WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Photo Credit: Bree
Used under a Creative Commons license.
Cover Design: Gabriel Daemon
Pretty Baby © 2008 Gabriel Daemon
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Pretty Baby
By Gabriel Daemon
Chapter One
I guess I was always a little different. While my friends were obsessively absorbed in the latest Harry Potter offering, I was turning the faded and ragged pages of my favorite novel, Memoirs of a Geisha. A friend in ninth grade gave it to me as a 'dirty book,' and I loved reading something I wasn't supposed to. It wasn't that it had dirty words in it, it was the fact that the main character was a prostitute that got my libido running like a waterfall.
Not that I ever thought I'd become a prostitute, of course. That certainly would not have sit well with my bible-thumping father. No, this daddy's girl was pure and virtuous, having never known a boy beyond a kiss and some light groping after inter-school dances. I was going to college to get myself a decent job and find a good husband, because that's what I was supposed to do.
The summer between high school graduation and my first semester of college, I took a job in the local mall at a casual-dining restaurant. The mechanics of being a waitress were easy to learn; the social skills took some practice. But, even though I had attended an all-girl Catholic school, and had never spent too much time around boys, I wasn’t too awkward at flirting and got better as time went on.
I did well at my new job. I made a few friends, earned some regular guests and made more money than I had originally assumed. Like a lot of kids, I was clueless about how much a server could make, and was pretty impressed with myself the first night I took home a hundred bucks.
Once the semester started, however, my financial waterfall became more of a trickle. I worked five days a week, mostly night shifts, and while the occasional hundred-dollar night saw fit to bless me, most shifts earned me about half that. Still, waiting tables was better than standing behind a counter and asking, “You want regular or curly-fries?”
Between expenses and my new efficiency apartment – I was not about to stay in the dorms, considering all the stories I had heard – I was just keeping my head above water. Cutting costs on even the smallest things became an art form I hadn't quite mastered. Dorm life started to look attractive real quick.
Strangely enough, a better way to make money found me.
I had fallen into a weekday routine of going to class during the day, then heading to the mall for a couple of hours. I would have lunch, window shop, maybe read some Anne Rice at the Barnes & Noble before either going home to study or reporting to work at four o’clock.
On this particular day – a Wednesday, I remember – I sat at a table in the mall’s food court around two in the afternoon, reading my notes from class and munching on chicken fried rice. The dress code at the restaurant called for blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt with the company logo on it. The jeans I already had on; the shirt and my balled-up apron were stuffed in my backpack, as always, and I wore a simple tank. Just another girl in the crowd, that was me, I figured.
At one point, I sat up, cracking my neck and popping my back by twisting in my chair. Going over the basics of economics had become repetitive, to the point where I wasn’t even ingesting the words I had jotted down or those printed in the text book. I needed a break, I knew, a diversion. My well-worn copy of Memoirs was calling to me from my backpack.
“Hey, chica.”
I frowned. Some of the Hispanic cooks at work called me that, and the way they always said it, with leers and grins, made me uncomfortable. The guy who sat down at the table beside mine, setting a red plastic basket full of chicken fingers and fries before him, was giving me the same look.
I gave him a quick, non-flirtatious look. “Hi,” I responded curtly, then returned my attention to the economics text in front of me. But I was inexorably aware of the Hispanic guy just three feet away.
“What'cha reading, baby? You in school or something?”
I sighed, shifting my shoulders, keeping my head down and reading the same line of text over and over without knowing what it said. I hoped the guy would get the hint and leave me alone.
He didn't. “Hey, I'm just being friendly, that's all,” he said. I heard him shift, caught movement from the corner of my eye. “I'm Miguel.”
Another sigh of annoyance left my throat, but I didn't want to be rude. So I pushed a smile to my lips and looked to him. He wasn't a bad-looking guy; actually, he was pretty handsome. Well-dressed in Tommy Hilfiger, with the essence of some rich cologne wafting off him and just enough jewelry to make him look like he had money. I was aware that, if he had been a guest at the restaurant, I would be flirting with him to the nines , , , for the sake of a tip. But this wasn't the restaurant.
My response was short and curt. “Alyssa. Nice to meet you.” I looked back down at my reading.
I heard him chuckle. “Guess all that stuff about global warming is wrong,” he commented.
I frowned in mild confusion at his comment, and without looking up, asked, “What do you mean?”
“Just saying . . . here it is, middle of summer, and it's feeling like I'm sitting next to an iceberg or something.”
I bristled slightly at the implication of his words, and shot him a look. “I'd just like to get some studying done before I go to work,” I said.
Miguel shrugged, popped a fry in his mouth. He had one of those really thin, tightly trimmed mustaches. “Guess the libraries were all crowded,” he remarked.
Now he was starting to get to me. “Is this how you always pick up girls?” I asked. “By insulting them?”
He grinned. “You saying I'm picking you up?”
I scoffed. “Fat chance,” I muttered, and turned away. If he thought I was giving him a cold shoulder before . . . .
“I like the sound of that,” he said. “'Fat chance.' 'Cause you definitely phat, baby, you feel me?”
I rolled my eyes, not giving him the courtesy of a look. “Not even if you paid me.”
He fell silent again. I listened to him smack his lips and slurp on his soda as I pretended to read. I could have gotten up at that point; I certainly had the opportunity, and the reason. It would no longer have been rude. But I stayed put. I still don't know why.
“You sure about that?”
His question startled me. I had just begun to be comfortable in ignoring Miguel, and the words in the textbook had started to make sense again, when he spoke.
I lifted my head and shot him a look that expressed, I thought, in no uncertain terms, just how much he was annoying me. “Am I sure about what?”
