by Violet Blue
I didn’t care. All that mattered was R.K., the maestro of the erotic symphony I listened to and put into words.
Follow me, were the first words he spoke, and my fantasies of doing just that raged for weeks after I’d finished the transcription and mailed it off.
Within three months, two more recordings arrived, each one hot as hell and intriguing, one with the alto, the other a new voice with a creamy Dutch accent that cried out her orgasms in old-world fashion. Each recording unfolded differently, including the alto begging R.K. to punish her and him doing just that—apparently by denying her the orgasm she so desperately wanted.
As I finger-fucked myself, I thought of her, and got off as if it could make up for what she’d been denied.
When the fourth envelope arrived, I was more than ready for the job, both monetarily and sexually. The five months that had passed since his last recording drove my imagination to all sorts of turns about where my favorite client had disappeared to. Maybe he was dead after tying up some drug lord’s bored wife and fucking her brains out. Or arrested. If he was selling his services, the possibility that my sexy baritone was beating the ass of some jailhouse punk definitely fell within the realm of possibilities.
I glanced at his note, the form the same as all the others: get the sounds, bonus when finished, but this time he added a deadline. Four days. Like I would wait four fucking days.
I settled into the cockpit with a glass of wine and popped the CD into my player as had become my R.K. ritual. Listen, get off, transcribe. The muffled drone of music and partying reached me from different corners of the marina, the Friday night rituals of so many others taking a different course than my own. Headphones in place, it wasn’t difficult for me to shove the outside world away and concentrate on him.
The recording started with the click of heels on tile.
Follow me.
Gush.
Six paces of his quiet footsteps and the click of heels. He stopped, the clicks a half beat behind him.
Kneel.
A brief scuffle of the heels, and then I heard R.K. moving, steady footsteps in the same area, then he stopped. A cloud of sound drifted through the air, maybe silk or satin falling onto the tile. I wheeled the volume on the player up, needing to hear, expecting the crack of leather at any moment, wanting that sharp blast in my ears to rocket hot sensation to my slick crotch.
A soft feminine sigh passed moist lips and the all too human static of hands upon skin filled my ears. A soft moan then a quick, excited suck of air. A dull tapping, maybe the toes of her shoes against the floor.
She whimpered, almost whined, then R.K.’s footsteps moved again. The jingle of chain and the sound of a buckle preceded the sultry murmur from the woman, a vibration that echoed in my chest.
Over.
The soft bump of movement, then the rain of metal on the tile. Footsteps, then a sound like the single snap of a flag in a breeze. The clarion yip of the woman made me chuckle, but mirth faded as she gasped, true alarm in her voice.
No, please. Her voice trembled, but no sounds of struggle or retreat accompanied her plea.
Shh, his depthless voice salved and smoothed. Trust me.
A stifled titter emanated from her, a long loud exhalation, then a rapid, but steady breathing.
Good. Low, rich and calm, he soothed and as he did, I squirmed, the thick blood in my pussy lips beginning to pulse.
My eyes closed as I listened to him stroking her skin, her rapid breath taking on the edge of climbing arousal.
When a high whirring was introduced, my eyes blinked back open. I rewound the recording and listened again. Vibrator?
The solitary whirr turned to a sweet hum as the sound was muffled by contact with flesh. The woman’s gasps of pleasure confirmed my suspicion. My vibrator taught me that same language long ago.
Heavy footsteps and slight scuffs countered whining tonal scales as the device encountered different flesh. I heard the wicked rattle of plastic bumping teeth, a gurgled moan of desire, and the vibration of metal against the device.
He moved again, the high-pitched hum alternating between almost angry and muffled. Wetness filled my ear, the slippery sliding chime rising above the mechanical song. The panting of the woman rose in intensity, and I heard my own snorting in rhythm with the recording. The buzzing bounced one more time into my ear, then faded abruptly.
The woman’s joyful shrieks filled my ears, Yes, yes. YES! Howling, then whimpering, her breathing broken of rhythm or pride, and then the golden meter of R.K.’s triumphant chuckle surged electricity through my body to jolt my weeping pussy.
