New Girls

He laughed his cruel laugh again as she felt the old rug grind against her naked knees.

“Listen, you’re just the new girl, you don’t think you deserve my cock all for yourself do you?”

The two other girls smirked and snickered.

She wasn’t a person really. Not that night. She was just one of three sluts kneeling at his cock.

Some part of her recoiled, knowing how fucked up it was, but a much stronger part of her wet her lips, assuring her that she would show them. She would suck the best and he would realize she was the best toy. He would see past those other girls, she just knew it.

But in her contemplation she had missed some signal he gave and the other girls had descended on his cock before she could. She could only hover near it, watching their greedy pink lips suck, waiting for them to give her enough room, unable to to do anything but lean in because of her bound hands behind her back.

The situation made her dizzy and confused and so wet she could feel her inner thighs slick with her messy need.

Stay

In the beginning it was just a simple rule. Stay put. It made her nervous and excited. It made her happy because it was an easy rule to follow. It made her pout because it was too easy, she wanted to show him that she could do more. She could be a good girl. She could be useful in all sorts of ways.

The place she was asked to stay was his lap, which was sweet. She tried to be still as he typed on his computer. Occasionally he got up, but she was to stay in the living room, waiting for him to return.

He brought her tea and petted her hair and she tried to be patient and unobtrusive while he worked.

The reality crept up after the second hour.

“Sir, can I-”

“Shh,” he said, putting a finger over her lips.

She quieted down. There was a pressure building between her legs. Too much tea. It made her jittery and have to pee. She wasn’t sure how to ask without braking her silence.

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As He Likes It

She had been eyeing his suit since 59th Street. When the train emptied at 14th she took the sudden exodus as an excuse to sit next to him.

“I’ve never seen working sleeve buttons up close. It’s such a beautiful detail,” she said, her fingers hovering over his light gray glen plaid.

The button holes on his sleeve were stitched in orange, a delicate but striking accent that implied bespoke.

“May I?” she requested, looking into his dark eyes.

He nodded, trying to suppress a grin.

She felt the fabric, examined it more closely. Her leg pressed against his as she leaned in.

“Gaberdine. So soft,” she whispered.

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Observation

Sometimes time slows until it is cool honey dripping off the end of a spoon. In those moments my mind opens and I look around with new eyes, taking everything in, relishing every detail, and recording every nuance in my memory.

Perhaps there was an element of mourning there, in the detachment, but it is only when I became the outsider, the onlooker, that I am truly content.

It happened on subway cars, in midnight diners, in libraries, and on dense city streets. It happened at bars, in clubs and most certainly at parties.

Of all the parties I had been to or been part of, there were some that made me question if my life was reality. At some point had I truly broken off? Was I sitting somewhere in a padded room dreaming it all up?

The big square loft had one wall that was just windows from the floor to the luxuriously high ceiling. The ceiling was a web of pipes and girders, many of which had been covered in christmas lights, hung with lanterns, or festooned with pretty ribbons and beads like a Mardi Gras float.

The cast of characters paraded in, all pretty, all scantily clad, most prompt. My eyes focused on the thighs exposed over long socks or stockings, luscious expanses of cleavage, the curve of an ass, the bow of red stained lips.

I engaged, certainly, being the charmer, the jokester, the helpful and dutiful friend, but watching was ideal.

A familiar friend, a lover, a toy, entered the room. She seemed to understand where I was; where my mind had gone. She sat next to me silently, but close enough that our legs touched, her hand brushing mine.

Her thighs were exposed too, my eyes fell on them and my fingers crept over them as she joined me in my voyeurism.

A couple on a cushion on the floor across from us, crawled around each other like caged tigers and my fingers crept up her thigh as they watched.

Two girls squeezed onto one chair shyly kissed under the command of their harsh mistress.

In the corner a girl stood facing the wall, her hand between her legs, face red, ass red, a man twice her age whispering into her ear. The word “slut” the only thing audible.

As we watched all of the little tableaus played out, the girl next to me made herself deliciously useful. She pushed herself forward so that my hand could slid right to her crotch. She pressed herself into my fingers, quiet, just a little toy I could play with while I watched the party.

