by Violet Blue
Now the traffic noises were drowned out by her whimpers, the rushing sound in her ears and the loud slapping of skin on skin.
“You’re going to come hard, little girl,” Jackson grunted, slowing down his thrusts, while again grabbing and tugging at her hair.
“Come on. Come for me.” He thrust again, hard and fast.
And she came—came like she hadn’t in a long time, a noise emitting from her that sounded like a mix of pleasure and pain, her legs shaking as her pussy clenched and tightened, clenched and tightened in sweet rolling waves.
He was unrelenting, fucking her even harder than before. He held tightly to her hips, his fingertips digging into her skin as he moaned through his orgasm; then he withdrew from her quickly, grabbed another handful of ass and spanked her lightly.
Again, she heard him fumbling with his clothes. He pulled up her panties and jeans, finally turning her to face him as he fastened her pants.
He kissed her hard and fast on the lips, then spun her around again, releasing her from the cuffs. Then he was walking away from her, all business again. Her blood was still pumping in her ears, her breath coming out in shallow grunts.
“Elena?” he said, turning to look at her again.
“Yeah?” she managed to sputter out.
“You still coming over at ten?”
“You really need to ask?”
“Guess not,” he replied, smiling, impossibly cute. “I’ll see ya later.”
TEXTUAL INTERCOURSE
Magenta Brown
The year 2005 had been a slow one for me. I’d reached the age where, as an actress, I was no longer considered for romantic leads but was still too young to play anything else and consequently, I’d experienced a serious decline in work offers, not to mention auditions.
Several of my classmates from drama school were now in telesales and real estate, a few were teaching (acting classes mostly), and two particularly vivacious girls were allegedly doing double act porn in California.
Only, I wasn’t ready for porn and I wasn’t wanted for panto, which is how I found myself in the role of Text Sex Operator, sending saucy text messages to strangers for one pound fifty a pop.
Aside from my obsession with literacy—sadly, most of my clients don’t know a comma from their colon let alone know how to spell even the simplest words—text sex pays better than waitressing and is infinitely more dignified for a woman in her thirties.
I do wonder though, how does a clerk from a DIY store afford over twenty quid a day on messages? And come to think of it, why would someone using a fantasy wank service insist on keeping things so real? Why say you work at Home-base when you can pretend you’re a city broker who wants to bend my slutty alter ego over his desk and bang me till I beg for mercy?
I don’t want to know the truth about these people, and I’m sure as hell not sharing mine.
What I look like:
Hi babes, I’m 23 with light brown hair, green eyes & a really toned body! I have long, slim legs & am 5’8”, 34d, love oral & outdoor sex!! Amy x or
Hi babes, I’m 34. blonde, blue eyes & I’m really curvy. I love sexy lingerie, am 5’2”, 36c, love sucking cock & shaven sex!! Lucy x
What I’m wearing:
Right now I’m dressed in my usual office gear, short skirt, knee-hi black leather boots & a little blouse with buttons up the front but they keep popping open! or
I’ve just made it home from dance class & I’m wearing a thong, hot pants&acrop top—about 2 have a shower— wanna join me?
What I’m doing:
Hi there sexy!! I’m chilling & watching hot porn with my flatmates, the girls are @ a bit of a loose end tonight. Wanna play?
or
Right now my hands are under my desk & inside my panties. I gotta get home but don’t know whether 2 wank now or wait till i can really go 4 it? help me!
As you can tell, I’m not sticking to the truth. (Hi I’m an out of work actress, u might know me from episodes of Holby City & The Bill, currently wearing pyjamas, supplementing my income during a particularly dry spell.)
No way; as far as the punters know I’m a nurse (a very common fantasy), a bored housewife (equally popular), or a student who’s also a stripper. On one service people actually think they’re texting Jordan—I would have thought my unfailingly correct use of apostrophes (I can’t help it) would have been a dead giveaway that I’m not Katie Price.
