Archive for masturbation

Return on Integrity

“New media continues to change the way companies approach the consumer,” Josh went on, walking across the room.

It’s 8:00AM and I’m slouching through the second strategy meeting of the week. Social media is the new it thing, even though it’s not really that new. You can’t have a decent conversation nowadays without slamming into things like “viral,” “tribe,” “transparency,” “return on integrity,” “influencer”–it’s incredibly annoying.

“The trend is shifting from the importance of branding to creating conversation, putting faces and names to companies, working with and through influencers…”

Of course, it’s also made it perfectly acceptable to be glued to your iPhone during strategy meetings–you have to keep up with the conversation, after all.

Even if the conversation has nothing to do with the industry.

“What would you do if you were here?” Alistair asked me.

We’d been messaging back and forth all morning. Alistair lives in New York, which essentially means he’s texting me by 3:00AM Honolulu time, and possibly explains my improved timeliness, as well as my dire need for caffeine all day long.

I met him while he was here on business, as part of a think tank to embrace web 2.0.

I looked up at Josh, still speaking, and panned the room. Half of the team was looking down at their mobile devices. I launched PocketTweets and tweeted something about the importance of social media in terms of awareness and conversion. You know, to make sure they knew I was paying attention.

Then I replied to Alistair: “I’d fuck you somewhere public.”

His response was immediate: “I like that. The park. A restaurant. Against the lamppost, your skirt pulled up.”

ME: A street corner.

HIM: I want them to see your face while I fuck you, your pussy spread open on my cock. I will have to spank you for a bit.

ME: As cars slow down to stop for a light, my tits exposed and my hands tied to the post, over my head. You gonna spank me mercilessly? I hope so. And alternate between slapping me and kissing me while you fuck me.

“You know that’s what I will do,” he responded a few minutes later. “And I am going to spit into your pretty face when I drive into you.”

Oh, spit. I’d forgotten about that. I knew I would fuck him from the moment I saw him. It’s true what they say about women. We do know if we’re going to fuck someone within seconds of meeting them.

With Alistair, it was instantaneous. Almost minutes after the handshake and the boring meeting that followed, we were at his hotel, making out violently against the wall. He picked me up and threw me on the bed, crawled over me and before kissing me again, he spit into my face.

“You want to be my whore?” he asked me. “You know you do. Tell me you do.”

“I want to be your whore,” I said. “Make me your whore.”

He did.

I thought about him doing that again, uncrossed my legs and responded to his message: “My cunt is pulsating thinking about it.”

HIM: When I am all the way inside you, I am going to choke you.

ME: I am so, so wet thinking about you chocking me as you fuck me, my face stained with tears and your spit.

HIM: I want you wet and dripping. That’s how I want you. Messy and crying. Remember: this is after you’ve been gagging on my cock for a full hour. Taking it deep in your throat, yes? How far?

“All the fucking way. I am going to impale my face on your…” I paused and looked up at Josh, who was presenting some data from a study by RazorFish.

“Impale my face on your ridiculous cock.” I finished.

If you were with him, you wouldn’t think Alistair had ridiculous cock. He has a cock that’s quite decent, actually. Unless you love giant cocks, as I do.

“The growing focus on social media will continue in 2009 as companies generate quantifiable results through engagement, open communication, responsiveness and crowd-sourcing,” Josh kept speaking in the background. “We’re currently working to improve our existing social media measurement tools, including comparability to other marketing media and tracking trending…”

“Wait, what do you mean ridiculous?” Alistair asked.

ME: Not a monster cock.

HIM: It won’t even be a challenge for you, will it?

ME: I hope you ask me in person and slap me hard across the face when I pull your dick out of my mouth and tell you no. Not even a challenge.

HIM: You love monster cocks, don’t you? What are we going to do about that?

ME: Give me them. But first you. Then hunting.

HIM: First me. Always me first. I am greedy for you.

ME: Yes, that’s how I want you.

HIM: When you take my cock out of your mouth, you will be laughing. And I will ask you why.

ME: And I will say it’s your cock, your ridiculous little cock. One of the smallest dicks I’ve ever seen.

HIM: And then I will slap your face, stinging. And if you don’t stop, I will slap it harder. I am even going to slap it while my cock is in your mouth.

