Nine-to-Five Fantasies: Tales of Sex on the Job

by Неизвестный

  “I can stay late for you, if you like,” I said, repeating what he’d said earlier.

  “Mmm.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he brushed his lips over mine, the touch hot and sweet at the same time. “Maybe I can explain what a computational model is to you. Tomorrow?”

  Reaching up, I cupped his face between my palms and drew him down for a longer kiss. We were both breathing hard when I let him go. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  CURRENT PHOTO, PLEASE

  Devin Phillips

  When I joined a stupid “casual dating site,” I thought I had no illusions, but maybe I did. For about five seconds, I thought I might meet someone interesting. Pretty soon I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  See, “casual dating site” is code for “a supposed dating site that isn’t really about dating but looks like porn, so guys join and sensible women keep away unless they’re sex workers and then they play games with the guys until they cough up a few hundred bucks and then they fuck them, or they just get the losers to log in to cam sites and pay for the privilege.”

  And yet, there I was! And I really had only myself to blame.

  I don’t know what tempted me into setting up a profile at HotBot. The site had nasty ads and far nastier male members, and I don’t use that double entendre casually. I’d joined because I wanted to have a few sexual adventures, but I was way too chicken to just post on Craigslist. And I’d been told that if you verified you were a real woman with the staff, they would comp you three months’ worth of premium membership.

  They did, and it was nasty. Once I had my profile up with an obscure shot of my face and a few of those cropped-down body shots my friend Amanda had done last year or the year before, my inbox was stuffed. I got hundreds of messages all in the span of a couple of days. At first, I sought to respond with a “Thanks, but no thanks,” which got me pleaded with, begged at and called nasty names. It only took one day before I stopped responding altogether. After that, I only logged in to bolster my sense of moral superiority and pessimistic disgust with the human race.

  Which backfired horribly one night, when I found myself looking at a message from a guy named Clay.

  His comments about me were kind and complimentary, but not creepy-complimentary.

  His profile said:

  Looking for whatever feels right. I’m a little kinky, but not hard-core. I’ve been around the block. But I’m looking for a long-term girl. Meantime, casual is also fine. I’m even down for booty calls if we hit it off. Just be honest. Current photo, please.

  The profile only had a few body shots—which, if the other respondents were any indication, were probably his brother, cousin or some stock photography model. But there was no picture of his dick, which was a big plus, and horribly rare on this site. And Clay apparently liked my profile enough that he’d gone so far as to attach a recent head shot not displayed on his profile.

  The second I saw it, my heart jumped. Yum. Oh, yum. Oh, oh, yum.

  Then that pessimistic disgust I talked about earlier chased my excitement down and beat it to death with a stick.

  Come on, I thought. Don’t even respond. What kind of loser thinks he can get away with sending a porn star’s head shot? Doesn’t he realize if we meet, I’ll know he’s lying?

  But Clay’s message to me was very charming. He was black, which I like. Mind you, that didn’t mean he was actually black; with online dating, white guys do some crazy shit, as in most other arenas.

  But the thing is, his head shot was a picture of a porn star. The chances were almost unthinkably low that it really was him, and I knew that.

  And had it been almost any other porn star, I wouldn’t have given his message a second thought. But he was named Clay and the guy I was thinking he looked like was named André Clayton.

  I had this sense that somewhere, I’d read that the guy’s real name was—

  It took me next to no time to find it, right there in the Adult Film Database. There he was on his AFD profile: gorgeous and built and magnificently rampant.

  Real Name: Clay Emory Higgins.

  Didn’t prove anything; he was probably still fake.

  Any dumb guy could look up André Clayton’s real name on the Internet. Just like I did. Right?

  Right. I probably would have assumed that was what was going on. Except that I followed a couple of links from the AFD page, and there were these clips, right?

  And, well…things might have gotten out of hand.

  An hour of André Clayton clips later, I decided this was ridiculous. I decided to go ahead and make my first date from HotBot—an immediate booty call with the two lowest-maintenance men in my little black book: Buzz and Mister Throbby. Our threeway went down thirty seconds later, when I returned from my bedroom with Buzz in my left hand and Throbby in my right, and…well, André Clayton came exactly as I did. Of course, I went out of my way to time it like that.

  Exhausted and sweaty, I figured I had to at least send him a thank you, right? I knew it almost certainly wasn’t André Clayton. But whoever was pretending to be him had given me an effortless orgasm. He might be deceptive, but I’m not in the habit of hit-and-runs. He deserved at least a thanks.

  So I wrote the impostor back:

  Dear “Clay,” (ROFL!)

  You made my day. André Clayton is the only porn star I would totally fuck with totally no strings attached. Like, right now, any day, any hour. That would be awesome if you were really him. Too bad you’re not. But I just watched some clips of his and… wow, it’s really too bad. LOL! Good luck, guy. Oh, and you might want to choose a less famous porn star next time. LMFAO!!

  I sent it. That was that, I figured. Right? Right. Right?

  Well, I don’t know what made me hang out online for another few minutes, “just to see.” Sometimes on those stupid “dating” sites, guys sit there and email you back right away…like, in seconds. And always without spell check.

