Archive for August, 2011

Darkside

I rode the space elevator down to Darkside; two hundred and fifty kilometers of undulating, vertigo-inducing ten-centimeter monofilament, stretching all the way down from Needle’s Eye to the lunar surface, like the thread of some giant silkworm gone mad.

The scenery out the window was magnificent: the desolate moonscape below, slowly growing bigger and bigger until it filled nearly the entire field of view. The domes of Darkside became visible, like a virus under a scanning electron microscope, nestled on the lunar plane, an ancient lava flow spreading out beneath a great mountain range. I’d seen it before, but the raw, stark, alien beauty of the farside still stuck me like a knife. High above us, the stars shone, bright and unblinking in the hard vacuum, and the L4 platform steadily diminished until it was just one more pinprick of light in the crowded blackness.

My fellow passengers were a generic-looking bunch of sex tourists, to my jaded eyes. There was a clutch of South Asian business men, dressed in nearly identical, uncomfortable-looking black suits, as nervous and giggly as school girls; an older woman with blonde hair and boobs that were so enormous as to be parodies of real breasts, bouncing bra-less like weather balloons in the low gravity. She might have been in her mid sixties or seventies, it was hard to tell. She’d had a lot of work done. There was a pair of nearly identical Northern European body builders, blonde as albinos with bright blue eyes, wearing matching grey coveralls, biceps exposed and bulging with muscle grafts; a pretentious looking man with a mustache wearing a top hat and tails, who carried a riding crop, and his much younger girlfriend who knelt submissively simpering at his side, wearing nothing but skimpy black panties, pasties, and a spiked collar. I was the odd girl out; I wasn’t slumming it, here to gape at the horror and decadence; nor was I another tourist, up here for an expensive cheap thrill, a kinky but ultimately harmless vacation from earthly morality. I was coming home.

I got my ass out of the glitzy tourist trap of downtown Darkside as quickly as I could. Thirty-meter high billboards ran endless 3-D porno loops, and sidewalk boutiques offered up the very latest, most trendy designer drugs. Sex was measured out in blister packs, sterile and homogenized and vaguely medicinal. Downtown Darkside was a brightly lit circle of LED glow where tourists spiraled in ever-tightening concentric circles like so many horny moths, paying top dollar to dip their toes into a sampling of titillating, dilute, carefully refined, board-room-approved debauchery. It took just a few blocks of walking to escape the maze, but only if you knew which direction to go; the architects had done their job well, and very few of the tourists or the mere idly curious managed to escape the scripted loop. I left the mega-brothels and the Starbucks and casinos behind me for the seedier, darker, more dangerous neighborhoods that spread out from downtown like some particularly virulent kind of cancer.

I was in the real Darkside now, where needles crunched underfoot like hoar frost, where incandescent lights burned and fluorescent flickered, where the tattoos were real and permanent and hurt to get, where the prostitutes were flesh and blood, and cried when you hit them, and the smell of spilled piss and decaying garbage and sex and perspiration and freebase and corruption was never quite filtered out of the recycled air.

The one-third gravity put a spring into my step that I didn’t feel in my heart, but nevertheless I was glad I had come. I felt at home there, amid the perversion and the filth, in a way I’ve never felt anywhere else.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to Darkside. Literally, I couldn’t remember; I’d had two weeks of memory wiped as soon as I’d gotten home. That was how a memory wipe worked: you gave them a date, told them how far back you wanted erased, and it was gone. Nothing there, not a shadow. The only reason I knew I’d been back to Darkside at all was the credit card bills. I had no idea what had transpired, what had made me want to pay to have every memory of the visit expunged from my brain. No idea, but maybe a few nagging suspicions. Which, after all, was essentially why I was back here. Again.

I passed a ramshackle brothel with a non-ironic, non-retro neon sign that read GET EVERYTHING YOU DESERVE. The words were accompanied by a cartoon representation of a nude, busty woman in thigh-high boots, wielding a flickering stop-motion whip. The neon tubes were dusty and hummed and sputtered, but they spoke the truth. We all get what we deserve, don’t we?

The sign was crude, but effective; it might have been eight years old, or eighty. Whores are a dime a dozen in Darkside; a good glass bender is worth her Earth-weight in gold. And then some.

I had worked for a while in an unlicensed brothel like this one, when I first climbed up the gravity well. I had debts to pay off, big time; space travel isn’t cheap, and just the initial boost into low earth orbit had maxed out every credit card I owned. Prostitution was more lucrative than serving drinks, and there was no experience required. The less the better, in fact. Besides, from the perspective of my early twenties, there was something appealing about the idea of being paid to fuck and suck; and it seemed to me there was an honesty in the relationship between John and Whore, an honesty that was lacking in less obliquely commercial interactions between men and women. I still think there is truth to that, but I’d never willingly go back into the trade. No thanks.

I stopped in for a drink at a sidewalk café across the boulevard from the flickering neon dominatrix. I stretched out my feet, reveling in the low gravity, and watched the parade of humanity pass before me as I sipped what claimed to be a martini, but tasted more like a solution of methanol, phenylalanine, and ethylene glycol. It may not have been good for my poor, abused liver, but it did the trick, and for the first time since I left L4, I started to relax.

The two bleach-blonde muscle boys from the space elevator stopped in and sat down at my table. I was surprised to see them out here; clearly I had misread them. They weren’t dillitants or casual tourists; only the seriously perverted managed to escape the X-rated Disneyland of downtown.

They smiled at me, and raised their drinks. Amstel, imported from their own backyard at an almost unimaginable expense across a quarter million miles of vacuum, and up and down two formidable gravity wells. The economy of Darkside is perverse indeed!

My muscle boys were either twin brothers, or dedicated aficionados of high-end plastic surgery; they were nearly identical to my eyes. I didn’t understand the language they spoke to each other, it sounded Scandinavian; whether or not they spoke English I never found out.

It turns out I had misread them in another way too; I had assumed they were gay. The steroid-strong arms that reached out for me, confidently handling and groping at my body told me otherwise. Their advances were unexpected and uninvited, but not at all unwelcome. I signaled the waiter for another ‘martini’, and undid the top two buttons on my jumpsuit.

