He told me to be there at seven. He told me not to ring the bell. He told me to wait for him, so I did.
I sat on his stoop and waited, as the evening gloaming fell upon the streets of Brooklyn. The night air felt cool on my pussy; he had instructed me not to wear panties under my skirt and it was getting chilly.
I sat and waited more-or-less patiently for over an hour. I knew he did it on purpose to get at me, so I tried not to let it get at me. Now and then a passing dude would try to make conversation with me: a lonely white girl in a daisy-print white summer dress and floppy hat sitting alone, all by herself. I ignored them. He was getting to me.
It was almost eight-thirty when Master Andrew finally showed up, his latest girlfriend unsteadily in tow. She was a raven-haired beauty with flawless pale skin and no hips. I loathed her already.
They didn’t acknowledge me as he fumbled with the lock. I followed them inside. They reeked of liquor, sweat, tobacco smoke.
“Disrobe,” he barked once we were inside the building. His voice echoed in the stairwell. His girlfriend watched with a sneer on her face. I left my flowery dress draped in a bundle over the banister, and meekly followed them up the stairs, naked, my tits bouncing as I walked.
He told me to kneel on the carpet in front of his sofa. They made out for a while on his couch. Her boobs were smaller than mine, as was her butt. She had a simpering way of kissing him that I found singularly unsexy. She looked like she was about twenty-three. She could have been a model.
They ordered pizza, and noisily snorted lines of coke off his glass-topped coffee table.
He told me to suck his dick, and I eagerly complied. I love sucking dick, and I like to think I’m pretty damn good at it, too. She watched, fascinated and aghast, as I stuck my head between his thighs and went to it, kissing and licking and lavishing attention onto his dangling ball sac before working my way up to his semi-erect cock.
I knew what my mission was: to pleasure him without letting him get too excited. Under no circumstances was I to make him come. I was deeply tempted to bring him off in my mouth just for spite, and then to endure whatever punishment he felt like heaping out on me, but I refrained.
Once his dick was fully erect, I let my wet mouth bob slowly up and down the shaft, languidly slathering my tongue around the glans, making him shudder. Now and then I’d stop, blowing playfully on his wet cock, or licking his balls, or flicking my tongue at his pink pee-hole, or nuzzling and kissing the sordid hairy crease where his butt-cheeks came together. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, and I felt her eyes on me the whole time, felt her discomfiture and annoyance, and her steadily increasing arousal at the whole situation.
The pizza came, and they relocated to the dining table, drinking beer to go along with the pie. He kept his cock hanging out the fly of his pants, and it was my job to kneel under the table and keep him erect. When they were done with their pizza, they threw the crusts on the floor for me to eat.
Master Andrew handcuffed me, tighter than was strictly necessary, and dragged me by my hair into the bedroom. I was made to squat in the far corner of the room while they made out some more and got naked.
She was thin as a signpost. There was no muscle on her arms or legs, and her ribs stuck out like stacked firewood. Her boobs were small and conical, and she had a generic-looking tribal tattoo on the small of her back. Her pussy was neatly shaved into a tidy little black landing strip. Compared to her, Master Andrew looked downright obese. His hard cock waggled obscenely underneath his belly. She grabbed his penis possessively, shooting me a gloating, possessive look.
Finally, after a lot of necking and touching and writhing around, she lay on her back on his bed, her legs splayed apart like a porn star. He made me come kneel at the side of the bed, setting my head on her stomach so I had a front-row seat to their fucking. She may not have liked it, but he didn’t ask her.
He fucked her cunt desperately hard and fast, his breath coming in dry gasps, like a man who is running for his life. Her cunt squelched and farted as his cock pistoned in and out of her. Every six or seven strokes, he would pull out of her and jam his tangy-slick cock into my open mouth, letting me suck him for a few blissful moments before he resumed fucking her. From the whiny-moany sounds she made, she resented every second his dick was in my mouth.
