by Violet Blue
He comes. And my heart triple skips and hurts so bad I fear it’s breaking.
Amy gets the bum’s rush. She doesn’t seem surprised at all. Jess escorts her down to the thumping club below his loft. I hear him in the hall. Yeah, baby, I’ll call you. I have some stuff going on. I’ll give you a ring, though. He never will. I can hear it in her voice when she agrees, that she is aware it’s bullshit.
I move on numb legs to the bed, push the sheets into a messy jumble that is casual in appearance but pleasant to look at. Like a magazine illustration. Like a photo shoot. I sink down onto the still-warm bed and play my long legs over the wrinkled, damp sheets. I arrange my hair and my arms so that I am beautiful. But not too beautiful.
I try to remember the ugly face that Amy made when she came. She was a piece of writhing art locked in her orgasm, something like a painting of demons and Hell, her face contorted and imperfect in blessed agony. I make that face. It does not feel right on my face.
“Baby,” Jess says. He’s right there, watching me, frowning. In that one word is love and hate and worry.
“Baby, no more.”
I hold my arms out. I study them like they’re not mine. Long and pale and thin. Too thin in real life but on glossy expensive paper they are the arms of a goddess. An angel. He comes to me. He smells like fucking and bubble gum. I kiss him, suck his tongue. Taste her. A sugary rush with an acrid undertone. I spread my legs and his cock, hard already in his jeans, nudges the split of my pussy. I’m so wet. So ready. Waiting to feel.
He’s dirty and covered in her. He’s flawless.
I let him look at me for three heartbeats. Me, a still life, a painting. And then I say, “Shh,” and kiss him. Push up at him with my hips. Press my pelvis to his. Beg him with my body not to talk or question or analyze but just to fuck me. Take me. Right here in the bed that smells like her.
I push at his jeans. Tug at his cock. Free him and slide the hard ridge of him to my hot, hot pussy. I open for him, crying. When I cry I am ugly. I am real.
Jess stares, licks off my tears and drives into me. His teeth capture my earlobe and he bites. I cry harder, coming so fast, so soon. His lips lick over mine, trailing the cloying taste of bubble gum with each slippery swipe. “I love you,” he says.
I cry harder. I clench my cunt around him, pulling at his lower back, desperate, needy, entirely unattractive but swelling with emotion. I feel so much I must be gorgeous.
“I love you.” He stares at me, moving slower. Fucking me with his eyes and his cock. “Say you love me, Marilee.”
“I love you.” I mean it, but it’s hard.
“Say you love you, Marilee.” This time he traps my cheeks in his hands.
I shake my head, another orgasm rushing at me like a purple white wave. My vision goes bright, my cunt gushes and crushes around him. He moves faster, his eyes dark and dangerous and full of hope.
I shake my head. He pinches me. “Say it, Marilee.”
“I love me,” I say, sobbing. And I come. I come and my face is ugly and his face is perfect and for one split second, I am as real as bubble gum and stretch marks and extra flesh. For one heartbeat I am perfectly real.
SECRET SERVICE
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Some people go to culinary school with dreams of becoming the next Michelin-starred chef and reviving American cuisine. Me, I just wanted to make people happy, namely women, and the only thing that rivals food, to my mind, is sex. My plan all along had been to combine them in the form of one-stop shopping. I couldn’t exactly blurt this out while attending the Culinary Institute of America, so instead I bided my time, working as a chef in top restaurants in New York, Miami, L.A., San Francisco and Seattle, taking note of everything that was done well and everything I thought could be improved.
I perfected my cooking technique, while also bedding plenty of my fellow chefs as well as servers, busboys, hostesses and customers. Closing time took on new meaning as I kissed someone whose breath smelled of the food I’d just prepared, and that’s when the idea for Secret Service was formed. I was living in Brooklyn by then and my inspiration came from Kokie’s, a bar that, before it closed a few years back, did a brisk backroom business in cocaine. (Google “Kokie’s Place” if you don’t believe me.) You could walk in, order a beer, casually inquire about doing a bump, then get whisked away and emerge high and happy.
