by Violet Blue
The table creaked some more, and Ilaria slid down half under the table—a feat that would have been completely impossible in the tight confines of the bench, if she hadn’t been one of those Italian bitches who apparently crave nothing but salad and cigarettes.
Well…almost nothing.
Ilaria’s hands plucked Jeff’s cock out of Molly’s mouth—like a nanny taking away a naughty girl’s toy. Molly began to think she’d gone too far—was this jealousy? She’d read the guidebooks. Jealousy was guaranteed in any threesome, even with Italian strangers.
Then Ilaria leaned down deep under the table. They couldn’t have kissed, crammed under the table like that—but Molly wanted to.
Ilaria’s mouth was wet and warm against Molly’s ear.
“Do you eat my pussy?” she asked.
Molly breathed hard.
“What about him?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse. Her throat was thick from cock and lust.
Ilaria said, “Let him fuck you as you do.”
Molly felt a hot wave of excitement.
Was she really going to do this?
She said, “Do you have—”
The condom was already in Ilaria’s hand. She tore its package delicately. It wasn’t some shady Italian brand; it was a Kimono. An instant later, Ilaria had it out of the package and rolling down easy over her boyfriend’s cock.
That answered Molly’s question.
Yes, she was really going to do this.
Ilaria helped Molly turn around, her knees sticking dirty and icky to the floor. As she did, Molly slipped one foot, then the other, out of her panties and felt Jeff’s hand close around her—plucking them out of her hand. He spirited them away. What was he going to do with them? Huff them? Here at Blueboy’s, guys would just think he was huffing Amyl. That was kind of vaguely hot.
Molly spread her legs, her knees tucked between the post of the table and the floor. She spread her knees wide and put her ass in the air. She felt Jeff’s hand teasing her smooth, hairless pussy lips open with his thumb and forefinger; two other fingers curled lazily in the strip of her pubic hair as Ilaria opened her thighs and guided Molly’s face between them. Ilaria’s short dress rode up. She didn’t wear underwear. Ilaria wasn’t trimmed like Molly—she was fully, beautifully natural. The scent of her pussy was intense, a hot-wet musk smell mingled with cigarettes and liquor.
How long had it been since Molly had gone down on a woman?
A while. A decade? Half a decade, maybe—there was that lackluster threesome with that girl Carl dated during their polyamory phase. What was her name? Katrina? Karen? Kara?
It was, she discovered, like riding a bike.
Right there under the table at Blueboy’s, Molly felt the first man since Carl entering her as she pressed her mouth to his girlfriend’s juicy sex. His cock was thick at the head—just thick enough to stretch her a little, exactly at the place where a little met enough met a lot met more than enough met almost exactly too fucking much—and that meant almost. Exactly. Too much. But not quite, which was just fucking right.
Ilaria was perfect—wet as a faucet inside but dry enough outside that it took a long slow wriggle of Molly’s tongue to find the moisture. Then there was the taste, overwhelming her—deeply intoxicating, sexy and bewitching. Then there was the smell, all around her, drowning out everything else. Horny pussy. Why the hell did I ever stop sleeping with girls again?
Oh, thought Molly. That’s right. True love, or something. Fuck that. Never again.
Once his cockhead had breached her entrance, Jeff paused, gently working into her, like he worried his massive throbbing enormity might hurt her. She wondered: Nice Italian Boy, or Pompous Stud With Delusions of Grandeur? He went much too slow for her taste, as if to make sure he didn’t hurt her. He won’t hurt me, she decided, but what a perfect gentleman. She fucked herself onto his cock while sliding her tongue deep between Ilaria’s lips, teasing clit and pussy and sliding two fingers up inside her. Along with her apparently 10 percent body weight (all of which was in her tits), Ilaria apparently had an appetite not just for salad and cigarettes, but for one-finger-ata-time, to judge how it felt when Molly slid three into her. She was snug—so very snug—and as Molly started fingering her, she felt the total absence of Ilaria’s G-spot—was this some sort of a trick? Did only Irish girls have them, or something?