Josh asked someone a question. I stopped to pay attention, I had to inform those present about some expansion we were working on with the microblogging platform Twitter.

When I didn’t respond for a few minutes, Alistair messaged me again, “Is that true about my cock?”

ME: Mmm, yes, it’s true. Slap me, slap me hard, baby, until I cry and then I will laugh again.

HIM: You little slut, I will slap you hard, over and over until you admit it’s your favorite cock ever. That you need it every day.

ME: I dare you. I dare you to slap me until I admit that yours is my favorite cock ever.

“Alice,” Josh motioned to me, letting me know it was my turn to start.

I rose slowly, walked to the front and began discussing the revolution in communication that had been brought on by Twitter.

“The power and speed of the microblogging platform is impossible to deny,” I heard myself saying. “Example: when the earthquake of July 29th shook Los Angeles, the news broke on Twitter in seconds. The AP took a full ten minutes.”

I went on to discuss the speed of information, the community on Twitter, the manner that these could be harnessed to convert and bring awareness to a product. The slides moved fluidly with examples like Zappos, Dell, Starbucks, brands that were using Twitter to build loyal followings.

When I returned to my seat some time later, I had a message from Alistair waiting: “Do you like my ass?”

“I love your tight little pink pucker, I can’t wait to put my giant cock in it,” I responded.

HIM: Don’t promise something you can’t deliver. I doubt a girl like you would have a big cock.

ME: I will show you after you have your way with me. Once you know what it’s like to have a monster cock inside you, you’ll never go back.

HIM: Oh my… do you think you can make me your little bitch?

ME: You are my little bitch. I’m gonna make you beg for my cock, squirm those little ass cheeks around it and squeal like a piglet.

HIM: When you saw my cock did you decide you should be the one fucking me?

ME: Look at you, my little bitch, such prompt replies. I knew I would be fucking you—remember how fast I got on you after I realized how easy you were, you dirty little cockslut? You love being my little cockslut, don’t you?

HIM: Yes, I love worshiping your cock, Alice. I love being used by you. I love kneeling down before you, trying to please you.

ME: Now leave me a message telling me how much you love my cock and kneel while you do it.

HIM: On your voicemail? But you haven’t let me touch your cock yet.

ME: Yes, right now. Beg for my cock and I might let you have it.

My phone lit up with a phone call call a few minutes later. I let it go to voicemail. It was shortly followed by another message from Alistair.

“My ass is twitching for you…” he said. “Alice, I want to unzip your pants…”

ME: I may let you have it, see what you can do with it. You’ve done it before, yes? Worship cock? Don’t lie to me, you little cockslut.

HIM: I don’t know, have I? I just want yours. Will I like it?

ME: I’m sitting back, pants unzipped, half-hard cock in my hand… tell me about the cocks you’ve had. Tell me how you worshiped them.

HIM: That’s difficult to type. Better for conversation. But there haven’t been that many.

ME: Don’t lie to me, cockslut. I know you love the cock, sucking them, being fucked by them. Yes, you do.

HIM: I’ve tried to be good, licking them all the way up and down… I don’t know. Yours I might love. I want you to sit back while I suck the head of your cock. While I spit on it to get you hard.

ME: Oh, yes, my dirty little cockslut, suck the head and lick the cumslit and apply pressure on the prepuce with your tongue.

HIM: My hand will be jerking you at the base. I will try not to let my teeth get you. Pull my hair.

ME: I will use your hair to guide you, pulling on that gorgeous cockslut mane of yours when I see fit.

HIM: I like my throat fucked. Can you do that? A lot of girls don’t know how.

ME: My dick will thrill you. I will fuck your throat. I know how.

HIM: Can we talk?

ME: I’m busy, sweet pet. What can’t you type about these marvelous cocks?

HIM: Just that I want yours. The others were nice, I try to go as deep as I can on them–it can be very wet–but I want to see your huge cock on your amazing body, that will be a memorable sight.

ME: You like that, don’t you? The perfect shape of a woman and the force of a mighty prick.

HIM: I think you’d like that, too, wouldn’t you?

ME: I’m asking the questions now. Tell me how you love it, cockslut.