Follow me, he commanded and the chain rattled, footsteps and shuffling followed, the accompanying harmony to the woman’s orgasmic braying, her athletic puffing interrupted by sharp declarations of climax and the occasional sound of him slapping her flesh.
What the hell was he doing to her? They were moving, and from the direction of the sounds, it sounded like the woman was still on her knees, R.K. close to her, but upright.
My hips were moving against the pillow I’d pulled into my lap at some point during the recording. I wanted to come, needed to come. I needed R.K. to make me come.
Right, by god, now.
The sound of collapse filled my ears, followed by panting, shallow moans.
Good girl. Enough.
Damn! I held my breath waiting for the static hiss denoting the end of the recording. The wet spot in the crotch of my pants, the sweat on my face and the pulse that crashed through my veins demanded more!
His footsteps echoed on the tile.
The digital counter on the player told me there was more. I sped forward and stopped, rewound. Just his voice this time, the timbre as familiar as my own heartbeat now, intimate.
He spoke directly, unmistakably, his voice silk in my ear, my clit and tits aching already with what I knew lay ahead. The voice: Petra Arin.
Eighteen Juniper Street. Port Orange.
Follow me.
STRAIGHT LACED
Carrie Cannon
All of the women who worked at Jolie liked underwear. Why else would we agree to work for just over minimum wage plus commissions? But for me, the attraction went so much deeper I was ashamed to admit it to anyone but myself. There was something profound, transcendent even, about the structured femininity of a balcony bra, the earthy burlesque of red fishnets, and the wicked incongruity of industrial grommets straining against soft satin laces. With this job, I could finger tiny grosgrain bows and ruched mesh to my heart’s content.
Every item of lingerie needed a body to breathe life into its limp, puckered frame, but once the body was there, I barely noticed it. The clinging lace, the winking Lurex, conspired against my concentration and drew me into a hazy wonderland of fabric-clad desire. As I helped customers in the fitting room, it was all I could do to remember myself and not run eager hands over their gorgeous taffeta- or shantung-swathed breasts.
On the few occasions when I managed to pull myself away from fondling lingerie, my coworkers and I would indulge in a game of Name That Straight Guy. Straight men who came alone to the shop usually fell into one of four categories. The “blazers” stormed their way into the store, attacking the racks, and seizing the first item they found in the right size. I do this every day, they said by way of puffed chests and toothy grins. But the beads of sweat and the credit card already in hand belied their terror. “Cringers” were sullen and resentful. They made it clear they’d rather be chewing off a finger. Cringers winced as they handed over their requisite crumpled scrap of paper with neat, loopy handwriting listing sizes and preferences. The wandering, wide-eyed men with bemused faces and unfocused pupils were labeled “lost.” They tended to be overly friendly and obsequiously grateful for any guidance.
The “dandies” were our favorites. They were perfectly tailored businessmen with Italian shoes who inspected each garter or demi like a market peach that might have hidden bruises. They spent loads of money, but you had t
o negotiate their dickering instincts and raging libidos to earn it. Usually, it was a dandy who would ask for modeling services. I have to see it before I buy, they would say, running greedy eyes up and down our figures. I’m so sorry, we’d reply, shaking our heads and summoning our best simpering, pouty frowns to show we knew how unfair, how terribly unreasonable, this policy was. Honestly, (conspiratorial nod) we’d be in there now, trying them on for you ourselves, but that big meanie in the office would fire us if she ever found out.
Sexual tension was our business, and we did work on commission.
Of course, there was no meanie in the office; the owner, Marta, was out on the floor most of the time, and she was more likely than any of us to break the no-modeling policy. On very rare occasions, a salesgirl might take a fancy to a customer—she might even indulge him in a clandestine modeling session in the cavernous dressing room we shared with the bridal shop next door, also owned by Marta. The room had mirrors lining three of the four walls and a raised pedestal in the center for a bride or pageant hopeful to admire her gown and have it hemmed. A folding screen politely hid the ladies from their attendant mothers and girlfriends while they changed.