The rakish grin was gone, replaced with a more serious and penetrating expression. “You a student, right? And students always need money. Wouldn't take long, you know.”
I stared at him, insulted. “What?”
Miguel rolled his shoulders. “Just saying . . . .”
A hot, angry rush coursed through me. “Well, say whatever you want,” I snapped, gathering up my books. “I hope the chair likes what it hears.” I fumbled as I scooped up everything I had and stomped away from the table, heading for the hallway that led to the restrooms. I kicked open the door to the ladies' room, and dumped everything on the fake marble counter. My pulse was pounding, sweat beaded on my forehead. I had just been, essentially, propositioned.
Who does that jerk think he is? Sit down next to some pretty girl he doesn't know, then offer to pay her for . . . for what?
I took a few deep breaths, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I went through a thousand thoughts in the space of a few rapid heartbeats. Everything from trying to reinterpret Miguel's words so they weren't so insidious to fantasies of going back out there and giving the slimy greaseball a piece of my mind.
And then there was that one thought, that little realization that I was angry and insulted because, for some reason, I was at least a little turned on.
What would he want to pay me for? I wondered. No way would I have sex with him! I'm not giving up my cherry to just any jerk.
I sighed heavily, and dug out my makeup. My fingers were shaking a little as I dusted my nose, and I couldn't tell if that was because I was angry or turned on.
I arranged everything in my backpack, and in the process took out the seemingly ages-old copy of Memoirs. The face on the cover stared at me. She had always worn a blank expression before, but now, for the first time, Sayuri looked amused. Like she knew something I didn't. With some effort, I shoved it back in the pack and slung it over my shoulder.
I had almost an hour before I was supposed to be at work, but I figured I could arrive early, maybe relieve one of the lunch closers. They sometimes wanted to get done early, and I knew my manager, Juan, wouldn't mind me starting early. I just wanted to get to some place safe.
I stepped out into the hallway.
“Hey, chica.”
I gritted my teeth, feeling a slight flutter of anxiety – o or fear – in my stomach. Miguel leaned against the wall of the corridor, arms folded, looking smug and impressed with himself. That attitude alone was grounds for a good slap across the face. But that could turn into something dangerous, I knew.
Instead, I tried to give him the verbal equivalent. “You're disgusting, you know that?”
He smirked. “Yeah.”
Again, I rolled my eyes. I could make it past him, I knew, or, if necessary, call for help. The buzz of conversation from the food court beyond reminded me that there were people around. Miguel wouldn't be stupid enough to try anything, I reasoned. Maybe that realization was what allowed me to stand up to him. “What the hell do you want?”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully, eyes digging into my own. “A blowjob,” he said.
I balked. Not at the suggestion, but the casual way in which he offered it. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He uncurled his arms and held up a twenty-dollar bill between the fingers of both hands. “A guy who's on pretty good terms with our tenth President,” he said smugly.
I narrowed my eyes. “Jackson was the seventh,” I quipped.
Miguel laughed softly. “Whatever. Hey, it's twenty bucks, baby. And it ain't like you never done it before, right?”
Actually, I never have, I thought in an unlikely moment's worth of introspection. I was still glaring when I answered him. “That's none of your business,” I said haughtily, then gave him a disgusted look. “I don't even know you.”
Miguel didn't seem to care about that. “What's to know? Twenty bucks, baby.”
I stared at him, then decided to call his bluff. “Make it forty,” I said flippantly, and the moment those words left my lips, I felt a little sting of arousal in my belly.
Miguel wasn't put off, however. Instead, he gave me an even more interested look, and shoved his hand in his pocket, coming out with a wad of bills. He peeled off another twenty and grinned.
I felt suddenly nervous, the haughtiness draining away. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I looked down the hallway, knowing I could make a run for it. Miguel wouldn't be able to chase after me, I knew, not without arousing attention. It dawned upon me in that instant that I was calling the shots.
Still with that crooked smile, Miguel took a few slow steps toward the men's room, keeping his eyes on mine. He was doing his best not to be threatening.
The sting of arousal had turned into a simmering warmth in my abdomen that crept down toward my clit like some erotic spider, teasing me. A blow job, I thought, thinking how strange those two words sounded when applied to me. How hard can it be?
I took a single step toward Miguel, lowering my eyes in resignation. That was the only indication of compliance Miguel needed, for he covered the distance to the men's room door with three quick strides, pushing it open for me. I kept my head down – from shame, or embarrassment over my own excitement, I wasn't sure – and went in ahead of him.
I had never been inside a men's public bathroom before. It wasn't much different from the women's, except for the addition of urinals and the reduced number of stalls. I briefly wondered why one of the urinals was set so much lower to the ground than the others. Thankfully, the restroom was empty.
Without a word, Miguel guided me toward the furthest of the two stalls, and held the door open for me. The sickly sweet aroma of our surroundings made me wrinkle my nose, but I did not think about it for long as I tentatively sat down on the closed toilet, facing Miguel, my face level with his crotch. He unzipped his baggy jeans and began digging around as I watched and waited.
For years, ever since I first began fantasizing about Leonardo DiCaprio and looking at my older brother Roger's stash of adult magazines when he wasn't around, I had always had a fascination regarding oral sex. I would see explicit pictures in those glossy pages of Roger's magazines, pictures of women with their lips wrapped around stiff penises, thick, creamy fluid clinging to their chins . . . and I would wonder what it was like to suck a cock to orgasm.
Now, I was about to find out, in the most unanticipated of ways. For the first time in my life, I was about to see a naked, exposed, aroused penis. A cock.