HIM: Oh, please, everyone thinks they have a huge dick, but only a lucky few like me really do.

ME: My dick owns your dick.

HIM: What do you mean owns my dick?

ME: I mean my dick owns your dick.

The meeting was over, there was a general sense of purpose about everyone. People were invigorated by the data, ready to get to work, to change the world.

Alistair messaged me as I was walking back to my office.

HIM: I like someone with a monster cock who will tell me how to take it and make me beg for it and whisper to me as she fucks me.

ME: Humor me, baby, tell me the kinds of things you like to hear when you have a cock inside you.

As I walked, I could feel how wet I was. I stopped in the hall and veered into a supply closet, closing the door behind me. Then, I texted him: “We have to do this on the phone. Call me.”

I answered the call as soon as the call came.

“You’re eager for my cock, aren’t you?” I asked him as soon as I heard his voice. “You want me to fuck you hard, don’t you? Tell me you do.”

“I want you to fuck me, Alice.”

“Oh, my little cockslut,” I said, leaning against an inactive copier, spreading my legs and reaching under my skirt to feel my hot, wet cunt.

“Tell me about the other dicks you’ve had. Tell me your first.”

“It was in sixth grade,” he said. “A boy who lived down the street.”

“Did you suck it?”

“No, I was too innocent.”

I slipped a finger inside me. “Did you want to?”


“Did he fuck you?”

“No, but he put it against my ass.”

“How did it feel, you dirty cockslut?” I slid another finger inside me and rubbed my clit with my thumb.

“It felt good.”

I moaned. “Tell me about the first time you had some dick.”

“I was older. In high school. A girl invited me over. I knew she had a dick.”

“She had a dick?” I asked, in a considerably quieter tone, followed by another moan. “How?”

“You know how,” he responded. I didn’t exactly, but I could imagine.

“She invited me over and fucked me.”

“Did you know she would?”


“Is that why you went?”


The door opened and suddenly, Josh was standing before me, with only a shelf of supplies between us. I knew he could see me and what I was doing. I didn’t stop. He didn’t move for a moment.

“Tell me what she did to you,” I said, making eye contact with Josh.

He closed the door behind him and walked slowly toward me. I looked at him and then reached out, taking hold of his belt and pulling him to me.

As Alistair told me his story, I kissed Josh, feeling his dick hardening in his pants. I unbuttoned and unzipped them, taking his cock in my hands. Another ridiculous cock, though perhaps less ridiculous. I couldn’t quite recall Alistair’s.

I turned around and bent over the copier, still listening to Alistair. Josh lifted my skirt. His cock was hot when it made contact with my slit, wet and throbbing, ready to take him. I resumed playing with myself with my other hand.

Suddenly, without any warm-up, Josh was fucking me, his hands on my hips, giving me his cock in long, hard strokes as I listened to Alistair’s voice weave his story.

“Are you playing with yourself?” I asked him, moaning.

“Yes, and I’m thinking about your lovely face looking up at me while you swallow my cock.”

“Tears streaking down my cheeks?”

“Yes. And your spit dripping off my balls,” he responded. “Take just the head in. Cup my balls in your hand. I want you to slowly inch down my cock with your throat.”

Josh plunged into me and I moaned again into the phone before asking Alistair, “Can you feel my hot mouth on your cock?”

“Yes… look up at me. I want to see your eyes. How deep can you go, darling? I want you to slowly take me to the base, Can you do that?”


Josh thrust harder and deeper. I was slamming into the copier. One of his hands found and unbuttoned my blouse, pulling one of my tits out of my bra as he continued to pound me.

“I will be slapping your face while you do it. Not so hard,” Alistair went on. “Do you take all the men deep like that?”

“No,” I whispered. “My cunt is too greedy.”

Josh slammed into me.

Can you take all your men deep like that?”

“Of course not,” I choked out.

“What do you mean of course not?”

“They’re too big for my mouth.”

“But I know you love that,” Alistair said. “Don’t you?”

Josh was fucking me faster and faster, his face close to my ear, near the phone, and his moans stilled by his desire to hear what we were saying.

“I have a rather small mouth,” I said.

