Nothing starts me off right like a good meeting with a regular, this one in particular sitting in his fancy office, while I'm on my knees with my head buried in his lap, earning my keep the easy way. Mr. Greene is (or was, I don't keep track) a city councilman, slightly younger and cleaner-cut than my usual regulars, with a thing for watching women who aren't his wife suck his cock. Nothing more, nothing less. That's fine with me. Being on my knees comes natural after so much practice and I can satisfy a dick with the best of them.
But that isn't all. I keep my hands busy, one of them dragging my nails across his bare chest, the other kneading his balls like a handful of dough while I work. My mouth alternates between depth and speed, keeping him right on edge before switching, working him up to a grand finale. The condom between us is positively covered in my spit and I make a soundtrack out of slurping it up and drooling it back, moaning and sucking loudly enough that he needs to put music on to keep the sound from escaping his office. The lunch time rush means his floor is usually cleared out, but all it would take would be one secretary coming back early to hear us and know exactly what is going on.
He only calls me once or twice and month but tips well and I like having consistent regulars. It's win-win for both of us: he drains his balls, I fill my bank account, we're both happy with the arrangement.
Mr. Greene sighs and slouches down, rolling his head back with his mouth open wide. That's secret prostitute code for "check the condom real fast; this is the last chance you get before a mouthful of kids spills out."
Pulling back with my lips tight, I use the tip of my pink tongue to clandestinely confirm it is intact by licking at the empty tip. It's all good and so am I, putting both hands on his thighs and plunging my mouth down his entire shaft, my lips puckered tight as I moan. I stay down there, even when his hands get tangled up my hair, letting my tongue go wild on the underside of his dick, getting louder and louder, shaking my head from side to side, squeezing his legs tight and generally letting him have both barrels. Like any red-blooded man, he appreciates this in the way that all men do, a fat dollop of nut butter flinging from his tip hard enough to make the tip jerk up against the back of my mouth.
But if you think that made me gag, you haven't been paying attention.
I furiously suppress my gag reflex and pulling an inch or two back, milking out a second blast before my tongue flicks out. With this new weapon in my arsenal, I slam myself back down and tongue his swollen balls like crazy, making him hiss like a pit viper and blow another streamer into the rubber. By time he's done, the condom looks like a miniature water balloon. And, with my face red, eyes bloodshot and spit all over my chin, I look like I just sucked a dick.
"Christ... what a time to be alive..." It takes him a minute to recover but pulls an envelope from his bottom drawer and puts it atop his dark mahogany desk, "That should be everything, $300 for services and I got those points on your license removed as well."
I smile and go about getting presentable before stepping out of his office, "Why thank you, Mr. Greene," then turn towards him and lick my lips, "You are too kind." He merely nods, bringing both hands to his face and leaning back, his cock now dripping slightly on his dark grey slacks. I toss the used condom is his wastebasket and walk out the door.
--
Of all the girls Miss Evers has to call on - and she certainly has plenty on file - I'm her favorite for the last-minute. I'm not a drunk, I show up on time, I don't bring boyfriend drama (or any drama) and everyone loves my look. Not every girl looks like me, even though they all could be considered attractive. But I'm like the universal donor of beauty; no matter what a guy's preference in looks once Miss Evers shows them my pictures and offers me in place of a no-show, they practically trip over themselves agreeing to it. Or so she says: I never interact with clients on the first call, letting Miss Evers handle the screening and scheduling for the most part.
It's good money, if you don't mind the work, and hours are definitely flexible. I spend most of my days doing whatever I feel like: lounging at home generally, but sometimes eating at fancy restaurants and patronizing up-scale bars (non-professionally, of course), driving an expensive car (cars, actually) and enjoying life. It only stops when I get a text or call from Miss Evers telling me she needs me on the clock, almost always for a very specific client.
That's how it comes to me while I'm at the gym, halfway through a set of squats when my phone vibrates in its little velcro case on my shoulder. A text message: "jen need you to fill in for pearl. shes not answering her phone and RD requested her for tonight at 9, 2hr appointment"
'Goddammit Pearl,' the thought goes through my head as I read the message, 'Can you show up on time for anything? Ever?' Pearl is actually the agency's leading talent, with stupendously long legs and natural platinum blonde hair to contrast with oversized bolt-on knockers that she must have paid a fortune for. Guys flock to her like moths to a flame and her time is perpetually wait listed, which of course makes for a messy situation when she suffers mysterious and persistent "dead phone." We don't talk much, but her "new" phones look suspiciously similar to her "dead" ones whenever I do see her.
