Surrender to Mr. X Read Online Free

of things my position as servant far outweighed any traditional rights as a female. I resolved to make a note of it when I got home and see if I could work these ideas into my thesis. The different meanings of serve: an internet server, a tennis server, a servant…
    Had my hair been thin and gray it could have changed the balance, he could have said “let me,” but my hair was doing its glossy, tumbling thing since I’d taken out the hair grips earlier, and it’s amazing the effect undoing a button or two on a staff uniform can have. We had crossed into the roles of the chambermaid and he the young master, and we were locked in.
    I put down the bag—heaven knows what was in it, did tennis players do weight lifting?—and used the card to open the door of Suite 402. I heaved it inside and started on the usual spiel about the master switch, the air conditioning, how to call the maid to do the curtains, the Carreras marble bathroom floor and not to remove the non-slip pad, and so on, but my voice faded away because the famous tennis player was leaning back against the closed door with his flies already unzipped and his serpentine member moving upward and outward, a willful, independent, questing thing. It was a blond’s penis, moderately thick, but long and pale, with veins taut as if they were muscles, and impressed even me. All it had taken was three slight nods, Max toward me, his toward Max, and mine to Max, not a word spoken, and all this, within minutes, was not just possible, it was inevitable, already really happening. But such was the panders’ art, I supposed, and why Max had so much cash beneath his mattress, or wherever he really put it away.
    Not all women enjoy fellating, and many do it just for the man’s sake, but I have more than broken myself out of that habit: I have come to love doing it. I like the feel of my lips being stretched, the incorporation of the chthonic male other into the mouth from which I speak, the head from which I think, the face which is my polite persona in the non-sexual intercourse of politesociety. The teasing and honoring with the tongue, like the anointing of a priest-king, I revel in it almost—though never quite—as much as I do full penetrative sex in my cunt, where the superego is entirely absent.
    The fact that you do this for a stranger adds to the marvel of it, and the religious reference in kneeling gives intensity to the obeisance, as if a god someone has whisked you out of the crowd for this moment of intimate selfless sacrifice, and will whirl you back into it again afterward, some symbolic act of union accomplished, leaving you the more for it, not the less, and the rest of the world outside ignorant of the secret ritual, unknowingly saved.
    I was on my knees in front of him, his prick in my mouth, which was steered by his serving hand wound firmly into my hair. First the tip to be circled, then the whole sucked and given up, sucked and given up. It tones the mouth muscles: keeps the lips firm and full. Now he pushed his pelvis forward into my throat, my head pressed against his flat sportsman’s belly. I could scarcely breathe but that too is a discomfort one quickly gets to like, once one stops panicking.
    Sex is a cheap way of escaping the compulsive nature of ratiocination. That is to say, in the language of everyday, rather than the language of my PhD thesis, fucking stops you thinking, and that can be a relief. But since blow jobs only take up half the mind, not the whole of it, there’s enough room left in one’s head, observing, for being one’s own voyeur, and thinkingdiscursively, even creatively. What I was thinking about now was ancient Babylon and the temple whores of Ishtar.
    My father is a classical scholar of the traditional dusty and distant absentminded professor type, and he had me reading Latin from the age of five and Greek at seven. He kept a clutch of books on the top shelf of the library,