Her panties were thin and moved to the side easily. My fingers slipping into her automatically. She was hot and wet and tight and receptive to my every movement.

We watched as the girl in the corner furiously worked her hand between her legs, biting her own lip, closing her eyes for a moment until her tormenter slapped her and made her open them.

“Do you like this whole room watching you fuck yourself?” he asked.

She nodded. He slapped her again.

“Say it, you dumb little cunt,” he said.

The war was visible on her lips. Her fingers kept moving. She fumbled for the right words.

“I-I, um. I like everyone watching me fuck myself with my fingers,” she said, seemingly surprised by the sound of her own voice and shocked by what she said.

Someone laughed. Someone else moaned. The couple on the cushion were fucking, the dull rhythmic slap of their bodies echoing along with the music.

The girl I was fingering suddenly sat up, then slipped off the couch and onto the floor in front of me. She pulled at my pants, though my eyes were on the girl in the corner. I wondered if she could come that way. The girl on her knees pulled my cock out and greedily sucked on it. She was brazen, messy, hungry. She pulled my pants down lower and kissed my thigh, she pressed her cheek against my hard cock, nuzzling, purring, then finally sucking again.

The girl in the corner kept closing her eyes and then getting chided for it. She was close. She looked scared and yet her hand never stopped.

Her tormentor pulled her bra down. Her breasts were beautiful, full, with large dark nipples. He slapped her breasts as she whimpered.

The girl sucking my cock stopped for a moment. She fished something out of her bag. She came back and standing in front of my, but not blocking my view, she pulled off her panties.

She was so very skilled. The way she rolled the condom into my cock so easily. The way she turned and backed up onto me, leaned forward so that she didn’t obscure my view of anything.

The heaven of watching the couple on the cushion fucking hard, the girls on the chair making out coquettishly, the girl in the corner shamed and on the edge. All of that as my toy backed up and my cock slowly slipped into her. Tight and wet and perfect. Her ass in my lap and her hands on the floor. My hands at my sides just enjoying it all.

Then concentration became a struggle. The scenes before me became flashes of images. The man on the cushion coming on his partners breasts. The girls on the chair lost in their passion, delicate fingers on each other’s nipples. The girl in the corner’s whimpers rising an octave.

“Please sir, can I come?” she begged as her breasts were slapped again and again.

I waited for his permission too, wrapped up in their tension.

“Do you deserve it?” he laughed.

She grappled with the right answer.

My toy pushed herself back against me again and again. Her rhythm became erratic, her pussy tightening around me as let out three high cries as she came.

A little flicker of anger came to me because she hadn’t asked permission like the girl in the corner did. As well I missed the girls reply to her master’s question.

I pulled my toy’s hips back and forth, since her orgasm left her too dizzy to keep up the cadence I needed.

I waited for his words. The man making the girl finger herself. I needed his permission too. I needed to hear her come. I needed to follow their game. I needed it even though my own body was falling closer and closer to the cliff or orgasm.

“Come then you little slut. Show everyone what a wanton little bitch you are-”

Before he was done with the sentence her pretty mouth was open wide as she contorted and leaned against the wall, coming on her fingers and whining and cursing.

Then all I heard was my own blood rushing in my ears. My toy’s tight pussy ready for me. She had gathered her strength and knowing I was about to come she pushed back fast and hard sitting up on my lap, pulling my hands to her breasts.

Then my eyes flashed open. All the people in the room and their hungry lips and their bare thighs and their wild abandon filling my head. And I came and I came and went into some far away space where we were all one throbbing orgiastic creature made of shame and fear and want and lust.

His Hall

She missed his wall; his hall. That place he always threw her against when she came into his apartment.

She missed feeling small and afraid. She’d grown up too much, become too jaded, too brave to feel so little.

She missed the anxiety and hunger she felt walking down his block. She missed his pretty cock. She missed the fear that was particular to being in his elevator.

The fear wasn’t about what he’d do to her, she knew he would hurt her and fuck her and use her like a doll. The fear was that she wouldn’t be good enough, tough enough, pretty enough.

