Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  Meyer lowered his body to Suzy’s. “Always.”

  She splayed her fingers along his ribs, feasted her eyes on the cut of his arms, the clench of the muscles of his chest and belly. The brown hair between his legs, the flushed skin of his ready cock. She was excited by more than these simple sights. Above all it was Lindsay’s wishes that had her this hot, this wet.

  She liked it—watching me suck him.

  She’d liked it enough to skip to the fucking, and she wanted it fast. Suzy imagined that maybe they’d uncovered a new side to Miss Lindsay’s sexuality, perhaps one the woman hadn’t even known about, herself. Being spoiled was nice, but doing the spoiling . . . Again, it was all about the power. That was sex, inextricably.

  Meyer sank in all the way to his hips and her nails raked his sides, pure reflex. Good God, this feeling. A long, thick cock driving deep, that filthy, full sensation of being owned. It had scared her at seventeen, but since that first, rushed, awkward, wholly unsatisfying prom-night finale, Suzy had come to love this intrusion.

  “You feel good,” Meyer said, stealing the words from her lips.

  “You too. Go fast.” For her as much as for Lindsay. Meyer could get her off this way three times out of four, even if they ignored her clit. She’d only had one other lover who could do that. Had to be something about the way their bodies fit together. She’d miss that when this business arrangement came to its inevitable close.

  “Yeah, like that.” She held him tight, loving the angle—low, tight, quick thrusts that hit that perfect spot. Her excitement had been a hot hum of curiosity before, but Meyer was making it a promise now, a mounting physical tension strung through her middle and growing hotter with every thrust.

  “Good?” he asked. But it wasn’t a question, not really. His expression was cocky, his tone mean and filthy. If they’d been doing this for a different audience, the words that accompanied that face might’ve been, Yeah, you love that fucking cock, don’t you, bitch?

  “Yeah. Amazing. Just keep going.”

  “I loved your mouth on me.”

  She blushed all over, as though on Lindsay’s behalf. “Good. I love doing that to you. I love what it does to you. And I wanted to share that with our guest,” she added, gaze jumping to the lens. She smiled, going for a mix of shy and needy, the same look she might give a third lover on this very bed.

  And isn’t she? A third lover?

  Not quite, no, but she was a presence, truly. More so for Suzy than any of their other clients. Breaking the virtual eye contact, she sank into the pleasure, hoping for a reply, waiting, wishing, and was rewarded long seconds later.

  “I long to see all the things you do with each other. When you’re alone.”

  Well, there’s a leap. From prescriptive missionary and oral-on-her to “all the things.” Honey, if you only knew what those things look like. They wouldn’t be showing Lindsay that. She’d run screaming from her computer, surely, and never patronize their pervy corner of the Internet ever again. They’d probably ruin whatever romantic illusion she was paying through the teeth for and sour an otherwise uplifting experience. But they could show her more, certainly.

  “We can show you more,” Suzy promised. “Little by little.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “So would we,” Meyer said, voice halting to the pace of his thrusts.

  “What she did to you, that was enough for tonight. But next time, show me more.”

  “Our pleasure.” Suzy shut her eyes, imagining all the items on that menu. It’d be hard to choose. Above her, she could sense Meyer imagining the same. Lindsay probably couldn’t see it, but he felt different. His body was locked, motions a little quicker, impact rougher.

  In time he hit a pleasure wall of some sort, eyes squeezing shut as he moaned in time with his driving hips. She watched him swallow, watched his eyes open, listened to the hoarseness and desperation in his voice as he panted, “Turn over, sweetheart. Hands and knees.”

  Again, bold, without Lindsay’s explicit request, though she’d seen this position before. Meyer backed off and Suzy did as he said, bracing on all fours, waiting for what came next.

  A broad, warm hand on her hip. The fronts of his thighs against the backs of hers. And finally, the smooth, blunt head of his cock, sliding along her seam, then pushing deep, deep, deep.

