‘More, more,’ bayed the watchers, their messages of pleasure and suggestions of further intimacies scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
And then, as sometimes happened, my screen went black. I cursed, tapping my fingers in the mouse until the “Activate Webcam” message appeared. It was a random check to ensure that the person watching the show was the same person who’d paid the massive membership fee. I snapped on the webcam and read out the sentence that appeared on my screen. The unknown security person, or robot maybe, obviously accepted that I was the same stocky, square-jawed, blue-eyed butch who’d appeared in the video clip Gong-Bangers had captured during my membership interview. He, she, or it flicked me back to the action.
Mocha was gone. I stared in horror at the screen, where a kittenish Asian girl was now playing with an orange dildo. How far had Mocha gone while I was being security checked? Was she coming back? Had she given a time or date for her next show?
Since then I’d been watching Gong-Bangers whenever I could, eating in front of the screen, dozing off in my computer chair, but Mocha had never reappeared.
Until now. Until she’d slipped into my cab, all business, acting like an ice-princess with attitude, but I knew better – there was no ice in those veins: it was pure caffeine, adrenaline and “look at me” exhibitionism that filled her body. Mocha – the kind of dream that kept a woman awake all night.
Too soon we were there. Her destination was one of those silvery boxes designed by an architect to look like an ice cube, and for a moment I imagined the sheer hot sexuality of Mocha, hidden beneath her executive clothing, melting the building as she walked into it, so that her clothes were made wet and clinging, embracing her body the way I wanted to.
Her company had an account, so I didn’t even get to touch her hand as she gave me a tip, and as I pulled back into the traffic, I felt sick. Twice I’d let Mocha slip away from me, and now I might never see her again, virtually or in the flesh. Was I a woman or a mouse?
I’d gone less than half a mile when it was too much for me. I pulled off the road and sat for a few minutes with my eyes closed, remembering the hot Mocha who’d stripped for strangers on a webcam and the iced Mocha who’d sat in my cab like a robot. Why would a woman like Mocha get her kit off online? She could have snapped her fingers and had a dozen lovers falling at her feet: male, female, whatever she wanted. Was it possible that she found it as difficult as me to talk to other women?
I tilted the rearview mirror to look at myself. OK, I wasn’t a great looker, but I was in shape, I had good teeth and my hair was short and neat ... I was OK. And I might never again meet a woman like Mocha in the flesh, a dream made real, and it was up to me to decide if I had the guts to try and make the dream come true. Or just make the dream come.
The play on words made me grin at my reflection. I thought about calling Dispatch and saying I had an engine problem and would be taking the rest of the day off, but then they’d just try and get me to take another car out, so I simply ignored the squawking radio calls, shoved the cab into gear and headed for New Covent Garden Market where I bought all the flowers I could afford, a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
I drove back to the ice cube like a madwoman and sat outside, one eye on the entrance, the other concentrating on ripping the flowerheads off their stems and chucking them into the back of the cab where they hit the seat or floor at random. The scent of freesias and carnations, rose petals and lilies filled the enclosed space and I imagined Mocha’s milky limbs crushing their cool softness into liquid pleasure. I pictured myself tearing sunshiny marigolds to pieces and sprinkling their vibrant petals into her black pubes before licking them out again with the tip of my tongue.
The idea that I was only going to get one shot at success made my heart knock in my chest like some small creature trapped in a box. I was pinning everything on her not having booked a cab for the return journey because there was nothing logged on the system as a forward booking for her company, but she could be staying in there all day, or perhaps she liked to walk home after a meeting – if I’d got it wrong, I’d wasted a fortune on flowers and fizz and I’d never see Mocha again.
But no, after an hour or so, there she was, striding out of the building, tucking her hair behind her ears, looking up and down the street. Head north, I thought, north is where I want you to go ...
And she did. I pulled back into the traffic, zooming past her and skidding to a stop outside a coffee shop I’d already earmarked. I half ran inside and yelled out my order like a madwoman, then slapped a tenner on the counter, grabbed my two takeaway mochas and ran, not waiting for my change. Back in the cab I slotted the hot drinks into the cup holders that I used during night shifts and waited for Mocha to walk past me.