That, apparently, was all the invitation they needed. Huge, soft hands, like declawed polar bear paws cupped my breasts, bringing my nipples to instant, needy attention. Other hands pried my thighs apart, petting and squeezing all around the sensitive area of my pussy. My cunt drooled, and my clit swelled, anxiously erect inside my panties, hungry for action.

Action was just what I needed. Their dicks came out of the velcro closures at their bulging crotches. Their cocks were just as identical as the rest of their bodies; and obscenely, ridiculously, impractically long. Plastic surgery and bio-engineering, no doubt about it now. Good luck finding a vagina to accommodate those things! No wonder they had made the trek up to Darkside; there were pleasures available here that you couldn’t get in the seediest of Terran bordellos.

I wasn’t worried about their unnatural size; I had no intention of trying to fit either penis into any of my own orifices, and whatever the drawbacks to a half-meter cock might be, it was certainly visually interesting, at the very least. They weren’t as thick as they were long, so I was able to wrap my fist around each one, stroking the shafts as if I were petting a couple of tame boa constrictors.

The boys squeezed and manipulated my breasts as I jerked them off, kissing each other and kissing me, and rubbing my pussy up and down through the crotch of my jumpsuit. I was dimly aware that we had attracted a small crowd; the less jaded locals and the more adventurous voyeurs. The knowledge that I was performing, being watched, photographed, and videoed, only added to the pleasure. Once again, I was high on sex. Junkie that I am.

I varied my pace and my grip, torturing them sweetly, drawing out the act. My goal was to make them beg for it, and to bring them off at the exact same time. The first part was accomplished already: in husky, Germanic voices they were pleading for relief, the scarlet glans of their cocks straining and swollen, the slitted pee-holes winking with desire, clear pre-come oozing copiously out. My shoulders ached, but I kept it up, capturing them with a feather grip, just my thumbs and forefingers, barely touching the skin, sliding up and down and back up again, faster and faster, approaching escape velocity.

They were moaning now, moaning in earnest, and I loved it. I could feel the urgency in their bodies, their backs were arching and spasming, their hands clasping and unclasping, their pulses were thumping in their cocks. They came together, with a jerk and a howl, spraying parabolic arcs of semen across the table, onto me and each other, squirting impossibly far in the light lunar gravity. I milked every drop of come from both cocks, until they were soft and reduced. Their trouser-snakes were still oversized, but not so intimidating now, limp fire hoses hanging down their perfect quads, dangling down below their knees. The waiter beamed over us: drinks were on the house. Sex shows were good for business.

I left my muscle boys and moved on, pleasantly drunk now, and edgily horny. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I knew that I’d know it when I saw it.

I knew it when I saw it, like a bad batch of trouble. I found Jean-Claude hunched over a barstool at a dilapidated-looking meth bar where someone had told me one could also purchase black-market buproprion, my personal drug of choice. His pupils were the size of pinholes in the dingy darkness of the bar.

He had acquired a new scar, an angry-looking, jagged red line that meandered down the right side of his face, from the corner of his eye to halfway down his neck. Any reputable plastic surgeon could have erased that scar for about a nickel, so either Jean-Claude wore it as a badge of honor, or he was hard up for cash.

Otherwise, his looks were unchanged: the same ghostly pale skin, the same craggy old-young features that made him look like a space-age Marlboro Man.

He was hunched over the bar, in the exact pose of a dog taking a shit, balanced on the barstool with his rump thrust out, his balls hanging down, and his erection waggling like an obscene bowsprit.

A painfully young-looking, skinny girl knelt behind him, earnestly eating out his asshole. She was naked except for a mechanically impossible pair of red sequined high heels, and a mean-looking choke collar that was connected to a leash that led up to Jean-Claude’s fist. Every now and then, as she rimmed him, he would give that leash a tug, and the black collar would ratchet a little tighter. The veins stuck out angrily in her long, slender neck, her face was bright red, and her respiration was loud, forced, and raspy. I could tell at a glance that she was a professional, but I was equally certain that she wasn’t getting paid. This rim job was strictly pro-bono.

As soon as he saw me watching, it was as if somebody had thrown a switch. We made eye contact, his dilated pupils burning into mine, and it was like the spark of an electrode, white-hot current arcing between us.

He gave the leash a viscous yank, at the same time mule-kicking the poor girl in the chest, squarely between her tits, sending her flying across the room to land splayed out on her back, purple-faced, choking and sputtering on the filthy floor.

“Get lost” he told her, and she did, coughing and tottering feebly out the door in her ridiculous rhinestone high heels. But she’d be back. They always came back.

Jean-Claude smiled at me, a toothy, predatory smile. “Well well,” he said, sucking ice water through his sharp little teeth, “It’s certainly been a while. I must say, I’m surprised to see you here.”

I was a little surprised to be here. Jean-Claude is a miserable human being, a cad, a piece of shit, a liar and a sadist, a borderline sociopath. We’d been lovers, on and off, for the last ten years. I’d thought I’d finally gotten him out of my life.

“You look well,” he said, and rattled the ice in his empty glass. “Ah, but you’re looking at the scar.” He ran his finger down the side of his face, tracing the dimpled topography of the wound, “It’s nothing, a mountaineering accident.”

He dared me to ask him for details, so he could expound at length on the lie. Jean-Claude is no more a mountaineer than I am a birthday party clown. I didn’t take the bait.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he lied, “The others were only distractions, poor substitutes. You’re the only one who ever understood me. You’re the only woman I ever truly loved.”

He smiled again, and I felt nausea boiling up in my stomach, delayed-onset space sickness. Jean-Claude has a wife and children in Australia, another in Morocco, and another family in low earth orbit. And those are just the ones I know about. He can’t leave Darkside: besides the restraining orders, the shock of the child support payments would stop his heart.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” he asked, hiking up his trousers. His penis was still eagerly erect, bobbing and straining as he crammed it back into his pants. His cock, at least, never lied. “Want to come back to my apartment? Want to watch me fuck?”

And the sick, sick, sick thing is that I really did.