Once dandies, or any other clients, were invited to observe a private fashion show, they became “larks.” Larks were few and far between because none of us wanted the news of this special service to get out. I, myself, had never indulged a lark, and whether any of those private sessions might have progressed past a peep show, I couldn’t say; I didn’t ask. But I had my suspicions, given the large box of condoms Marta kept tucked away in the dressing room’s tailoring cabinet.
The first time Marcus came into the store, he had the fresh, tousled look of an overaged frat boy: jeans slightly baggy, button-down tails hanging out, sleeves rolled just below the elbow. I wasn’t normally attracted to scruffy types, but those pale gray eyes peeking out from dark, shaggy bangs sent a jolt of electricity slamming through me. I walked up behind him as he made his way slowly along the racks. Beneath the loose fabric of his shirt, I could just make out the exceptional geometry of his broad shoulders and thin waist, and I bit my lower lip in appreciation.
“Can I help you find something?” I asked. Like me?
He jumped and spun toward me; he looked like I’d just caught him shoplifting. His sheepish grin made my stomach puddle into my pelvis.
“Oh! No…uh…no…thank you, though.”
“Well, don’t hesitate to ask if you need help. I’ll be over by the register.” Waiting for you to rip my clothes off. Did I imagine his eyes holding mine just a little too long?
I joined Marta and Ellen at the edge of the counter. The three of us stood, heads crooked, almost touching, analyzing this, our only customer in the store.
“He’s lost,” said Marta. “Look at the way his eyes get all glazed over when he looks at the garters.”
“No way, he’s a cringer,” said Ellen. He did look miserable. When his eyes weren’t on the racks, they darted nervously from one side of the shop to another; he seemed to expect the mannequins to morph into people who would recognize him. When his eyes met mine, however, he didn’t look quite so panicked; then he would blush, and rattle me with his self-conscious smile.
“I think he’s cute,” I said.
Marta glanced over at me. “Going on a lark, are we, Katie?” I was busy noticing something very interesting—not about the customer exactly, but about the pieces he would stop and touch. They were all exquisite. His rough and tumble looks didn’t fit the profile of a high-end aficionado, but without fail, his long slender fingers paused to stroke delicately embroidered Burano lace, or the impeccable engineering of a German corset.
“Maybe he’s gay,” said Ellen.
My heart dropped. Of course, that explains it.
“I don’t think so,” said Marta, squinting her eyes and shaking her head. She had a pretty good track record.
I had no good reason, but I didn’t think he was gay either. My heart recovered slightly and a warm glow spread through my limbs. This was a man who knew an exceptional piece of lingerie when he saw it. And that ass… A twinge of disappointment reined in my excitement when I realized those fancy garments slung across his arm must be for someone.
As he walked up to the register with his bashful, happy smile focused on me, I resisted the temptation to throw myself across the counter, legs splayed, and beg for mercy.
“Lucky girl,” I observed, running the scanner over the price tags.
“What? Oh…yeah.” He looked perplexed, like he wanted to say something more, but his mouth snapped shut and his eyebrows burrowed into each other.
I glanced down at the sizes on the garments. I looked back up at him, eyes narrowing. Who was this girlfriend?
I swiped his debit card, making sure to take note of his name, and handed him the slip. As he leaned over to sign it, I had an uninterrupted view of his chest, straight down the front of his shirt.
That’s when I slammed my hand down on his pen, rattling everything on the counter and startling both of us. He looked up at me, wide-eyed and questioning. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What are you doing, Katie? He lowered his chin and saw the swagged opening of his collar. He stared back at me, slowly turning beet red. We stood like this, leaning intently toward each other, eyes locked, for what seemed like an eternity.
“You need…” I stammered, unable to make the words behave. His eyebrows lifted expectantly. He looked like he might start crying he was so embarrassed.
“You need to…see those on,” I croaked.
“On?” He panicked, looking over at the amused faces of Ellen and Marta.
“I mean…on me. Yes. You should see them on me. Now.”
He shot a furtive look over his shoulder, then turned back to me, leaning in even closer. He whispered, “Really?” The anxious mix of doubt and hope in his face made mush of my insides.
