Door to Door Prostitution
        =========================


It was a weekday afternoon and Kenneth was working in 
the office when the door-bell rang. Jennifer, his wife, 
hurried out of the kitchen, brushing her fingers through her 
hair, to open the front door. It was a new job for Kenneth 
and a new home for both husband and wife in the 
dormitory town of New Chaldon. They were still making 
new friends and acquaintances, and for Jennifer, even now, 
each new knock on the door brought a new surprise. Who 
could it be? More neighbours introducing themselves? 
Another local tradesman advertising his services to the 
newcomers in Kinship Close? Jennifer nervously brushed 
the traces of flour off her plastic apron and pulled open the 
door, perhaps a little too hasty in her eagerness, to see who 
was there to distract her from the tedium of her domestic 
chores.

"Why! Hello, dear!" said the woman at the door smiling 
amiably. "Is your husband home?"

"My husband?" wondered Jennifer, scrutinising her caller 
from top to toe. "No. He's at work. Why? What do you 
want?"

 Jennifer wasn't sure she'd managed to disguise the hint of 
hostility in her voice. Who was this slut asking for her 
husband? And slut, she was sure, was exactly what this 
woman was, with her huge bosom heaving out of her 
tightly strapped top, almost all of her chest on display. And 
those clothes! No decent woman would wear such a tight 
short shirt, such tall tottering stiletto heels, fishnet 
stockings and suspenders. Nor would they sling their 
handbag over their shoulder in such an aggressive fashion.

The woman smiled, her red-rouged lips cracking the thick 
layer of make-up on her face, the eyes startlingly painted, 
the eyebrows plucked to the width of a pencil-line and her 
hair wild and bushy and pinned in place. 

"Well, it's really your husband I'd like to see, dear, if you 
don't mind," the woman continued. "I'm sure you won't 
mind me saying that the services I offer are far more likely 
to be of interest to him than to you. Though I can assure 
you that the services I provide are truly of the highest 
quality. And I offer discounts to my regular customers. 
Anyway, here's my card. He can call me any time. I've got 
voicemail."

With that, the strange woman handed Jennifer a printed 
business card, smiled again, and then spun round on her 
teetering heels and strode off. Jennifer studied her buttocks 
shifting up and down in an awkwardly provocative manner 
as she marched along the sidewalk, past the low hedges 
that kept dogs off the front lawns and in front of the fire 
hydrant just two houses down.

Jennifer frowned and then turned the card around in her 
hand. "Cherry Bangle. Clean and Cheerful. What Every 
Man Needs to Spice Up His Life. Will Visit at Times to 
Suit." And at the bottom was an e-mail address and mobile 
phone number. At first, Jennifer was inclined to crumple 
the card into a ball and throw it in the waste bin, but she 
decided against it, and placed it instead on the long shelf 
that lined the hallway, just between two tiny statuettes of 
jolly-looking hedgehogs dressed like country yeomen.

"You'll never believe who called today!" Jennifer 
announced to her husband when Kenneth was seated at the 
dining table with his supper in front of him: steak 
casserole, boiled potatoes, carrots and peas, with a side 
salad. 

At first Jennifer wasn't sure he did believe her as she 
recounted the story of the strange visitor, in her outrageous 
outfit, displaying no shame at all, the hussy, a prostitute 
selling her wares as if they were nothing more than vacuum 
cleaner attachments or Tupperware dishes. 

"Door-to-door prostitution?" Kenneth mused. "I'd heard 
something about that at work. And you say she left a 
card?"

"Yes, she did!"

"And did you throw it away?"

"Well, nearly. I should have done that, I know, but I was so 
surprised by the cheek of it, I kept it in the hall."

"Well, let's see it, love!"

Jennifer smiled. "Of course, dear," she said, thinking this 
was a rum kind of joke for a married couple to share. 

She wiped the corners of her mouth with a serviette, lifted 
herself up out of her seat, the hem of her skirt falling down 
below her knees, and strode into the hallway, returning 
with the card.

"Cherry Bangle?" Kenneth remarked. "Typical whore 
name. Like Kitty Sprinkle or Goldie Delight or Ember 
Diamond. So, what did this prostitute look like? Did she 
have large breasts and long legs?"

"Yes, she did," Jennifer replied, recalling her husband's 
taste in a woman's figure that she had no chance of rising 
to. Her own breasts, while not very small, were nonetheless 
smaller than average. Her legs were decidedly very average 
indeed, with thick ankles that definitely broke up the curve 
that traced from the top of her thigh to her toes. 