His apartment was a single tube in a coffin stack, 32 stories up, near the edge of the gamma dome. There was a folding bed and a miniature sink and commode, and enough room to stand up and lie down, and not much else. The place was filthy, littered with dirty clothing, containers of half eaten Chinese food, drugs and paraphernalia, and it reeked of stale, nervous sweat and tobacco smoke. Jean-Claude eked out a sort of living as a drug dealer; a low-level middleman with a reputation for being able to find what you needed at a sharp mark-up. That, and a little pimping on the side.

There was a high-end, multi-function Simulacrum on the folding bed, lying dormant in sleep mode. She was an exact copy of me; or rather, an exact copy of me as I was ten years ago, down to the chewed-on nails, and the pubic hair shaved into a question mark, as was in vogue at the time.

“You see,” Jean-Claude said, thumbing her remote, “I’ve never forgotten you.”

Even though I knew she was just a hollow construct, a high-tech variation on a century-old shtick; a few millimeters of vat-grown flesh and hemoglobin surrounding a plastic shell that was hollow inside but for a few microchips, servo motors, and a twelve pack of double-A batteries; even though I knew she was just a fancy blow-up doll, a jerk-off toy, she still gave me the screaming willies. And I couldn’t make myself think of the Simulacrum as ‘it’; it was most definitely a ‘she’.

Jean-Claude was already shucking off his clothes, his hard-on scarlet and bent upward, the way I remembered. This situation was way too creepy. I had no business being here.

He shoved his cock into the Simulacrum’s mouth, and her lips closed automatically around the head, her tongue swirling mechanically all over his glans, her mouth humming almost inaudibly, generating a vacuum no human mouth could hope to match. I joined in, wrapping my hand around his shaft, stroking rhythmically up and down while I kissed and licked his shaved balls and tickled his anus.

It was bizarre, erotic and surreal, giving my ex-lover a blowjob along with my robotic twin sister. I was kind of getting off on it. Maybe I’d jam a wet finger up his butt hole, and he’d come in her mouth, and then maybe he’d want to go to sleep, and maybe I’d jerk off next to his unconscious body, and then I’d go to sleep and leave in the morning before he even woke up.

But that wasn’t the way Jean-Claude wanted the evening to play out. As my fingertip toyed with his asshole, threatening to push past the sphincter, he yanked his wet cock out of her mouth.

“Watch me fuck her!” he said, nudging her thighs apart, spreading her legs wide and pushing her knees up so her feet were tucked behind her ears. I was never that limber.

Her pussy pouted open, slick and artificially wet, oozing lube. It was a mirror image of my own vagina. He speared her with one thrust, burying his hard cock in her cunt. Despite myself, I envied her, ached to feel that thick, meaty hardness filling me up. My pussy was wet and excited.

I watched him fuck her. It was oddly sexy, like watching old video of myself having sex. Her head lolled back and forth, making automated sex noises; her tits shook as he fucked. I wanted that. I wanted it for myself. I squeezed my thighs together, mashing my clit between my fat and juicy lips. He was going to make me masturbate for him, wasn’t he? The bastard, he’d planned this. And it was going to work.

He pulled his cock out of her cunt, shiny with lube; turned and grinned at me, and then lifted her ass up off the bed, and pried her cheeks apart. Her anus looked tiny and tender and vulnerable. With one savage thrust, he buried himself in her puckered little asshole.

I remembered the first time he’d done that to me. I had screamed. I thought I was being torn in half. Later on, he’d said he was sorry, but he wasn’t.

He fucked her ass viciously, like he meant it, burying himself up to the balls in her anus before pulling all the way out and then ramming his cock back in again.

“Put your fingers in her twat,” he told me, “I want you to feel this.”

For whatever reason, I did as he said, slipping two finger up inside her. The Simulacrum’s vagina felt almost exactly like a real pussy; hot, tight, and slimy, with the extra added bonus of a soft, persistent vibration.  I could feel Jean-Claude’s cock pistoning in and out of her asshole, rampant inside her rectum. I stroked his cock through the thin layer of artificial flesh, feeling his every ridge and texture.

He was sweating, breathing hard. His balls were drawn up tight. He was close. I stroked his dick even more aggressively through the Simulacrum’s wet cunt, pressing my fingers hard against his shaft.

Jean-Claude reached down underneath the bed, and came up with a big, high-mass boron steel connecting wrench, the kind that orbital mechanics use to join up big chunks of satellite. He lifted it high over his head, and brought it down with a grunt, splitting the Simulacrum’s head right at the temple. He smashed the wrench into her head again and again, crushing her plastic skull like a watermelon. Her head made a nasty wet scrunching sound as the wrench beat it into a shapeless pulp. Blood and tissue and gore spattered everywhere, soaking the bed sheets and splashing onto the cubicle walls.

He turned to look at me, baring his teeth in a manic grin, and brought the wrench down hard on her chest, punching through where her sternum would have been. Only then did he come, grimacing and grunting through his orgasm. I felt his dick twitch inside her as he pumped his semen into her ruined body cavity.

I managed to hold it together. That was the whole point of this little scene, to get a reaction out of me, and I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure, not if I could help it.

I left him there in his filthy little blood-stained coffin. He could clean up the mess; he’d have to, before the Simulacrum’s tissue started going rancid. There are no rats on the moon, but if there were, they’d live in Jean-Claude’s apartment.

The last I saw of him, he was sitting on the commode, snorting long, fat lines of some gunpowder-grey substance, some exotic and esoteric drug that would end up killing him.

I threw up down on the street, vomiting into a convenient public receptacle. After I’d puked, I felt a little better. I swallowed the last of my pills, and made my way through the perpetual night, back towards downtown, back to the space elevator, picking my way through crowds of red-eyed, hollow-faced sex tourists.

I stopped in at a McDonalds, and got myself a large fries, the comfort food of my girlhood. They always taste the same, no matter where you order them. I ate my hot, salty, greasy, extruded fries as I walked up the crowded sidewalks toward the elevator to Needle’s Eye, tears streaming down my cheeks.

As soon as I get back to L4, I’m going to get my brain scrubbed. A full ten-year memory wipe. I swear to fucking God.

