Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl. Tracy Quan

       CHAPTER ONE

      France: A Session in Provence

      Thursday, July 4, 2002 Villa Gambetta, Saint-Maximin-La-Sainte-Baume

      Dear Diary,

      This morning, Milt surprised me with a special request, as my lips were approaching the base of his manhood.

      “Suzy?” Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve outgrown Suzy, but there’s not much I can do about it now. Milt’s been calling me that for years.

      He placed his hand on the side of my head, ever so lightly, and stroked my hair. Although he’s a self-confessed sleaze, he knows when to be polite. So, while my mouth became more relaxed, his fingers grazed the crown of my head, then retreated. I went a little deeper—a reward for his good manners—and came up slowly for air.

      “I want you to promise me something.”

      OMG. Is that the Viagra talking?

      Reluctant to interrupt this blow job, I forced myself to look up. With an inquisitive smile, I warned my favorite customer: “A woman will promise you anything when you’re hard.”

      I filled my mouth again and put more energy into what I was doing.

      “I want you to promise you’ll get me off—” he was trying not to come “—in every room of the house, before you go back to New York.”

      With the head of his cock resting against the tip of my tongue, I giggled softly. I could hear the wooden shutter in the en suite bathroom swinging loudly on its hinges. A cool breeze, followed by the faint aroma of fresh lavender flirting with cypress, entered Milt’s bedroom and stiffened my nipples.

      After he came, I scurried to the bathroom and looked—in vain—for a washcloth. Filling the bidet with hot water, I draped a large hand towel over the side to soak. I bundled the used condom into some tissue and checked myself out in the mirror. My bra was still on, though my thong had slipped off. More to the point, my hair’s holding up, forty-eight hours after leaving New York. (Must email Lorenzo a thank you note ASAP. A hairdresser needs to know his travel-proof blow-outs are appreciated.)

      Minutes later, as I wrapped one corner of the hot towel around Milt’s cock, we resumed our negotiations: “How many bedrooms again? Eight?”

      “Ten,” he said proudly. “But I didn’t say every BEDroom. What about the other rooms? We could have a quickie in the solarium tomorrow afternoon.”