by Cara Bruce
“The thing is, women are just so beautiful. Their bodies are so lush, so curvy,” Rose says, and all eyes are on me, on the cleavage that is the only compensation for being as chubby as I am at this point in my life.
We are taking a bath in Dead Sea salts, in her massive claw-foot tub. I am shy, and try to stay under the soapsuds, but she stretches back, showing me her small, perfect breasts, her dark nipples rising. I wash her arms, carefully rubbing the distinct, sore muscles. “Turn around,” she tells me, and I move until I feel her kiss on the back of my neck. She fills her hands with lather and begins to work my breasts from behind, squeezing and stroking them. Each is more than one skinny hand can handle, but she tries hard, milking and caressing me. My nipples slip from her soapy fingers, beg to be pinched, but there is nothing demanding here, nothing not yielding and soft. I turn to see her gorgeous face, and feel her fingers between my legs, my wrinkles and folds opening for her. To my fingers, she feels the same. The same as touching myself, as fresh-shucked oysters, as the thing I love best. “God, God, God,” I come, and stretch and smile. I step out of the tub, pull her to a seated position on the edge. She is briny, metallic, buttery-smooth and ridged all at once. I lick my lips, lick her lips, searching for a hint of lemon juice. I suck and swallow and hold her hips firm till she is limp in my arms.
“Curvy is good,” Sean says. “I like women who have something to them. No offense, Rose baby.”
He is no slight thing himself. He’s about six-three and solid, looks like he played football in high school. He has meaty arms, thick hands. Hugging him would be like embracing a warm, lightly furred mountain.
“Meatloaf,” I say, without thinking.
“Geez, thanks a lot,” Sean says. “I cut my hair, take off fifty pounds, and I’m still getting that?”
“No, not the person. I was just thinking about something we said earlier, about meatloaf being homey and satisfying and nurturing….” And, I think, so sweet to fuck. It will be so sweet to take you into my bed, to see the map of Ireland on your thick cock, to feel small in your strong arms.
My jeans are lost under the bed somewhere. I am lying on my belly, his fingers are fumbling, working my bra off. I help him, reaching back to flip off the hooks. His hands move down, give my ass a light spank, and then rub me up and over, integrating all my parts, reminding me what this body is for. I have not seen him naked yet, have only heard his T-shirt come off, his jeans unzip. He gently pulls me onto all fours, my ass in the air, and I feel his warm skin on mine as he bends over me. His cock explores the insides of my thighs, tickling them, and I resist the urge to move my legs together, press down hard on him, just to get an idea of what he’s got. My hand snakes back between our legs, he pulls back, not letting me touch him. I hear the slithery sound that comes next—the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Then, a miracle: I am a virgin again, too tight to let him in. Bit by bit, he works his cock inside me, and I feel myself opening. Every millimeter is a spasm, each tiny thrust a spark. His hands hold my hips, reach around to cup my hanging breasts, but every nerve is dead except the ones in my cunt, the ones that are fucking him now. Grinding my hips backward, I take it all at last, proud that I’ve made it this far, sorry that that’s all there is. As he moves back, I think, “Bat out of Hell,” and wonder what’s in the fridge.
“That’s the thing,” Tony says. “Sometimes you make something so good, so hot and juicy, that it’s simply too good to eat. Instead, you want to buy it a drink, take it to bed with you, and make love to it all night long.”
The image of Tony with his cock buried in a plate of eggplant parmigiana is enough to shock me slightly sober, to realize that: one, my baby is waiting for me at home, keeping my bed warm, and two, I have soaked through my jeans.
In the cab, I check to make sure that my bag isn’t coated with rosemary-ginger butter, that the filet mignon I snagged is safe and sound. I muffle the sound of my zipper going down, and reach down to tease my clit a little, thinking about what a chef has for breakfast. Jelly donuts, mac and cheese, salami on white. Jerk off, a long hot shower, and it’s time to go out and do it all again.