END

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Going Down

It is three in the morning and I can’t sleep. The second-hand air conditioner in my window rattles and hums, fitfully blowing tepid air across my body. I lie atop the sheets naked except for an old pair of white panties. Is the coffee I drank in the afternoon keeping me up? Or is it work-related stress from the job I hate and I feel like I’m on the brink of getting downsized out of? Is it the stifling heat that has settled on top of New York City like a heavy wool rug? Is it the fact that I’m approaching thirty, adrift and single, and not even really trying? It’s probably all these things put together, plus the fact that I have to be up at seven, and if I don’t get some sleep soon, I am going to be a disaster in the morning.

I peel off the ratty panties and toss them onto the floor. I have a respectable toy collection: several different vibrators, a couple of nice dildos, and lately a large black silicone butt plug that I’ve taken to inserting when I whack off. But I’m not going to get the toys out now, not at 3:15 in the morning. I simply let my fingers do the walking.

My slit is furry, warm and moist. My clit is swollen and sensitive. I trace my fingers up and down, round and around, and think about getting stuck in an elevator. This is my stand-by fantasy, an old favorite.

He doesn’t look like a rapist. But then again, who ever does? He steps in beside me and presses the ‘down’ button, thumbs it repeatedly for emphasis. He is wearing a grey tweed business suit, double-breasted. It looks well-cut and expensive. He wears a low-key, wide tie. A gold band gleams dully on his left hand. I feel his body heat next to me, and I can’t help sneaking a glance at the bulge in his crotch.

It is easy to get away with staring at his package, because the walls of the elevator are mirrored. Presumably to make the tiny car seem less claustrophobic. It is one of those ancient New York elevators, small as a coffin, rattley and shakey and creaky.

He has a thick, veiney neck, big hands, hairy forearms. His package bulges in the front of his trousers. He doesn’t look like anyone I’d ever date, not in a million years. He looks like he’s got a pretty big dick, looks like he’s really proud of it. He probably drives a shiny black SUV, an Escalade, or possibly a Hummer. Played football in college. Just made vice-president, and won’t get any further up the corporate ladder. Gets half drunk on Bud in sports bars, yells at his mousy wife in public. Plays a decent game of golf. Intimidates his subordinates. A prick.

He stabs the door-close button, and the down button again, in rapid, angry succession, and at last the doors slide shut and the car begins it’s rattle-trap journey down to the ground floor.

And stops, with a lurch. We are somewhere between the fourteenth and fifteenth floors, stuck in the shaft. I look at him. He looks at me. My palms are sweaty, my stomach is tight and nervous. My cunt tingles and salivates.

A long minute, standing inches apart. The elevator car does not move. I can see myself in the mirrored walls in three separate reflections: paisley patterned summer dress down to my ankles, panty lines visible, open-toes shoes in defiance of the company’s dress code. No bra, nipples clearly visible through the flimsy light fabric.

He smiles, and I feel adrenaline course through my veins, the kind of rush a junkie must feel when she shoots up. He grabs me by the face, pinching my mouth in one giant hand, my own teeth cutting the insides of my cheeks until I taste blood; he forces me down onto my knees, cuffs me across the face with the flat of his hand, yanks down the front of my dress so that my tits spill out like an overturned cart full of melons.

He laughs out loud, a nasty, barking laugh. Unzips, fishes out his gear. He has a monster cock; stupid big, shaved bald, a pink glans that looks like an afterthought. The shaft is thick and riddled with veins. He could be a porno star, the kind of mainstream porno with a disco soundtrack that I loathe, the kind that always ends with the guy jerking off onto the girl’s face. I bet he bought his wife a boobjob for her birthday.

He crams that big dick into my mouth and I can’t breathe. He pulls my hair, fucking my face, making me choke and gag. Morbidly strong hands on the back of my head forcing me down his length, cramming that cock down my throat, past my tonsils, halfway down my neck. He reeks of stale sweat and cheap cologne. His balls are fat and plump, like grapes on a vine. My windpipe is blocked. I can’t breathe. I struggle and swallow convulsively as he callously fucks my throat.

Just as I start to think that I can take no more, that I am about to pass out, he yanks his cock out of my mouth without warning, leaving me coughing and gasping for air. He chuckles as he pulls me up onto my feet again, each of my erect nipples pinched between his thumb and forefingers like a pair of industrial vice-grips. His oversized dick is red with excitement, slick and wet with my saliva. He hikes my dress up, pulls my turquoise panties to one side, muscles his way in between my legs, and rams his penis straight up my cunt.

I am wet and slippery, and my pussy accepts the invasion almost without resistance. He fucks me hard and selfishly, slamming me up against the elevator doors. I watch us, almost abstractly, like seeing a porn film through the window in someone else’s apartment. His pale ass clenched tight, he, fucks my cunt like a rutting animal. I realize that I am crying out, realize that against my own will I am going to come, and when he sees this he grins, fucking me even harder, so my toes are lifted off the ground with every thrust.

I feel him come, his cock twitching, flooding my hungry cunt with semen. I am almost there, and he leaves me dangling. Withdraws his reduced, come-slick dick, tucks it back into his pants, zips up. I finger my clit shamelessly, and he sniggers.

With a sudden lurch, the elevator car starts up again, resumes it’s plodding way down to the lobby. My dress is a mess, my tits are still hanging out. I finger myself ruthlessly, strumming my clit like a demented banjo player, holding my breath, my lips curled back into a convulsive snarl.

The elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open just as I come. I come, gasping and panting, trying not to scream, tremors rocking through my body. He exits the elevator, striding off into the crowded lobby as I slide down the wall, landing in a heap on my ass, crying with relief, his sticky white come still leaking out of my juicy cunt.

Oh yeah, that did it. Now there is a wet spot on the sheets, but I am way too tired to care. I close my eyes again, inhaling the scent of my pussy’s excitement, and drift off into a few precious hours of deep, dreamless sleep.

Work is stupid. There is not much to do there besides send out résumés and pretend to work. Bella halfhearted patrols the cubicles from time to time, pretending to care what we are doing. I keep a spreadsheet open for appearances sake, but I mostly just play solitaire. At one point I walk past Leah’s workstation and notice that she is browsing porn. Looks like she is into spanking stuff: blonde, waif-like highly tattooed models with big tits and pierced nipples getting bent over convenient furniture by stern-looking men in suits with large hands, wielding cruel-looking whips and canes and scary paddles. Not really my cup of tea, but I admire the spirit. She should really be more careful though. I make it a policy to stay away from porn at work. I need this stupid job.