Kenneth carefully placed the business card in the top 
pocket of his shirt.

"You aren't keeping the card, are you?" asked Jennifer in 
alarm.

Kenneth smiled. "I don't see why not. This Cherry Bangle 
sounds like a delightful woman from what you say."

"But she's nothing but a cheap tart."

"Well, I doubt whether she'll be especially cheap, Jenny, 
but I'm sure she'll be worth checking out. Especially if, as it 
says on the card, she'll spice up my life."

"She was really the commonest kind of slut you've ever 
seen!"

"I'm sure that's not true, love. There are some pretty 
common kinds of sluts plying their trade in New Chaldon, I 
can tell you. And anyway, if she does visit, it'll save me the 
trouble of going to the brothel on the other side of town." 
Kenneth smiled again. "Oh, Jenny! Don't look so down in 
the mouth! At least, you'd know who it was that I was 
having sex with."

Jennifer nodded, and then cleared away the plates to wash 
in the kitchen. This was a part of married life they'd never 
told her about when she was a young lady waiting for a 
date and Kenneth became the man in her life. Of course 
she knew now, as did every one of her married woman 
friends, that all men were like that. It was just something 
you had to accept. Especially if a wife wanted to maintain a 
happy family. At first, it had come as a shock to Jennifer 
when she discovered that Kenneth regularly slept with 
prostitutes whenever he was away on business trips. The 
other wives assured her this was natural for men. They 
were always like that. It was just what men were like. She 
had no choice: like it or lump it. 

Up till now, there had always been some pretence of a 
distance between her husband's whoring, often 
accompanied by his work colleagues, and his domestic life, 
where he was a keen gardener and an enthusiastic DIY-er. 
But Jennifer had been told that just as one's own sex-life 
with one's husband became less and less regular, having 
become as rare an event as those bouquets he occasionally 
snatched from the florists by the bus station and brought 
back for her, so too would his liaisons with prostitutes 
become more frequent. 

Jennifer stood by the kitchen sink, her plastic gloves 
protecting her fingers from the sting of the detergent, 
washing the dishes clean of the traces of food she'd so 
lovingly and dutifully prepared. It was so unfair! If she'd 
ever chosen to have sex with anyone other than her 
husband, she would instantly be shunned by her neighbours 
and friends, and might even face the collapse of the 
marriage she'd worked so hard toward making a success.

The next time she saw Cherry Bangle it was at an 
appointed time. Jennifer was rather disappointed to find 
that the girl was punctual, almost to the second. She stood 
by the window, watching the whore stub out with the toe of 
her pointed stiletto shoes the cigarette she'd been smoking 
before she strode up the drive. 

Jennifer opened the door.

"Why hello, Mrs Jackson," the prostitute said cheerfully. 
"Is your husband ready?"

Jennifer nodded her head. She was too embarrassed to say 
anything.

"So where is the lucky man, love?"

Jennifer found her voice. "Our bedroom. Up the stairs. Top 
of the landing. First door on the right."

"Right! Great! Thanks, Mrs Jackson," Cherry said, passing 
Jennifer by in the hallway and ascending the carpeted stairs 
on her tottering heels, leaving coin-shaped indentations 
where her heels had trod. Jennifer watched the woman turn 
at the landing and then push open the bedroom door.

"Hello, Ken, sweetheart!" Cherry said, in far too cheery a 
voice for Jennifer's sensitivity. "So, what's it going to be?"

And then the door closed behind her, and Jennifer didn't 
hear whatever it was that her husband had answered. But as 
much as she wanted to blot out of her mind any awareness 
that her husband was currently enjoying carnal relations 
with a prostitute, as she sat in the living room, watching a 
Saturday afternoon soap opera, she could still hear the 
unmistakeable cries of a woman in apparent sexual ecstasy. 
And weren't those also the grunting, snorting sounds of her 
husband following a very similar rhythm? And the bed-rest 
was definitely thumping against the wall in a 
correspondingly regular fashion.

Eventually, Jennifer's hour of purgatory and Cherry's 
agreed duration of service were over, and she heard the 
prostitute descend the staircase after making her (far too 
amorous) goodbyes. The door closed behind her and 
Jennifer drew in a deep breath. At least that was over!