The speed of his fucking suddenly increased, and he reached down between his legs, squeezing his balls hard. I knew he was about to come, and I hoped that he might pull out one last time and shoot off into my hungry mouth. Instead, he grunted throatily, as if he was getting punched repeatedly in the gut, and buried himself deep inside her cunt, his hairy pubes crushed against her nearly bald labia, his balls scrunched up against her ass. He collapsed on top of her with a sigh, capturing me between their bellies. The smell of sweat and sex was intoxicating. I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma, even as his bulk threatened to overwhelm me. She squirmed underneath me, trying to reach past my head to masturbate.
He made me eat her pussy after that. I don’t generally mind eating pussy at all, but I despised eating hers. Her cunt was hot and wide open, and oozingly full of his come. I deliberately did a lousy job of going down on her, enough so that she complained to Master, and he gave me a powerful stinging smack across the ass and told me to stop fucking around. I got the message, concentrating on her hard little clit, hating her with every lick. She crooned as she came, rubbing her cunt against my face, and pulling my hair hard enough that I was afraid she’d rip chunks out of my scalp.
They got up and did some more lines. I don’t know where he got the money for all that blow; in real life Master Andrew is an assistant manager at Target. I’d be willing to bet that the ‘cocaine’ they were snorting was nine-tenths talcum powder.
Master Andrew finally uncuffed me, lit a post-sex cigarette and told me sleepily to get lost. I shook the blood back into my tingly hands and asked, trying not to sound plaintive, if I could please masturbate first.
“Two minutes,” he said, “I’ll give you two minutes.”
My hands shot between my legs, where my pussy was liberally salivating, drooling sex all over my thighs. I plunged two fingers deep inside, pressing my palm hard against my over-stimulated clit. Two minutes would be just about all I needed.
She lay on her stomach next to him on the bed, smirking unabashedly, and watched as I fingered myself.
After a period of time that seemed to me distinctly less than two minutes, he stood up and flicked his still-lit cigarette butt in my direction. I flinched and she grinned triumphantly.
“Time’s up,” he said, “Get the hell out of here.”
I traversed the four flights of stairs down to where my forlorn summer dress and floppy hat still hung. I was naked, pissed-off, frustrated, and painfully horny. I didn’t even wait to get home first; I sat on his concrete stoop with my dress hiked up, and rubbed myself to a delightful, blissful, bone-shaking, tendon-wrenching, teeth-rattling orgasm that left me dizzy and smiling. Fuck them both.
He called me up and told me to where to meet them. The place was noisy, packed, and tangibly hip. It was an after work crowd, and I felt distinctly old, shabby, and uncool.
I found them at the bar. He was still wearing his work duds, but he had traded his red blazer for a black leather motorcycle jacket. She had on a purple corset that scrunched her little boobs up into a mockery of cleavage, and black pants with horizontal tears ripped up and down the legs that showed off the pale flesh underneath.
He made her give up her barstool for me, which she did grudgingly, shooting me a vicious look.
He whispered/yelled into my ear to unbutton my blouse, to give the bartender a real eyeful. The bartender was gay and could have cared less.
I was drinking bourbon, straight up, and lots of it. He had a collection of bottles going on in front of him, Bud Light, and he was obsessively peeling the labels off and stacking them in neat little piles. She looked bored and was imbibing something blue and poisonous-looking out of a martini glass.
He stuck his hand up under my skirt, fingering my pussy, making me squirm. He announced loudly “She’s soaking wet! Have a feel!”
Not exactly soaking, but definitely wet.
She did have a feel, jabbing fingers with scary long nails into my crotch. “She is wet!” she simpered in an exaggerated little girl voice, “Horny little slut!”
His larger, softer, manicured hand joined hers between my legs. I was beginning to draw interested looks from our neighbors at the bar. He slid a finger up inside me, and it felt really nice.
“Who’s going to get my cock later on?”