After work, at long last, I go home and change clothes. My mom thinks I should be dating: get a hobby, join a club, post a personal, go to a bar, something! It is all too depressing for words. I pull on my baggy dungarees, an oversized sweatshirt, trail runners and a battered old baseball hat worn backward on my head. I take the cross-town bus and walk the final three blocks to the underpass where the gay boys like to cruise for anonymous sex.

There is a pretty good crowd there already, in the dripping dark, amidst the empty beer cans and the condom wrappers. It is hot, unrelentingly hot, and the humidity makes it feel like standing in a lukewarm swimming pool. A constant roar of traffic overhead drowns out any attempt at conversation. I try not to think about rats.

I find myself standing close to a skinny, fair-skinned boy. He might be painfully young, it is hard to tell in this low light. Our hands join, his body presses against mine, we kiss a little bit, and then my hand is rubbing the front of his jeans, up and down, feeling his hardness underneath the zipper, feeling his eagerness as I extract his cock.

I maneuver myself behind him so that my crotch is pressed against his tight butt. My fingers encircle his penis. He is stiff, hot, smooth and silky. I jerk him off in the grimy, crowded darkness, playing him like a musical instrument, varying my tempo, building, building, slowing, teasing, building again until he is trembling with excited tension. I bite the muscles of his shoulder as I go for the final crescendo, sliding my hand up and down his hyper-excited cock, faster and faster, his breathing raspy as I bring him to a shattering, long-delayed release. He shoots semen into the night air in a clean, mathematically-defined parabolic arc, and I am already detaching myself, moving away into the crowd.

Another boy. This one is kind of fat, wears a little goatee. We kiss and grope a little, then he unzips and delivers me the goods. He wants me to suck it, but I am not getting down on my knees in this environment. I stroke his cock with my hand, enjoying the texture, enjoying his hardness. His dick is on the small side, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. My hand is wrapped around his penis, pumping happily away.

He wants to feel me too. Evasive action fails, and his hand worms in through the open side of my dungarees, down inside my boxers. I feel his consternation and surprise at what he finds and does not find down there. He pulls away, and I lose my grip on his penis.

‘False Advertising’, he whispers in my ear. I giggle coquettishly and shrug. His dick is still hard, still hanging out there, wagging like a dog tail in the subterranean gloom. He whispers to me again, his goatee tickling my ear. He wants to fuck me in the ass. I ask if he has a condom. He does, so I say okay.

I unclip the shoulder straps and my dungarees fall in a heap around my ankles. I pull down my boxer shorts. He stands behind me, hands on my hips, breathing hard on the back of my neck as he maneuvers his erection between my butt cheeks.

He doesn’t actually fuck my asshole; he is too eager and over-excited, and I am not relaxed or lubed up enough. He tries for a little bit, and then gives up on penetration, and concentrates on sliding his cock up and down my ass crack, like a bratwurst sliding up and down a hot dog bun, until he comes. It feels really nice, and I catch myself wishing he wasn’t wearing a condom. When he does come, he squeezes his body really hard against me, and I can feel his cock twitch against my anus as he convulsively squirts hot come into the condom wedged between my cheeks. We stay like that for a few heartbeats, and then he disengages, melting quietly away into the crowded darkness, leaving me to pull my clothes back on.

A couple more gay boys, a couple more handjobs, and I am through for the night. My arm muscles ache, my clit is humming and impatient, and my cunt is drooling down my legs. It takes forever for the bus to arrive, and by the time I get home I am exhausted and frustrated. I skip the porn, and land directly on my bed, naked and horny. I insert the butt plug, and apply the vibrating egg to my swollen clit, and indulge in another elevator fantasy.

I have to work late, and by the time I leave the office, the only thing on my mind is Chinese take-out and the half-full bottle of red wine sitting on my kitchen counter. A trio of workers in navy-blue coveralls gets into the car a couple floors below me. Repairmen or technicians of some sort; two guys and a girl. Are they electricians? With the phone company? I don’t really give the matter two thoughts. The doors slide closed, and the car glides down toward the lobby.

And stops. Someone groans. One of the repairmen pushes the ‘Trouble’ button, and a few seconds later a lit-up button informs us that ‘Help Is On The Way’. He sighs and slumps against the elevator wall. He is black, tall and rangy, with ropey muscles and short, tight dreads. His partner is white, shorter, curly hair and an angular face like a weasel. He is chewing gum loudly. The girl is about my age, stocky and thick but not what I’d call fat, a clunky leather tool belt perched on her hips, glasses balanced on an upturned nose and heavy-looking breasts like two-liter bottles.

 

All six eyes are fixed on me. It is suddenly uncomfortably hot and close in here. I feel self-conscious in my white blouse, heels and slacks. The girl yawns and nudges her partner, the weasel-faced white guy. Black dude stretches and lazily unbuttons the top of his coveralls, exposing a smooth chocolate chest, nipples like Hershey Kisses.

I am kissing his pecs, the hollow of his sternum, nuzzling at his nipples. He tastes nice, sweaty and spicy. I can feel the other two watching, and it only makes me wetter, knowing that I am being minutely observed. The coveralls slide easily down his body. He is not wearing anything underneath.

He has a tight, ripped body. Very short, very kinky black pubic patch, big fat knobbly dick, uncircumcised, with a purple head like a ripe plum peeking out from underneath the foreskin. I drop to my knees, doing my very best to swallow him whole, which isn’t really practical, but is a lot of fun to try. I try a different approach, slathering my tongue up and down his shaft, slurping his fat testicles, pulling back the foreskin and tracing the topography of his glans. His cock is rigidly hard, craning eagerly upward, hot and juicy.

 Someone is unbuttoning my blouse, and my breasts hang pendulously down as my bra is unclasped. The girl is standing next to me, her tool belt level with my head. She pats me on the head like a dog, tousling my hair. Someone, it must be Weasel-Face, is tugging my pants off, groping and pawing at my cunt. I am soaking wet, hot and slippery and horny as hell. I raise my knees one by one, my mouth full of cock, and kick my panties aside.