Jeff might have had delusions of grandeur, but his cock was indeed sufficiently sized so that Molly felt the head against her cervix as she fucked herself onto him. He really couldn’t do much without giving the game away—after all, anyone who looked at the table and saw him pumping away underneath would have—well, would have thought it was just another night at Blueboy’s. But that anyone would have expected her to be not a thirty-six-year-old slut but a whorish twink who hitchhiked here from Tuskegee with a fake ID and an attitude. She had the attitude, at least. She squeezed her muscles tight around Jeff’s cock and gauged the rhythm, feeling him struggle to stay still so she could do the work it took to get him off—down under the table, on her knees, ass in the air, pumping a stranger’s hard cock off inside her. Simple as giving a hand job, which she’d done—but a thousand miles beyond it on the Sleaze Scale.
Some guys are easier than others—Jeff was complicated. It took concentration to push him over—so her mouth on Ilaria’s clit was not doing its job. The poor Italian girl seemed thoroughly pleased nonetheless—as, with her thighs closed around Molly’s pumping body, she leaned over, hard against the table, as did Jeff.
What Molly finally settled on to finish him off—and it turned out this worked perfectly—was to squeeze her muscles hard, in the exact rhythm she’d always used to get Carl off. It felt so sleazy to do—but what do you know?
The couple kissed deeper and felt each other up far above her—their passion making the table tremble.
Molly felt the rhythmic pattern of their kiss as Jeff’s hips jerked, and a faint swelling—almost undetectable—told her something was happening down there. He was coming in her—or, to be more accurate, in the condom, which was both yummy and comforting.
Then the table started to shake, and creak, and moan as if about to collapse atop Molly, as Jeff grabbed the edge of it and Ilaria fought to steady him. The whole table shuddered as if in an earthquake—and Molly didn’t stop. She just squeezed her pussy muscles harder and milked his dick until he stopped.
Before she knew what was happening, Molly felt Ilaria pulling her up to the bench alongside her. She came up red faced and gasping, her mouth wet and makeup ruined. Jeff worked the condom off him and wrapped it in five cocktail napkins—had he stacked them there in advance, in anticipation of this moment? Regardless, he still had her panties. He grabbed them and stuffed them in her pocket.
Ilaria pulled Molly’s dress down quickly—in response to Molly’s querying eyes, she jerked her head toward the door.
The bouncer was fighting through the crowd toward them, looking pissed.
No way. Someone had narced on them? At Blueboy’s?
Times just weren’t what they used to be.
Molly put her mouth to Ilaria’s ear and said, “I didn’t get to make you come.”
Ilaria glanced at her slim silver watch—almost last call.
Ilaira said, “It is long to the airport? Cab? I don’t remember. I was so horny when I came. Is it a long cab ride?”
Molly opened her mouth to say Not really, at this hour, but thought better of it.
She smelled Ilaria’s cunt on her fingers and purred, “Long enough for an Earthquake….”
BELLE DE SOIR
Austin Stevens
She is not the kind of girl who turns heads, really. But she’s turning them now, which is good enough for her.
Men stare as Steffi strides through the lobby of the Damiano, past the spendy restaurant and the trendy boutiques. Perched on very high heels and poured into a very small dress—curvy and tight—she walks past men who practically drop their jaws as they stare at her, tryin
g not to look like they’re staring.
She sees them. She likes them. She likes them, as a group, to be reduced to grunting apes. She thinks she might just get her rent paid after all.
Her name is Stefanie Murray and she’s twenty-three years old. She’s not a tall woman when she’s not wearing five-inch spike-heel pumps. They’re red, like her dress. There’s more to the shoes; there’s practically nothing to the dress. It plunges between her tits, it stretches at her thighs as she walks. It hikes in the back just enough that the hem reveals the tops of her sheer black stockings. They have seams down the back and garters at the top. She has a tasteful pattern of flower tattoos traced up each calf to her knee, which gives men’s eyes an excuse to go down and then up and then down again.
In the eyes of the men who stare hungrily at her in the lobby of the Damiano, that skintight red dress stays attached to her flesh against all laws of physics; with each sway of her hips, each jiggle of her tits, each toss of her hair and each lift and stretch of her arms or her shoulders or splitting of her thighs as she walks, the painted-on garment threatens to peel away off of cleavage and crack and round cheeks and ripe thighs and whatever dirty filthy things a girl like this might be wearing under a dress like this. If anything at all.