“But you saw my cock and you know you can take it all the way down, yes? I demand that. Your mouth is sexy and small. I am guessing most guys are too big for it. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I responded, turning my head a little so Josh could see my mouth, imagine what it would be like to stick his cock, covered in my cunt juice, into it.

“I will be the first guy you’ve been able to go deep on?” Alistair asked.


“What percentage of your men have bigger dicks than mine? Tell me the truth, you little slut.”

“I hate math,” I lied. Then after a fast tabulation, I added, “85.”

“I love the irony,” Alistair said. “My little size queen is going to be worshiping my cock for some time. And practicing her deep throat skills on it. Tell me, Alice, do you go looking for bigger cocks?”

“They find me. And I can just tell how big a guy is going to be, looking at him.”

“You knew I wasn’t to be as hung as you like but you let me take you home anyway. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I responded. “Because you said you get what you want in that quiet way of a man who always does.”

Josh slowed down for a moment, and I knew he was close.

“The most important question remains,” Alistair went on. “Is your dick bigger than mine, I wonder?”

“Of course it is, baby.”

Josh plunged inside me again.

“Much bigger?”

“Don’t be scared, darling. I will be gentle.”

“Please be gentle. Go slow.” Then he asked, “Are you longer than me or thicker than me?”

“Both,” I responded. “I will make you crave every inch of me deep inside you.”

Josh sped up, fucking me hard again.

“Are you going to show me what a monster cock feels like?”

“I am going to show you how to love a monster cock.” I said, as Josh began biting my neck. “I am going to fill you with so much cock, you will cum harder than you ever have in your life.”

“Oh my god,” Alistair responded, moaning. “Be sweet to me when you fuck me. At first.”

I moaned, feeling my orgasm begin to creep up. Alistair added, “I want you to slap your cock against mine.”

“You will. After you suck me off.”

“How do you like it?”

“Fast, with pressure around the head and along the frenulum.”

“Are you going to say sweet things to me while I do it?”

“If you please me.”

“I want to rub my cock against yours but I’m afraid yours will be stronger.”

“It is stronger. But you love it.”

“And I’m afraid mine will look small in comparison,” Alistair said, and moaned, too. He was getting close as well.

“Say you love it. Say you love my cock.”

“I do love it…” he said with a grunt.

“Say, Alice, I love your cock. Your big monster cock.”

“Alice,” he said breathing hard. “I love your beautiful cock. Your big monster cock.”

His moans in my ear sent me over the edge.

“Alice, I want it. Give me your cock, Alice.”

I came. I came hard. Josh pulled out quickly; shortly, I heard a grunt behind me. I wondered whether he’d cum into his hand or a stray pencil-holder, but didn’t turn around.

“I have to go now, my darling,” I said sweetly to Alistair. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I ended the call and turned around. Josh was standing breathlessly behind me.

“Coffee?” I asked, buttoning my blouse and straightening my skirt.

“Yes,” he said buttoning his pants. “With cream.”

“Is that the cream?” I asked, pointing to the box of paper clips in his hand.

He laughed and threw it into a garbage can before we left the room.

A Hooker Named Miriam

In 2005, Weyco, a medical benefits company, began its aggressive campaign against smokers by giving employees fifteen months to kick the habit. Employees who failed to quit were fired. When challenged on the topic, management cited health care costs as the driving force behind their decision: smokers, after all, are a walking liability. Companies around the country have followed suit.

Smoking is not merely a factor in employment. Slowly but surely, legislation has criminalized the habit. Some years ago, the editor of Vanity Fair got fined $2,000 just for having an ashtray on his desk. Almost all states have banned smoking in restaurants and bars completely. The “smoking section” is outside—and not in the front, either. You have to go out back, by the dumpsters.

Nevada is the only state you can really smoke anywhere anymore. So we come here every once in a while to let go, unwind, sit back and indulge a host of bad habits, among them smoking.

I light a cigarette and look around, leaning against the bar. A few tables are arranged before me over the ugly carpeting; it’s a nice casino, with a lot of room. There are no windows in casinos, no windows and no clocks. Time ceases to exist here and one is consumed by his most primal urges: conquest and possession.