Dreadlocks pulls his dick away, and I come up, panting. The girl chuckles, “What a horny little slut she is!” She tugs my hair fondly, and I wiggle my ass in response. The boys rearrange themselves.

Weasel-Face is standing in front of me, his jeans unzipped, his cock projecting straight out. His dick is pale, pink and white and blue, and it is crooked, bent like a scimitar. It fits nicely into my mouth, and I suck at it greedily. Meanwhile, Dreadlocks is behind me, maneuvering himself in between my thighs. I jump and startle as his big dick rams up against my cunt. Weasel-Face wraps his fingers in my hair and commands my attention, vigorously humping my wide-open mouth.

I am lavishing attention onto Weasel-Face’s thrusting cock, and trying to breathe, as Dreadlocks spreads my cunt wide open and crams his tool home. The sudden invasion makes me gasp, electrifies me, as I am suddenly stretched wide and full of dick. He starts fucking my cunt hard, slapping my ass in a casual way, every second or third thrust. I try to concentrate on the dick in my mouth, but it is getting more and more difficult. My head is lolling back and forth, I am humping back against Dreadlock’s fucking, grunting like a pig with the pleasure of it. Weasel-Face has withdrawn his cock from my mouth, content with the occasional slurp I remember to give him, and is now jerking off into my face.

Dreadlocks comes suddenly, slamming himself into my cunt and emitting a series of cut-off shouts: ‘Ugh-ugh…uhh!’ I feel his dick swell and spasm inside me, feel his hot semen flooding my vagina, spilling out and running down my thighs, dripping onto the elevator floor. He slowly withdraws, and I feel suddenly empty.

“Your turn” the girl says. She has one hand stuck down the front of her pants.

“Sloppy Seconds” Weasel-Face comments.

“Fuck her in the ass,” the girl says. Her hand is busy down the front of her pants, “You know she wants it.”

He smears the gooey wetness that is drooling out of my cunt up and down my butt, and around my anus before rudely jamming a finger into that tight, sensitive hole. I yelp and jump, but I certainly do not object as he works his forefinger in and out, twisting it around inside me. Besides, Mr. Dreadlocks has come around front again, and is busy feeding me his soft, salty, come-flavored dick, and playing with my breasts, pinching and squeezing my erect nipples. It is really quite distracting.

I guess Weasel-Face figures he’s warmed me up enough: he suddenly withdraws his finger, leaving my asshole gasping. I glance over at the girl; she is working her hand rhythmically back and forth inside her work pants, making the tools on her belt jingle. She looks down at me with a sneer. “Go ahead and sodomize her,” she says, “Horny little slut.”

Weasel Face takes careful aim, and works his crooked dick up my ass. It is kind of tight fit getting in, but once past the tight ring of my sphincter, he slides right on in. It feels wild, amazing, out of control. He starts fucking my asshole, sliding in and out, slowly at first, and then harder and harder, faster and faster, grunting with the effort.

I can’t take it anymore, I have to masturbate. I let Dreadlock’s cock slip out of my mouth, reach between my legs and shamelessly play with my swollen, aching clit. Dreadlocks takes matters into his own hands, masturbating himself onto my face. The girl is masturbating hard, leaning back against the wall of the elevator car as Weasel-Face pounds my poor little asshole.

We all four come at about the same time. Dreadlocks growls like an animal and splashes a relatively small amount of sticky white come onto my face; Weasel-Face buries himself in my ass, filling me to overflowing with what seems like pint after pint of his hot semen; the girl comes silently, her face screwed up in an ecstatic mask; and I go off bucking and screaming, wracked with pleasure that breaks over me again and again like storm-churned surf, until I am left a limp, sweaty, sticky mass on the floor of the elevator.

Without warning, the elevator car starts smoothly up again, and slowly descends to the ground floor as my technicians quickly tuck themselves back into their work clothes. The exit the elevator without a word, leaving me naked on the floor, soaked in sweat, dripping come and reeking of sex.

Work drags on and on. Bella has given up all pretense of trying to keep us on-task. There is an atmosphere of impending doom all over the office. I am tempted to follow Leah’s example and surf a little porn, but the fact is that I really do need this job, and I don’t want to give them any excuse to fire me. I know it is only a matter of time, but at least it is air conditioned in here.

At last it is over. I go home, take a shower, have a drink, have another one, change into my boxers and baggy sweatshirt and baseball cap, and fire up the internet. I turn on the webcam, and surf on over to the gay boy chat rooms, misrepresenting myself, flirtatious and coy, trying to get them to show skin without showing any of my own.

An hour or so of this, and I am drenched and edgy. My boxer shorts are sodden, I have soaked all the way through them and made a big wet patch on the computer chair. The keyboard is sticky with my own juices. I turn off the webcam and shed my clothing, flopping naked onto the bed. On my knees, ass thrust up in the air like a cartoon sex kitten, I carefully insert the well-lubed butt plug. I savor the sensation of fullness, the pressure on my pussy from the inside that makes my clit stand up like a little beacon. I run my fingers up and down my vulva, allowing a finger to slip inside and feel my warm, wet tightness, before I concentrate on my clit, slipping into fantasy as I draw tiny concentric circles round and around my sensitive button.

It is just the two of us in the elevator, him and me. I don’t recognize him, he got on at a higher floor. Cute, the body of a long-distance runner, or maybe a cyclist. He wears a low-key suit, and glasses. Kind eyes, easy smile. Looks a little shy, maybe a year or two younger than me. Nice hands. I automatically check; no ring.

He coughs and gives me an apologetic smile. I smile back, what I hope is a friendly little smile. He’s cute, just my cup of tea. The door slide close, and my stomach lurches slightly as the elevator descends.

A boom that is felt more than heard, almost sub-sonic, the shock waves passing through our bodies and upsetting our internal organs, making the whole building sway. The elevator stops so suddenly I am knocked to the floor. He maintains his footing. The lights go out, it is pitch black for a long, long moment, and then the emergency lights kick in. A whiff of acrid smoke. Sirens, dimly heard.

Time passes. Nothing happens. Cautious small talk, ginger attempts at humor. Still nothing happens. Fear and claustrophobia are slowly giving way to boredom. Horny boredom.