I pulled back into the traffic, cruising slowly until I was level with her, then I hit the window button and my horn simultaneously so that she looked over.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I just wondered if you fancied ...’ Her face was stony and I faltered. ‘... fancied a coffee? I mean a mocha. I mean ...’
She stopped walking. I felt my heart drumming again.
‘Mocha?’ she said.
‘Oh yes, it’s my favourite.’ I was babbling and I knew it, but at least she’d spoken. ‘You can’t find a better drink – strong and sweet and very sexy.’
‘Sexy?’ Her eyes widened and she almost smiled. I grinned back.
‘Oh yes, a mocha’s the sexiest thing on Earth, except perhaps ...’
‘Perhaps?’ Now she was definitely smiling.
Instead of answering I leant back and flicked open the door of the cab. I didn’t even glance behind me, I just watched the look on her face as flowers fell out into the street and the wave of scent hit her. Those big dark eyes, never bigger, never darker, that smile, never softer or more mysterious – I’d seen it once onscreen but now it was aimed at me.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I would like to cover you with flowers and toast you in champagne, but to start with, we could drive to Battersea Park and drink these mochas before moving into the back of the cab so I can make love to you until the tyres melt with lust.’
Tyres melt with lust? What kind of corny line was that? But Mocha didn’t seem to mind; instead she tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled down at the ground before tapping her fingertips on the cab door. ‘How did you know I didn’t suffer from hay fever?’
My mouth dropped open. I’d never thought she might be allergic to flowers. She laughed out loud before opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.
I was glad that it was nearly evening, and dusk was close. All around me, as I drove to Battersea, cars were putting on their headlights. As long as I proceeded slowly, I might have the cover of darkness to seduce her.
What was her name? Could I call her Mocha? Suddenly I was embarrassed and unsure and found my eyes locking on the road ahead, too shy to glance over at her, but in my peripheral vision I saw her hand reach out for the cup of mocha and sip it as we moved sedately through the rush-hour traffic. When she replaced the cup in the holder she flicked my ID which was pinned to the dashboard. ‘Rosa?’
I nodded, eyes on the road.
‘Pretty name,’ she said.
‘Not as pretty as Mocha,’ I replied, and then blushed. I didn’t dare look over until she laughed out loud.
‘I’ve been caught, haven’t I?’ Her laughter was as rich and dark as her name.
I nodded. ‘I only saw you once, but that was enough – I could never forget you.’
‘I only did it once.’ She tucked her hair behind her ear again and sighed. I dared to glance over.
‘Why do it at all then?’
‘Oh, it was a mad, exciting adventure, but I couldn’t repeat it. I didn’t have the nerve.’
And then I told her everything. How I’d been seduced from the first moment I saw her but how the security scan had taken me away from her performance at the last and worst possible moment. As I talked and drove, I wat
ched her profile, seeing the colour rise in her cheeks as I described her body to her, telling her how lush and elegant she was, how enticing and svelte. I pretended I was talking to the screen on which I’d seen her, rather than to Mocha herself, and the words poured out until we arrived at the park and I pulled the cab in under the willow trees.
I got out and opened the back door, releasing that intense fragrance again. Mocha slipped from the car and stood beside me, her shoulder touching mine and I took her fingers and tugged her gently into the back seat.
It would be a lie to say everything went smoothly. To begin with I was worried about ruining Mocha’s suit, but she didn’t give a damn, and as she wriggled the skirt up her thighs, I definitely heard a seam rip but she simply grinned like a naughty girl. She was wearing neutral-coloured hold-ups with lacy tops and I nearly lost control of myself when I saw them appearing as the skirt hem was tugged up. I followed her into the cab, slammed the door behind me, and knelt on the floor as her white cotton knickers, stretched tight across the sable pubes, came into sight. I didn’t even bother to pull them out of the way, I just tongued her through the fabric until her lips swelled and her clit pressed against the wet cloth and I couldn’t tell if the juice came from my mouth or from her, everything was so slick and shiny and tasting of flowers and sex.