Still, this is an opportunity for me. Not just to make whatever RD was planning on forking over for two hours of her precious time, but possibly to steal a regular from her. Normally the agency rules prevent poaching regulars from one another (waaaay too much potential for catty backstabbing and drama otherwise) but an abandoned regular is a free agent, up for grabs by the first girl to attend to them. And in this case, that would be moi.
RD himself is quite the catch. Not in terms of boyfriend or husband material (hell no, never) but because he is the quintessential man with eyes too big for his head, with all the staying power of a sapling in a windstorm. Just a bit of smooth, sexy talking on my part and I'd be able to get a lot more than one hour's worth of money out of him. So as soon as I finish my set, I get back to Miss Evers, quick as always: "on it. any special requests and what should i wear?"
---
"So... what did you have in mind for tonight?" I keep my voice at a sultry, sensual level, hoping the headset I have does a good enough job at filtering out the sounds of traffic around me. Talking to the client about fifteen or twenty minutes before meeting them is the oldest trick in the book, getting their libido escalating into overdrive and priming them for a quick finish. In the best cases, you can get a guy so horny that he blows his load before the condom even touches him, at which point he'll almost always lose all interest, allowing you to bound out having made an hour's worth of money in less than ten minutes. In the worst cases, you take him right over the edge with pseudo-phone sex and he plays like he isn't home, so you drove out all that way for nothing. But I've got this down to science and tug right at RD's strings. "I mean, we have a whole two hours..."
The most annoying thing is throwing in a valley girl giggle whenever I pause, which is a lot. If guys had brains - any brains at all - they'd see right through my act: sophisticated vamp of the bedroom one second, interrupted to titter like the dumb cheerleader in a teen movie. But they don't, at least not when on the phone with me. It is nonsensical and lame and cliched... and guys eat it up.
Particularly RD, who sounds like he just ran a marathon over the phone - touching himself at his desk while looking at porn, most likely, "Yeah, yeah two hours. Gonna be two long hours for you honey... I got plans... big plans. As a matter of fact, better make it an all-nighter."
I actually have to stop myself from laughing at that; you'd sooner see RD swim the English Channel than fuck for longer than twenty minute. And even twenty would be quite the performance for him. "Mmm... well sir, I'd looove to know what theses plans are... mmm... maybe they involve my mouth? Mmmm... that'd be really nice. I love to have my lips wrapped tight around something... thick... and juicy... mmm... and once it's there, I never quit and never spit... mmm... boys like that."
He actually sputters instead of responding, "Well, I didn't really have plans, ah, for your mouth exactly..."
"Oh? Maybe you wanna do something else? Something reeeeally naughty..." Inwardly, I'm curious - as good as cock sucking is for me, it gets old doing it day in and day out - but I keep my professional cool while navigating the evening traffic and coming up on RD's gated community, "Maybe we can.. mmm... have a little bit of kinky fun?"
"Kinky, yeah... real kinky... I hope you like being blindfolded and gagged..."
"Mmmm... I sure do..." I keep my voice even but my stomach does a flip and fills with butterflies, aflutter at the prospect of being bound and gagged. It's my not so secret kink and one I rarely indulge in professionally. Most guys are meat-and-potatoes, half-and-half, blowjob and a fuck types. The real kinksters generally don't even bother with girls like me on account of the price, but every once in awhile there is a surprise waiting.
The rest of the conversation is rather stunted after that. RD goes off into la-la land, probably getting really into the porn that's undoubtedly playing on his computer, and I feel way too awkward to keep talking dirty without any response. Thankfully, his house is close by and I pull right up, stepping out with my conservative "I'm not a whore, really" sweat pants and a t-shirt on, carrying a gym bag with my "tools" inside and knocking on his door lightly.
(I don't know why, but guys always take for-fucking-ever getting the door, as if they feel the need to pretend that some absolutely immediate had to be taken care of. It drives working girls up the fucking wall.)
RD opens the door with a smile, his short frame rapidly going to seed but his blue eyes shining with eagerness and his blond hair still thick, shaped in a Wall Streeter fashion, "Jewel, right? Come in, please," and moves out of the way, motioning towards his stupidly large living room. Like a typical McMansion dweller, he is over the top with his display of wealth, with faux-renaissance paintings and reproduction Greek busts, expensive marble floors, what looks like real animal carpet (ew) and... a series of eye bolts and mountings, with straps hanging from the ceiling. I feel my heart start pounding and almost miss what he is saying, "So uh, this is where Pearl usually asks for the money and..." In his hand: not an envelope but raw cash money.