But it’s not all bad news and sometimes I actually share texts with people who turn me on, people who make me reach down my knickers, wishing my fingers were somebody’s tongue—incidentally, if you don’t already know, this is done on a laptop, not a mobile, and sometimes I refer to myself as a lap(top) dancer.
And what makes this job particularly easy, now that I’ve been at it awhile: I’ve saved hundreds of responses so I make a point of leading punters into particular fantasies—a striptease, a little light S/M, a secret screw in the office—then it’s simply cut and paste all the way home.
Even as I write this I’m simultaneously firing little pearls of filth into the ether to over twelve different guys.
Interestingly, nearly everyone who texts eventually asks for a date, wants a phone number, or begs to meet, but up till now I’ve never felt tempted to arrange a rendezvous. It’s sad how some guys fall for the make believe, but I don’t feel bad about it; I mean, this is no more immoral than a cosmetic that promises to make people look younger—it’s all lies, the world is built on bullshit.
To be fair though, it’s not just sad, raincoat-wearing, friendless, forty-year-old virgins who cross my path and every now and then I do actually find a client who turns me on. That’s where this story really begins.
Recently, I received a text from a guy who was working late with a female colleague putting the finishing touches on a proposal and, to liven things up, we were sharing texts, mainly about what I’d do to him if I were to come down to the office.
I told this guy, Mark, how I’d get past security by masquerading as a pizza delivery girl and how, once inside, I’d tie him to a chair—resistance would be futile.
His female colleague, I warned him, would be much too stunned to stop me or even say anything.
And so the fantasy went on, him texting back describing her and his growing state of arousal, and me taking it further and further with each response.
Once he was tied up, I said, I’d tell her she could do anything she liked to him. Or if she preferred, she could tell me what to do to him and just watch. In our text fantasy, this was what she first chose. She made me cut all his clothes off with scissors; he’d be scared but once the last stitch was snipped from his body we’d find him hard as a rock, gagging for attention.
This went on over a number of nights. In some variations I’d just strip for him, just to tease him, to be a bitch; and then I’d get it on with her, not letting him in on the action at all; or I’d thrust my perfectly trimmed bush into his face, one foot either side of his legs, forcing him to lick me to orgasm; or I’d suck him off or fuck him facing him, from behind, every which way under the sun. And what I learned was how much I loved the whole office domination thing—I was in charge and at the same time, at the mercy of these two as well.
And then I had an idea: I told him he had to show his colleague all the messages we’d shared—it was the moment of truth. He insisted he couldn’t, but he was so used to being my slave it didn’t take much to persuade him that he didn’t have any choice.
Another text arrived and this time it was from her.
Hi this is Susie. I’ve read your texts, the ones you’ve been sending Mark, he told me he was being sent football results!
Well, Susie wasn’t giving much away. I wasn’t sure how to respond but with only 45 seconds and 175 characters with which to reply, I countered swiftly:
So what do you think Susie? U want a pizza this evening? x
For a moment I even forgot it was a fantasy and I was briefly concerned about what she might think
or how she might respond. She probably didn’t even exist!
She replied:
I love it, don’t tell Mark I said this but he is so cocky, good looking but full of himself, I’d love 2 c him tied up. xxx
Her message included a financial district office address complete with suite number, and I answered without thinking:
Then I’d love 2 oblige. Shall we make a date 2 surprise him, play this game our way?
To this day I can’t say why I did what I did next, why it seemed like such a good idea. I mean, text operators are always making dates with punters, to meet them outside this tube or on that bridge. I know it’s cruel to let some poor schmuck stand around in the cold for a few hours, to get his hopes up only to dash them, but sometimes it’s the only way you can get a guy to shut up about meeting, or get the message across that it’s make believe without coming right out and saying, “Dude, don’t be a halfwit.”
Which is why I’ll never know why I not only agreed to meet this couple, but immediately began to follow through.