When she came she shuddered, her thighs bracing against the seat, her arms outstretched along the back like a crucified Venus. When she came again she arched her back so my hands slid right under her pearly arse and helped to lift her body into my face. When she came the third time she made a sound like a violin string breaking, like a body stretched beyond pain and pleasure, like an angel crying.
The windows of the cab were steamed up like the Ironmonger Row Turkish bath on ladies’ night. Under my knees and under her thighs lay a smear of petals like heaven’s carpet. Over our heads the willows moving as gently as Mocha’s breathing as she relaxed back into the seat, her head drooping, dark wings of hair framing her pink cheeks and soft, inky eyes. I put my arm around her, pulling her forwards onto my fingers and, as I entered her swollen wetness, she sighed and I almost thought I saw her breath in the cab like the steam rising from hot coffee. I opened her as easily as blinking, and she moved herself around with short curling motions like a spoon in a cup until she came again, her head back, her neck strained as she stared sightless into her own ecstasy.
And then, in the silence that followed, I heard a tiny sound. My meter had clicked over. I turned my head and looked over my shoulder. In all the fear and excitement I’d forgotten to turn it off, and it had just hit a figure it had never reached before. I pulled Mocha’s head down to mine and kissed her deeply, sliding my tongue around her teeth and into her cheeks to explore every inch of her I could reach. According to the meter she’d cost me £400 in lost fares. Her hands gripped my shoulders and slid down my arms as she pulled back from the kiss to nibble my neck.
It had been worth every penny.
Carny Girl
by Lynn Lake
She worked the bumper car ride, flipping the switch that electrified the ride, untangling cars, telling off overaggressive teenagers, cleaning up after overexcited kids. She was black – dark black – with straight slick hair, a lean, sinewy body, and a hard, pretty face. She wore skintight faded jeans and a green tank-top, studs in her nose and rings in her nipples, which poked almost right through the thin material of her top.
I first saw her on the Friday afternoon when the travelling carnival opened up for the long weekend. And by Friday night, I was totally infatuated.
I’d never seen anyone like her, thanks to my small-town Indiana upbringing; the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she told off the boys, and men, who rode the ride too hard, or got too fresh with the operator. As I watched her go about her work with utter confidence and contempt, black velvet skin gleaming under the hot sun, taut muscles tightening and rippling, an ache – a soul-searing need – to be loved by this hardboiled woman throbbed inside me.
‘Fuck you always hangin’ around for?’ she asked me Saturday morning. ‘Ride or glide, blondie.’
I flushed beet-red, twisting one of my pigtails around in my fingers and staring down at the cracked, littered ground. I was just a plump little girly-girl from the country, and she was ... something else entirely; I had no idea how to approach her, how to converse with her. ‘Uh, I guess I’ll, um ... ride?’ I gulped.
‘Then set your ass down,’ she stated, unsmiling.
I stumbled onto the metal platform, kids screaming and rushing past me, racing for the best cars.
Her nametag read “Mya”, and when every last car was taken, kids giggling and yelling with anticipation, she did a quick walk-around. ‘Seatbelt, blondie!’ she snapped at me.
I’d forgotten to lock myself in, too busy gazing at Mya’s taut, twitching bum, her hard little shuddering breasts and shining face. She reached down and yanked my strap over my shoulder, buckled it down at my waist. Then her hand hummed up and down the frayed nylon to make sure it was secure, her long dark fingers brushing against one of my stiffened nipples, shooting sparks all through me.
She leant in close, and the spicy scent of her body filled my senses, her teeth blazing white in a grin. ‘You’re good an’ tight now, blondie. If you wasn’t already.’
I dazedly watched her walk off, my body and being tingling with longing.
She flipped the switch and my car jumped. Kids sailed all around, occasionally banging into me, or cursing me for just sitting there. But I hardly noticed, looking over at Mya standing tall and lean and sexy on the edge of the platform, looking back at me.
Sunday afternoon, when she went on her break, I followed her. Past the trailers and trucks and across the field to a dilapidated barn that stood on the far edge of the fairground, next to a stand of trees. Her shoulders and hips moved with an animal ease and litheness, oiled in sensuality. She didn’t look back, but I knew she knew I was trailing after her. She slipped in behind the barn, and I heard voices.
