Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

TRACY QUAN

CHAPTER ONE

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.”

“We didn’t discuss that in New York.”

I tried to look both saucy and stern.

“Come on, I work like a dog all year. And this renovation cost a fortune! Don’t I get a reward?”

“The library’s a possibility,” I offered. “But the wine cellar’s kind of impractical, don’t you think? All those hi-tech temperature controls.” Anything more than a quick hand job would surely playhavoc with the artificial climate. “And the solarium’s totally exposed! What if Duncan sees us?”

Milt’s cook lives in Tanneron—a bit of a trek, so he’s been sleeping in a guest room downstairs … right next to the solarium. Duncan’s politely enigmatic, and acts like he has no idea what I’m doing here. Whether or not that’s true, why ruin a good thing by making a spectacle of myself? Even though he’s gay—so it’s not like I’d be giving him a free hard-on—I need to maintain some decorum around the staff.

“I’ll find something for Duncan to do at the post office. He’ll be gone for at least an hour. And the gardener can stay home. Only a few wild rabbits will see us!”

If I do Milt in the solarium, have I got enough SPF 90 to cover my entire body? And what if the sunscreen comes in contact with the condom?

“Well …” I don’t want to rain on Milt’s parade. “Wait till Allison gets here. I’ll see to it that you get off in almost every room. With one of us, or both of us … Allison loves going down on me.”

But Milt doesn’t know I’ve been trying to reach her ever since she landed in Barcelona. All he knows is he paid for her ticket! Allie wouldn’t stand us up—would she? I’ve put in a call to Isabel, but I doubt any of Isabel’s girls will be up for the solarium when they find out there are ten perfectly nice bedrooms—six with en suite bath and bidet.

“I like the way you’re thinking!” he said. I reached under the small of his back to retrieve my lace panties. Duncan’s SUV was pulling into the driveway. “You’re the perfect houseguest,” he added. “I think I’ll jump in the pool while Duncan unpacks the groceries.”

Friday, July 5, 2002

The light in this part of France is, indeed, special. Last night, I forgot to close the shutters in my room and woke when the sun began to rise. After checking my cellphone for a message from Allie, I tried to go back to sleep. Instead, I spent two hours hiding with the door locked, treating my eyes to an oxygen mask.