And then, there it was. Sticking out through Miguel's fly. Stiff and brown, curved upward and a little to the right, with a dark, round little head and a slightly gaping, oozing slit that glistened with clear fluid. Miguel burrowed into his jeans and pulled out his hairy testicles as well, making them bunch up around the base of his penis.
“For forty bucks, chica,” he said, taking my hand and slapping the money into my palm. He reached for my head with both hands, pulling me toward his musky groin. “You better go all the way.”
Go all the way? I wondered, even as his penis nudged my lips. What does that mean?
“Oh, baby, yeah,” he moaned, moving his hips, sliding that stiff length of flesh into my mouth. I had no frame of reference for the musky essence that soaked into my senses, nor the way the smooth, spongy head rubbed against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I tasted something vaguely sweet and oily on my tongue. Inexperienced as I was, I clamped down and sucked hard, grazing the shaft with my teeth.
“Ouch!” Miguel grunted, jerking back. His dick popped out of my mouth, shiny and wet, trailing a line of saliva from my lower lip. I realized with wonder that my mouth was watering.
“Damn, girl!” he exclaimed, staring down at me in consternation. “This ain’t your mama’s tit! Suck it soft, okay? And don’t use your teeth! Shit! Ain’t you never give a blow job before?”
‘Blow job.’ The term still seemed strange to me. I blushed, feeling embarrassed, as if I was somehow less than a woman for being so inexperienced. “Sorry,” I said, and licked my lips. “I’ll do better.”
It amazes me now, how eager I was to satisfy Miguel. I didn't particularly like him, but I wanted to be good at what I was doing. And what I was doing was sucking the first penis my tongue had ever tasted.
“You better, baby,” he growled, and thrust back into my mouth. I tasted him again, feeling his length between my lips, the fleshy weight on my tongue. Of all my fantasies, giving head had always been paramount among them. It was a dirty thing to do, I knew, and my mind had long before equated 'dirty' with 'desire.' That the first cock I ever tasted belonged to a stranger who paid me to suck it . . . the trickle in my panties was becoming a river.
“Oh, baby . . . .” Miguel moaned, running his fingers through my hair. He stood still, and I took that as encouragement. My body tingled as he massaged my scalp – it reminded me, strangely, of when my mom used to wash my hair – and I heard myself moan. Mimicking what I had read about in Memoirs, I glided my lips back and forth, sucking gently but firmly, swirling my tongue round and round and round . . . .
The sensation, and the knowledge, that I had a penis in my mouth thrilled me in ways I had never anticipated. There came that slow tingling rise of what I had always thought of as ‘buzzing,’ since I always experienced a long, static sensation whenever I gave myself an orgasm. And I wasn’t even touching myself.
I felt every little pulse and jerk and throb of Miguel’s erection, loved the taste of that semi-sweet fluid that seeped out onto my eager tongue. Wanting more, I slipped back until just the spongy head was in my mouth, and brought up my hand. Miguel shuddered in pleasure, gripping my head tighter as I squeezed and stroked his shaft. This doesn’t taste bad at all, I thought, sucking harder and harder, pulling on Miguel’s tense penis, squeezing the base with my hand as I pumped my mouth back and forth.
And then Miguel was shaking and moaning, pushing his cock deeper into my mouth, nearly all the way to my throat. I coughed a few times, but tried to hang on, wondering what he meant by “Take it all, baby, here it comes!”
My eyes flashed open as it began. I gagged and jerked my head back, almost retching, as the first thick surge of warm fluid flowed across my tongue. My senses were lit up by the flavor. It wasn’t anything at all like what I had been enjoying. This stuff was thicker, dryer, bitter, and a little caustic. Still, there was something about it, something primal and naughty and attractive about the taste that made me excited. And I thought – he’s coming! He’s ejaculating right in my mouth!
Before I knew what was happening, my clitoris spasmed, sending a rush out from my groin and traveling rapidly through my body. I was shocked and startled that, even as I realized I had brought a man to orgasm with my mouth, I was coming as well.
I shook and moaned and whimpered around Miguel’s twitching cock, feeling some of his warm fluid seep out over my lower lip, down my chin, to drip audibly to the floor below. Miguel was lost to ecstasy, plunging messily, making his penis slick with semen. But the majority of his cum remained in my mouth.
My own orgasm faded away, leaving my panties sticky and wet as they clung to my labia, and I relished the afterglow as I sucked tenderly on the softening cock in my mouth. I smacked my lips and murmured in pleasure, stroking Miguel’s penis to make every last drop of cum ooze into my hungry mouth. Miguel sighed in satisfaction, running his fingers through my hair, and let me suckle him until he pulled back. His wet member popped from my mouth, the head shiny and glazed. Impulsively, I licked all around it until he pushed my head back.
Gently, Miguel tilted my head up until I was looking at him, and he grinned rakishly upon seeing my face. “Fuck, you’re hot, baby,” he said dreamily. “You look so nasty with cum on your face.”
His words were unexpectedly exciting. Nasty, he had said, but in a way that indicated the highest level of praise. I could feel his fluid trickling over my chin and down my neck. His cum swirled in my mouth, like watery pudding, soaking into my tongue and cheeks, flowing to the back of my throat. Reflexively, I swallowed some of it, frowning slightly at the flavor. It struck me that cum tasted one way when I held it in my mouth, but entirely different when it slithered down my throat. It wasn’t terrible, just . . . different.
“Go on, baby,” Miguel encouraged me, petting my hair affectionately. He wasn’t the arrogant brute anymore. Now he was the grateful recipient of a world-class blow job. “Go ahead, you can do it.”
