by Cara Bruce
“That’s right.”
Which is when it hits me—the rubber smell, the sharp plastic taste, somehow different than condoms. For a second I think you’re already wearing one, a rubber, and since I can’t see in the flickering fuck-light from the screen, it takes me putting your cock back in my mouth before my eyes go wide and I realize it, all of a sudden.
I look up at you, my mouth still full.
You look down, your eyes flashing with the light from the pale flesh dancing on the screen.
“Do you mind?” you ask me.
And it hits me, hard, the longing in my pussy, the heat of my hunger for your cock, the sudden need to feel you fuck me, fuck me hard in every hole I have. I should have known; I really should have known. No man is that gorgeous. No man can make me cream like this. No man can make me think about giving full service on my knees in the preview booth. Breathing hard, my mouth still around the head of your cock, I wrestle my hand down into your tight leather pants and feel it, your slit, nestled behind the little metal ring with its leather backing, the thick flange of your cock with its ridge positioned just right for your clit. I could almost swear I taste your cock leaking pre-cum, but it’s your pussy I feel juicing on my hand. I slip one finger inside and you sigh, pressing your cock up into my mouth, harder, then down my throat as your hand rests on the back of my head.
“Yeah,” you say. “Suck me just like that.”
You start to fuck my face, slow and easy, your hips moving in time with my thrusts onto your cock, my easy two-fingered slide into your pussy. You move like a dancer, like the star of some porn-theater ballet, your muscles fluid with every motion. Each time your hips roll, each time I feel the head of your rubber cock slide easily down my throat, each time I feel your cunt clenching around my fingers, my pussy surges, begging for you. I know I’m going to do it—I’m going to risk Jamie’s wrath and take you.
But first, I know you’re going to come. You’ve got a G-spot just like other women, and I feel it swollen against my fingertips as I push in, up, out—and as you grasp my hair, pulling it just the way I like it. Your hip motions become less fluid and more intense, your whole body quivering as I feel you ready to let go. And then, in a rush, the thick jet fills my cupped palm and your pussy spasms around my fingers. I don’t even know what I’m doing as I slide your cock out of my mouth and dip my face down to drink, catching the pooling streams as you throw your head back and scream, bucking your hips with every jet from your pussy. And after every foul jet of man’s come I’ve tasted, every sour leak of pre-cum, the taste of your juice is almost enough to set me off. I’m ready to come, almost, just from tasting and feeling you, just from looking up at your gorgeous face as you stare down at me in postorgasmic rapture. Your pleasure is nothing at all like a man’s—nothing remotely like the furtive, desperate, angry release that spells the end of a twenty-dollar trick.
Softly, I say it: “Will you still fuck me?”
“I thought you said you didn’t do full service. You don’t have to, now. You got me off good, Eden.”
I shake my head. “Please don’t go without fucking me. Please?”
You look down at me and shrug.
“You got me off good. You’re off the hook. You don’t have to fuck me.”
And I feel the stab of pain, longing, need that tells me I’m going to be left again, left alone to go back to Jamie.
“You’re sure you don’t want to? You paid for it and everything.”
“Nah,” you say. “I’m finished. Keep the fifty.”
I nod, my body aching as I struggle to my feet, the desire hurtful in my pussy. I want to climb into your lap and insist that you fuck me, but that’s not the way it’s done. Instead, I wriggle down my spandex skirt, pull my tube top back on, straighten my clear plastic jacket. You’ve got your cock tucked away and your pants zipped and belted.
“You’re sure you don’t want to?” I ask you as you stand.
“Nah,” you say, reaching down and grabbing my ass as you kiss me on the cheek. “See you around.”
The movie is still going as you leave the preview booth. Some anonymous stud is fucking some anonymous woman on the screen. I sit in the loveseat, feeling the warmth of your ass, feeling the pulse and ache in my pussy, feeling it drip with hunger for your cock. I slip my hand under my skirt and put one finger, then two, inside myself. I start to rub my clit.
