just like this, but untouched. I wanted always the anticipation of her, and wasn't sure that I could live with the reality of her. It was the titanic collision of my fantasy with my life. I must have pulled back just a fraction, and for an instant I felt she could indeed read my mind. I wondered suddenly if my feigned Princess Problem was suddenly more than a mere fictional contrivance.

"We're going to fix it," she said.

As if she were racing to save a drowning man she rose up and in seemingly one motion removed my shoes, socks, pants and shorts and laid back down on the bed, her lips mere inches away from enveloping me. She deliberately turned her head sideways, as if making a statement, avoiding my eyes and instead staring at my throbbing cock. Her head was resting on the pillow, her mouth was open and there was nothing I could imagine more insanely sexy than the view I had before me. She grabbed my butt and pulled my hips towards her and with that I felt the love of her mouth surround me.

She moaned in pleasure and the sound of her bliss sent me into a spiral. I tried to concentrate on individual feelings: the way her tongue caressed me, the warmth of her mouth, the crazy-sexy way she brought one of my hands to her breast and urged me to squeeze and fondle, and the way she brought my other hand to the backside of her head. She wanted me to take complete advantage, to lose control, to do what I wrote – fuck her mouth – and make her the Blow Job Princess I wanted to find.

And with that, I did. I succumbed and she succumbed to me. I felt the way she urged me on and there was nothing I wanted more. I sometimes opened my eyes to memorize the sight and watch like a sex-crazed fiend as her breasts wobbled and I again felt as they spilled out of her robe and into my hand.

It happened in one long crashing disaster that spun everything upside down. She felt me lose that last bit of civility that turned her from a girl I loved back into a girl I obsessed. I thrust without thought or regard for her as anything but a sex-object. I felt that burning hot ecstasy push its way out of my body and into her, and with a queue born of love and porn she then let it dribble across her lips and onto her cheek.

"I can't believe it," I said once the scene hit me. I was panting and run down like a marathoner with a race just won. My cum was in her mouth and what had not been swallowed was decorating her lips and face like a spilled desert. It meant something wonderful, although I couldn't say just what that was.

"Look at me," she said. Her voice had that warm feeling I wondered over. All I wanted to do was confess my love for her. "It is real," she said, "I'm real." And then after a short pause: "You know what this means?"

I shook my head, barely able to form words. "I haven't the slightest idea, but if you'd like to tell me, I'd love to hear."

She smiled, coming up with the right words. "It means I'm no longer a princess." She let it sink in. "I'm your girl now."

I held her tight. That was all I really wanted.