It was half an hour or more later when Kenneth finally 
made his way down to the living room. He was dressed 
only in his vest and white boxer shorts, his feet bare and 
his legs hairy. He slumped in his sofa and, without 
checking whatever it might be that Jennifer had been 
watching on television, picked up the remote and switched 
it over to a sports channel where a game of baseball was in 
full swing.

"Damn! She was good!" he exclaimed, with a broad 
unapologetic smile.

"Was she, dear?" asked Jennifer anxiously, rather hoping 
he might yet express a quite different opinion.

"She was damned good! You don't find girls as good as her 
at Miss Pussy's very often. If ever at all! In fact, I think 
even the girls at the Metropolitan aren't up to her 
standards!"

"Did you enjoy yourself, dear?"

"Yes, I did. And I'll make damned sure I see her again. I 
can see that Cherry Bangle will be a frequent guest to the 
Jackson household."

"Will she, dear?" asked Jennifer, who'd been rather 
dreading that resolve. But as she was able to observe, it had 
been a long time, if there had ever been a time at all, since 
Kenneth had expressed nearly as much enthusiasm for his 
lovemaking with his wife as he was now expressing for his 
whore.

And so it was that Cherry Bangle became a regular visitor 
to the household maintained by Jennifer's labours with the 
duster and vacuum cleaner, and paid for by the issue of her 
husband's labours in the office. In fact, it was every 
Saturday at two in the afternoon and every Wednesday at 
eight in the evening. These were appointments that 
Jennifer rather dreaded and her husband so obviously 
looked forward to.

Cherry would arrive, her cigarette stubbed out before 
opening the low front garden gate, and smile amiably at 
Jennifer who opened the door, before ascending the 
staircase to accompany Kenneth who'd be waiting 
impatiently for her in the bedroom. And then the two of 
them would have sex, noisily, undisguisedly, and 
sometimes for rather more than the scheduled one hour. 
And when Cherry finished, she'd be down the stairs, 
perhaps smoothing her tight skirt or adjusting the bosom 
just about held in place by her skimpy top, and out of the 
door, perhaps to see another client.

Jennifer wasn't at all sure she ever wanted any words to 
pass between her and this slutty whore. Those words she 
did say were as polite and restrained as she could let them 
be, but Cherry was far more affable. 

"Nice weather, isn't it?" she'd say. "Are you going to do 
some gardening? Those geraniums you've got are 
fantastic!" Or she might comment on how well Jennifer 
had her hair cut: "You must give me the name of your 
hairdresser!" Or compliment her on her dress sense: "That's 
an Agnes B, isn't it? Or is it Christian Dior? What really? 
Neither of them! I wouldn't believe it possible!" Or she 
might remark on the care Jennifer had taken on the house: 
"Goodness! This place is spotless. And you do it all 
yourself!"

And then Cherry would continue on her way, either up the 
stairs to commence fucking her husband or down the 
garden path to where she would light her cigarette, 
occasionally turning her head to wave goodbye to the 
window of the bedroom above, where no doubt Kenneth 
was also watching the slut leave.

Despite the fact that Cherry's very presence was a very real 
affront to her, Jennifer actually found herself rather liking 
the girl's compliments and the way she smiled at her in 
such a friendly manner. Her friends, whom she might meet 
while shopping in town or at whose homes she might visit 
for an hour or so in the afternoon while their husbands 
were at work, were usually so tired and complaining, often 
taking the opportunity of their encounters merely to unload 
onto Jennifer a litany of the trials their children had at 
school or to boast about their husbands' achievements in 
the world of salaried professional employment. Never once 
would they broach the subject of the whores their husbands 
regularly entertained and who, for all Jennifer knew, could 
include Cherry Bangle. Conversation would tenderly step 
around the one taboo subject that caused her friends to pity 
her so much.

"Where are your children?" one neighbour asked once 
when they'd hardly got to know each other at all, sitting in 
the living room surrounded by plastic toys and two 
crawling toddlers. "Are they at school? Or do you send 
them to a play group?"

Jennifer lowered her head, the shame of her barrenness 
humiliating her. "I don't have any children," she confessed 
in a low voice.

"No children!" her neighbour exclaimed, studying Jennifer 
carefully. "Oh well! You don't want to know what a trouble 
they can be! Why! Jimmy here... The problem we had 
getting him a place at the nursery!"

