I moved toward her. In a hasty maneuver, she slipped her arms out of the negligee sleeves and tugged it free of her body. The fabric billowed, floating to the floor. Then she fell back on the bed again, her big breasts like heaped-up mounds, her heavy limbs lax and inviting. I stood there momentarily, wishing she would show a bit more appreciation. I wanted her to admire me, to notice my body, to say something nice about it. But that wasn't what I was paying her for. And anyway, there was something I wanted even more than compliments…

"Honey?" She reached up for me.

Overwhelmed by my need, I shuddered and sagged to the bed in a surge of lusting desire. Lust dominated me, a lust that I knew to be shameful and yet was too deep-rooted to deny. The woman was a prostitute. I had paid her for this. I felt humiliated, painfully conscious of the disgrace, the degradation, the debauchery – and worst of all, so help me, the thrill! Because I was already wallowing in sensuous excitement, crazed by that alluring flesh and stepped in my own subservient worship of it. Subservience to a whore; was that an added fillip to my self-abasement?

Uh-huh. Only a small part, though, a fragment of the whole, not much of a clue to my true character. No, there were other reasons for my enravished senses, my intoxication – and they lay inside myself, not this paid prostitute. And yet, much as I might feel condescending toward her profession, there was no condescension in me now. In a way, she was actually helping me make my decision. The all-important decision that preyed on my mind. I know what I am now. Well, no, not exactly, I'd still have to think it through later. From the beginning. But right this minute, well, I had other things to stew about. Her thighs were hot against my cheeks, the soft thighs, hot and deliciously inescapable.