I breathed in, inhaling the aroma of spent semen. I knew what he meant, and suddenly, I wanted to do it. I wanted to be the naughty girl, one of those girls guys always whispered about with awe when they said those magic words: “She swallows.” There was something about that simple act that elevated a girl to some sort of pinnacle, making her special. I wanted to be special.
I took another breath, readying myself, then ducked my head and gulped it all down. Miguel’s sperm rushed down my throat like a waterfall, filling my tummy. It was warm and bitter and dry going down, leaving me with an aftertaste not altogether unpleasant. I breathed out, licking my sticky lips. They felt glazed, like a Krispy Kreme donut.
“Oh, fuck!” exclaimed Miguel with an impressed chuckle. “Man, you one hot little bitch! You like that, huh?”
I glanced back to his face, blushing with both arousal and a little embarrassment. “It’s okay,” I said. I touched my chin, feeling it slick, then reached for my purse and pulled out my compact. I stared at my glistening chin in the little mirror. Miguel’s cum wasn’t white, as I had expected; it was more gray, in fact. Of course, maybe that was because it was mixed with my own saliva. Tentatively, I massaged it into my chin and cheeks, wiped it up from my neck. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, I sucked my fingers clean.
“So, what you think, baby?” asked Miguel, offering his spent penis for one last lick before tucking it away and zipping up. "Maybe we could, uh . . . hang out some time?"
I looked up at him, savoring that last warm dollop of salty-sweet cream on my tongue. Miguel's face was flushed with satisfaction, his lips stretched crookedly. A strange sense of pride filled my breast. The power shift between us was obvious; Miguel wasn't calling the shots with me anymore, and we both knew it.
“I think we're done,” I said.
Chapter Two
I headed to work with the lingering flavor of semen in my throat and on my tongue. I had never considered how pungent it would be. I practically smelled it each time I breathed out, though I was sure that was only a function of my imagination. Still, I made sure to pop a mint before I got to the restaurant.
My face was slightly blushed as I recalled every vivid moment of my first blow job. Every aspect of the act turned me on: the feel of a stiff tube of flesh in my mouth, the musky, manly taste of the skin, the oily consistency of pre-cum, and that incredible rush of liquid encouragement that rewarded my efforts. But the hottest part of the whole scenario was:
I had been paid to give head.
That single thought cascaded through my mind, making me feel so incredibly naughty. I was now, and forever would be, a prostitute. The idea was deliciously intoxicating. I had power over men, I realized. Power gained by my eager mouth and apparently natural skill.
I couldn’t wait to do it again.
I had an incredible night at the restaurant. We sold mainly burgers, sandwiches, and salads, and while most checks rang up at around ten dollars a person, I made ‘bank,’ averaging over twenty percent in tips per check. Still, in the three and a half hours that I was on the floor, I made just a little less than twice as much money as a waitress than I had as a prostitute. I giggled at the irony.
I was in rare form that night, laughing and joking with coworkers and guests, flirting with any man who came close enough. I imagined every man I saw with his penis hanging out and waiting for my eager mouth. Such thoughts, and the vivid memories of sucking off Miguel, kept my panties wet all night.
I left the restaurant just after eight o’clock, since it was pretty slow, after finishing my sidework duties. Wanting to get back to my apartment so I could finger myself silly, I made a beeline for the bus stop. If I hurried, I could be home in half an hour.
But damn it if my bus wasn't pulling away as I ran out to meet it. Calling out and yelling to the driver got me nothing but acrid natural gas fumes from the exhaust. I cursed, stamping my feet like a little girl, and dragged my heels back to the covered bus stop. Another forty fucking minutes, I thought in annoyance. And alone at a goddamn bus stop. The idea of heading back to work and hanging out with my coworkers was tempting, but I worried that I would forget the time and miss my next bus.
So I sat there, pouting, watching shoppers as they left the mall, heading to their cars in the parking lot. I want a car, I lamented to myself. I hate taking the fucking bus!
The Tetris game on my cell phone saved my sanity for a good ten minutes or so, but I started getting a stiff neck from sitting the way I was. Looking around to loosen up, I noticed an attractive older guy, carrying two big department store bags, heading to a sleek Jaguar that was parked not too far away from the bus stop. For a moment, as he placed the bags in his trunk, he looked up, right toward me.
I smiled. He had a handsome face, reminding me of my Uncle Jeff. Strong lines, dark hair . . . maybe he had a little bit of a pudge, but I thought it was kind’a cute.
He smiled back, gave me a little nod. Just then, a chime sounded from my cell phone, telling me I had lost my game. “Shit!” I cursed, and slapped the phone closed. I checked the time: I still had half an hour to wait.
Man, I’m gonna miss the first fifteen minutes of Law & Order, I thought angrily. Stupid bus driver!
A car pulled up in front of the bus stop. The same hunter green Jag. The passenger window slid down smoothly, and the man – my ‘Uncle Jeff’ clone – leaned over in his seat. “Would you like a ride, young lady?”
Talk about a pick-up line. I had been propositioned many times before as I sat at the bus stop. I had heard from some of the girls I worked with that sometimes, real streetwalkers hung around the mall, acting like they were waiting for a bus. I guess guys figured any young woman sitting in the booth was fair game. And I supposed, dressed in my tight jeans and green tank top, my work shirt once more invisible in my backpack, I might have appeared as one of those girls.
And instantly, I was.
I had never, ever, considered getting in a strange man’s car before. My upbringing told me that doing so was dangerous, that any man who offers a girl a ride was a demented serial killer or rapist. But I had a strange intuition about this man in his expensive car. Maybe it was the fact that he looked like my uncle. Or maybe it was because I felt just naughty enough to do what I figured he wanted.