But however amiable Cherry might be, Jennifer wasn't at 
all sure she liked to be reminded in such a regular and 
blunt way the extent to which Kenneth felt it was necessary 
to go elsewhere for the pleasures that properly a wife 
should provide for her husband.

"I don't like your whore visiting you here!" she bravely 
asserted to Kenneth one evening over supper. There! She'd 
said it!

Kenneth raised his head from his meal, a boiled potato 
pronged by his fork. "So, you'd rather I visited her? That 
costs more, you know. Why don't you want her to come 
here?"

"It's not decent! It's not right! It's not how it ought to be!"

"It's how it is with a lot of the guys at work, Jenny dear. In 
fact, Patrick has two or three different girls see him a week. 
And his wife doesn't complain."

"I don't care. This is our home. Our matrimonial home. I 
don't clean, dust and tidy it just for you to make love to a 
shameless slut. It's not decent!"

"Jenny. We don't have children. It's not as if we're trying to 
protect them, is it? Perhaps if you'd been able to bear 
children, it'd be different. But there's only the two of us. 
And it is a man's prerogative to have sex when he needs it. 
Just as it is a wife's duty to honour and obey her husband."

Jennifer lowered her head. She knew she was defeated. 

"And anyway, Jenny, making love is thirsty work. I've been 
meaning to ask. Could you bring in a tray of wine and 
some biscuits about half-way through? Say about half two 
if it's a Saturday. Just leave the tray. It's the least we can do 
for our guest."

Jennifer gasped.

"You want me to come into the bedroom while you're... 
you're... having sex with another woman and leave you 
something to drink?"

"Just a couple of glasses, love. White will be fine. We've 
got some Chardonnay. That's what Don at work insists 
from his wife. Only, being the boor he is, he'd rather have 
beer than wine. Though a Bud or a Miller Lite mightn't be 
a bad idea on a hot day!"

Jennifer was resigned to her duty. And so it was that the 
coming Saturday, she drew a deep breath at the bottom of 
the stairs, the clock having passed the half past two mark, 
and ascended each step very carefully and cautiously, 
carrying a tray, one of their wedding presents, on which 
she placed two glasses of Dry White wine and a selection 
of twiglets in a bowl.

Each step was an agony, each step just one more towards 
the scaffold, while the sounds coming from the bedroom 
got ever louder and ever more distinct. "Fuck! Fuck! 
Fuck!" she could hear her husband grunt. "Urrgghh! 
Ahhhh!" came the corresponding cries from Cherry 
Bangle.

Jennifer pushed open the door, mechanically strode across 
the bedroom and placed the tray on the dressing table on 
the other side of the room from where her, their, marital 
bed was occupied by her husband and his whore, and then, 
with the same mechanical efficiency, strode back out of the 
room.

Once she'd pushed close the door to her bedroom, she was 
able to experience again in her memory what she had seen 
and had tried to blank out of her mind while placing the 
tray so carefully beside her porcelain ornaments on the 
dresser, and just by the chair where Cherry Bangle had 
tidily laid out all her clothes with the exception, Jennifer 
couldn't help noticing, of her fishnet stockings and 
suspenders.

And on the bed itself, where almost all the sexual passion 
of her life had been enacted in steadily decreasing 
regularity over the years, that was where Kenneth, her 
husband, was thrusting his naked buttocks, his testicles 
flopping with the same rhythm as his coital thrusts, into the 
space between two parted legs. But as Jennifer noticed 
with horror, the orifice into which her husband's penis was 
penetrating and about which he never ceased to grunt 
"Fuck!" as he did so, was not the orifice whose counterpart 
was the only one of Jennifer's to have experienced 
Kenneth's thrusting member, but the anus, an orifice in 
Cherry Bangle that seemed much larger and much more 
capacious than Jennifer could imagine an anus ever being.

Jennifer hurried down to the living room, sat down on the 
sofa and stared at the Constable reproduction on the wall 
above the fireplace. And, at last, when the horror of her 
thoughts became too insistent, she burst into tears, sinking 
her head into her outspread fingers and feeling the warm 
salty drops seep through, wetting the gold of her wedding 
ring as they did so, and dripping onto her chin and kitchen 
apron.