  Suzy moaned, excited. Normally when they did this for a client, she used the opportunity to picture someone else. They weren’t in love, but they were monogamous. It went without saying that they imagined fucking other people when they were together. It was only natural. She thought of any number of men; celebrities, exes, that hot guy from the coffee shop. Meyer fantasized about other women and men besides, and after the camera switched off they’d often talk about who they’d been fucking in their heads. But tonight Suzy wasn’t thinking about anybody else. When Lindsay was watching, she wanted only Meyer, as badly as she had before they’d ever gone to bed together, nearly a year ago. Vanilla was spicy, with Lindsay, and what could be mundane felt rich and new and even a little kinky.

  Oh shit, I have a crush on her.

  Her eyes blinked opened at the realization. She couldn’t say she wanted to be with Lindsay—she had no way of knowing if there’d be any physical chemistry, and her girl-crushes were pretty rare. But she anticipated these dates with butterflies in her stomach, and she ached to please her. She was thrilled to feel this new person’s eyes on her, and she’d be more than a little bummed if these nights were to suddenly end. She’d be heartbroken. Temporarily, but truly, all the same. Lindsay lit Suzy up in a way she’d never have guessed was possible, but it all added up to exactly that—a crush.

  Does that violate our arrangement? It was fine—it was necessary—for the clients to want her and Meyer, but was this a deal breaker? To form an emotional attachment, no longer solely professional and compartmentalized, on a customer?

  What would Meyer say?

  First, he’d ream her for being such a sap, and for even thinking such a thing possible. A crush, on someone she’d never met? Never laid eyes on? A crush on the very concept of a person, shot through end-to-end with speculation and fantasy? Christ, he’d have a field day, if not for how annoyed such a pronouncement would leave him.

  In addition, he’d tell her, “Who the fuck cares? You’re never going to meet her. Fall in fucking love for all the shits I give.”

  She relaxed, trusting she had his reactions about nailed. Plus, all these thoughts . . . madness. Sex madness. They’d finish, log off, split a joint, maybe, and she’d come to her senses by the time she finished showering. If sleeping around had taught her anything—and it had taught her a lot—it was that attachments could strike as hot and bright as lightening and go dark just as quickly, or they could creep up slow as moss growing, soft and organic. What she thought she was feeling for Lindsay . . . ? Somewhere in between, but the whole of it steeped in mystery. She knew nothing about this woman aside from a few transcribed fantasies and Suzy’s own wild theorizing. She was a fantasy, same as the two of them were to her.

  Do your job, Suzy commanded herself. Her internal clock said they must be nearing the forty-minute mark. She liked to get off by then, to leave plenty of time for a possible second orgasm and for Meyer to get there, and for a few minutes of cuddling. Cuddling was like dessert, on Lindsay’s nights. The feast wasn’t complete without it.

  “I’m so close, baby,” she told Meyer. A fib, but she’d get there quick enough once he went in for the kill.

  “Tell me what you need.”

  “Your hand.”

  They’d never done this for Lindsay before—aside from Meyer’s talented mouth, Suzy’s orgasms were hands-free. An illusion more problematic than anything else in pornography, Suzy felt, but hey, they were in the fantasy business. But tonight she’d shatter it, and fuck the porn-star bullshit.

  Meyer’s fingers
found her clit, feeling smooth and warm and practiced, the touch of an intellectual. What he lacked in machismo he more than made up for in talent.

  “Yeah.” She moved her hips, exaggerating his touch, mimicking the motions and demanding more. He teased her in tight circles as his cock owned her pussy with long, smooth strokes. She pictured him, from the side. She knew every muscle, every shadow, and there was no one else she wanted just now.

  No one, except perhaps that mysterious, haunting ghost-girl named Lindsay.

  Fuck, she thought. I’ve got to get a handle on this.

  And “Fuck” was exactly what she blurted as she came against Meyer’s taunting fingertips and driving cock.

  Chapter Three

  They finished in missionary, at Lindsay’s request, Meyer rushing himself home in a flurry of frantic, needy thrusts—nowhere near as poised as he typically was for this particular audience.