Stupid Pearl. I roll my eyes and gently wave away the money, "Do you have an envelope? I don't take gifts without an envelope." RD's eyes brighten and he pulls back, as if he accidentally offered me a dog turd.
"Sorry, Pearl is always very insistent that -"
"She is wrong. Can I use your bathroom?" I cut him off mercilessly not to dig into his ego (although frankly, RD could use it) but because I'm recording all this on my phone and don't want him spilling the beans about how Pearl likes cash in hand before engaging in sex. Need that plausible deniability, which going to the bathroom provides. Although with the ability to change into something a bit more professional: a tight body stocking with high cut silk panties and a bra that leaves my nipples exposed.
By time I come out, he has the issue sorted to my satisfaction and I'm able to take my gift in hand with all legalities covered. At the same time, he's looking at me. He's looking hard and he's looking long, working his eyeballs over every inch of exposed flesh, but persistently falling back to my tits, as if pulled by gravity. They are certainly my best feature, natural E-cups that keep me strengthening my back at the gym to avoid long-term pain, capped off by a muted pink areola and a pair of deliciously lickable (I'm told) nipples. The hair, the skin, the eyes, the face, all of them are distant secondary concerns compared to my breasts. At least when talking about most guys: Mr. Greene loves my mouth, "Red" loves my ass, and the guy that always gives me a different fake name just likes to stroke my hair, which is weird.
All the same, I hope RD isn't prone to losing himself over a nice pair of jugs. I really want him to show me something exciting before he blows his load and tits run counter to that goal. "So... you said you wanted to play with a blindfold, right? How about we start with that?" In my hand, I have a strip of wine red silk fabric that someone (I can't remember who) bought me. But RD just shakes his head.
"I've got my own toys, don't you worry. I just haven't had the chance to uh... use them all yet."
With that, he moved past me, bending down and dragging a thick plastic bin filled with... I couldn't immediately tell, but RD helpfully picked up the first item, a pink leather mask, form-fitting and seemingly tight. "Tell me, Jewel, what do you think about sensory deprivation?"
--
Five minutes later I'm up on my very tip-toes in his over-sized living room. My legs have been forced apart by a spreader bar. The mask is snugly attached, covering my face almost completely, caressing with skin with nothing but the feel and smell of leather, leaving only my mouth open, held that way by the ring gag he placed inside. There are eye holes, however they've been rendered useless by a blindfold, much thicker and sturdier than the one I'd brought, that wraps tightly around my head. My arms are restrained by an elbow length mono-glove behind my back and hoisted upwards. And just to cap things off, at some point I feel a pair of noise-canceling headphones fitted over my ears and secured in place, taking away my ability to hear.
I'm completely bound, unable to do much more than shift from side to side ineffectually and my heart continues pounding, the feeling enhanced by the loss of sight, smell and hearing. I don't know what RD has planned, but my body is doing a good job of getting ready for whatever it is. My mound is impossibly plump, my pussy lips spread and dripping honey of their own accord, while my nipples are fit to punch through metal. I'm drooling and panting, my bare skin alternating between flashes of heat and momentary chills.
I wait for some time before I feel RD's hands on my head, the sensation muted through the mask. Then I feel a second pair of hands grip my hips and pull me back a few inches. My toes strain and scramble, attempting to keep their tenuous connection to the floor and relieve some of the strain on my shoulders from having the mono-glove (with my arms inside) support my full body weight. Its uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, and right at that moment, I realize I don't have a safe word.
I try to murmur something, anything, but nothing comes out but indecipherable gurgling and a fresh flow of spit. That's when I feel the dick near my mouth, poking under my chin. In spite of my predicament, my mouth waters even more and I find myself angling my face downward to get my tongue near it, coming close but failing as I'm pulled back once more.
There is another scrambling of my feet, this time failing as my shoulders take up the burden and I moan. At least I think I moan. Inside of the mask there is a sort of white noise caused by the blood flowing through my head, giving me nothing more than the vaguest hint about the world outside my mask. Other than the pain, that is, my shoulders making their displeasure known. I would moan more but the cock floating near my chin chooses that moment to slam itself inside, sparing no time for foreplay or pleasantries.
Whoever owns it doesn't like being licked or sucked; he likes to fuck faces and ravage throats, his length easily long enough to slide into my throat and force a gag out of me. I feel the hands tighten around my head, each fingertip digging into my mask as he pulls my face forward and forces another inch into my throat in spite of my gag reflex. Whoever he is, his cock is mercifully slim - probably a requirement given the ring gag's dimensions - but his length is no joke. Just when I think I've taken it all, he gives another inch. Then another. And a third.