“Who’s going to get good and fucked with my big dick tonight?”
People were definitely paying attention now. A knot of hipsters pressed in close around us, gawking openly. She smirked and preened.
He spoke loudly, almost bellowing to be heard over the semi-ironic classic rock that was blaring out of the retro-style jukebox that was really just a dressed-up iPod. “Do you want to come?”
Yes! Yes! Yes, of course I wanted to come! His finger inside me was driving me crazy. Her nails were scraping the inside of my thigh in an idly painful sort of way. But I didn’t want it bad enough to do it the way he wanted, to grovel for it in front of her, in a crowded bar full of hipsters. Besides, I knew him, and the odds were very good he’d stop just before I got off anyway, leave me hanging out of pure maliciousness. I clenched my teeth and kept silent.
He withdrew his finger, offered it to her to lick off. She made a face, but licked it clean anyway. “Wait for us at home,” he told me.
As I left the bar, pushing my way through the crowd, I felt hands, strangers’ hands, male and female, groping me; squeezing my ass and tits, sliding up my skirt. It was like wading through a forest of grasping, clinging, kinky, impetuous kelp. I found my way out to the sidewalk; hot, flushed, bothered, slick and wet and horny.
I waited on his stoop for what seemed like hours. The street was quiet. The night enveloped me like cold, still water. It was chilly, and I wished I had more clothes on. I masturbated a little under my skirt. I was a little drunk, and then I started to sober up.
“I said, could I bum a light?” It was the second time she’d asked me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t smoke.” I looked up. She was cute. Shorter than me, probably younger than me too. Built like a forest sprite. Sticky-outy ears with multiple piercings. A magenta streak in her shoulder-length brown hair. Small hands with closely trimmed nails. Baggy sweatshirt, spattered in paint. Baggy, paint-spattered jeans.
“Don’t be sorry,” she said, “It’s a terrible habit. You look chilly.”
“I’m ok,” I said.
“I’m Penelope. Penny. Pen. I live just up the street if you want to warm up.”
I watched her walk away, across the street and up into a building near the end of the block. She might have had a cute ass. It was hard to tell in those baggy jeans.
I’m not sure what time it was when Master Andrew and his girlfriend got home. They were pretty sloppy drunk. I followed them upstairs, where they did a bunch more blow, and she got a bloody nose and watched me venomously with a paper towel clamped to her face as he made me undress and crawl on all fours out onto the fire escape.
He gave me a nice solid spanking, which got me good and revved up all over again. I wondered if Pen could see me from her bedroom window. I liked that idea. More than a little.
And then he let her have a go at me. She was a vindictive slapper, but she was weak, and I got the feeling it hurt her hand more than my ass, which gave me sour pleasure. Then she got frustrated and went and got a wooden spoon out of his kitchen. That hurt a lot, and not so much in a fun way.
He took a piss on me, out there naked in the night air, his urine splattering down off me and onto the pavement four stories below. Normally that is a huge turn-on for me, but at the time all I could think of was Bud Light. For a little while they worked on trying to shove a wine bottle up my cunt, but then Master Andrew got bored with that and let me go take a shower.
When I came out of the bathroom, they were both naked. He had me squat in the corner again while she worked on blowing him on the bed. It took her a long, long time and a lot of work to get him hard. I could have done a much better job. Then they fucked. I could have masturbated; he hadn’t forbidden it; but somehow I wasn’t in the mood.
He told me to be there at seven, not to ring the bell, to wait for him. So I did.
I sat on the stoop and waited. Eight slipped by, and eight-thirty. It started to rain.
“You can borrow my umbrella if you’d like.” It is Pen, my little wood nymph. There is concern in her voice. I can taste salt on my face. I’ve been crying, and I hadn’t even realized it. “You’re soaking wet.”