My friends and I had marveled at how such a business had managed to stay afloat at all, its name taunting all comers. Now you couldn’t just walk in and go up to the bartender, wave a rolled-up dollar bill and be given a mirror and some blow. It was more subtle than that, and it was the very subtlety, the sly maneuvering, that gave me my brainstorm: I wanted to open the Kokie’s of cunnilingus, a restaurant that would offer a little something extra in the back, geared specifically toward women who wanted a few minutes to spread their legs, lean back, and get licked and sucked by an expert mouth.
The whole thing was kind of an in joke, to some people at least. But to my employees and customers, it was a brilliant merger of supply and demand. It was like the sexual equivalent of fast food; women didn’t have to wait around for what they really wanted. Sure, most of them could’ve found a man to take them home and fuck them, but finding one to take them home and simply focus his tongue on their most private parts, focusing solely on their pleasure? That was rarer, and I knew there were plenty of women who would rather pay for their orgasm, in addition to enjoying a fine meal. And I was right. From our opening night, we were a big hit.
I thought of it kind of like the In-N-Out secret menu; we didn’t post a sign or have something on the menu saying, Sides: French Fries: $5; Cunnilingus: $20. That would simply be tacky. As distinctly modern as my concept was, there was something old-fashioned about how the gossip spread, and watching women emerge from the back room with that flushed sex high lighting up their faces made me glow with a satisfaction money can’t buy.
Working at restaurants had given me a taste of what it meant to sell a kind of oral bliss; watch anyone dig into a truly superior meal, whether it’s macaroni and cheese or tiramisu or even a plate of perfectly cooked spinach, and you will see a look that rivals orgasm on her face. By catering largely to women, I hoped to give them a space where they could enjoy the food as well as the extras in peace, without a care as to what their man, or any man, might think.
Don’t get me wrong, though; word spread even before our official opening to the right kind of guy, the kind who wants to see his woman satisfied, who gets hard thinking about his woman in the throes of ecstasy. My phone was ringing off the hook with men making reservations and subtly inquiring as to how they could comp their lady of the evening a turn backstage. Business was booming and opening night was booked solid two weeks in advance. I had planned an extensive advertising campaign, but found that I didn’t even need it. The ones who needed it found me.
I would have loved to install secret cameras so I could watch what really went down back there, but my ethics wouldn’t allow it, and I wanted the men I hired to feel uninhibited as well. How did I choose them? Well, I didn’t have any ethical qualms about putting them on the restaurant version of a casting couch. I was too busy putting my business plan into action to really date, and, like many of my customers, I wasn’t interested in the whole wining and dining drama. I’d have time for that later; I wanted to cut to the chase, and while I have an extensive collection of sex toys that I make good use of, they simply can’t rival the human touch required for proper cunnilingus. I’ve been given head by dozens of exuberant men, as well as a handful of very talented women, so I think I know what goes into pussy-eating, even though mileage may vary depending on your preferences.
I set up timers so the women would have an idea of the limitations of what they were ordering; if they wanted to continue their private pleasure outside the restaurant, they were more than welcome to. My employees were free agents, and many of them wound up rolling out at closing time right into the beds of women t
hey’d serviced earlier in the night.
For me, the most important thing, the one element I can’t live without, is for the person putting my pussy where his mouth to want to be there, not just for the money or for what comes afterward, but because that’s what makes him horny. It’s true what they say: good eaters are good at going down; picky eaters rarely make good lovers. I trained my associates, making sure they were comfortable with the job. There’d be plenty of downtime, since I couldn’t exactly ask my customers to make appointments for when they wanted their happy endings, so my staff might have to go down on several women in a row. “Could you handle it?” I’d grill potential pussy-eaters during interviews as I fed them my special calamari or my roast duck. A free meal or two was part of the interview process. I’d listen closely to their answers, trying to get at the heart of why they wanted a job that essentially boiled down to being a tongue for hire.
