Coming Together With Pride

by Alessia Brio, J Buchanan, Lisabet Sarai

  He'll tell me not to stop, and he'll try to force me back down. I'll struggle a little, but he'll be ridiculously stronger, and I won't really be fighting anyhow. He'll push me down, hard, so that I'll barely have time to open my mouth before he stuffs it full. I'll let him in until my throat contracts, and I'll seal my lips around him tight enough to feel his heartbeat. I'll suck him hard, harder than he'll like. And then I'll break for the surface again. He'll tell me how good I am at sucking cock, and then he'll pant a few times and tell God how good I am at sucking cock. Even underwater, I'll be able to hear him purring and growling.

  The manager will come out to make sure we're okay, because he had heard splashing and gasping. Toby will beg me not to stop and make me promise I never will. I'll hear the sound of his orgasm, his relentless mass of flesh filling my mouth, his fingers crawling, mouth hung open. He'll buck and bray and, despite assuring me he understood the rules, he'll hold my head down and try to come in my mouth.

  Toby asks me once more if I like sucking cock. I'm not sure if he's forgotten, or he simply wants to hear me say it again, but I tell him I love it. And then he asks me if I swallow.

  And I almost tell him what I know he wants to hear, what will make his dick hard. I don't know why I don't. Maybe I figure for what he's paying me, he deserves the truth. Maybe I figure I deserve the truth. Whatever the reason, I decide to be brutally honest. I make sure I know exactly what I want to say before I say it. And then I tell him, “Come's okay.” I give him time to sort out the semantics in his head. I tell him I like it, but I wouldn't say I love it. I try to explain to him that I think I like the idea of come more than I like come itself. I'm trying really hard to walk the thin line between shattering his illusions and maintaining my integrity, because my trade is in both.

  I wait for some sort of affirmation from him, a nod maybe. But he just stares and listens. I tell him I love the look of it. I love seeing it. Especially from a safe distance. Like on TV, I say. I tell him I love it on the porno movies when the guy shoots all in the girl's mouth. It looks so good, I say, and that it makes me want to have this done to me.

  I can tell Toby's cock is reacting to what I'm saying. And it's almost the truth. Because I really do feel that way, even in real life. All the way up until the exact moment when it's time to actually go through with it. Up until that point, I want it all over me. I want to bathe in it. Get drunk off it. I want to ceremoniously imbibe it like it's some kind of precious nectar.

  I tell Toby I really like the clear stuff that leaks out ahead of time. I like the way that tastes. It tastes like sugar. Okay, maybe not sugar, but it is sweet. I'm not saying I want it drizzled over my pancakes in the morning, I say. But it does taste ... sexy. It tastes like it looks. And I want more of it. But then, when it happens for real, I'll want nothing to do with it. It's never as warm as I expect it to be, or it tastes more bitter than I remember. And I'll wish I had it anywhere but in my mouth. I'll want to spit it out as fast as I can and dash to the bathroom and brush my teeth and gargle twice.

  I laugh out loud at the thought of that, and the woman in the pool looks my way. I inhale the last of my cigarette and flick the butt into the night air. I watch it tumble end over end, giving off little orange sparks, until it lands silently in the swimming pool, not ten feet from the woman.

  I tell Toby about a porno I watched once where about five or six guys each took a turn beating off into a wine glass. Or a champagne glass—I can't remember. They came in it until it was maybe a quarter full. I tell him that I realize this doesn't sound like much, but Toby assures me otherwise. I tell him about how the last guy to come had handed the glass to the woman they had all been fucking. I describe how the glass was all wet and streaked with come. He's like a kid listening to a campfire ghost story. I tell him about how the guy had given no instructions—he simply handed her the glass and then stepped back.

  The men were all just standing there, watching and waiting. And this woman knew exactly what she was expected to do. And if she didn't genuinely want to, she did a fucking brilliant job of pretending she did. I tell Toby about how the woman had held up the glass to the light and swirled it around like she was some kind of semen connoisseur. I described for him what the combined ejaculate of half a dozen men looked like, pearlescent clouds spiraling around in translucent fluid. He cringes, but then I tell him about how, when I was watching it, I had felt this weird mixture of excitement and dread. I say the idea of what that woman was about to do repelled me, but at the same time thrilled me. Toby knew. I could tell.