All that went through my mind in about one second. I smiled flirtatiously, taking up my bag, and approached the car. “Sure,” I said, and opened the door.
The car smelled of cigarettes and cologne as I slid into the passenger seat. The man behind the wheel held a cigarette between the fingers of his left hand as it rested on the steering wheel. I noticed the wedding band around his ring finger, and wondered, for a moment, about his wife.
“My name’s Gary,” he said, giving me a smile as he looked me over. His eyes lingered on my chest. He didn’t offer to shake hands. His right hand rested on the gearshift.
“Alyssa,” I said, my eyes dropping to his crotch automatically. He wore loose, light brown slacks.
He nodded, drove away from the curb. He pulled on his cigarette, blowing smoke. I had never really liked cigarettes before, and had only smoked a few times with friends. It had always looked clumsy and juvenile with them, but suddenly, it seemed attractive, like it was something a professional woman did.
“Can I have one?” I asked him.
Gary smiled, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and handed it to me along with a blue plastic lighter. I looked the package over, thinking how funny the picture on the cover was. What do camels have to do with smoking?
I took one out, lit it, and breathed in. Having smoked before, I was prepared for the tight feeling as my throat constricted. My lungs convulsed only slightly, trying to force the invader out, but I suppressed it. I exhaled smoke, tasting the tobacco and nicotine. I handed Gary his pack and lighter, pulled a few more times on my smoke. The rush hit me about thirty seconds later, making my body tingle.
“So, uh, where are you going?” he asked. He was trying to sound casual, like he picked up girls all the time. His nervousness was telling, however, and that little fact encouraged me. At least I wasn't the only one.
I gave him a smile. I don’t know why, but it was obvious to me that I was calling the shots. Gary wanted something from me, and he would do whatever it took to get it. I was in control, and I loved it.
“Home,” I said, and figured there was nothing wrong with telling him where I lived. My apartment complex consisted of thirty-six buildings, after all. I could have Gary drop me off at the entrance gate, and he would never know exactly where I lived. But, there was something to be done, first.
“So, um, you work at the mall?” he asked.
I smiled, falling into the role of the sultry streetwalker. “Sometimes.”
He nodded, turning the wheel. I got the impression he was nervous. “Um, are you a cop?”
What a silly question! “No,” I said with a soft laugh.
“Can you prove it?” he asked.
I stared at him, wondering why he would even need proof. And then it dawned on me. Oh, right. I knew from watching Law & Order that cops sometimes posed as prostitutes to make busts. One of my favorite episodes was about that. “How?” I finally asked.
He looked around at the sparse traffic on the street. There weren’t too many cars on the road, and the sun had long since gone down. “Show me your tits,” he suggested.
I hesitated a moment. I had always been sensitive about my breasts. Girls who had seen me in the showers in high school called me ‘Puff’ because of my big, fat aureoles. They stuck out about half an inch from my handful-sized breasts and were about the size of espresso cup saucers. The idea of baring them was embarrassing, but I didn't want Gary thinking I didn't know what I was doing.
I pulled up my top, glancing nervously outside the car. I was both apprehensive and excited about this little act of exhibitionism. Gary alternately watched me and the road as I reached behind and fumbled with the clasp of my bra. I got it undone, then pushed my bra up, leaning back as my breasts were completely exposed. The cool night air rushing over them made my nipples stiffen even more, darkening.
“Oh, damn,” he muttered, eyes glazing. I didn’t stop him as, for the first time, a man touched my naked breasts. He cupped the left one, squeezing gently with his fingers, rubbing his palm against my sensitive nipple. I sighed, pushing against his hand. It was encouraging and arousing that Gary seemed so turned on by my pear-shaped breasts.
“Jesus, baby, you’re gorgeous,” he said, groping my other breast. I just moaned softly, lifting my hands to push his more firmly against my tits. I stroked his forearm, let my left hand wander to his upper thigh. He automatically parted his legs. Obviously, he wanted me to touch his cock. So I did, leaning closer, surprised at how bold I suddenly was. I felt his stiff penis through his slacks, and the simple feel of that hardness was intensely thrilling. He was erect, and it was because of me. The wetness was returning between my thighs.
Gary was breathing hard, one hand on my tits, the other on the steering wheel as he drove. I massaged his crotch, feeling that stiff rod against my hand. I wanted to see it; I needed to see it! God, I wanna to suck it so bad!
“Hey, uh, lemme just, um, hit a gas station and grab some condoms, okay?” he asked haltingly.
I jerked my hand back and sat up, staring at him anxiously. “Condoms?”
He nodded, not looking at me. “Yeah, of course,” he said, taking a corner. “I only do it with condoms.”
I was quiet. Sex, I thought. He wants to have sex. He wants to fuck me. I felt nervous, scared. I hadn’t thought he would want that. I didn’t want to give up my cherry like this.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, finally looking back at me as I pulled my bra back down over my breasts. Then he seemed to understand, at least a little. “Oh. You don’t do sex? Just head?”
I stopped, biting my lip, giving Gary an apologetic look. “Yeah. Just head,” I said. “Is that okay?”
Gary shrugged, obviously crestfallen. “Yeah, sure,” he said.
I could tell he was disappointed, and thought his reaction strange. Every guy I ever knew would give their right testicle for a good blow job. There I was, offering . . . and he was disappointed? “Something wrong?” I asked.
Gary sighed, then smiled at me. “No, nothing wrong, it’s just that I’ve never, um, well, I can’t come from a blow job.”
That surprised me. “Really?”