She is wearing a black t-shirt with the arms cut off. Her jeans have ragged holes in the knees. Her hands, forearms, shirt, and pants are spattered with paint, every different color. She is holding a red umbrella in one hand and she is looking at me, worried.
I look up at her blankly, trying to blink the tears out of my eyes.
“Come on back to my apartment,” she says, “We’ll get you all warmed up.”
Penny’s place is tiny, dark, enormously cluttered, and comfortable. She has a futon sofa that does double duty as a bed and is currently covered in stretched, primed blank canvases.
“Are you an artist?” I ask.
“Painter.” she confirms with a shy grin.
“What do you paint?”
(It’s true. She does portraits of penises. Big and small, hard and soft, circumcised and non-. Her canvases range from the size of a postage stamp to a small billboard. And she manages to make a living doing it!)
I catch a fleeting, tantalizing glimpse of lime-green panties as she peels off her damp, paint-encrusted jeans and pulls on comfy-looking sweat pants. Her sleeveless t-shirt comes off over her head. She is wearing a black sports bra underneath. Her boobs are quite big for her body; she isn’t exactly top heavy, but she must be a C-cup at least. Whoever said ‘More than a handful is a waste’ was a fool. She puts on an oversized green flannel shirt, and catches me staring.
“We should get you out of those wet things,” she says, and then shortly thereafter we are all over her futon, canvases clattering onto the floor, kissing desperately, which is slightly weird because I am naked and she is fully dressed, but really that only makes it all hotter.
My cell phone rings. It is Master Andrew. I reach over and turn off the phone without answering.
And then I am lying on my stomach, between Pen’s warm, strong, clenching thighs. There is an unruly muff of hair down there, the same color brown as on her head, soft as a baby bunny. Her pussy is small and shy, and takes a lot of careful licking to bring into full wet bloom.
I look up from between her legs. “Would you do something for me?”
“Are you kidding?!? Anything, just don’t stop!”
“Pull my hair a little while I do this…”
She complies very nicely as I eat her out. When she comes, she wriggles and squirms and cries like a little bird, and her whole body shakes and shudders and my face is thoroughly coated in her clean, salty, sexy juices. Her orgasm is the most beautiful thing in the world, and as she finally relaxes her grip on my hair and I come up panting, I realize that I am turned on beyond belief.
“Stay like that, just like that.” she instructs me.
She smacks my ass, once on each cheek, hard and loud, and I feel myself coming just from that, a little orgasm that makes me shake and whimper.
I am still kneeling down, as if in prayer. Pen reaches behind me, deftly slips a finger up my sloppy-wet cunt, and then works another up my asshole. She fucks me like that, shockingly hard, and a few minutes later I am coming again, coming hard, loud and out of control, harder than I’ve come in a long, long time.
When it is all over, we cuddle and kiss for a while. It has gotten very late and I have to work in the morning. I get dressed. She sits naked on her window sill and smokes a cigarette out the window and asks if she will ever see me again and I go over and hug her tight and tell her ‘Yes’.
That week I collect eight voicemail messages from Master Andrew. I delete them all without listening. Someday we will pass each other on the street, and not make eye contact.
We are sitting by the window in a little mock-Parisian café near my place. Pen drinks her coffee black, thick and dark as crude oil, with no milk or sugar to dilute it.
“You’re kinky.” she says.
“Yes.” I admit.
She smiles, and it gives me the butterflies. In a nice way.
“I like that,” she says, “I like that a lot. Kinky is fun.”
We drink our coffee in comfortable silence for a minute. Her knee brushes against mine under the table and in an instant I am wet.
“So do you switch at all?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I’ve never tried.”
“Do you think you could tie me up and give me a spanking?” She blushes and squirms uncomfortably. It is almost painfully cute. “Or, say…. Um, fuck me in the ass with a big black dildo?”
I take her hand and squeeze it. Her hand is small, strong, sweaty, and trembling slightly. I kiss the back of her fingers.
“I’d certainly be willing to give it a shot!”