The men whose demeanors changed as they discussed the pleasures of giving head were the ones who got a callback. I could hear something in their voices, a tone that got more hushed, an unmistakable reverence as they sang the praises of pussy as intensely as they did the flavor of an imported olive oil. They were true sensualists, and while their job wouldn’t take place in the kitchen, I wanted them to appreciate both kinds of services my business would provide. Similarly, my chefs had to know about the importance of the taste buds to arousal, the connection between the two sets of lips. I wanted the joys my customers experienced, whether the fiery spice of a chili or a mouth sucking hard on their clit, the thrillingly sweet smoothness of the perfect gelato or a tongue caressing their innermost parts, to match, to complement one another. I’ll admit, too, that I found my own sex pulsing with desire as those I interviewed talked. I employed a few women as well, in the kitchen and in back, because I wanted to appeal to as wide a range of customers as possible, and sometimes what a woman needs most is another woman to set her at ease and then shake her world so intensely she sees stars.
I liked the play on words that “Secret Service” conveyed, as well as the hiding in plain sight nature of the name, just like Kokie’s before it. I secured my staff, and brought my friends in over the next two months for trial runs. They were more than happy to subject themselves to meal after exquisite meal, not to mention providing feedback on the oral offerings. I quickly realized we’d need to play our music on the louder side to cover up the women’s screams of arousal; one room was an actual closet, soundproofed, for the real screamers. What I heard from my friends let me know right away that we had something big on our hands. My phone started ringing off the hook, my inbox exploding with requests for reservations from people who’d heard through the grapevine about what was really on the menu at my restaurant—or rather, off the menu. Except that in this case, I hadn’t waited for my customers to request an amorous appetizer, I’d anticipated their needs before they had.
Tara, the publicist I hired, was instructed to not speak openly about anything other than the food, but she perfected the art of the double entendre. Having taken her own personal tour of every head-giver on staff, she knew whereof she spoke when she peppered her press release with words like “satisfaction,” “orgasmic,” “completely unique,” and “female-oriented.” Even so, the average reader wouldn’t have a clue unless they heard from someone what (and who) was really going down. Opening night, I fluttered around nervously, hoping that advance buzz, curiosity and general horniness would all work in our favor.
Reporters swarmed the place, and I knew from careful observation that more than one female restaurant critic had made her way to the back while waiting for her meal to be served, later tucking into her order with the gusto of the freshly tongue-fucked.
But I was more curious about what the average woman thought. If there had been an ethical way to set up a camera to peek in at the booths in the back, I’d have done so. I was busy overseeing the cooks, making sure people were seated quickly, trying to look like I wasn’t frantic. I must have failed miserably because Ed, my second in charge, pulled me aside. “Kate, you’re making people nervous. You have to stop pacing. Come with me.” He tugged me into one of the back rooms that happened to be empty. “You know what you need. This whole place is simply your fantasy writ large. Now keep quiet and sit back and relax.”
He shoved me into a chair while I spluttered, my mouth open. “Not now. Later, after everyone leaves. I can’t let you do this right now.”
“Why not, exactly?” he asked, snaking his hand up my jean skirt and slipping his fingers into my waistband. I was wet against his touch even as I heard what could only be the sounds of a woman in the throes of orgasm from the other side of the wall.
I bit my lower lip, worrying it with my teeth as no good answer came to mind. There was little I could do at that point, anyway, and now that he’d gotten me so riled up, I feared I wouldn’t be able to relax if I didn’t get off immediately. “Plus I bet you’re dying to know what I can do with my mouth.” He was on to me; I’d hired him in part for his impressive resume, but also because he had a goatee, big hands, and tattoos that made me want to tackle him and strip him naked. Now he was about to do the same to me, and I was about to let him.
I shut my eyes as he shoved my skirt up and then took a Swiss army knife out of his pocket and sliced right through my wet white panties, balling them up and shoving them in his jeans pocket. The click of the knife echoed in the air, but he kept it in his hand as he held on to my skirt and then placed his mouth against my lips. I’d expected him to dive right in, but he started slow, breathing in my scent, rubbing his lips gently against mine before allowing his tongue to make contact. “Relax,” he whispered, making me realize that I hadn’t fully done so. I let my arms go slack, my fingers tight against the chair’s back, and rested my heels against Ed’s shoulder blades as he showed me that he could’ve just as easily applied for a job on his knees, rather than in the office.