  I wanted so badly to see her do it, I tell Toby, but I wasn't sure if I had the stomach to watch. I still remember the look in her eyes as she did it. It was the kinkiest thing I had ever seen. The fucked-up part, I tell Toby—and then stop to light another cigarette—is that I was jealous. I wanted to be like that, I say. I wanted to be able to do what she had done. To be that dirty. To have that capacity. But not just to be that dirty, but to love being that dirty. But I knew this was impossible, because I knew she was acting. She hadn't loved it. She did it because it was in the fucking script. She did it because she got paid enough to. I light up another and let the smoke roll off my lips. And then I say, “But it didn't stop me from getting turned on by it."

  I let it all sink in before asking Toby what the appeal is. I tell him I freely admit the appeal is there, but I just don't know what it is. It's not as if it makes it feel better for you when we swallow, I add.

  And then Toby speaks.

  "You're missing the point,” he says. “It's not about the physical. Swallowing, not just in sex but in general, has deep symbolic meaning.” Holy shit, I'm thinking. Suddenly he's Sigmund fucking Freud. Suddenly he's a semen savant. He goes on. “The act of swallowing signals an acceptance, a blessing, even. Imagine spitting out champagne after a toast. Or spitting out the wafer after communion. The insult would be overwhelming. By swallowing, you indicate complete acceptance. You show that you wish to consume, to commune with what comes from your lover. In this case nothing less than the physical manifestation of his desire for you.” I would giggle at the hyperbole, but I'm too astounded by Toby's newfound profundity.

  "As you consume it,” he continues with the fervor of a preacher, “it becomes part of you, he becomes part of you. You are joined together in an intimate, sacred bond like no other. Now, I'm not naive. I know that neither the fellator nor the fellatee derives any real physical pleasure from the act of swallowing come, but the psychological symbolism behind it is far more powerful than any physical stimulation."

  All I can say is, “You've thought about this way too much."

  "On the contrary, maybe you haven't thought about it enough. What message are you sending when you run to the nearest sink to spit out what you just made you lover give you? ‘I'm comfortable enough with you to get down on my knees and wrap my lips around your cock, but I'm not comfortable enough to swallow the fruits of my labor.’ How would you feel if I ran to the bathroom to wash my mouth out after going down on you?"

  And, for the first time tonight, I'm speechless.

  And then Toby points out the pool is empty.

  * * * *

  www.pshaven.com

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  Selling Foxx

  © I.M. Cupnjava

  "You're new, so I'll give you some pointers.” Mikki narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Matthew.

  "Thanks,” Matthew replied, wishing his voice sounded stronger. The longer Mikki looked at him, the more he wondered if he had something stuck in his teeth. He knew working as a host meant the customers were going to judge him, but he never expected to feel this inadequate before leaving the kitchen.

  Mikki gave one final sniff and started walking. “Follow."

  Surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a commercial kitchen, confusion engulfed Matthew. Industrial stoves heated the area to an almost unbearable level. Huge pans clanged around him. Stark light reflected off stainless steel, making him squint. Che
fs and cooks barked orders at each other. Other hosts whizzed past him, at best avoiding him and other times oblivious to his presence until they attempted walking through him. All of it constantly pulled his attention from where Mikki led him. The mixture of sights, sounds, and smells overwhelmed him.

  Mikki glanced at him again and curled his upper lip in slight distaste. “One, customers don't come here for the food. If you have a problem with homosexuality, get over it or quit.” He pulled off Matthew's paper name tag. “Two, what's with this name?"

  Matthew looked at his liberated name tag. “It's my name.” Judging by Mikki's terse little huff, a name wasn't supposed to go on a name tag. He felt like a child being scolded for putting the milk away in the pantry.

  Mikki opened a plain wooden door and flipped on the lights to the small office. “It sucks. What's your last name?"

  "Fox."

  "Spell it with two Xs and it might work.” Mikki rummaged around on the desk. “We'll get you an engraved name tag once we know you won't quit.” After slapping a new name tag on Foxx's white button-up shirt, Mikki pinched the hip seam of his black jeans. “Wear your pants tighter.” He shuffled Foxx from the office and back into the busy kitchen. “Unbutton one more button on your shirt."