A dress like this on a woman like Stef makes men, mostly older men, extremely dull and stupid; that’s how she likes them. Dull and stupid and handing her six hundred dollars.
It feels good to have the men looking at her, even if she can’t really see them. Steffi’s not very good at this—or at least, she’s not experienced. This is her very first time, and as the agency said: “Impress him. You might get a repeat.”
Steffi doesn’t want a repeat, but she wants six hundred dollars. Or, more accurately, three-forty after the agency’s cut.
And Steffi wants men to look at her, starting with the men in the lobby—or, rather, the parking valet before them, and the three men in the elevator who couldn’t take their eyes off of her.
She’s not really sure which is more important: the sex or the money.
The money, surely. But who says she can’t enjoy herself?
Wear something classy, Steffi Murray had been told by Jeanette, the owner of Private Lives Personal Consultants—the madam, if you must—when she called to book her first assignment. Jeanette had said, Wear something classy, and sexy but subtle, or the concierge will know what you’re there for. Sure, you might get away with it today, and tomorrow, but they’ll know what you’re doing and sooner or later you’ll get kicked out. It’s bad for business. Guys don’t want a whore; they want a girlfriend. And concierges really don’t want a whore walking through their lobby with everyone knowing what she’s there for. If you want to stay in this job and if you want to get regulars, you’ll play it sexy but subtle, Sessa. Subtle.
But “Sessa” doesn’t want to stay in this job. She doesn’t want any regulars. What she wants is a thousand bucks, made in a day, or maybe a day and a night and, if she has to, a nooner. Today and tomorrow—that’s all.
She’s had fantasies her whole life about getting paid for sex. She’s been bewitched by the thought since her early days, obsessed with Pretty Woman, Belle de Jour, Victorian porn. Now she gets to be one—but just until tomorrow.
Today is Friday and she wants Saturday to pack and she has to be on a plane at 6:00 a.m. Sunday. And more importantly, she wants this all to be fast so she doesn’t have too much time to think about it—because she wants it very, very much, but isn’t stoked about admitting it to herself.
That’s why, as she walks through the lobby, she’s wet. That’s why, as men leer at her, she’s very, very wet. That’s why she’s horny—very horny. Fucking dying of need, having thought about her first trick all morning, ever since Jeanette called at 8:00 a.m. to offer it. Sessa’s nipples peak firmly enough to show through the fabric. Her sex feels smooth beneath her dress, freshly shaved and dripping, exquisitely sensitive.
She takes the elevator with more suit-clad businessmen who can’t take their eyes off her; she wishes she could see them better. But her horn-rimmed librarian glasses sit perched on the dash of her ’86 Civic; they don’t go with the ensemble.
And contacts?
Steffi can’t even put eyedrops in.
Itchy pieces of plastic are out of the question.
Sure, “Sessa” could handle it, but “Sessa” is a fantasy—an illusion. For Steffi, with her wet shaved puss and her shelf ass and aching nips, as much as for the guy about—she hopes—to fork over six hundred dollars for sex.
She looks the businessmen up and down salaciously, pursing her red-painted lips.
She can’t see them that well; they’re quite blurry. But she smells them, cologne and male sweat wafting along with her and mingling with her whore-perfume as she stalks in mincing steps down the hall—to Room 2332.
She checks her cell phone: it’s 3:59. Right on time.
She takes a deep breath, licks her lips; thinks, Okay. Don’t get scared. It’s just sex, right? It’s just fucking. No big deal.
Yeah, just fucking for money, she thinks, and her insides give a hot scary quiver.
She knocks thrice: hard, deep and even.
The door opens. A man in his thirties answers; Steffi feels a sudden rush. This guy’s hot. Psyched up as she is to fuck a stranger—a revolting, repulsive stranger if it comes to that, and she won’t care all that much if it does—she isn’t going to have to. In fact, she’s pretty okay doing this guy. He’s fucking handsome. He’s wearing a suit with suspenders—fucking hot. Gordon Gecko shit. He’s much closer, physically, than the guys who lusted after her in the lobby, so he’s not just a blur. Even Steffi’s 20/100 tells her he’s got a fuckload of Mrrrrowr! going on.
