Taint(2)
A slow, sardonic smile unfurls across my face. “I’m going to teach you how to fuck your husband.”
More gasps. More pearl clutching. Even a few shrieks of My word!
“But that’s not…” Lorinda screeches above the flurry of discontent. “Not proper. Not dignified.”
And there it is.
It’s the reason why her husband, Lane Cosgrove, likes to bend his pretty blonde secretary over his desk and fuck her senseless while she calls him “Daddy.” He has a thing for anal—giving and taking it. His secretary keeps a strap-on in the locked filing cabinet beside her desk for Thursday nights. Lane always works late on Thursdays, leaving Lorinda to her usual book club meeting, Women’s Bible Study, wine tasting, etcetera, etcetera. Nothing Lane does on Thursdays is proper. Letting his secretary probe him with a 10-inch dildo while his mouth is stuffed with her panties to muffle his cries, is anything but dignified. And he knows it. That’s why Lorinda can’t satisfy his needs. And letting your very rich and powerful husband leave home sexually unsatisfied is like giving him a loaded gun. Sooner or later, he’s going to pop off a few rounds.
On cue, my head of concierge, Diane, enters, followed by several members of my staff. Time to move this little welcoming party right along before any more tears are shed.
“Ladies, if you feel that you do not need this program and have ended up here by some mistake, please feel free to leave. Our drivers are prepared to take you straight to the airport, and you will be given a full refund. We just ask that you honor the Non-disclosure agreements you and your spouses have signed.”
No one makes a move to stand, so I continue. “If you would like to stay and learn how to improve your sex lives and, ultimately, your relationships, our staff will show you to your rooms. You will find that they are fully equipped with en suite facilities and amenities, plus we have a twenty-four hour chef and staff at your disposal. The property also houses a state-of-the-art fitness center, spa and salon for all your personal needs. Comfort is key here. Welcome to Oasis, ladies. We want you to consider this your home for the next six weeks of instruction.”
Eleven sets of eyes stare back at me, waiting for the first command. No one wants to be the first to jump out of their seat, arms flailing as they scream, Pick me! Pick me! Teach me, I want to learn! They all want this; they all want the secrets of marital bliss. And they know everything I’ve said is true.
Each and every one of these women know that someone else is fucking their husbands because they don’t know how to.
And deep down, I feel for them. Hell, I even sympathize with them. They’ve made it their life’s goal to meet and marry someone that will catapult them from their mediocre upbringing, and nestle them within the comforts of wealth and luxury.
It’s a regular Pretty Woman syndrome. They go from lying on their backs for free, or for some inconsequential promise of commitment in the form of a cheap, dime-store diamond ring, to more jewels than they even have limbs to wear them on. But what these ladies fail to realize is that whatever they had to do to nab their Richard Gere, they have to do that—and more—to keep him.
The staff ushers the women up to their private rooms, leaving me alone in the great room just as the Arizona sun begins to melt, slowly sliding down the azure sky. It morphs into a life-size canvas of ombre oranges, pinks, blues and purples, the breathtaking view not sullied by towering buildings or jigsaw highways. Oasis is tucked far away from civilization, away from paparazzi, designer bullshit, and reality television.
This is my favorite part of the day—when gravity pulls that scorching, desert sun above, coaxing it into the outstretched, jagged arms of mountains and cacti. Even the most arduous souls seek comfort and solitude.
I make my way across the courtyard towards the guesthouse. I own all the property, but I don’t sleep in the main house. There’s a level of privacy and professionalism that I must uphold, and being locked in a secluded mansion with eleven other women can be…difficult. My business is sex. I instruct sex. I live and breathe sex. And I need it, just like their duplicitous husbands.
So thanks to my “don’t shit where you eat” policy, I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, only sating my sexual appetite between the four courses I host per year. Even then, I’m discreet. Being any other way just isn’t profitable in my line of work.
After letting the shower rinse away the day’s aggravation, I dress and head to the dining room for dinner. The ladies trickle in one by one, quietly taking seats around the grand table. They’re all still here. Eleven women desperate to reconnect with the men they hope to be tied to until death. The men that promised to move heaven and earth in exchange for their promise of commitment. The men who have broken their vows to sate sexual deviances and feed their egos.