“Follow me.” Feeling a little more sure of myself, I winked at Marta’s and Ellen’s raised eyebrows and led my lark to the back of the store. As I approached the dressing room, the open doorway seemed to grow unnaturally large and the sight of it sapped my nerve. What were my plans, exactly, once I got to the other side? He still might be gay; he could have a girlfriend; I was only acting on a hunch. But my feet propelled me forward and through the door.
I heard the self-locking knob click behind us. There was only one way to find out where this was going, so I spun around to kiss him. Marcus must have had the same idea because his head was already in motion toward mine, and our foreheads cracked in a decidedly unsexy way. Fumbling and apologizing, he ran his soft hands over my forehead and down the sides of my face.
That was all the encouragement I needed. I started fumbling with his buttons, unable to wait another second, desperate to see what was behind his shirt. But Marcus grabbed my wrists in a panic.
“Whoa! Slow down. Can’t we make out a little and, you know, get to know each other?”
This time my eyebrows were the ones to cross. “Sure. Then we’ll crochet some doilies. Let me under that shirt.”
Indecision clouded his face; I needed a clincher. My wrists still cuffed in his hands, I leaned forward and kissed his neck. Then I pressed my lips to his ear and whispered, “I’m wearing Chantal Thomass.”
With a pained whimper, he released my hands. One long, panty-soaking kiss later he let me unbutton his shirt and slide it from his shoulders.
My jagged gasp made Marcus’s eyebrows furrow together again, but he misunderstood my surprise; he was more beautiful than even I had imagined. Wrapped in an ivory jacquard, straight-neckline corset with a complex pattern of twisting leaves and vines, he was the haunting vision of perfection I’d only seen previously in guilty fantasies behind my own closed eyes. I pressed my hands onto his chest, trying not to pant quite so obviously. My palms moved slowly, firmly, down the steel boning and around his rib cage, lingering at the point where his ribs ended and his sides should have given way to soft abdomen, bu
t instead retained their aggressive rigidity all the way to his hips.
Unbuttoning his jeans, I wrestled them down to his thighs as I sank to my knees and pressed my cheek into his smooth, firm stomach. I breathed in deeply, letting the heady scent of man and silk infiltrate my body and tickle all my private parts. The luxurious fabric surrounding him was cinched, tight and unyielding, but still felt liquid beneath my skin. I circled my arms around his waist to let the satin track of laces ripple beneath my fingers. When I pulled my head back, a dark circle of drool stained his stomach.
I lifted my eyes to his, beaming. The knot in his eyebrows was gone and relief flooded his face. Shoes and jeans kicked aside, he stood like a white angel in the center of the dressing room, with a host of angelic doubles spreading out to infinity around him in the mirrors. Every one of them is going to be fucking me any minute now, I thought, blushing at my own wickedness. His white stockings, clipped neatly in garters, curled and crimped the black hair beneath them. His raging erection strained against the thin fabric of his thong. He looked so sweet and vulnerable I wanted to eat him.
I stood up and ran my hands under my shirt to lift it over my head. The hoarse animal sound that gurgled from his chest at the sight of my coral-tulle-clad breasts made my pelvis lurch toward him. One of his hands pulled me close, his hot breath warming my neck, while the other traced the delicate, hand-gathered ruffle rimming the cups of my bra. “You are so beautiful,” he breathed. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or my bra, but I didn’t care.
In a mad rush, he and I both pushed my slacks down and off so his hands could run unhindered over the mesh of my panties. He circled his palms over my ass and cradled my cheeks, feathery fingertips just teasing my creases. One hand wandered to my front and traced my clit. Electric shock waves shot through my body. He pressed more firmly, deeper between my legs, rubbing the thin fabric separating his fingers from my cunt. Almost in a swoon, I pushed into his hand, eager for the tickling half touch of his fingers through the holes in the mesh. He muffled a moan into my neck and I realized my panties were dripping. I pulled his waist closer and lost myself in a delirious haze of silk and boning against my bare stomach.