This was how it was to be from now on. Jennifer would 
meet Cherry at the front door, still amiable and cheerful, 
either asking questions about domestic matters or 
complimenting Jennifer on her dress sense. Then after a 
half hour or so, Jennifer would bring a tray loaded with 
wine and nibbles into her bedroom, all the while aware that 
next to her there was the sight of her husband being 
fellated by the woman who'd been so genial to her earlier. 
Or of Kenneth fucking her hard and hard again in the arse 
or in the vagina. Or even of him fucking his whore in the 
mouth with the same violence he fucked her lower orifices. 
And from the two of them, but especially from her 
husband, she would hear the most profane and obscene 
language. And then later, cordially and even cheerfully, 
Cherry would say goodbye to her on the doorstep, 
sometimes hovering just that little bit longer so she might 
take down the particulars of a shop where she could avail 
herself of something about Jennifer's home or person that 
she had taken a liking to.

And then, one day, Cherry arrived on a Wednesday 
evening when Kenneth was away at a conference, but one 
hastily convened and for which it had all been rush rush 
rush the day before in packing his suits and ties into his 
cases.

"Hello, Jenny sweetheart. Gosh! Those shoes of yours are 
lovely. Quite the thing! They're not Gucci are they?"

"Er... no, they're not!" admitted Jennifer, flattered despite 
herself.

"Well! They're excellent copies if they're not!" Cherry 
smiled. She tilted her gaze up the stairs toward the 
bedroom. "Kenny waiting for me, I guess."

"No, not today," said Jennifer, perhaps unable to totally 
disguise her glee, although for all she knew her husband 
was probably at this minute fucking some whore he had 
met at the conference hotel. "He's away. He won't be back 
till Saturday."

"Saturday, eh? Our next appointment. And he was my last 
for today! Well, that's a disappointment!" 

"I suppose you'll just have to go home," Jennifer remarked.

Cherry smiled again. "I guess so. Well! It's quite a way and 
I'm tired. You couldn't let me stop for a cup of tea or coffee 
first could you? I'm quite tuckered out! It's been a long 
day!"

Jennifer's initial reaction was to say "No! Go away, you 
thieving whore! You steal my husband's affection and now 
you want his fucking coffee!" But these were not the words 
she said. Instead, she smiled in return and said "Well, all 
right. I was just putting the kettle on anyway."

Cherry followed Jennifer down the hallway into the 
kitchen. She whistled as she entered, supported by tottering 
heels, and the definition of her long legs and bosomy body 
silhouetted against the doorway. "Phooee! This is one 
smart kitchen!"

"Haven't you seen it before?"

"No. Not at all. All I've seen of your home is the bedroom. 
And then mostly just the bed. But that's the case with most 
of my clients."

"Is that so?" wondered Jennifer politely, filling the kettle 
from the water filter and then clicking the switch so the red 
light shone. "Do you have many clients?"

"Mine's a busy trade, Jenny love," Cherry admitted, sitting 
down on the stool. "I have two or three from this close 
alone. And there's more than a dozen from Kunley 
Crescent. And there's all the more casual trade I get. 
Sometimes the phone never stops ringing!"

"And are they all men like my husband, your clients?"

"Like your husband? I guess so. A lot of the regulars are 
professionals or executives. But it's all sorts really."

"And have you been a... been a... have you been working as 
a... for long?"

"What? As a sex worker? Quite a while, love. I used to 
work as a secretary. Some kind of insurance or loan 
business. But after my husband left me, well I just didn't 
make enough to cover the bills. You know. Way it goes!"

"And my husband... I mean... what is it...?"

And then Jennifer paused. What was she trying to say? 
What was the question she wanted answered? She busied 
herself by spooning some granules of coffee into the mugs 
she'd taken out of the kitchen cupboard.

"I'm sorry, Jenny sweetheart? What did you ask?"

Jennifer turned round to face Cherry who, for a change, did 
not have a broad smile across her face. In fact, it was an 
expression of genuine concern. At this sight and also at the 
thought that normally at this time, Jennifer would be 
preparing a tray to take up to the bedroom, something 
snapped inside her. The coffee jar, whose lid she had just 
secured, dropped out of her hand and bounced on the 
spongy kitchen tile, while her face, rather less resiliently, 
cracked and shattered into countless fragments of misery. 
She stood there, in the kitchen, by the boiling kettle, her 
face a disintegrated mess of tears, her hands uselessly 
dropped to either side.