“It’s okay,” said Gary, pulling off the main road into a middle school parking lot. The place was deserted. “You can suck it for a while; it feels really good, but I’ll just have to, well, finish with my hand.”
I looked down. “Oh.” I wasn't sure what to feel after Gary's claim. Part of me was disappointed; another part felt challenged.
Gary parked the car beneath a tree, but close enough to a street light so we could both see inside the car. Without much ado, he pushed his seat back, unsnapped and unzipped his slacks, and shoved them down to his knees along with a pair of dark blue boxers. His dick stuck almost straight up, sleek and pale and fully circumcised, glowing softly beneath a pale, hairy belly. The sight of it turned me on.
“Can I touch your tits?” asked Gary, leaning back in his seat.
I smiled. “Sure,” I said, and slipped off my tank. I pulled off my bra, suddenly and for the first time topless with a man. My puffy nips swelled with excitement.
“Oh, baby, you’ve got the hottest tits I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, reaching with both hands. Swiftly, he leaned over and cupped his mouth over my left nipple, sucking it and my thick aureole in its entirety into his mouth. I gasped at this new sensation, automatically pushing against his face and cradling Gary’s head. Oh, Jesus that feels so good!
Gary mumbled and moaned as he sucked my tits, moving back and forth, groping, licking, fondling, sucking. I eagerly offered him my breasts, getting hotter and hotter as I watched his lips wrap around my puffies. My pussy twitched and spasmed, and I couldn’t help but press my hand between my legs, rubbing through my jeans. Even though there was a layer of denim between my fingers and clit, the intense arousal of the situation quickly pushed me over the edge.
I moaned aloud as I came, and Gary kept sucking my tits, pulling on them hard, and in the midst of my orgasm, jammed his fingers into my crotch, pushing my hand aside and digging through the denim. I gasped and hissed, humping his hand. I clutched his head close, shaking as I crested the summit of orgasm.
I was instantly overcome with lust, becoming a totally different woman. I pushed Gary back into his seat and leaned over him, aggressively grabbing his stiff dick. He stared at me with a mixture of awe, surprise, and desire.
“I’m gonna suck your fucking cock and make you come in my mouth,” I declared, then went down wantonly, taking his cock between my lips and sucking hard. I bobbed up and down, possessed by my needy desire to taste him. Gary moaned, one hand on the back of my head, the other groping my breasts as I literally mouth-fucked him.
I took almost every last little inch of his manhood between my lips, feeling the smooth head prod my throat as my lips wrapped around the base. There was the reflex to gag, but I suppressed it, and pushed down even more. Gary moaned loudly as the head of his dick popped right into my throat. My air was cut off, and my eyes bulged slightly with the pressure. But still I sucked, wanting the satisfaction of taking the entirety of his cock in my mouth.
His balls were musky and hairy, tickling my nose. I ran my fingers across them, massaging, caressing. Gary shuddered, moaning again, pushing my head down further. I loved the feel of his cock sliding in my throat. But after a few moments, I had to breathe.
I slid up, pulling Gary’s dick out of my throat, and sucked hard as I took in deep breaths through my nose. Filling my lungs with air, I pushed back down, making a wet popping sound as his dick went all the way in once more. I bobbed fast and hard, my esophagus rippling around the head of his penis. I felt the steering wheel against my bangs, Gary’s firm grip on my left tit.
Back and forth like that I went, for several long, sweet minutes, taking Gary all the way down, then moving back up and massaging the head with my lips and tongue. I loved the way Gary gasped and moaned, overcome by the pleasure I gave him.
“Oh, shit! Oh, God! B-baby!”
I felt the surging through his shaft, the way his cock became incredibly stiff in my mouth. I slid back until just the head was trapped between my sucking lips, tasting the first creamy, gritty, warm trickle of semen, and stroked his slick shaft rapidly with my hand. I had an instinct for giving head, I realized. I apparently knew just what to do to maximize a man’s orgasm.
Into my mouth, thick and rich and sweet, surged Gary’s semen. He shook and moaned loudly, arching his back and relishing the sensations I gave him. I sucked and pulled, stroked and squeezed, getting every little bit of that creamy treat. Only the second load of cum to be spent in my mouth, and I was already addicted to the flavor.
My mouth-work on his penis proved too much, however, and he begged me to stop, pulling on my head. Giving his spent dick one last, hard suck, I let it pop out of my mouth as I lifted up. I sighed in satisfaction, swishing his manly seed in my mouth.
For a few moments, as I petted Gary’s spent and wilted dick, running my hands over his soft, pudgy abdomen, I just held his cream in my mouth, savoring it. I smiled at him, enjoying the stupefied reaction on his face. Then, staring him in the eye, I sucked in my cheeks and made a loud gulping sound as I swallowed his load. I could feel the warmth of it in my chest as it oozed down to my stomach.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “Y-you swallow?”
I licked my lips and smiled in satisfaction. “Mm-hmm,” I moaned, then leaned over and licked a last little bubble of cum from his dick. I showed Gary the creamy white dollop on my tongue before sucking it down with a sigh. Being so naughty and dirty turned me on so much more than I had ever thought it could.
Gary laughed, sagging back in his seat. “Oh my God,” he breathed out. “I can’t believe it. You did it, baby.” He sat up, giving me a worshipful look. “In all my life, I’ve never cum from a blow job. How’d you do that?”
I smiled and shrugged. “Just a gift, I guess.”
He swooned. “Baby, please,” he said with such sincerity. “I know I shouldn’t ask, but . . . I gotta have your phone number. Please. I promise I’ll be discreet.”