Full Service
Erica Dumas
It’s about two in the morning when it happens. It’s been a long night: ten jobs and a couple of full-service in the booths at the Rab. Things are slowing down here since the cops came by a few minutes ago, scattering the whores and johns like pigeons. I decide to hit Lucky’s. I tried there earlier, and that bouncer Moose wouldn’t even let me in the door. But I know Mikey takes over at two, and he’ll usually let me in the back for twenty bucks unless his boss is working. And from what I hear, usually on Saturday his boss is on a coke binge in some hotel somewhere, avoiding his wife. Sometimes I have to flirt a little, but Mikey always gives in.
The bouncer at the Rab looks me up and down as I leave; he’s probably just glad I had the good sense to hide out until the pigs left. I pass from the smell of semen and Clorox into the smell of cigarettes and urine, walk up 42nd Street toward Lucky’s, putting my sunglasses on to block out the neon. I smell the sharp chemical plastic smell coming out of the alley behind the 24-hour deli. My heart pounds and I get short of breath. Fuck, I tell myself, Just don’t think about it. Remember why you’re clean: so that you can finish writing your play and move to L.A. You’ll never get to L.A. if you keep getting high, and you’ll be a stupid whore forever instead of a screenwriter, and Nicolas Cage will never be in your movies. I don’t give a shit, I want to go back into the alley and beg for a hit, but then I remember Janie standing over me and telling me how disappointed she is. I’m not really convinced, though, until I remember her standing over me with the curling iron and telling me if I get high ever again she’ll fucking kill me. I hurry on up to Lucky’s.
Mikey doesn’t even make me flirt with him, just palms the twenty and waves me in the back door. I slip into the shadows, smelling the sharp spunk and cleaning fluid. I have to take my sunglasses off, which I hate doing. I perch them on my head and walk past the aisles of peepshow booths, looking around. No way I’d turn a trick in one of these; those fucking strippers will narc on you in a second, because you’re cutting into their tips and they’re as desperate for their cash as I am for mine. But the video booths are wide open—a quarter a minute and ten times easier to get a guy’s dick hard when there isn’t some nineteen-year-old anorexic watching him. Most guys don’t like to be watched.
I see you as I turn the corner and slip into the video section. You’re standing under a poster of the twenty features currently being offered—four straight, four barely legal, four anal, four gay, four kink. Fuck, this never happens to me; I never lose my panties over a potential trick like this. Not that I’m complaining—I like it, sure, but nothing prepared me to spend tonight having my jaw dropped by the prettiest fucking biker boy I’ve ever seen. How old are you, nineteen? I mean, I know I’m nineteen but I’m used to guys twenty, thirty years older than me, at least. My stomach’s churning and my heart’s pounding like it was when I smelled the crack out in the alley. And that’s when you see me looking at you, and our eyes meet. Your eyes are big, steel-blue, hard. Your little goatee curves a bit as you look me up and down. You smile and my knees go weak. It’s like a surge of electricity goes through me and I know I’ll give you a fucking freebie if you don’t want to come up with the cash. Jesus, with eyes like that, I should be paying you.
Like I’m in a dream, I start down the hall, trying to be cool. You just keep looking at me, no matter how many times I look down, and my pussy feels so wet I could almost believe it really is. I totter on my heels, feeling your eyes cover my legs, hips, tits, face. I can’t even look up at you for fear all the blood will rush out of my head.
Instead, I look at your body, your nipples hard under the white T-shirt, your feet sturdy in heavy motorcycle boots, your chiseled legs in those skintight leather pants, the outline of your cock making my mouth water. Fuck, it’s big; it almost looks hard already. I pray to God you’re no
t gay; I never see straight guys wear pants that tight. Especially not at Lucky’s, where you’re lucky if your trick’s pants are denim and not polyester.
I walk up to you, not knowing what to say. I lean close, smiling, feeling my head spin as I take a breath and smell you, cologne and sharp male sweat, cigarettes and whiskey. “Want a date?” I ask, and my voice breaks, squeaking. I feel your hand on my hip, pulling me close, and I melt into you.
“How much?” you ask.
Fifty bucks is the asking for full service, but I don’t do full service, so I usually ask thirty for a blow. I’ve let it go for ten, but I usually don’t have to; I’m young enough and pretty enough that guys are usually OK with twenty. But you—I’m terrified you’ll say no, so I just whisper “Fifteen,” ashamed of myself that I want it so bad.