  Foxx looked down and unfastened a button, leaving his shirt open to just under his sternum. Well, excuse the fuck out of him! He didn't realize that one little button shifted the balance of the world. And these jeans were plenty tight. Foxx thought they cradled his ass in a very pleasing way.

  Mikki walked past a pile of clean linens and grabbed a napkin. After twisting it and folding it in half, he handed it to Foxx. “Stuff this down the front of your pants. We sell fantasy here."

  Foxx looked at the napkin in disbelief. “You can't be serious.” This was bullshit! Padding stopped with pubic hair and voice changes.

  "Your livelihood depends on extras and if customers take you out.” Mikki shrugged. “I've been doing this for three years, and I've never needed to borrow money. Now, do it."

  Fine! Foxx stuffed the napkin down the front of his jeans. He rolled his hips and tugged at his pants, trying to get comfortable.

  Mikki shook his head. “You've never padded before, have you?” He thrust his hand down Foxx's pants. “Always—always—carry condoms and lube with you."

  Foxx yelped and squirmed as Mikki's cold hand pinched his flaccid cock inside the napkin. He breathed a sigh of relief when the invasion ended.

  After fishing through his pockets, Mikki handed Foxx two small keychain tubes of lube and five condoms. “You probably won't need these tonight, but ... here."

  "Thanks.” Foxx put the tools of the trade in his front pocket. Who's to say he wouldn't need them tonight? Arrogant prick. Foxx was hot. He worked out. He was no Mr. Universe or anything, but he didn't want for sex. He could get laid tonight if he wanted to.

  Mikki took a step back and studied Foxx's enhanced bulge. “Progress.” He looked up at Foxx's face. “Tomorrow, wear a little eyeliner. Just enough to bring out your green eyes. Dye your hair. Redheads aren't that popular except with the fetish crowd."

  Dye his hair? What the hell? He liked his shaggy red hair. Foxx smirked. “Should I get plastic surgery to serve drinks, too?"

  "Surgery? Maybe later.” Mikki stepped out of the way of a salad chef. “You're not serving drinks. You're serving yourself, although you do carry the drinks.” He waited for the salad chef to walk around a cabinet. “Watch out for the chefs here. They'll try to con you into doing some of their work. The only food handling you do is from that counter,” he explained, pointing to a stainless steel holding counter, “to the customer.” He pointed at the double swinging doors. “No cutting, no prepping, and, damn it, no cooking. Burns aren't sexy."

  Foxx nodded and squirmed, still failing to acclimate to the addition in his pants. He felt like he had a wadded diaper wrapped around his dick. “This isn't comfortable."

  "Get over it.” Mikki stood with his back to the double doors. “You're taking over my shift and my section. My customers have the highest standards because I spoiled the hell out of them. You will be expected to learn their names and their favorite drinks. Drunk customers tip better, with one notable exception, and they tend to ask for more extras. Let them get drunk.” Mikki pulled a small mirror from his back pocket and made a few touch-ups to his hair. “Now, hold your head up high—confidence equals sexy—and put a smile on your face."

  Foxx smiled.

  Mikki shook his head. “Why did they hire you?"

  Foxx cupped Mikki's padded bulge. “Let's go back to that office, and I can show you.” He ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip.

  "Oh, please. You're not a customer, and we're not in a booth."

  "I mean it. Unzip your pants, and I'll be glad to show you my qualifications."

  "You're going to starve to death.” Mikki rolled his eyes.

  Well, shit, that didn't have the dramatic flair it had in Foxx's head.

  Mikki continued, “Now, about your smile. Not a ‘welcome to the amusement park, take my picture while I scare your kids’ smile. A ‘you want to take me home and fuck me senseless, you know you do’ smile."

  Trying to salvage some of his pride, Foxx muttered, “You just missed out on the best blow job of your life.” He adjusted his smile.

  Mikki shook his head again. “Now you look like you want to hang out at a playground and offer candy to kids.” He sighed in frustration and turned his mirror on Foxx. “If you can't do sexy confidence, do coy or flirt."