I crept along the side of the weathered building, holding my breath, peeked around the corner. And my heart sank, my eyes welling with hot, bitter tears. Mya was down on her knees on the yellowed grass, in front of a big brassy redhead. Her dark hands gripped the woman’s pale thighs, her neon-pink tongue lapping at the woman’s ginger pussy.
I bit my lip, my fingernails gouging into the wood. The redhead’s skirt and panties were tangled around her ankles, her legs spread, with Mya in between, licking and licking and licking at the woman’s pussy. Her head bobbed rapidly and rhythmically up and down, her long tongue stroking the woman from bottom to top, bumhole to clit.
Blood spurted out of my lower lip and wetted my teeth, splinters gathering at my whitened fingertips. As the redhead tore her blouse and bra open and grabbed up her milky tits. She anxiously squeezed them, pinched the thick pink nipples, rolling her head back and forth against the barn – Mya’s unceasing cunt-lapping filling her with the heated joy to match my heated hate.
I wanted to scream, to rush forward and pummel that bitch who was getting so much – everything – from my three-day-old girlfriend, the love of my young life. But I did nothing, but watch, fat tears rolling down my chubby cheeks, as Mya openly and obscenely ate out that woman right in front of me.
She planted her face in the redhead’s glistening pussy and sucked on the woman’s clit. The woman gasped, moaned, her huge tits jumping in her clutching hands. Mya’s cheeks hollowed, lips working, tongue tripping the woman’s trigger, and setting her off.
‘Oh, God, yes!’ she cried, shivering, quivering, coming in my Mya’s mouth.
I could barely stand, my legs were so weak, my rage and lust impotent forces, as usual.
But Mya stood up, easily. Wiping her mouth off, she demanded, ‘50 bucks, bitch.’
The redhead slapped her, indignant at being called a bitch. Mya grinned, and slapped her back, bouncing the woman’s head off the barn. I gasped, glaring at the heated sc
ene.
The woman brushed her hair back from her reddened face and buttoned up her blouse, pulled up her skirt. Then she fumbled around in her purse and handed $50 over to Mya. ‘Tonight?’ she asked, looking up shyly.
Mya laughed, nodded, sticking the money in her jeans.
The redhead ran my way, and I ducked back behind the corner of the barn, hugging the boards, even more shaken. Because in that instant, I’d actually gotten a good look at the woman’s face – it was Mrs Hufnagel, wife of the chief of police. She had three kids, was in our church choir. She ran past me in her low heels and back to the Midway, not even noticing me in her haste.
‘You got 50 bucks too, blondie?’ I jumped. It was Mya, right next to me.
‘Uh, um ...’ I dug a hand into a pocket of my jean shorts, knowing full well I didn’t have that much money. But I was talking to Mya, at last, in private.
‘Didn’t think so,’ she sneered. ‘Then you’re givin’, girl, not gettin’.’
She grabbed my arm and pulled me around the side of the barn, shoved me up against the wood almost exactly where Mrs Hufnagel had taken her licking. Then she pinned my arms up above my head with her strong hands and pushed her face in close to mine. Her large brown eyes burned into my unblinking baby-blues, her hot breath flooding my open mouth.
The heat from her body so close set me to shimmering with desire, the hard pointed tips of her breasts touching the buzzing tips of my breasts. She slid her pink tongue out and washed her thick lips with it, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing. ‘You’re a real Barbie girl, huh, blondie? Still in her original packaging.’ She laughed in my face.
I was dizzy, almost delirious. This would be my first time with a real woman ... ‘Start lickin’, girl!’ Mya hissed. ‘I only got ten minutes left.’
She shoved me down to my knees and skinned her jeans down, stuck her pussy right into my face. Stunned, I grabbed onto her bare hips and tentatively stuck my tongue into her tangle of fur, the heady aroma of her sex making my head spin and resolve weaken. She gripped my pigtails and jerked my head forward, burying my face in her jungle pussy.
The Perfect Italian Wife Page 4