I thought about it a moment, then nodded, and gave him my cell phone number. Then I looked at him expectantly.
“What?” he asked, then smiled sheepishly as he understood. He dug into his jeans, pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off two twenties and a ten, handed them to me. I was impressed.
“You’re that good, baby,” he said.
I just smiled and gave him a little kiss. Then I kissed his cock one last time before he pulled up his slacks.
Chapter Three
I thought about my experiences over the following few days. Twice in one day, I had given head in exchange for money, making me a prostitute. That word, which had always held a seedy, dark reputation, was like a badge of honor for me. More than the act of giving head, more than the taste of cum, what aroused me the most was being so decadent and wicked as to take money in exchange for the pleasures of my mouth. In a strange way, I felt that my personal heroine, Sayuri, would have been proud of me.
Still, twelve years of Catholic guilt were difficult to overcome, and I felt shame and wickedness as I thought about what I had done. I fell back into my mode of being the shy, quiet one at school and work. While I still flirted as I had always done, I toned it down, and kept to myself.
On Saturday morning, before my lunch shift at work, I got off the bus before St. Andrew’s. The towering steeple of the church loomed over me like the condemning hand of God. Guilt over my actions three days before washed through me with the strength of Noah’s flood. I could hear Bible verses repeated in my head in my father’s grumbling voice.
The church was mostly empty, save for some of the more devout who knelt in the first few rows of pews, muttering prayers over and over. I headed to the confessional, slid the door closed as I sat on the hard wooden bench. I picked my nails until I heard the little window slide open in the wall to my right.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I intoned.
“How long has it been since your last confession, child?” asked a wizened voice through the wire screen. The priest sounded tired, weary of hearing the selfish confessions and whining he was subjected to on a daily basis.
I sighed heavily. “About three months,” I said.
“What do you wish to confess?”
I fell silent. How can I say it? How can I confess to something so wicked and decadent, yet so wonderfully satisfying?
“Talk to me, child,” came the voice again, urging me. “You would not be here if you did not have sins to confess.”
I sighed. “I have always listened to God’s word,” I said. “I have honored my father and mother, done charitable things, and behaved as I was taught a proper woman should behave.”
“That is very commendable,” said the disembodied voice.
I continued. “But, recently, I . . . I did something I know is wicked and immoral, but it just felt so good! I couldn’t help it! I wanted to do it, even though I know I shouldn’t have.”
“What did you do, child?” asked the tired voice.
I gritted my teeth, having arrived at the moment of truth. The air in the confessional was fragrant with the aromas of pine and guilt. “I, um, I accepted money in exchange for . . . .” I trailed off, unable to finish.
“For?” the invisible priest prompted me. He seemed suddenly interested in my confession.
I felt hot, embarrassed, but also aroused as I recalled Miguel and Gary, and the stiff, throbbing cocks between their legs, the rush of their orgasms in my mouth, the tart flavor of semen as it flowed down my throat.
“For giving head,” I said with a sigh, then immediately corrected myself, feeling a need to be clinical. “I mean, performing oral sex.”
“Ah. I see. That is, indeed, wicked.”
I slumped, feeling ashamed. And ashamed even more that the mere thought of what I had done was making me moist again. I had spent every night and morning since Wednesday resisting the urge to masturbate, feeling shame at the very thought of doing so.
“And you say you accepted money for this service?” asked the hidden priest.
“Yes, Father,” I said. “Please, forgive me.”
“Did it excite you?” he prompted.
I breathed out, whimpering. “Oh, Father, it turned me on so much!” I exclaimed in a pained, hoarse voice. “Just the feel of it, and the knowledge that I was doing it for money, and the taste . . . oh, God, it tastes so good!”
“The taste, child?” he queried.
I moaned, lost in my recollection, forgetting where I was and who I was talking to. “Mmm, when they came in my mouth . . . oh, wow, that’s the best part.”
“I see.”
“Am I wicked, Father?” I asked, temporarily returning to the moment. “I am, aren’t I? I’m terrible, and wicked, and evil, and—“
I stopped abruptly as I heard the little screen in the window between the booths was pulled to the side. There was a dark shadow of movement, the sound of cloth, and then, through the window, thrust a hard, very pale, and very throbbing penis.
“I think you need special dispensation, child,” said the voice.
I whimpered again, controlled by lust. Not for a moment did I wonder why it was happening; I was only glad it was. Without hesitation, I descended upon the priest’s cock, wrapping my fingers around the base, sucking on the head. I moaned in pleasure, determined to satisfy the craving that had been building for the previous few days.
“Oh, yes, child,” moaned the priest on the other side. “’Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, as it is in Heaven . . . .’”
I hummed along to the cadence of the prayer as I slurped and sucked hungrily on the pale, marble-like rod in my mouth, drawing out a literal river of oily pre-cum and swallowing the sweet treat. The vibrations I made as I repeatedly mumbled the prayer seemed to excite the priest even more, bringing about his orgasm quickly.
The pitch of the priest’s voice became more strained as he repeated the prayer: “O-our father, who art in H-heaven – oh – h-hallowed by thy n-name. Thy kingdom . . . thy kingdom . . . come! Oh, Lord, forgive me!”
I could actually feel the forceful spurts of the priest’s pudding-like semen as it shot out of his penis. I nearly choked on the first gooey glob as it hit the back of my throat, but managed to swallow it down. I moaned in rapture, and kept sucking as thick ropes of cum flowed heavily across my tongue. The flavor was unexpectedly sweet, the consistency of his sperm like tapioca. I figured the priest had not ejaculated in quite a while.