First, I ordered a pizza to be sent to their office. Next, I texted a friend and told her exactly where I’d be. I texted Susie I’d done that, too, just in case she and Mark were planning anything weird.
Then I chose my outfit with care and precision: a simple black push-up bra, sheer black high-cut panties with suspenders and fishnets, a classic look. Over it all, a plain black, belted trench coat and a pair of heels so high I practically needed oxygen to wear them.
I didn’t bother with perfume though: if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s licking, biting, kissing, and sucking someone’s neck and getting a mouthful of aftershave or scent. Not sexy.
In my bag I packed some lengths of rope, a gag, and a few other surprises including dental dams, condoms, and lube. Then I called a cab.
As we drove through Central London, rather than wonder what the hell I was doing, I congratulated myself for having had a full wax just days before. I arrived at their building just in time to intercept the pizza man—perfect timing.
It wasn’t too late to back out but I was so horny by this stage it was all I could do not to straddle the security guy and grind myself to orgasm on his lap. Instead, my trench coat tightly belted, I brandished the pizza and told him I was here on business and wasn’t sure the call out was legit, so could he keep an eye out and, if he heard any screaming or whatever, sound the alarm?
In the lift, headed for the thirty-second floor, I had a chance to check that there was no lipstick on my teeth, that my eyelashes were holding and everything was where it should be.
The elevator sounded my arrival and opened onto an open-plan office, a vast space designed to be as creative as possible—meaning very little real work ever gets done.
And there they were: Mark and Susie in the flesh, and they sure weren’t what I was expecting. He was thinning on top, whereas I’d envisaged a thick thatch of dark hair, and she was a bit older and slimmer than I’d imagined, but she had great breasts with a cleavage that was really something to behold. I can’t have been what they were expecting either—I’m not blonde, twenty-three, or a nurse—and there I stood, holding a pizza box, wearing a trench coat and black stilettos and very little else.
The tension was so thick you could have cut it with a—pizza cutter; nobody said anything until eventually I broke the ice with a throaty hi.
They both said hi back.
“You order a pizza? With extras?”
Susie managed to speak first. “Yeah, that’s right, you can put it on that desk.”
I did.
She went to her purse and that’s when I knew she was going to be fun. She turned back to me and, her acting better than any porn star I’d ever seen, said, “But we don’t seem to have any money.”
“How about a check?” I suggested.
“Sorry, no can do.” Mark was in on it now.
“Well you’re going to have to find some other way to pay me, aren’t you?”
And once we all knew our parts it really started to flow.
“Perhaps we should discuss this inside.” Susie led me to the corner office, and Mark followed, closing the door.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked, and Susie showed me exactly what she had in mind.
Slowly she unbuttoned her blouse, and her breasts were every bit as magnificent as I’d imagined when I first set eyes on her.
I let my trench coat fall open, and as I moved they both caught glimpses of just how provocatively I’d dressed for this. Mark started to unbutton himself too but Susie and I shared a wavelength and we shook our heads at him. I took the ropes from my bag and together Susie and I tied him to a chair—not too tight, but he wasn’t going anywhere.
He started to say something, but I hate guys who rabbit on during sex so I took the gag, a length of silk, and shut him up with that.
He was cute but Susie was absolutely beautiful; I advanced on her slowly and kissed her once gently on the lips, so soft. We kissed like that for I don’t know how long while my hands found their way to her thighs and slowly I raised her skirt, revealing first her legs and next her panties.
She pulled away, and I wondered if she was getting nervous, but she just wanted to wriggle out of her skirt and blouse, to stand before me in just her underwear. I couldn’t let a lady strip on her own, and I let my coat fall to the floor. Behind me I could hear Mark making some kind of noise but we ignored him. I sank to my knees and buried my face in Susie’s bush, pulling her panties aside and inhaling the vanilla musk of her. I ran my fingers inside her slit, and she was so wet I wished for a moment I was a guy with a rock-hard cock.