The door opens; a bald guy in a corduroy jacket and polyester pants comes in, catches sight of me.
“Oh…I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the booth was occupied.”
“Wanna date?” I ask him.
He stammers for a few seconds. I cut him off, “Ten dollars,” I say.
“For what?”
I slide out of the seat and get down on my knees, bending forward and pulling up my skirt.
“Full service,” I tell him, my voice hoarse with the memory of your cock. “Full service.”
Thwack!
Lynn A. Powers
Thwack! The leather belt struck.
“You worm! You don’t deserve to lick my boot.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress Allison,” George whined.
“Now, bend over that table.”
“I’m doing it,” he said urgently.
“Spit on your hand. Now jerk off.” Thwack! “Faster, you peon!” Thwack! Thwack!
“I’m coming!”
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
“Aaaaaagh.” There was a short pause and some heavy breathing. Then George muttered, “You’re the best, Mistress Allison.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you next week, ‘George’.” I hung up the phone.
Mimi, my cohort in audio pain, peered over the kelly-green cubicle wall to my right. She covered the mouthpiece to her phone and whispered, “Was that Chicken George?”
I nodded. George gave a whole new meaning to “choking the chicken.” Every time he called me, he would jerk off into a semithawed oven roaster. I didn’t know about it until he exclaimed, “Oh shit!” near the end of one of our calls. George explained that the wet chicken had slipped out of his hand, causing him to accidentally ejaculate onto the floor. You hear the craziest things as a sex phone operator.
“Have you ever asked Chicken George why he jerks off into a chicken?” Mimi whispered.
I frowned. “I never thought to ask.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I never ask these guys anything. I guess the less I know, the better.”
“I suppose. I just wish I knew about that chicken,” Mimi said, returning to her phone call and the hypodermic needle she was injecting into a large dildo—“to get into the right character.”
When I first began as a dominatrix sex phone operator, I found it very interesting. I was exciting hundreds of men who ejaculated just from hearing my voice. Then I realized that I was exciting hundreds of men who ejaculated just from hearing my voice. It was never sexually exciting for me. At first it was a power thing. Now it’s just boring. The job has become so boring that I’ve started bringing toys to play with while I work. Today, I brought a slinky that Squeak gave me as a present. I went on to my next caller, droning out my usual routine: “My breasts are huge, they’re 40 triple-E….” Joe, our balding, polyester-wearing supervisor, screeched to a halt at my cubicle.
He pointed at the slinky and mouthed angrily, “What the hell is that?”
I covered the mouthpiece of the phone and whispered, “Bondage,” while wrapping it around my throat.
Joe winked and gave me a thumbs-up as he walked past to listen to Mimi spin her tales of PVC and snake oil.
OK, if I’m not in it for the excitement of the sex, what am I in it for? It’s not a bad job. The hours are flexible and the room is air-conditioned—a major plus in the sweltering New Orleans summer. Besides, I can work my schedule around my lovers’ work hours. Squeak is a waitress and works nights. Nathan is a computer geek who works days. Since Squeak isn’t into the whole “threesom
e” thing with a man, I have to arrange my schedule to fit all our needs. Joe lets me do that.
It was closing in on 11 P.M. and the light on my phone was blinking. The last client before my shift ended. I picked it up. “Yeah?”
It was Joe. “New one. Name’s Ted. Likes flat-chested red-heads with big hips who will let him suck their strap-on dildo.”
“Got it,” I said.
I hit the blinking extension and said in a commanding voice, “This is Mistress Allison. Get on your knees and tell me your name.”
After an evening of cock licking, tit fucking, ass rimming, and balling, I was ready for some nice wholesome lesbian sex with Squeak. I quickened my pace through the humid July night just thinking about her perfect white skin. Squeak is the most homosexual person I have ever known. She told me that she tried to have sex with a man once and actually threw up all over him. For that reason, Squeak has never understood my job. Nor does she understand my relationship with Nathan. His presence in my life is made tolerable only by his offerings of cocaine and ecstasy. She has never complained about Nathan—as long as I didn’t make love to her the same day I had sex with him. The possibility of touching or tasting his “juices” was too much for her to bear.