  Well, “Clay” sent me back a message a few minutes later, all right. It was spell checked, all right. And it had a brand-new picture.

  Dear Devany,

  You made MY day, girl. Glad to hear my oeuvre is still out there and still giving girls as hot as you a few minutes of pleasure. I hope it was the right kind of pleasure.

  I confess I have some dirty thoughts about you watching one of my clips and—well, I’ll leave that to my imagination. For the record, here’s a new picture. And that booty call you promised? Any time, Dev. Any day, any time, day or night. I live in Cooper City, so…

  And for the record…I don’t think I’m that famous. I work in a bank now. But then again you’ve heard of me, so maybe I’m wrong.

  André Clayton (LOL!)

  Ulp. There was his picture. A couple of years older, perhaps, but…shoulders. Holy shit, those were really his shoulders. (Well, only one of them was in the picture, but…it looked authentic, right there about three inches under his head.)

  The guy had these eyes that were seriously not to be looked into unless you wanted to find your panties in his pocket and your legs around his waist. All of his movies spent time from the woman’s perspective, looking up into those eyes. Totally different than most porn—I think whoever he worked with must have understood that he had plenty of female fans.

  And speaking of female fans, those lips. I think that I’m not alone in saying how important the lips are. His were…yum. Twenty minutes earlier, I’d been thinking about those lips doing something I’d never let any guy do.

  And there they were twisted in a cocky grin, inches from a computer screen displaying my message.

  I downloaded the picture. I opened it and blew it up. Was this a Photoshop job? If it was, it was a good one. How do those weird forensic guys figure out if something is a Photoshop job? I realized it probably wasn’t. That was really my message, right there on his screen, and the time stamp in his photo was current.

  And there was still no picture of his cock. Major plus.

  I started to
realize he might be real. I almost fainted. I definitely hyperventilated a little. I’d had first aid training by then, though, so I guess it was okay. I’m not kidding when I say I actually had to lie down on the floor, wearing nothing but my underwear and a T-shirt, until I’d calmed down a little.

  When I finally recovered, it was way past my bedtime. I had to be at work in the morning. Cooper City was about an hour away, and no, I wasn’t going there. I wouldn’t meet this guy till I knew for a fact that it really was him, and then—

  Any day? Any hour?

  Please. As if. I doubted it was really him. Somehow, in like the five minutes it took him to answer my message, some weird white asshole living in his mom’s basement had Photoshopped a picture of André Clayton’s head in front of a picture of a screen with my message on it.

  That seemed much more likely than that I’d just promised my favorite porn star no-strings-attached sex. Right?

  Right.

  Dear “André Clayton,”

  Okay, I don’t know if you are just really committed to this or what but you could always put your money where your mouth is. If you are still up, why not send me a cam invitation? LOL, I probably won’t get one, but thanks anyway. It was still fun playing the game. And yeah, if you were really André Clayton…um, yeah. I’d be up for that.

  I sent it before I could freak the fuck out and remove that last part. The second I sent it, I wanted to slap myself.

  And, yeah, he was still up, I guess. I got a cam invitation just a few minutes later. I get them all the time, and I’d never accepted one, but I had certainly heard about them. I expected it to be some guy with his junk in the camera. But I had to satisfy my curiosity.

  Well, André Clayton’s junk wasn’t in the camera, but I’d already seen plenty of it that evening. And if anyone was guilty of flashing her junk to the camera, it was yours truly. I’d been so spinny with excitement I hadn’t even bothered to put on my pants.

  It was him, all right. I was embarrassed. He was a gentleman about it. He barely even teased me about thinking he was a fake. He told me I was even hotter than my pictures. He told me he loved the name Devin so much better than Devany, which was my stupid slightly fake online name. And he talked to me for a full two hours, the time passing effortlessly until we were ready to sign off, and he told me with a charming grin:

  “I’m gonna hold you to that promise, Devin.”

  I turned red. I giggled and tittered and tossed my hair and flirted.

  I said, “How can you? You don’t even have my phone number.”

  “So, then…give it to me.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “As if!”

  “Please? If you give me your number, you’re off the hook.” He grinned. “But my offer stands.”

  It took two more compliments about my hair and a promise that he wasn’t a serial killer, and I did a very bad thing. I gave him my number.

  I’m as easy as pie sometimes.

  Clay didn’t tease me anymore about the “promise.” He never even brought it up, and when I did, it wasn’t my promise, but his.

  It was just three days later that I came to my senses and told him, “Mind if I come to Cooper City?”

  His voice rich with pleasure, he asked, “Why would you come to Cooper City, Devin?”

  “Why do you think?” I laughed. Then, in a soft, deep, quiet, serious voice, I said: “To fuck your brains out.”

  “In that case, I don’t mind at all.”

  I told him I wanted his address well in advance, so I could email like five friends with it just in case he turned out to be some kind of freak.

  He said, “Look, Devin, I’ll do you one better. I’ll tweet it.”

  I gulped. “You’ve got a Twitter account?”