Grabbing a dam, I went to work on her, licking and nibbling and sucking her sweet pussy through it till she was bucking into my face like she couldn’t get enough. She was moaning like she was going to come sometime soon: the great thing about girls eating pussy, we know exactly what works and what doesn’t.
Mark was really gurgling away about something now, so Susie generously took his index finger and started easing it in and out of her hot mouth, which helped send her over the edge as I furiously circled her clit with my tongue, four of my fingers inside her, feeling her cunt muscles squeezing me so tight. And as she came, so sweetly, Mark, to his undoubted chagrin, came too, just from our show and a little finger sucking. What a lightweight.
And then we heard the telltale ding of the elevator—it was the security guy. Susie and I wriggled back into our clothes faster than lightning and poor Mark just sat there, bound and gagged, a damp, dark patch spreading on his trousers like shame.
We’ve arranged to meet again. This time I think I’ll be a cycle courier: “Can someone sign for this package?”
IN SNOW
Teresa Lamai
In December, Portland is washed in silver mist, cloistered in evergreens. Camellias are already blooming in every lawn, their pink scentless petals like shavings of soap, falling over the wet grass. Snails wander in slow patterns over the sidewalks at night. I step over them carefully. On hushed dark mornings like this, they don’t quite realize it’s daytime yet.
The downtown streets are empty, silent except for the distant hissing of the trolley. The mist seems to swallow every sound. The Christmas lights over the theater are dark. Jim, the night security guard, is still on duty, ignoring the monitors and deep into his crossword puzzle. I’ve brought him a coffee and I pass it through the half-open Plexiglas window at his booth. I can’t stop to chat but he raises a donut in greeting before I run down the dusty hallway, my breath and footsteps echoing harshly.
I’m the first one in the dressing room. When I flick on the lights, the room buzzes faintly. We have two performances today, matinee and evening shows of the Nutcracker. The room seems stunned into silence, as if still recovering from the mass of terror, pain, and elation that filled it last night. I need this quiet time to breathe and let my mind narrow down into the tiny, essential rituals of preparation: makeup, hair, tape. I take out my makeup kit first
. The false eyelashes are sleeping prettily in their pink box.
I pause and reach into my purse. Folded in between receipts is Christian’s note, the one he left on my bedside table three days ago. I haven’t read it yet. I press it against my forehead. Memory wells up from my body and surfaces in my mind, brightly.
The rustle of paper was what woke me that morning, the last time I was with him. I rolled toward him as he sat carefully on the bed’s edge. He was already dressed, already wrapped in his gray wool coat, his white hair brushed, his starched collar chaffing his freshly shaven neck. There was a sideways freezing rain outside; wet branches lashed against the window. His profile in the predawn gloom was like a sepia-washed portrait. I caught his hand and he turned quickly, his eyes shadowed and glittering. I pulled at the tight leather glove until it finally gave way. His thick pale fingers tasted like soap. When they touched the back of my throat my sleepy cunt pulsed twice.
When I reached for his zipper, his cock was already lengthened, arched taut like a bow, straining against the cloth. I unzipped, watching it uncurl and slide against his black silk shorts. I freed it into my mouth, licking up the shaft. I inhaled, deeply. Squeaky clean. When my lazy hand closed around the base, I felt the blood pumping steadily. The zipper bit at me. I lifted myself, resting my head on his lap, pressing my breasts into his thigh. The heavy duvet fell away. As his skin warmed, it gave off the scent of shampoo, then his own rich smell, savory and spicy, the hint of anise and warm vanilla.
His hand spread over my tousled head. The other, still gloved, reached under the duvet and quickly found my sex. It was slick from the night before, the clit still sore and restless. Two fingers slid into my wet cunt. The leather was smooth as oil. His thumb brushed the damp hair over my mound, tickling, letting the clit swell tight before he covered it in slow, meticulous circles. I rocked against him, my moans quiet around his cock.