Abruptly, the priest jerked his prick out of my mouth and back through the window, leaving me with glue-like drops of sperm on my lips and a mouthful of his ‘spiritual’ essence.
“God bless you, my child,” he murmured.
I leaned back, holding his cum in my mouth, wanting to savor it for as long as I could. My hands touched my breasts through the white tank I wore, caressing my stiff nipples.
“Ten Our Fathers,” said the priest, his voice breathless. “And my personal grace.” A twenty-dollar bill emerged through the window.
I sighed through my nose, taking the money. I guess a priest deserves a half-price blow job, I thought. “’Hank oo, fa’er,” I managed to say around my thick mouthful, then took up my bag. I stepped from the booth, smiling naughtily. There was a fat woman outside, waiting to enter the confessional.
“Is Father Thomas in a good mood today?” she asked me, her eyes wide.
I smiled at her, conscious of the traces of gummy white fluid on my lips. I knew she could see them. I drew in my cheeks, swallowing Father Thomas’ rich sperm, then licked my lips. “Oh, I’m sure he’s in a very good mood,” I said emphatically, then stepped away, listening to the fat woman’s gasps of shock.
I left the church, heading to the bus stop, feeling strangely vindicated and absolved. There’s no turning back now, I thought.
“’Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name . . . .’”
* * * *
That afternoon, following my lunch shift, I headed out into the mall, after once again stripping off my work shirt. I felt a strange sense of confidence, of casual arousal. The thick taste of Father Thomas’ orgasm remained with me, even after six hours. It made me want more.
I headed through the mall, seeing boys and men, fathers with their families and husbands with their wives, and I kept thinking that it would be so easy to approach any of them and make them an offer. I simply knew that no man would refuse me, and that knowledge fueled my ego, making me inordinately confident.
As I passed a shoe store, I stopped in my tracks, spying a pair of leather go-go boots I had always dreamed of having. My mouth watered, and my pussy juiced just looking at them. I had to have those boots. Still, the two-hundred-dollar price tag was daunting. I didn’t have that much, not even in my account. The money I had made since Wednesday had gone toward bills, groceries, and incidentals.
Still, there was no harm in looking, right?
I headed inside, making a bee-line for the display of boots. There happened to be a pair in size five, and I took them down, smelling the rich leather. Mmm . . . if these boots were a man, I’d give up my cherry right now, I thought.
I took the boots down an aisle, sat down and took off my black work shoes. But I realized that I wouldn’t be able to pull on the boots, since my jeans were so tight around my legs. Damn it, I wish I wore a skirt!
“Can I help you, miss?”
I looked up from the little bench I sat upon, seeing an attractive black man with a shaved head, wearing khaki slacks and a blue polo. He had a name-tag that read “Marcus.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking to his crotch a moment. I could see a faint bulge beneath the fabric. “I wish I could try on these boots.”
Marcus shrugged. “Go right ahead.”
I smiled sarcastically. “You gonna let me take my jeans off right here?”
The salesman looked me over in a way that told me he sure as hell wouldn’t mind seeing me in my panties. “Tell you what,” he offered. “We have a stock room in the back. I’ll watch the door.”
I mused over the proposal a moment, my newly-encouraged decadent mind turning, then smiled. “Sure.”
* * * *
Marcus lead me through a narrow door in the back, and I found myself in a room lined with overstuffed shelves of pumps and heels and boots. The aroma of leather was strong and seductive. Marcus closed the door behind us and looked me over again as I found a little stool and sat down.
“I thought you were gonna watch the door,” I said cattily.
He smiled confidently. “I am. From the inside.”
What a sneaky bastard, I thought, even as I smiled. “Is that what you like to do? Watch?”
Marcus licked his lips, already undressing me with his eyes. “You got it, babe.”
That warmth returned, making my cheeks blush and my pussy twitch. Teasingly, I unsnapped and unzipped my jeans, giving Marcus a glimpse of my white cotton undies with little hearts on them. Pushing my jeans down and all the way off, I sat with my legs parted, providing him with a great view. “You could do more than watch,” I suggested, hardly believing the words coming out of my mouth.
He arched a thin eyebrow, and took a step closer. “Yeah?”
The idea of exposing myself to this guy, this complete stranger, suddenly made me hot, even hotter than taking off my top and blowing Gary in his car. “Maybe,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes and smiled knowingly. “What you want, girl?”
I leaned forward, spreading my legs more, hands on my knees. I pushed my arms together, teasing Marcus with my cleavage. “Two things,” I said. “I want these boots.”
He pursed his lips. “Hmm.”
I smiled mischievously. “And I wanna suck your cock,” I added, feeling so wonderfully naughty as I spoke the words.
“Oh,” he responded, taking a breath. He shuddered a moment, then composed himself. “Show me that gash, baby, and you got a deal.”
I grinned, lifting my hips as I pushed my panties down. “You wanna see my pussy?” I quipped girlishly, as if asking Marcus if he wanted a newspaper subscription.
Marcus’ eyes glazed as he took in my blond bush. My pubic hair is just as light-toned as the hair on my head, maybe a touch darker, and I trim it just enough to wear a bikini. I trembled in excitement as I allowed a man to see my naked sex for the first time ever. I had to bend and spread my legs to work my jeans and panties off my ankles, giving the shoe salesman glimpses of tender, virgin pink flesh.
“Oh, damn, baby,” he breathed, reaching for his belt as he stepped out of his shoes. “I ain’t never seen a real blond before.”
I arched an eyebrow, sitting up, keeping my legs splayed wide. I could feel how wet I was, and could almost smell my tangy scent as well, drifting up from between my legs. “Never?” I asked, petting my furry mound.