  She got to him, Suzy thought, watching his exquisite face as he lost control. He could snark all he wanted, but pushing Lindsay’s boundaries excited him, too.

  He came down as he always did from an orgasm, with a shudder, a shiver, then a slow softening of his muscles. His spine drooped, belly grazing Suzy’s, and he slid out to lie beside her. He spread his fingers across her ribs, his arm heavy and slack and reassuring across her middle. She could feel his come between her legs, warm and slick. She’d miss this messy intimacy when they quit camming and she went back to dating, back to condoms. Their marriage might be fake, but now and then there was true closeness between them, as real as any she’d felt.

  The camera setup was clever—it was programmed to stop recording when the room went dark, which was a far classier and more organic way to end a session than using the voice prompt, shouting “Stop,” at the computer. Suzy gave Meyer a final kiss on the lips, then rolled over and tugged the chain on the reading lamp, blew out her candles. Meyer did the same on his side and the room went black save for the glow of the laptop. A few seconds later, so did the little green light beside the camera’s lens.

  “It’s a wrap,” she whispered. “Well done.”

  “You too. Not that you did much of anything.”

  She gave his shoulder a sharp shove. “Excuse me, I am a very passionate bottom and you know it. Plus, that was some good-ass head I gave you.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You can’t tell me that wasn’t hot as hell, vanilla or not.”

  “I like a challenge,” he said through a yawn.

  “You’re a misery.”

  “But a hell of a fuck.”

  “Lindsay was different, tonight.”

  “More permissive.”

  “More passionate,” she said, and Meyer sighed, the sound drenched in sarcasm.

  “What?”

  “Like you can tell,” he said.

  “I can.”

  “What, did the computer sound especially overwrought tonight?”

  “I could feel it. I could tell from her responses.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “She was—”

  He hushed her, clamping a hand over her mouth, squeezing her cheeks playfully before she pried him off. “No more Lindsay talk,” he ordered. “Keep your bizarre obsessions to yourself.”

  “Whatever.”

  They were quiet for a time, lying in the dark as their sweat cooled. Suzy normally caught herself thinking either of dinner or math at moments like this—math to the tune of how close she was creeping to the money she needed to pay off her mom’s house. Her dad had died two years ago, and the grief and stress together were aging her mother at an alarming rate. Suzy couldn’t bring her dad back, but she’d found a way to fix the financial strain. Of course she could never tell her mom how she was making the money—her mother was seriously old-school, hard-core Korean. Instead she’d lied, telling her she was using her certification, building a stable of private counseling clients.

  Then she thought of the mysterious Miss Lindsay, and wondered if that was really such a stretch, that story.

  “You want to smoke a joint and order some food?” she asked Meyer. “I’m too spent to cook my own dinner.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Meyer?” She turned her light back on and rolled over, finding him comatose. “Suit yourself.”

  She left the covers and grabbed her stage robe off the hook by the closet—a gold satin affair, very boudoir, but also very comfortable. She padded across the cool floorboards to the computer to shut the chat application down. Lindsay’s generic icon showed beside that final line of text she’d directed at Meyer: Her on her back. Then whatever you need. The avatar was a little yellow circle with a lighter yellow silhouette of a sexless head-and-shoulders, with an even smaller circle beside it—green, telling Suzy that their client was still online. She smiled at that. Very Lindsay. She never logged off first, and Suzy bet dollars to dildos that it was an etiquette thing. No, you hang up first. Suzy usually did, though tonight she did something new. She took the time to sit in the chair and pull the laptop close, and to type into the chat box.

  Hope you enjoyed! See you next time.

  She was about to shut the computer and end the session when that little bloink stopped her.

  Thank you both. Wonderful as always.

  Suzy stared. Bit her lip. Deliberated, dallied, and in the end, couldn’t help herself.

  Our pleasure. We always enjoy our Tuesday evenings with you. She hit SEND.

  That’s kind of you to say, Lindsay replied.

  It’s true, Suzy typed. They say romance is dead, but whoever “they” are, they’ve clearly never had the honor of performing for you.