“For full service?” You sound incredulous, like you can’t believe a whore as pretty as me would give it up so easy. Your lips are against my neck, your hot whiskey breath caressing my ear. I can feel my pussy throbbing. God, I’ll give you anything, but I can’t give you that.
I don’t know what to say. Finally I stammer, “I don’t do full service.”
“You’ll do it with me,” you say, and my whole body sinks into you as I hear your throaty rumble in my ear. “I’ll give you twenty.”
My heart is pounding, “It’s fifty,” I blurt out. “Fifty for full service.” I know you’ll turn me down, just know it, and maybe you’ll settle for a blowjob. If not, maybe I’ll lose you, but I simply can’t give you full service. Janie would kill me, sure as if I smoked again.
“Done,” you say, and I feel your hand on my ass, squeezing through the skintight spandex skirt, maybe noticing that I haven’t got a stitch on underneath. “Like, I’m going to let a sweet piece of ass like you get away?” Then you kiss me, and I don’t kiss, not even Janie, I never kiss, but my lips slip apart and your tongue thrusts into me like it’s your hard cock. Tears form in my eyes; I haven’t been kissed since I was a kid, a little kid. Power surges through me as your tongue plumbs my mouth; I feel it in my heart, my belly, my crotch, the tips of my toes.
And then you’re half pushing me, half guiding me, down the hall to the far end, where I see the Preview Room is open. I almost can’t believe it; I’ve never been fucked in here; it’s twenty fucking dollars for an hour, for Christ’s sake. Nobody ever does me in here; I’m more used to the cramped little quarter slots, me with my knees in little puddles of cum. I’ve never even seen the inside of the Preview Booth.
You put twenty bucks in the slot, and the intercom crackles.
“Which title do you want?”
“Biker Bitches,” you say. “Part 8.”
“We only have part 7.”
“Fine,” you say, and the door clicks open. You don’t have to push me inside, but you do, just a little—insistent, but reasonably polite, which I’m not used to. It’s dark inside, pitch dark, and it smells more like cum and sweat and cigarettes than it does like Clorox; I wonder how many hours—or days—it’s been since they cleaned in here. When you close the door you grab me and whirl me around and shove me up against it, and the floor is so slippery that I lose my balance and I would fall if you didn’t catch me and hold me, your body against mine, against the door. You reach behind me and shut the bolt.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
“Eden,” I tell you. “My name’s Eden.”
“Where you from?”
“Forty-Second Street,” I say.
“Hmm, a fifteen-dollar whore with a sense of humor,” you say. “I like that.”
“Fifty,” I say nervously. “It was fifty.”
“I know.”
Your mouth fuses to mine, your tongue pushing in deeper than before, and I feel it harder than ever, surging through me, making me want to give myself to you, give everything there is to give. When you pull back, just a little, I can almost feel your lips hovering an inch from mine, and I breathe your whiskey-smoke breath like it was coming from a glass pipe. You take my hands and push them back against the door, holding me like you’ve got me tied there, like you’ve got me tied to a bed the way Janie likes to do, only this time I want it, I want it more than anything. I want you to shackle my hands to the wall of this preview booth and never fucking let me go, go anywhere except up against your body.
“I…I don’t kiss,” I say weakly, hardly even able to find the breath to speak.
“You’re kissing me,” you say, and kiss me again, hard, your teeth nipping my lower lip. Your tongue almost reaches the back of my throat, and I feel more open than I ever have. I’m scared shitless, not that you’ll hurt me, but that I won’t be able to go back—that Janie’s weak kisses won’t be enough for me after the taste of a real man’s cock.
“I’m not allowed,” I finally say when you let me. “I’m not allowed to kiss.”
“You are now,” you say, and kiss me again, and then there’s the sound of a click as the viewscreen goes on, and blue light floods the booth. You pull away, and I look around. Fuck, this is the Ritz-Carlton as far as I’m concerned. It’s a good ten feet by ten feet, almost like a real room, and there’s a real fucking loveseat, its blood-red upholstery crusted and rubbed raw, but still, it’s there. I know I’m not going to be sitting in it, but still. And then you push me into the loveseat, sit down next to me, your hip pushing against mine, as you put your arms around me and start to kiss me again. The blue light goes out all of a sudden, and the movie starts in—moans and gasps and cheesy music, girls asking to get fucked in the ass.