I arrived at Squeak’s cramped apartment in the French Quarter and let myself in with my key. For a brief moment, I wished I were at Nathan’s. After a long day of telling people how to fuck, I wanted to be the submissive. The thought evaporated when I saw Squeak walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her slim body.
“I was just about to take a shower,” she said, scratching her mousy brown crew cut hair. “Wanna join me?”
I threw off my jacket and walked toward her. I placed my hands on her bare shoulders, stroking her smooth skin. I took hold of her towel and pulled it off. Squeak self-consciously wrapped her thin arms around her chest. Gently holding her hands, I pulled them away to see her flat stomach and small, perky breasts. She was gorgeous with her soft, round face, tiny up-turned nose, and pouty lower lip. I bet that most hetero-males pass her by, consider her plain just because she doesn’t wear makeup or feminine clothes. Yet I could see the beauty in her. It was understated, though unmistakable.
Squeak playfully pulled away and darted into the bathroom. Then she peeked her head out from the door. “Coming?”
I threw my clothes off as fast as I could, finding Squeak inside the shower, water already flowing around her. I slid open the glass door, stood behind her, and began stroking her breasts.
“Ah!” I jumped back. “The water’s hot!”
Squeak turned around and giggled. “Sorry! Let me adjust it.”
As Squeak turned to fidget with the knobs, I lathered my hands with the bar soap, then rubbed them around her bottom in a soft, circular motion. I slid the soap between her ass cheeks. Squeak gave a low moan that encouraged me to slide my hands around the front of her thighs and stroke their insides. She leaned back against me as my hands traveled up her smooth, tight belly. My left hand gently caressed her belly ring while my right hand lathered her small breast with the soap. Squeak’s head rested against my chest and I bent down to gently nip at her ear. Her hands reached backward and held the outside of my thighs.
I expected Squeak to turn around and reciprocate my touch, but instead she allowed herself to be completely taken away in the moment. I was turned on even more. I lathered Squeak’s breasts and softly kissed her neck. She thrust her ass into my legs and arched her back. She muttered something softly, but I couldn’t hear her. I stroked her ribs with the soap and then further down beyond her navel. As I lathered her pubic hair, I gently pulled on the small curls, released them, and then gently pulled again. My hand slipped down lower and lathered her labia and clit. I rubbed harder and harder, teasing her. Squeak ground her hips harder into my body, and I rolled her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I closed my eyes and wished that I had a cock, to penetrate her hard and deliberately. Without warning, I thrust three fingers into her, up to my second set of knuckles, then quickly pulled them out. Squeak inhaled quickly and tried to catch her breath.
I forced her to place her hands against the wall. I brought my hips close to her ass and pretended I was a man as I thrust my three fingers into her again and again. My pelvis mimicked the motion, as if my hand were a cock. My hand slid easily in and out of her. Inside she was wet and warm. Her pussy clamped onto my fingers and I thought I would come just from feeling her excitement. I yanked her left nipple and fucked her as hard as I could. Squeak was making her little squeaking noises, but this time they sounded urgent. It was difficult to keep my balance, so I turned her around and squatted before her. I jammed four fingers into her, as hard and as far as I could. Squeak screamed and desperately pawed the walls. I squatted and brought my lips gently to her clit. I just held my lips there for a moment, tasting the salt. Sucking Squeak’s clit, as I would the tiniest cock, made her scream louder and louder. The walls of her cunt held my hand so tight that I could no longer thrust as hard. I tried to ease my entire hand in. I pounded my fist against her labia, slowly yet forcefully. My tongue flicked her clit. I began sucking it harder and harder, keeping with the rhythm of my pounding. Squeak let out one hard scream and her cunt convulsed against my hand. As her vaginal spasms slowed, her body finally relaxed. I pulled my moist hand out from between her thighs and gently kissed her clit, then her pubic hair. I looked up at Squeak. She was breathing hard. She opened her eyes and looked sleepily into mine. Then she dropped to her knees, grabbed my head, and stuck her tongue into my mouth. She pulled hard at my head, and I could feel the teeth of her open mouth press into my lips. Squeak pulled away and hugged me desperately.