All those fears went away when she was against his wall.

She didn’t cover her scars or chubby parts because he would only slap her hands away. She didn’t have time to be embarrassed about her razor burn or that her roots were showing, because she was too busy blushing about the dirty names he called her. She would fall into the whirlpool of humiliation and pleasure and dizzy confusion.

She didn’t have time to apologize because his cock was in her mouth.

She longed for all of it all.

And more than that she knew some other girl was in that hall, against that wall. His thick cock was inside of someone new and his hand was around someone else’s throat.

Perhaps it was strange that the longing could make her come so easily. Remembering that wall in that hall was almost as potent as thinking of another girls face, mascara running down her cheek, pressed against the wall as he fucked her. The humiliation and the jealousy and the heartbreak were poisons and aphrodisiacs.

The sadness kept her wet all day.

Something Borrowed

I looked down at my phone for the hundredth time, then up at the train as it chugged back into its underground tunnel. People rushed to leave and in moments I was alone on the platform, turned on and scared.

“Take the L train to Lorimer, get out and walk two blocks west…” the instructions started.

I got out of the subway station, looking around the foreign streets of Williamsburg or Greenpoint, I wasn’t sure which. There seemed to be nothing but bars, pizza places, and trendy little boutiques.

Everyone on the street looked hip and pretty. I looked down at my somewhat fashionable jeans and my high heels and suddenly I felt a little like Sandy at the end of Grease, but I walked on. I took out my phone again, more as something to do than for information.

I knew what the email said, I’d been reading it over and over all day.

“I have this good friend, I want to lend you to him for the evening. Six to midnight, or when ever he’s done with you. You’re not to stay over. He’ll be safe, he’ll stop if you say “red” and he knows the things that you are not to have done to you. I’ve negotiated for you, so all you need to remember is “red” and that I am giving you to him for the evening,” I read and realized I missed my turn because the words made my whole body hot and confused.
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Marionette

The studio, his studio, that dirty gentleman’s studio, was bare.  All the carefully collected furniture (he collected many things, all of them carefully) was pushed out of the way. The long main room was clear and the mats were on the hardwood floor and early morning light was shining in thick square beams from the old windows and showed the little particles of dust in the air.

Dorothy, as usual, was making art. Luckily, she sometimes let me watch.

She said nothing but led me to a little chair with a connected desk; the ones they have in college lecture halls. On it was a small old fashioned portable typewriter. Black and scratched and loaded with a fresh sheet of paper. A table next to the desk held a box with more paper.

She kissed me on the cheek and left me to my part, which was to record what was about to happen.

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Choke

The girls were sat on a blanket, back to back; naked, save their panties. The black blanket was laid neatly on the somewhat dusty hardwood floor. I knelt in front of Margot and Hector knelt in front of Betty. The rope was around both of their pretty necks. Looped and looped around and around. Their hands tied at their sides, their backs held straight out of either eagerness to please or suspense at what might happen next.

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Ménage à Text

Truth be told, Elise didn’t even really like him. That’s not to say she wasn’t already wet when she got off at his subway stop and climbed the familiar stairs into the lingering evening sun. She hadn’t been to his apartment in weeks. She hadn’t walked through the dirty streets of his neighborhood, next to the big school with the high metal fence and the little stores with the weird religious candles and the exotic smells.

All right, maybe she liked him in some weird way. He could be a good friend, in his own fashion, if he wanted to, but he was so very full of himself sometimes, so very Mark. They had dated for a while around two years ago, and maybe they were even in love for a couple of minutes, but Mark was an ass and that all disintegrated quickly. He was a much better fuck than he ever was a boyfriend.

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Following a Mouse

She seemed like a little mouse. That’s how I thought of her, what I called her in my head. My little mouse. Oh, how I was wrong.

That’s the way it is being a man sometimes. You see a woman and she can’t look you in the eyes. She is sweet and pretty and her cheeks go red when you joke with her and you think you know her. You imagine her small and innocent and you are tall and strong and can show her the world. In a way it is comforting. It makes you powerful. All the secrets of desire are yours to show her.

Real life is far more complex, and far more interesting.

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