“Fifty bucks,” I say weakly. “I already told you, fifty bucks.”
But you’ve already got your hand in the pocket of my little clear-plastic jacket, the one I like to wear because it shows everything off, and I feel the crisp bill in there. I take it out and look at it—it’s really a fifty. I haven’t seen a fifty in forever, and you’re the first guy in five years who’s paid me without having to be asked more than once. That almost makes me cream, but it’s mostly the feel of your hands all over me that really makes me go crazy, makes me want to get to my knees on the slippery floor and take your cock in my mouth. Your hands work their way under my spandex tube top, pulling it up; you pinch my nipples as you kiss my neck, making me shiver. I feel your hot mouth on my tits, your teeth biting and grinding, something I love so much and Janie never does to me. Not that she does anything to me, anymore. I feel my bare legs against your leather ones, and you lean hard against me and jam your knee up between my spread thighs. I feel your leather-clad knee against my crotch, and I moan. Fuck, I can’t believe I told you I’d give you full service. My only hope is to get you off with my mouth and then maybe you won’t want to fuck me after all.
The previews end. I hear the roar of Harleys, the throb of techno music. I’ve got to suck your cock or I’m going to go crazy, and besides, every instant I wait it’s more likely you’re going to put your hands up my skirt and feel how wet I really, really am. And then you’ll know I’d turn this trick for free if I had to. I fish a condom out of my jacket pocket. As if you can read my mind, you take my hand and grab the condom, toss it away into the darkness.
“We don’t need to use a condom,” you say, and I can’t bear to say anything. Janie would kill me, but I don’t care. I’m going to feel your cock inside me, bare and raw and naked and slick, and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself. I breathe deeply of your scent as it mingles with the cum and the smoke and the thick sounds of fucking and moaning from the screen.
Your hand slides up my knee, and I struggle against you for a moment, as you hold me down. You are not going to let me get away, and you’re much, much stronger than I am. Your hand slips between my legs; I force them closed and whisper, “Let me suck you a little, first.”
“A shy whore? Playing hard to get?”
“I just want to suck your cock a little,” I say coquettishly, and you let go. I slip out of your grasp and drop to my knees, feeling them slip a little in puddles of fluid; I
have to keep them spread wide to get stable. I put my face in your crotch and start to work your belt open with my fingers. You fish a pack of cigarettes out of your leather jacket and shake two cigarettes out of the pack.
You light both and hand me one. I’ve been wanting a cigarette all night, but Janie gets pissed off if I spend my money on smokes.
I feel my whole body on fire as I look at the burning cherry of the cigarette. I ask it: “You don’t…um, you don’t have any rock, do you?”
You shake your head. “I don’t do drugs,” you say. “Except whiskey and cigarettes. That crack stuff’ll kill you.”
I nod. “I’m trying to get clean,” I say. I take a puff, two, three, and then hold the cigarette out to the side as I get your belt open and unbutton your leather pants. They’re thick leather, but well-worn, buttery. I get your zipper down and there it is, bulging out from your jockeys, hard already. I feel a wave of satisfaction, flattered for some reason by the fact that you’re hard before I start to suck you. That makes me want you more, so bad my mouth is watering, so bad a little trail of drool runs down my chin and dribbles onto your balls. My mouth descends on your cock and I take it almost all the way down my throat before the taste hits me: pussy, fresh, mixed with rubber. It sends a surge through me as I remember what it’s like to eat out a woman—Jamie doesn’t let me do her like that—and I want it all of a sudden. I want to taste more cunt, except that it hits me, in a flood, that I’m tasting it on your cock, another woman’s cunt on your cock, and I’m jealous, bitterly jealous, almost angry. Even that can’t stop me from wanting it, but I let your cock slip out of my mouth.
“You’ve been fucking already tonight,” I breathe, looking up at you.