Without the shorthand of sight, I have no way of determining how much is actually outside my throat. The lack of ability to touch makes even length hard to estimate, with my fingers always proving a convenient barometer for how much I could take on any given dick. But I don't have those tools available, demanding that I improvise. I gather up my skills and instincts, trying to get my gag reflex under control long enough keep my mouth from shifting too much and feel tears build up as my neck muscles squeeze tight around the invader. It burns like hell, but my tongue slathers over the shaft and I get a feeling for the manhood pounding my throat. Like I said before, its slender but veiny, with a oddly shaped head. I can't be sure on the last part, I've never tried to determine shape with only my tongue, but it seems to have a curve along the top, while the underside is flat. Before I can discover more, the man lets go, allowing me to pull back and inhale for the first time in close to a minute. My face and throat are practically on fire after being hammered by his dick, but I can feel my cunt juices dripping down my thigh, the cool air hitting them and forcing me to shiver.
Just as I'm about to take in a stable breath, the man behind yanks my lingerie down and pulls my cheeks apart, spitting on my tight little knot. The sudden splat makes it clench up before relaxing, probably giving the impression of a wink. I've done anal before of course, quite experienced at it actually, but the prospect of having my pucker stretched with only spit for lube is quite scary... in a pulse-pounding way. Especially with the specter of my heightened sense of touch providing access to unknown sensations. I don't know if I want it necessarily, but I do know I want to try.
Fortunately, this man is a bit more forgiving than the first and presses a thick thumb against my rim, massaging it in a circular motion. He's going harder than strictly pleasurable - or maybe I'm just feeling the extra sensitivity from sensory deprivation. I can't tell but it doesn't matter. In just a few more seconds, fresh on the impact of another wad of spit, his thumb sinks inside and I groan, straining against the restraints as my feet reconnect to the floor. The thumb is easily bigger than some of the pinky-sized peckers I've had up there before and has no problem giving me a gratifying stretching, still working its way inside by shifting clockwise and pushing insistently against my hole's resistance.
My head flops forward and I let even more drool out, surely creating a puddle on the floor by now. He slaps my ass and pushes harder with his thumb, finding an especially delightful erogenous zone on the downward stroke. I can't tell if the slap or the thumb feel better, so I try to push back against the latter while wiggling my butt for more of the former.
If he understands my wants, he ignores them, pulling back his thumb and returning to a harsh caress of my knot. Underneath, my pussy is absolutely begging to be fed, my lips peeled open of their own accord and my kitty working overtime to keep up the steady trickle of honey within. Unfortunately, she doesn't get her wish either and instead my mouth is filled again.
I think it's the skinny dick coming for a second round, but it's not: it's the exact opposite, a fat monster that seemingly pushes right up against the bounds of the ring gag, feeling a lot like a large animal trying to enter a small doorway. Except this one actually does manage to worm its way inside, quickly taking me well beyond what my gagged fuckhole can accommodate. Like that last man to use my mouth, he doesn't seem to care, putting a pair of absolutely huge paws on the back of my head and forcing me to take what he's giving.
It's so much to work with I barely even notice the thumb leaving my behind, a third helping of spit hitting my crack and dribbling down over the winking wrong-hole. I silently beg for a moderately slice of manhood back there, suddenly imagining a massive slut-buster trying to insert itself up my ass. My prayers are half-answered: the kidney-punching sized member goes up my pussy instead. I would scream if my throat weren't at risk of being jammed full of dick. My breathing gets cut off by the girth instead and I find myself inhaling desperately at what must a positively tiny quantity of air located between my nose and the leather mask.
The two men are out of sync, sometimes plowing into me simultaneously from both ends, other times see-sawing my body back and forth. I can't keep up with them, which allows my gag reflex to return with a vengeance, spilling throat-slime all throughout my mouth. The man ravishing my face takes it as license to speed up, one of his hands gripping my chin for better control. I can feel drool and precum and throat-slime all dripping out, but none of it on my face. Its an odd sensation to know your mouth is being using as a fucksocket but can't feel the results dripping down your face. But there is one thing I taste, clear as anything: the bitter, salty, hot mouthful that blasts over my tongue, splashing all over my throat before sliding down like creamed corn. Despite my earlier misgivings, I relish the taste and swirl some of it around with my tongue before swallowing, only then allowing myself to gulp down air.