  There was a short pause before Lindsay’s box displayed the ellipsis, indicating she was typing. Then, That made me blush a little.

  Suzy grinned. Before she could respond, the ellipsis was back, and she waited for Lindsay’s next reply. The woman typed just as Suzy had expected—with care and capitalization, punctuation, grammar—

  Bloink. If you don’t mind my asking, is this Mr. or Mrs. Parks?

  Mrs.

  You were wonderful tonight. Both of you. A long pause, ellipsis blinking. At the risk of sounding pathetic, these nights mean a lot to me. More than I can say.

  Suzy’s turn to blush. The Jungian in her was dying to explore the implications of that one word—pathetic. She longed to unpack that, but knew better. Knew she had to keep it friendly, keep it on the surface, and for fuck’s sake, keep it short. But when she went to word a flirtatiously tactful farewell, her fingertips came out with, Why on earth would you feel pathetic? Your sessions are wonderful. Seductive. Sophisticated. And so refreshingly female in their demands. Not necessarily gentle, but . . . what? Sensual, she added.

  I’m glad you think so. But what you both offer, it’s so much more than titillation to me. It’s an education.

  I knew it! A virgin, just as Suzy had theorized. She typed, We’re just happy to be whatever you need. And if it makes you feel any better, she fibbed, there’s nothing about your requests that makes you seem at all inexperienced. You strike me as a positive sexual connoisseur, she wrote, smiling to herself. Grinning. She felt a hit of that heady, new-courtship zing, and from a woman. And from nothing more than typing.

  You’re kind to say so. But trust me, I find all of this very . . . elusive. And intimidating. Whatever place I’ve found in the things that you two do together . . . this is the most fulfilling sexual experience I’ve ever had. Again, pathetic.

  Not at all. And I’m honored you feel that way. It makes what we do feel like so much more than just . . . Shit, what? Like live-action, custom pornography? She couldn’t write that to sweet, romantic Lindsay. She deleted much of the sentence, backtracking. It makes me feel wonderful to know that.

  Fuck, Meyer would strangle her if he ever read these lines.

  Again, type
d Lindsay, blushing.

  I won’t apologize. It’s the truth.

  Behind her, Meyer’s quiet snoring ceased and she caught the swishy sound of him fidgeting against the sheets.

  I need to go, but I’ll look forward to our time next week. Take care, Lindsay.

  Never use their names, Meyer’s voice hissed in her head.

  Oops.

  You too, Lindsay wrote. Have a lovely evening—I hope it’s even a tenth as lovely as the one you gave to me.

  “You old honey-dripper, you,” Suzy whispered, then closed the application with a parting, Sweet dreams.

  As soon as she shut the computer, her face was glowing pink with guilt. Guilt, and excitement. Bad girl. Bad, bad girl. Crazy to think that with all the hard-core stuff she and Meyer got up to on camera six nights a week that such a sweet, nearly innocent interaction could leave her blushing.

  Once upon a time Suzy had worried she could use up her capacity for shock, having such broad boundaries. Now she knew, it was all about the new, the strange. And in her world, Lindsay’s softcore romantic fantasies rang exotic way down deep in her darkest parts.

  A low, lazy moan from behind her jerked Suzy back into reality.

  “What’s the time?” Meyer slurred, rolling over to starfish the bed, long limbs luxuriating against the messy sheets.

  “Nearly nine.”

  “Fuck. I’m meant to meet someone in a half hour.”

  “Dude or lady?”

  He sat up, looking bleary. “Dude.”

  “In a bar?”

  “Possibly.”

  She sighed. “For a monogamous recovering alcoholic, you do love to flirt with your own destruction, don’t you?”

  “If I can’t drink, I might as well use all the money I save to watch a beautiful man enjoy himself. And you can’t call me a predator for it, either,” he said, combing his hair back with his fingers, wedding band glinting. “A tease, perhaps, but believe it or not, I haven’t fucked anyone but you in the past year. Which is quite the feat, considering you don’t have a cock. Half of my being feels positively starved, and yet here I sit, irreproachably faithful.”