It was Cherry who took Jennifer in hand, after kicking off 
her stiletto heeled shoes, and guided her out of the kitchen, 
one arm around her shoulder and the other gripping 
Jennifer's arm. And then sat her down on the sofa where 
Jennifer had intended later to watch a series of situation 
comedies, quiz shows and soap operas, and let the 
housewife lean her head, her permed hair crushed to one 
side, on her bosom, while gently stroking her shoulder and 
back. All the while, Jennifer just sniffed and wept, her 
voice too sunk inside her to come to the surface. Cherry, 
meanwhile, said nothing at all except the occasional 
"There! There!" while her client's wife buried her cheek 
into Cherry's warm chest.

It must have been ten minutes or more before Jennifer 
regained enough sense of propriety and consciousness to 
utter, again and again, as if it was a mantra: "I'm sorry! I'm 
sorry!" And all the while, Cherry made only soothing 
noises and stroked Jennifer's hair, neck and shoulder as one 
might a crying child.

Then she said: "It's not you who should feel sorry, Jenny 
dear! What have you ever done to be sorry for?"

"Why? To be like this... to be crying... to be..."

"You have every right to cry, sweetest. It's your husband 
who should be sorry. Like all my married clients should be. 
It's a crying shame what they put their wives through!"

"But it's you who..."

"If it wasn't me, love, it'd be someone else," Cherry 
remarked with just a hint of bitterness in her normally 
sunny voice.

Jennifer rested back on Cherry's bosom. Hearing someone, 
anyone, for the first time, express thoughts so much like 
her own, began to dry her tears in a way a handkerchief 
could never do, not by soaking up the flow, but by 
damming its source. 

"You're a very pretty lady, Jenny," Cherry remarked after a 
while. "You take so much care and attention of yourself. 
You have a sweet face, a sad little smile and you have a 
trim body under your skirt and blouse."

"But my ankles..."

"Your ankles are nothing. Your husband doesn't appreciate 
the beauty he has at his disposal all the time, but instead 
contents himself with a woman like me, who in a single 
day will have sex with a dozen or more men like him. Isn't 
there something wrong there?"

"A dozen or more men...?"

"At least! I never keep count. Too depressing. What you 
need is someone to make you feel loved. Someone who 
will make you feel treasured."

"But where can I find that? If not with my husband, who 
with?"

"Jenny! Do you need to ask? I'm free at the moment. Your 
husband was to be my last client for the day. If you like, I 
could give you the affection you seek?"

Jennifer's head rose abruptly, but she didn't struggle to free 
herself from Cherry's arms. 

"Are you suggesting that you...? That you and I...? That 
we...?"

"If you wish, sweetest."

"But that's perverse! That's disgusting!"

"It is rather less disgusting and perverse than what I often 
do, love. I can assure you of that."

"But am I supposed to pay for it? Like my husband?"

"Pay for it? Well, of course. It's what I do for a living. But I 
charge my lady clients substantially less than my 
gentleman ones."

"Lady clients?"

"Of course! Ladies want love as much as men. What do 
you think?"

"I don't know! I don't know!"

"I'll tell you what, Jenny sweetheart," smiled Cherry lifting 
Jennifer's face up towards her own and gazing into her eyes 
with what was clearly a practised eye, "You being in so 
much distress and your husband being such an 
unreasonable sod and you being so kind to me all these 
times I've visited, bringing in that tray of wine and nibbles, 
and you being, after all, such a very attractive woman, with 
such a narrow waist and such an exquisite swan-like 
neck..."

Jennifer felt weak under the gaze and under the shower of 
words. She smiled at Cherry despite her reservations about 
her propriety, her emotions and her duty to her husband, 
and let Cherry grasp her head behind her ears and under her 
perm.

"...and you having such very very pretty knees that pop out 
beneath your dress, and such elegant feet with painted toes 
which demand to be sucked and such straight white teeth, 
and such bright shiny blue eyes, and having the personality 
and radiance of an angel..."

Jennifer's heart beat harder and more insistently inside her 
breast as Cherry leaned closer and closer, the words 
coming out like warm breezes of comfort on the face, 
seeing for the first time the hints of freckles around 
Cherry's nose, that one of her lower front teeth was slightly 
chipped and that her chin was pointed with a slight 
dimple...

"...and such a beautiful and attractive woman such as you. 
Why! The first time will have to be free!"

And with that the two women's faces met at the lips, their 
hands grasped each other's arms and legs and their breaths 
came out equally short and urgent.

"I don't usually kiss my clients!" Cherry announced, before 
doing precisely that to Jennifer's lips.