God, I am such a whore.
Scraping uselessly at the floor and barely supporting any weight, my feet and shoulders get relief when someone lowers me down, bringing my face gently to floor. That doesn't mean my feet come off the spreader bar, nor that the man doing his level best to rearrange my organs stops his thrusting. If anything, he goes harder, putting a hand on my back, right between my shoulders and yanking something. I didn't realize before, but there is a collar around my neck and his tug is just tight enough to make it constrict my throat, cutting off my breathing once more.
Gentle isn't in the man's vocabulary as he fucks me, using my collar to pull my upper body upper and keep me from being completely passive while his thrusts went deeper and deeper. I can feel the weight of his cock, the heft of the thing as it displaces my juices and forces them to spray out of cunt. I can also feel the individual folds of my pussy, each one, as he slides his meat past thing, feeling the spongy head, the thick, stiff shaft, every vein and every curve. He rams my snatch like he's working a set at the gym: ten repetitions then slam the weights down. Pick them up again a few seconds later and do ten more, slam those weights back down. Except it is my cervix taking the impact, jolting my body each time and -I think - sliding me across the floor.
Whatever sense of time I have is lost as the huge fuckpole brutally fucks me. Some of the goop in my mouth finds its way up my nose and fills it, allowing me the privilege of smelling cum as well as leather. I realize the rest of my body is totally numb and I can't even hear the blood flowing in my head any more. The sensory deprivation takes up a life of its own, my brain shutting off parts of my useless senses and leaving me even more at the tender mercy of the men, however many there are, using my body.
But before I can lose myself too much a fresh cock takes up residence between my lips and I tongue it, hoping to find out if it can fit ahead of time. Unfortunately, I'm getting ahead of myself and the cock spurts, firing off several ropes worth of child support that will never be paid. It lands on my tongue awkwardly and I gag anew, hacking up the offering. Whoever has mouth duty next doesn't let me finish, pulling my head down further and offering up a replacement load, this one far thicker and more bountiful than the others. It is so thick my tongue has trouble understanding it is cum, at first rejecting the taste entirely before it suddenly hits me like a freight train. I gulp heavily and try to clear it from my mouth, but remnants stick about in all kinds of nooks and crannies, dripping off my teeth, hiding in my cheeks, languishing on the back of my tongue.
I can only imagine the men watching me take these loads and the shockingly vivid mental image that pops into my head is enough to cause my pussy to clench up around the siege implement battering at my womb. I can't stop the inevitable, gurgling loudly through my ring gag (I think) and shuddering wildly. My limbs shake and stir against their bindings while my pussy milks the dick that has it so viciously elongated.
I'm cumming from being powerfucked by a client, what kind of a whore does that?
A second later he withdraws and I felt several wet splats along my back and on my ass. It has to be his load, thankfully not delivered inside me and instead used to decorate my sweat-covered body. Without any other stimulation, I feel every drop running along my skin, mixing with beads of sweat and pooling wherever a bit of low-ground is found.
I don't think I can take any more, but the mask is suddenly pulled upwards, off my face, but remaining on my head. The brightness and animation of having sight again briefly blind me but I shake my head a bit and look up, bringing me face to face with RD and a handful of men. Apparently RD didn't actually get in on the action as he stands in front of me, still clothed but with his cock out, stroking hard and fast with a grimace on his face. The headphones somehow managed to stay on so I couldn't hear what he said. But I've been in this position enough times that I can read his lips, "Fuckin' take it you whore!"
His climax is weak and runny, notable only for blasting me across one eye, with a strand of semen hanging off my eyelash. I open my mouth anyway and receive his offering with humility, letting he move closer as his load peters out quickly, turning into an anemic dribble after the first shot. I look around as RD finishes, the rest of the men having lost their interest as soon as their balls emptied. Most of them are half dressed, one is idly drinking a beer, a pair are arguing about something.
Finally, RD backs off and removes the headphones, then the mask while I swallow. With open eyes and functional hearing, the load doesn't taste nearly as strongly as the others, which I slightly regret even as I'm removed from the binds and able to stand on wobbly legs. As intense as it is, I know I'm going to be going home and masturbating all night and well into the next day.
But first things first: I pick up my things and go to the bathroom, taking a quick shower to remove all the drying spunk and sweat from my body. While dressing I check to make sure the envelope is still there, with the money inside, before stepping out. None of the men seem to care and RD doesn't make the effort to see me to the door.
It should feel degrading, but it doesn't because I know exactly who and what I am. Do you?