“I love you, I love you,” she whispered.
I was grateful at her outpouring of love, but a little annoyed that she was now spent. For the past week, Squeak had not once tried to bring me to orgasm. I would now spend the rest of the evening in her arms, comforted yet frustrated.
“And don’t ever call me again, you maggot!” I yelled into the phone. This particular client, “Brad,” loved it when I told him never to call me again. He said it made him feel “naughty.”
The phone rang as soon as I put it down.
“Mugs?” It was Squeak.
“Hey, Hon,” I said, settling back in my chair.
“Listen,” Squeak said, “I can’t do lunch today.”
“What?!”
“I’m sorry,” Squeak apologized.
“But it’s our anniversary weekend.” I could hear my voice getting whiney.
“I know. I’m sorry—I really am.”
“What’s wrong?” I became concerned. It wasn’t like Squeak to cancel a big date like this one.
“Everything is OK,” she said quickly. “Something has come up for Saturday. But I can’t talk now because I’m at work. I’ll explain it later, OK?”
“I understand,” I nodded into the phone. It was probably family problems. Sometimes her mother breezed into town unexpectedly and laid huge guilt trips on Squeak. I only aggravated the situation by reminding the woman that her daughter was a lesbian. Squeak had said that it was best for her if I kept out of sight.
Squeak asked, “We’re still on for brunch Sunday, right?”
“Yeah, Sweetie,” I answered. I had spent an entire week’s salary on the whole wine-and-roses thing. I decided to surprise her early Saturday morning anyway, before her wretched mother showed up. That would help ease the pain. All of a sudden, I spied Joe. “Uh-oh, gotta get back to the dungeon.”
I was disappointed that our plans had changed. Nathan was going to be out of town on business until Sunday, and I wanted to focus my entire attention on Squeak. Saturday would mark one year since we had started going out. I couldn’t believe I had dated someone for that long—never mind two people.
Saturday morning I inserted my key into the lock, slowly turning it until I heard the click. I picked up the grocery bags and quietly crept into Squeak’s apartment. The shower was runnin
g. Perfect! Squeak would never hear me preparing breakfast. I placed the bags on the kitchen counter and immediately altered my plans. The shower was the ultimate place to make love. Maybe this time we could both share in the fun.
I tiptoed to the bathroom and slowly turned the door handle. The door didn’t have to open very far for me to see that something was wrong. The woman in the shower was not only taller, but much darker than Squeak. My mouth hung open as I watched this voluptuous black woman lather her hair. I silently pulled the door closed.
I ran into the bedroom—the only room I hadn’t entered. No Squeak. Grabbing the grocery bags, I left and sprinted around the block just in case she was walking back from the corner market. I dropped the bags and myself onto someone’s front steps. Burying my face in my hands, I tried to figure it all out.
“So that’s what she had to deal with!” I said out loud angrily.
I know what you’re probably thinking, so let me set you straight. I know I’m sleeping with someone other than Squeak. But, Squeak, Nathan, and I have an agreement. We have open relationships and can sleep with other people. We just need to tell the others first. It’s not simply the disease factor; it’s about honesty. Honesty has to be the foundation of any relationship. I should know. All of my previous relationships were broken up because of my infidelities.
“Infidelity!” I yelled at a pigeon. “That’s what this is!”
I dumped the grocery bags into a trashcan and stormed back to my apartment. I had to avoid Squeak, so I called Joe and asked for a triple shift. Avoidance is my attempt at anger management. After twenty-four hours, I was sure I would be calm enough to handle the situation.
I was wrong. I became more and more infuriated as the night progressed—much to the pleasure of my clients.
“Oh, Mistress Allison,” one client crooned, “I’m going to come.”
“Don’t you dare!” I screeched into the phone. “You come now and I’ll cut it off!”