“We may be stuck here for a while.”

“Looks like it.”

“It’s hot in here.” Which is true, it is hot in the car with no air conditioning running, but it probably isn’t strictly necessary for me to be unbuttoning my blouse, stepping out of my slacks.

“I’m not sure my girlfriend would approve.”

“She’s not here though, is she? Come on, you don’t have to get naked, just take your suit off. It is hot in here, isn’t it?”

Reluctantly, and yet eagerly, like a dog slinking toward a treat it knows it’s not allowed to have, he peeled off his office clothes, folding and stacking them in the corner. He is wearing baby blue briefs, and the bulge in the front is positively mouth-watering. His legs are long and muscular, his tummy is flat.

We sit next to each other in our skivvies, making more small talk, pretending not to be flirting as we talk about where we went to college and what we like to eat and do on our weekends. He is training for a mini-triathlon; I put my hand on his leg and squeeze the muscle, and I feel him jump, but he does not flinch away.

He has an erection. It is bulging urgently inside his briefs, straining to get out. God, if I had a dick, it would be so hard right now! My pussy is moist and eager, my clit is humming. I let my bra-encased breast brush against his naked shoulder. He does not pull away. I take a chance, reach over, stroke his hard cock through the fabric of his underwear.

“I have a girlfriend.”

“I know.” I do not stop. His dick feels really nice inside his shorts. I want more.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“We’re not doing anything.” I leave off petting his dick for a moment to unsnap my bra, setting my breasts free. “Do you like them?”

He nods, not trusting his voice.

I extract his penis from his underwear. He does not stop me.

He has a lovely cock, medium-large, thick, with a very pronounced, teardrop-shaped head. His pee-hole is a slit that looks like the pupil of a cat’s eye.. A glistening, clear strand of pre-come is leaking out of that eyelet, and I scoop it up with one finger and bring it to my lips. He tastes sticky and sweet.

I start jerking him off. I have gotten very, very good at giving handjobs over the years; I’ve had a lot of practice. The trick is figuring out what the guy likes; every man is different. I find the way his likes it best, grasping his hot dick very lightly in one hand, pumping in a rapid irregular rhythm, bringing him close and then backing off. I can feel his pulse thumping in his dick.

He doesn’t seem to care one way or another for having his balls played with, so I move further south. Now that gets a reaction! He moans and humps the air with his dick, waggling it like a spear as I circle his anus with one finger, oh-so gently petting the soft skin around his asshole.

“Oh my God,” he gasps, “My girlfriend is going to kill me!”

“Your girlfriend is never going to know.” I say. I insert my fingertip into his tight little asshole, at the same time dropping my ravenous mouth onto his cock. It is delicious. The head of his dick fills my mouth like a hot piece of candy. I lavish my tongue all around him, jerking him off with one hand, fingering his ass with the other, sucking like a Hoover all the while.

I want to taste his come, but I want him inside my cunt even more. I release his dick, extract my forefinger, which has worked it’s naughty way up his asshole until I was knuckle-deep inside him. His dick flops wetly and frustrated. I pull off my panties and toss them aside.

“No, please…”

“You want me to stop?” I am straddling his lap. My wetness is drooling out of me like a leaky faucet. I can feel the heat of his cock close to my pussy.

“No, please, no…”

I grab a hold of his dick, place it squarely up against my drooling lips, and lower myself onto him. It feels amazing to be full of him, and right away I know I am close to coming. He opens his mouth to say something, and I feed him my breast, shoving my erect nipple into his mouth. He sucks my tit hard as I squirm on his cock, rocking back and forth and up and down.

We roll over so he can be  on top, which is kind of my favorite anyway. Where is his girlfriend now? His dick is sliding in and out of my cunt, sending jolts through me with every thrust. “Please play with my asshole,” he begs, and I oblige him. I can barely reach his backside this way, but when I find his anus, he goes wild, fucking me even harder. I encourage him, worming my finger deeper inside, talking dirty to him, calling him a fucking stud, a sex machine, begging him to come in my pussy.

He does come, squirting deep inside me with a long, drawn-out wail. His orgasm triggers my own, and my pussy pulsates on his cock, milking every last drop of semen out of him. It seems to go on forever, and we stay interlocked, limp and motionless, for a long while, breathing hard, his soft dick inside my tired pussy.

I am highly tempted to go for a second round, to lick my pussy-juice off his dick until he gets hard in my mouth, but now we can hear the sounds of rescuers approaching, and he gets shy. He is thinking of his girlfriend again, and feeling bad about what we did. I try to feel a little guilty, but I can’t.

Bella calls me into the office. “This isn’t easy for me to say, you know. You shouldn’t take it personally. It is no reflection upon you. It all came down from corporate. We’re downsizing.”

Even though I’ve been expecting this for weeks, it still comes as a shock. I don’t know what to say. I stand there in front of the desk, feeling like a rag doll, a plaything tossed aside.

“It’s no reflection on you personally,” Bella repeats, sounding weary, “It would be best if you just packed up your things and left now.”

Best for who? I don’t have much to pack up, it all fits into my backpack. I don’t speak to anyone, keep my eyes glued to the carpet as I traverse past the cubicles on my way to the elevator.

The elevator seems to take forever to arrive. Finally, the doors open up and I step inside with a sinking feeling in my gut. I just want to get out of the building, to feel sunshine on my skin, to breathe some fresh air and to figure out what I’m going to do next.

Just as the doors are sliding closed, Leah comes running, “Hold the door!” I bump the door open for her, annoyed because I don’t feel like company. She slips in, out of breath, the doors close, and the elevator starts going down.

Leah is taller than me, and skinnier, and has the kind of curly, golden-blonde hair that I would have killed for as a little girl. She is wearing charcoal-grey pinstriped pants, and a sleeveless white t-shirt with a black bra clearly visible underneath, in flagrant disregard for company dress code. We have worked in the same office for over six months, and I don’t think we ever spoke two sentences to each other.

“Laid off?”

“Yes.” I say. I don’t really feel like talking about it. How am I going to pay the rent with no paycheck? How am I going to eat? Where does a girl with not much job experience and an undergraduate degree in English look for work in an economy like this?