  “Yeah, I still have a few fans hanging around. I’ll tell ’em whatever you want.” He laughingly added, “That way, if you disappear, the cops will know just where to look.”

  That was good enough for me. I didn’t make him tweet, and I only emailed his address to my mom. As far as she knew, I was going to Cooper City to look at a car for sale.

  Because mine was sort of on the old side…but it still made the drive to Cooper City in forty minutes flat.

  We met up in a café not far from his place, because I’d always heard you should never meet a guy at his place. Doing so means you commit. I was about as committed as a girl can be. I’d gone there wearing makeup, which is a pretty big deal for me. I also wore a skirt, which is almost unheard of. I thought I looked pretty good, and Clay’s expression told me that he thought so, too. We’d already spoken for several hours on the phone and cam at that point, and the whole reason I’d driven to Cooper City was to make good on my promise of a booty call.

  The crazy son of a bitch wore a tie to a booty call; is that crazy or what?

  As soon as I sat down I started to blush, because I was talking to Clay, but André’s eyes were right there in front of me, practically undressing me. Or maybe it was just because I’d seen them in so many point-of-view videos, undressing whoever was on the other other end of his cock at the time. It was a little too familiar for comfort, and his resonant voice didn’t make it any easier. When André said, “How was your drive?” all I could hear was the word “drive.” Which was enough to get me flustered all over again.

  I had been there for maybe five minutes when I decided this was silly. We both knew why I was there.

  So I said, “If we were to go back to your place right now… could I leave my car here for a while?”

  “No problem,” he said. He glanced at the counter. “They know me.”

  I felt a stab of minor jealousy.

  “Because you’ve done this with other girls?”

  Clay stared at me with a strange combination of amusement and sadness.

  “Because I come here every morning and write poetry in a notebook for a couple of hours.”

  I said, “Oh.”

  He told the guy at the counter what kind of car his “friend” had, could they make sure not to tow it? No problem.

  I’d been there less than ten minutes when I found myself in his car.

  Then I was glad he wore a tie. It gave me something to grab when I pulled him onto me.

  He leaned over and kissed me hard. I let go of his tie and put my arms around him. His hand found my thigh. I wasn’t used to wearing a skirt. It felt intensely erotic to feel his big hand on me. Vivid images of what it had done made me tremble all over. Then Clay took the lead. He didn’t make me wait. His hand slid gently up my thigh while his big dark eyes looked deep into mine. I just kept looking back, letting my thighs rest just far enough apart that he knew I wanted him to continue.

  He did. When he found I wasn’t wearing underwear, I bit my lip and laughed, embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry, it’s stupid,” I said. “I just kind of thought…I’ve never had a booty call before. I thought I should—”

  “No explanation necessary,” said Clay. “I think it’s hot. I’ve always liked a woman who knows what she wants. You be as big a slut as you want to be, or don’t be one at all. Either way, nothing could make you less sexy.”

  Blushing fiercely, I quipped: “You’ve never eaten my cooking.”

  He frowned disapprovingly and gentled me with a kiss. Under my skirt, his fingers found what they needed. I was warm and wet and crazy for him, already deep into my third day of thinking of him constantly. Two of his fingers went in easy, and I clutched his arm. I shuddered. I whimpered.

  He kissed my neck. I trembled all over.

  “I better get you home,” he breathed in my ear. “Before you explode.”

  “I may explode anyway,” I said.

  “That’s good, too,” he said. “I’ll put you back together.”

  He made me wait for long, tortured minutes as he gently explored me, his fingers caressing my sex. His thumb teased my clit. The son of a bitch knew what he was doing.

  I smelled him. I tasted his mouth: Earl Grey and spit. As his
lips made waves on that perfect spot between my jawline and neck, my eyes crossed.

  “Did you really mean what you said?”

  “About what?”

  “I can be as big a slut as I want?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I flattened my palm on his chest and pushed him back into the driver’s seat. I leaned over the gearshift and planted my mouth on the front of his jeans. I went for his belt.

  “Whoa,” he laughed. “Don’t get too crazy. They know me here.”

  “You’re the one who put your hand up my skirt,” I said playfully. “And you said I could be as big a slut as I—”

  I never finished the sentence, and I didn’t say anything more for a while, because my mouth was very, very busy…right there in the parking lot.

  His cock was a gorgeous piece of heaven. It tasted good and clean and a little bit musky and I could smell him as I lowered my lips to the midpoint of his shaft. They say they do things in porn that make guys look bigger, but I don’t know about that. All I know is that André Clayton’s cock was just exactly the way I remembered it from a thousand fantasies. It tasted and smelled and felt like I’d spent many nights with it, and I guess I had.

  He lasted, too. I was lost down there for what must have been ten or maybe even twenty minutes, while he kept lookout. We were parked at the end of the parking lot, so I guess we had some privacy. He never told me to slow down, and he never stopped whispering things to me. Soft, dirty things about how good that felt, but never a caution that I needed to stop or he’d come.

  He knew how to last.

  When I’d had my fill, for now, I came up quick and swiveled his rearview to take a look at myself. My makeup was ruined, my hair mussed.

  “I shouldn’t have looked,” I said, embarrassed.