She tinkles out musical notes, fake-soprano: “Hi, I’m Sessa. Are you Jason?”
He throws his tongue around his mouth a few times, like it’s just been shot full of Novocain. Steffi feels a hot wave of pleasure go through her; holy shit, she’s made him a mute. This guy is hot, and she made him stupid. Add six hundred dollars and Romeo’s her dream date.
He finally says, his eyes wide and zinging in circles all around her and over her—everywhere but her tits and her legs—“Yes, I’m Jason. You’re Sessa?”
“That’s what I said,” she purrs smoothly. “Can I come in?”
He gets red and embarrassed; he backs up and holds the door and lets her in. He can’t stop looking at her, but he can’t let himself look at her. She guesses the dress is a hit.
Her cell phone buzzes. She ignores it.
She looks Jason up and down and says, “You seem nervous. Can I help? It’s really nice to meet you.”
He laughs nervously. “I didn’t expect you to be so hot.”
Steffi feels a warm glow. The dress is definitely a big hit.
So she drops it, smooth and even—practiced thirty times in her bedroom. It goes down so easy—just a snap, and a zip, and a wriggle—Jason barely even knows what she’s doing, until the dress is a puddle of cherry-red blood on the floor around her spiked heels. She steps out of it and with the toe of one cherry-red shoe, she tosses the dress onto a nearby chair with her handbag. She smiles.
“I didn’t expect you to be so hot,” she says. “You know it’s okay to look, don’t you?”
So he does, panting, wanting her, his eyes drinking in the way her tits spill out of her tight push-up bra, the way her hips roll from under the soft lace of her garter belt and her thighs spread her garters. Her shaved sex is visible, beautifully so, through her nearly transparent thong with barely anything to it.
She said, “I’m afraid I have to ask you—”
Jason points at the bedside table; there are eight crisp hundreds there, spread out in a fan. Steffi feels a rush.
“Just let me take care of this,” she says, and Jason nods. She walks over to the bedside table and makes a very big show of bending down so he can get a good look at her ass. She feels the cool hotel air on her sex—she’s wet,
very wet; is this really as hot as she’s making it?
Fuck no, she decides—it’s hotter. Even if the sex turns out to be bad, she’s going to fantasize about this moment for the rest of her fucking life.
She tucks the money in her bra and minces past him to the chair that holds her handbag. She puts the money in her wallet, palms a condom and returns to him. She edges up to Jason, putting her arms around him and her body up against him.
She sighs: “Wanna take me to bed?”
He does.
The sex isn’t bad. He isn’t the genius sex-god of the universe, but as turned on as Steffi is, he doesn’t need to be. She helps him out of his clothes and pulls the covers back and spreads him out on the bed and takes his cock in her mouth. She sucks his dick with an eager abandon; I’m getting paid for this, she thinks. I’m getting fucking paid for this. She’s never been the sort of girl who has an easy time being present in the moment during sex, but now it’s ten times harder to be so. Not because he’s a stranger; not because he’s a client. Because all she can think is, Two-sixty from eight is five hundred and forty. Five hundred and forty fucking dollars. Five hundred and forty! And he gave me a two-hundred-dollar tip before I’d done anything. Holy shit! She can’t fucking handle it. She thinks Venice; she thinks Rome; she thinks Job applications in the fall; that makes her freak so she goes nuts on his dick and starts laying down the porn-star action that’s always been guaranteed to make whatever guy she’s with think she’s some kind of sex goddess. Except Jason already does.
He pulls her off of him, gasping and glancing at the clock.
“Don’t make me come,” he pants. “Fuck, you’re good at that! Here, let me—”
He rolls her over on her back and slides her thong down. She learned a slutty trick from a porn novel about a prostitute: when wearing a garter belt, your underwear goes on the outside. Jason takes the thong off of her over her red high heels and tosses it on the bed as he goes down on her. He’s good at that—very good. Very very fucking good. Maybe she’s just turned on enough that it doesn’t really matter if he’s good. Or maybe he’s great—the best clit-licker in the business. Either way, she’s clawing crisp hotel sheets up and biting pillows soon, moaning, thighs doing things they shouldn’t, begging him not to stop.