While in the rest of his life he’s a blur of energy, as he licked me, he took his time, giving me slow lap after slow lap of his warm tongue. Then he started fluttering it, fast little flicks that made my nostrils flare as I bucked upward against him. He pushed my hips down, and I struggled to get closer. “Next time I do this, I’m going to have to tie you up,” he said, and I melted back down, both at the idea that there’d be a next time and the image of me bound with black rope, unable to move.
His tongue pressed inside me, filling my hole as best he could, even as my hard clit silently begged to be touched, sucked, kissed. Slowly, every thought about the future of the restaurant, all the stress of the past few months that had culminated on this monumental day, disappeared into his mouth, replaced simply by the need to come. That need was one I welcomed, one I treasured, for even though I’d made time for sessions with my vibrator, even sneaking a quiet one into my office for a few minutes of stolen pleasure, it wasn’t the same as a man whose mission was to make me climax. Everything about Ed’s actions told me he was as into it as I was, that his enjoyment fed directly from mine. He hummed against my sex, not as part of some new-age sex tip he’d read, but to express himself, half hum, half “Mmm,” as he coaxed forth more and more of my juices.
He lifted his head at the critical juncture, making me jerk mine upward. “Don’t stop,” I panted.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Kate,” he said, then gave me the lightest kiss, a peck, really, but one that let me taste my own saltiness on his lips. His thick thumb pressed inside me, curving down toward my ass, then swiveling up to press toward my G-spot. Soon the thumb was gone, replaced by other fingers, several of them, while his palm pressed on my lower belly. He curved his fingers just so and I bit my lip even harder, rocking my head up and down since clearly moving my hips wasn’t permitted in our silent little power play.
His fingers twisted inside me just as my muscles clamped down, a sensual tug of war that ended when he pressed four fingers into me, stretching my poor cunt, opening me up as he sank down once again to devote his li
ps to my clit. In concert, his fingers and mouth serviced me, summoned me, scattered my senses all over the room as they delivered their two-pronged attack. My clit met his teeth, a feral greeting befitting my now-frantic state. His teeth held my bud steady as his tongue speared it, and his fingers seemed to grow inside me, though I knew that wasn’t technically possible. He made me feel so big, my pussy becoming a powerful giant capable of ruling the entire world, even as he narrowed it to this singular sensation. When my climax finally roared from within me, I felt its power leap out from the mouth of my pussy like dragon’s breath, fierce and dangerous, a five-alarm fire that clanged its way from my center outward. He stayed glued to me but gradually stilled, his fingers slackening, his tongue pausing, as he gave us both time to recover.
Eventually he pulled out, licked his fingers, then scooped me up in his arms, arranging me into a standing position and pulling my skirt down. “You’ve done good, Kate,” he whispered in my ear, and I wasn’t sure if he meant with coming or the opening. “And just so you know, if you’re ever short a man back here, you can count on me.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur, at least for me, a happy one as I floated around helping out as needed, urging women who seemed reluctant to take even just a quick moustache ride in back. “It’s on me,” I told a few of them, sensing that this was the kind of freebie that would ensure some truly dedicated customers.
The looks they gave me were priceless—before and after. So many versions of the raised eyebrow, the quizzical glance, the knowing grin. Some women were clearly unsure of what they were getting into, but the true New Yorkers, the gutsy types, were willing to boldly go where their friends could only ogle.
The next day, the papers were abuzz about the outstanding service, the off-the-menu specialties, the attention to detail. Even the food got high praise and the phone rang off the hook for the next month, ensuring a full house every night. I couldn’t get Ed off my mind, and invited him back to my place after work one night to see what he could do in a more relaxed atmosphere. If I’d thought ten minutes with him was heavenly, try three hours. I was literally weak in the knees when he was done. It hadn’t been a fluke; he was magically able to get me to relax, then get me to come, or keep me on the edge. His mouth made love to me in the most incredible of ways, without his trying to show off or be macho, and certainly without a hint of asking for anything in return. Eventually, though, after I’d begged, he’d showed me the present hiding in his pants. My nostrils flared as I sucked in a deep breath at the sight. It was so tempting, but he told me he’d rather we kept our arrangement focused on me. “But…you like it, right? Eating pussy turns you on? This isn’t just some job for you, is it?” I was horrified at the thought.