“Me too,” Leah says, “Good riddance. Screw it. I won’t miss this lousy job.”

The elevator jerks to a sudden halt, and an obnoxious high-pitched alarm starts going off.

I can’t believe it. Can anything else go wrong today? I just want to go home and start drinking and get on with my life. Sex is the last thing on my mind.

Until Leah leans in, backing me into the corner, an arm on the wall to either side of me so I can’t get away, and kisses me softly on the lips.

“Looks like we’re stuck”, she says, her face uncomfortably close to my own.

I must be the only female in the history of Sarah Lawrence College to graduate without ever having fucked a girl. It’s not that I have anything against the concept; it’s just not my primary focus, and I had a lot of other things going on at the time. It looks like all that might be about to change.

Her lips are on mine, her tongue is insinuating its way into my mouth, startling me with her aggressive forwardness. I realize belatedly that I am kissing her back, and that her lips are soft and feminine and highly kissable.

Her hand slides up my skirt, boldly exploring, probing my pussy through my underwear. I am instantly drenched. I want her fingers up inside my panties, buried in my cunt. She obliges me, her mouth pressed against mine, her hand cupping her breasts, two fingers pushing my panties aside, finger-fucking me hard and deep. I gasp into her open mouth as she penetrates me, the alarm of the stuck elevator ringing in the background, grinding my hips against her thrusting hand, and I realize that I am about to come on her long, tenacious fingers.

I mew aloud, abandoning myself to the orgasm, arching my back and leaning my shoulders against the wall of the elevator, surrendering myself to her. Leah grins, lifting up my skirt and pulling my panties aside for a better view, fucking my cunt hard with two fingers. Her thumb is bumping up against my clitoris, and that is what sets me off. I come, gasping and panting, shaking and struggling to get more of her inside me, more of her flesh in contact with my own.

When I have settled down, she withdraws her sticky fingers, and coyly holds them up to my mouth to lick off. I clean them like a cat, licking off my pussy juice, swirling my tongue all over them, as if her long, graceful fingers were a cock.

She is peeling off her black pants. Underneath she wears a tiny pair of pink bikini panties. I tell her I want to see her tits, and with a smile that is almost shy, she obliges me, pulling off her t-shirt and unsnapping her bra. Her boobs are smaller than mine, pert and bouncy. The nipples are pink and conical and erect. I would like to have one in my mouth, but she turns around, facing the wall, thrusting her rear end out, and I know what she wants now.

I tug her panties down around her knees. She has a beautiful ass, pale and taut, not so much as a ripple of cellulite. There is no hair between her legs, she is waxed as bald as a porn star. Her labia are fat and puffy, the inner parts of her vagina are tucked shyly away.

SWACK! SMACK! Now her ass is not quite so flawless, but looks even sexier with two raised red hand prints, one on each cheek. I like the way her flesh jiggles when I slap her, I adore the sharp intake of breath, and the way she wiggles her behind, inviting more abuse. I oblige her, spanking her ass until it is livid red and angry, until she is panting like she’d just run a 10k, until my shoulder aches with it and my hand feels swollen and sore.

“Kiss it better” she whispers, half a command, half an urgent plea, and I am only too happy to do just that. I get down on my knees behind her, spreading her cheeks apart like the two halves of a ripe peach, exposing her hidden inner bits. Pink, moist lips peak out from between her fat outer labia. Her anus is tiny, delicate looking, crinkled up like a tiny little starfish. I nestle my face between her soft cheeks and flick at it with my tongue and she sighs and presses back against me.

I try to picture working my fat black butt plug, all slick with lube, up that tiny little hole. It is hard to imagine it fitting, but it is a sexy image indeed! I imagine her moaning, begging me not to stop, her asshole stretched wide around the toy, her pussy leaking come all over my fresh white sheets. I lick her ass, up and down, pressing the flat of my tongue against her asshole. She tastes clean and earthy. I try to work the tip of my tongue up inside her butt. Her asshole is clenched tight.

I have had close encounters with anuses before, but only gay boy anuses. They’ve always been loose and limber; the licking has always just been a precursor to me sliding a finger or two up the guy’s ass, and I’ve always had a handful of cock and balls to go with it. I enjoy licking Leah’s shy little asshole, teasing and tickling her, licking softly and persistently until she is loose enough that I can get the tip of my tongue up inside her butt.

I slide my thumb inside her pussy. I am shocked at how hot and wet and slick she is. My thumb meets no resistance; it is like dipping a finger into a bowl of melted butter. I am instantly buried in her pussy up to the knuckle. My forefinger rests against her clit, nestled between those fat outer lips. I proceed to fuck her, from inside and out, squeezing my finger to press against my thumb, my extended tongue wormed up inside her ass; and she proceeds to go a little crazy, emitting choking gasping screams and humping wildly back against my face, covering my hand in hers and pressing me harder, harder, harder against her sopping wet cunt. I can barely breathe and yet I keep on licking. When she comes, I feel her pussy tense and relax, opening up and clamping down on my thumb. I fuck her through the aftershocks, and only reluctantly withdraw, collapsing onto the floor with come all over my face and fingers and a big smile on my face.

We get dressed. “Thank you,” she says, “I’ve always wanted to do that.” She pulls out the emergency stop button and the trilling alarm stops and the elevator resumes its slow slide down toward the hot, humid streets of unemployment.

I glance up at the security camera in the corner, with its red blinking LED. “Do you suppose that thing works?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Leah says, “I certainly hope so.”

The elevator stops at the ground floor and the doors slide open. I think about asking her for her email, asking if she’d like to get together for dinner, or have a drink. I think leading her into my bedroom, lying down on top of her. I imagine how she would look atop my sheets, her flawless cheeks spread apart, with my butt plug lodged inside her asshole, her pussy crammed full of my fingers, her clit craning out toward the vibrator I am holding millimeters away.  I think of her kneeling before me in my bathtub as I beat her ass with a ruler, making her count the strokes out loud through her sobs. I think about going down to the underpass with her, hand in hand, fingering each other in the semi-darkness while gay boys with hard-ons crowd all around. I step out of the elevator, go to catch up with her, get her phone number, but it is already too late. She is gone.

END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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