Alfonso Colasuonno appreciates all of his loyal readers, and thanks them for the blowjobs. http://www.alfonsocolasuonno.com
That red dress from Nordstrom, the one that showed off those hypnotic curves that she was always trying to slim, was draped on the side of her bed. She was on her hands and knees. She had that euphoric smile, the one that I had become accustomed to, on her pallid face. I fantasized about her trust fund as I fucked her dripping cunt hard, deep, and fast.
“Oh. My. Wow.” She clenched her pussy around my cock tighter. I gave one last deep thrust and fell back with a grunt, closing my eyes, hoping that she lied about being on birth control and that I just knocked this rich bitch up. It would serve her right having my poor bastard if the bitch didn’t abort it.
When she could finally move, she gave me a light kiss on the lips and wrapped her arms around me. “That was wonderful, Jimmy.” I gave her that coy, self-aware smile and brushed my curls from my eyes. I had used that look before. It works like catnip on these bitches.
She slipped into a form-fitting light blue negligee. I grabbed my plain white boxer-briefs from her well-scrubbed wooden floor that she probably had some Mexican scrub down once a week. She grabbed her laptop from a well-polished desk that was empty except for a picture of her next to her mother and father by a piano. I put on my underwear, and then put my sweaty head down on her clean white pillows. She signed into Netflix. “Want to watch something?”
“Sure,” I mumbled, as I reached over and rubbed her hand. I had slept with a reasonable number of women for a 23-year-old, and without her fancy clothes, she was no different physically from any of them; it was the allure of her family’s wealth that got me off. She wasn’t like the girls back in Ohio. She had what they didn’t have – money. Ever since I met the first one when I moved here – heard her haughty voice, observed her delicate mannerisms, dined with her at places classier than pizza parlors or Chinese buffets, I had a narcotic desire to fuck as much rich pussy as I could. I knew I would never make the type of money their fathers had made or inherited, but I could fuck these little spoiled bitches until they couldn’t see, far better than the country club set they were used to. All I had to do was act like a gentleman. They aren’t fond of the alpha types who come on too strong. They like refined men who can talk about art and politics. They like men who don’t speak too loud or often. They like men who could be mistaken for gay.
She smiled and kissed me on the lips. “Have you seen Une Femme Est une Femme, Jimmy?” I shook my head, playing the part of the uncultured brute in the script she was acting out. “I love Belmondo.”
I nodded. “Belmondo’s cool.” I accepted their snobbery. I found it was best to just let these rich girls do what they want, not say much, and fuck them until they couldn’t walk.
She gave me a succession of playful, gentle kisses, as if her mouth were an assembly line. “We should visit Paris after the end of the semester. My parents and I visit every year; it’s kind of a family tradition. Jimmy, just imagine us there – cafés, baguettes, wine, art, romance – what could be better?”
“Yeah. Sounds good.”
She sat on her bed watching the film. I fidgeted with my hair, twirling my waves into curls. “Belmondo was always so, well, primal; but I love him in this film. He’s so vulnerable and charming.”
She smiled like a puppy waiting for a treat. I had always enjoyed filling her rich cunt up with streams of my poor boy cum; but this was New York, I was good-looking, could fake the mannerisms, and knew there was always more rich cunt to bury my cock in. “You’re full of it, you bitch.”
“What?” Her angelic voice couldn’t mask the hatred buried inside. I had overstepped my boundaries. I was a mere service provider. Our contract hadn’t yet expired.
“I’m tired of this shit, you fucking slut.”
She shot me that cold look they all have at their center, the look that says I run the shots, you’re just here because I let you be here, “What do you mean, Jimmy?”
I laughed in her face. “You’re so fucking patronizing. All of you rich bitches are.”
She kept saying the word “don’t” under a stream of tears. I sidled off the bed. I scooped up my socks, khakis and plaid shirt from the floor and dressed myself quickly, having to re-button my shirt. “You rich girls think you’re saints if you ladle soup for an hour. You’re all full of shit.”
I grabbed my Keds from her Persian-style rug, laced them up, and didn’t say a word to comfort the sobbing rich bitch wrapped in the sex-ruffled white sheets on the bed. I knew it wasn’t worth the hassle. I knew that no matter how many times I made any of them cum, they’d eventually escape from my primal grasp, no matter how vulnerable I might be, to lock hands with the outstretched golf glove of a charming man, one with a home in the Hamptons and an Ivy League pedigree. I had watched enough French films since moving to New York that I could always spot the dénouement right from la première minute.