  Looking at the mirror, Foxx tweaked his smile.

  "Good.” Mikki stuffed the mirror in his back pocket. “Make a note on how that feels. Ready?” Before Foxx could answer, Mikki stepped through the doors.

  It took a few moments for Foxx's eyes to adjust from the brightness of the kitchen to the darkened hallway, and he laid eyes on “the wings” for the first time. Chandeliers and matching wall sconces softly lit the halls, casting everything in a warm, white hue. Tapestries lined the mahogany walls, and rugs, woven with subtle geometric patterns, lay on the floor. Side halls splintered off the main hall as Foxx and Mikki walked toward the lobby.

  A large podium stood in the middle of the lobby and several couches, love seats, and chaise lounges furnished the room. Mikki stood next to the podium. “Since the decriminalization of prostitution, there've been a lot of these establishments popping up. We appeal to the higher end of society. Our customers expect a certain level of quality. They can get an average Jack on the street for less than half our base price.” Mikki explained the basic operations to Foxx.

  Customers paid for a booth upon arrival. Paying for the booth only promised the customers food service and a place to sit. Any special services were extra. Most of the time, customers requested and paid for special services upon arrival. The lobby hosts, Mikki's soon-to-be position, directed the customers and kept the floor from being overcrowded. Customers could request specific booth hosts, and repeat business generated the best money. The best money—that's all Foxx needed to know.

  Mikki pointed to a few colored squares on the podium. “These are theme rooms. We have one that looks like a Ferris wheel car. Several historical mock-ups and...” He slid his finger to a red highlighted room. “...even a dungeon.” He put his hands on his hips and looked at Foxx. “This is very important: never hang out here waiting for a booth. It makes you look desperate. Also, if you have a few regulars leave you, then it hurts your wallet. If you have too many leave you, then you risk being fired.” He smiled a condescending smile. Did this jerk expect Foxx to be fired? That's what it felt like. “You're taking over for me. They will leave you, and no one will bat an eye for the first few months. Try not to take it personally."

  Oh, not get fired; just not be as good as Mikki. Whatever. The longer he bestowed his wisdom upon Foxx, the more Foxx wanted to see that smug little grin wiped right the fuck off his face. Just once, it'd be nice to best the prick. Foxx nodded. His arrogant mentor
wasn't all that. Mikki was attractive with his black hair and dark eyes, but Foxx didn't see what was so special about the cocky prick.

  Mikki continued explaining. “The more exotic the request, the higher the price. You do have the right to say ‘no’ to a customer, but do that too often and they'll leave."

  Four women came through the front door, and another lobby host tended to their requests. After marking an “X” on the podium map, the lobby host walked the women down the main hall.

  Mikki waved at one of the ladies. As soon as she was out of sight, his smile dropped. “You'll occasionally see women here. If your vision of women is Mom with her home-baked cookies, let it go. The larger the group, the more depraved the women. They always request at least two booth hosts. However, they're charged a base fee for three hosts. We call that the Tit Tax.” He rolled his eyes. “I don't know about you, but I work with the other guys here, and I have no desire to know what their dicks taste like.” He snickered. “After your little offer earlier, I'm sure you're an exception.” He pointed at his section on the podium. “This is going to be your primary section."

  Foxx followed Mikki down the maze of hallways to Foxx's soon-to-be primary section.

  Mikki stopped by a door and pointed at a dark panel by the handle. “This is where you scan your tag.” He pulled a small square object about the size of a folded cell phone out of his pocket. He waved it in front of the door panel, and the handheld device beeped. An LED readout lit up on the tag. “This is John Smith, fake name obviously."

  Foxx looked at the readout from over Mikki's shoulder.

  "This tells you just about everything you need to know, but always expect surprises once you get in there.” Mikki pointed at a series of letters below Mr. Smith's name. “This is the code for what he's ordered. ‘C’ is for conversation. That's almost always up here. ‘BJ-R'. ‘BJ'—I'm sure you can figure that out. ‘R’ means receive. He wants you to go down on him. ‘C-BJ’ always turns out to be more ‘BJ’ than ‘C.'” Mikki opened the door to the darkened booth.