It’s in the eyes of the men and women playing Texas hold ‘em a few feet away. It’s in the eyes of the men and women circling around the top players waiting for some scraps of some sort. Hunger, need, desire, greed. Sin, sin, sin.

No one knows how Texas hold ‘em came about. Legend has it that it originated in the 1900s in Robstown and that it came to Vegas via a group of gambling Texans, one of them the legendary Doyle Texas Dolly Brunson. In the late sixties, the game was only played at the Golden Nugget. But because the poker room was such a sty, it never took root. Eventually the pros moved over to the Dunes on the Strip, where they milked the wealthy and inexperienced tourists. By the 70s, the no-limit variation of the game had become the main event of the newly-formed World Series of Poker Tournament.

“What can I do for you?” I hear the bartender ask me and I turn around to the stereotype good-looking guy you always read about in novels with a female protagonist, the one you can never find in real life. True to genre, there he is: all electric blue eyes, blonde hair brushed casually over his forehead, and die-for smile on his lips.

“What can you do for me?” I ask scanning the name on his breast, “What can you do for me, Brad? To start: is that really your name?”

“Yes,” he answers, smile widening. He switches my ashtray with an impeccable one without taking his eyes off mine. The motion makes me think of the one-handed bra removal. I suddenly see him, in a dorm room at LVU, charming eager freshman girls with his handful of tried and tested, no-fail tricks.

“Do you play poker, Brad?”

“Sometimes,” he replies, giving the bar a swift wipe. “You?”

“I don’t take to things without a clear history.”

“Martinis have a clear history.”

“Really. And just what is their history?”

“The martini comes from the Martinez, a gin and vermouth drink invented by Jerry Thomas in 1862 in California. According to legend, he had a regular who commuted every morning from San Francisco to Martinez, so he made him this drink to warm him up and named it ‘Martinez’, for the destination. Eventually, when the strength of the alcohol diminished due to government control, less stuff was needed to make it easy to go down, so they got rid of the maraschino cherry syrup and other sweetening ingredients. Eventually, vodka replaced gin. And there you have it, the martini.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Can I offer a martini?”

“Actually, I’ll have a café Americano. Extra sugar. White sugar, none of that sweetener stuff.”

“Coffee and cigarettes, then you must be a writer.”

I laugh and sip my coffee.

“Writers used to live at cafes,” Brad says, “but they banned smoking, so they moved into bars. Then they banned smoking there too, so they moved into casinos. It’s the last safe haven. I’m surprised there aren’t tons of people sitting around with laptops and little notebooks.”

“The last safe haven!” a man next to me interjects. “I used to write.”

“Oh?” I look at Brad, but he’s busied himself with the order.

“Then I realized I couldn’t do it.”

“You couldn’t write a novel?” I ask.

“No, I did write a novel. But I burned it. I can write, see. But I realized then, I shouldn’t.”

Brad puts the coffee in front of me.

“What was it about?” he asks the man.

“I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“Everything is part of The Story, it’s not real, but we tell it and it becomes real, real as this bar.”

I sip my coffee.

“We trap ourselves with our fictions and dreams. They feed the illusion and they keep us asleep. We are imprisoned,” he says, looking directly at me, “we are not aware of what truly is. Our senses are flawed and fiction and stories only add to our inability to perceive.”

“But literature,” says Brad, “doesn’t great literature open your eyes to new experience?”

“Is that experience enlightening? Or is it merely the account of another somnambulist stumbling along his idea of reality?” the man responds. “No, there is no merit in literature, my dear. The Toltecs—the Toltecs believed that you have to live the life your father lived: as a warrior. You have to fight the alien parasites that are The Story. The Story is not really yours, not really you no matter what you tell yourself. The Story was given to you by your parents and mentors and people in your life; it feeds on you and you have to fight it. You have to fight the parasites.”


He slams his drink and looks at me, “I don’t know.”

He gets up, slams a twenty on the bar and walks away.

The Story is a parasite. It is inside me right now, pressed against my diaphragm, its yet-unwritten aspects tangling their tendril-like loose-ends with my viscera. A few tables away, my husband and some others are playing Texas hold ‘em. Over here, I am being eaten by the parasites.

“We get odd characters like this occasionally,” says Brad. “They keep things interesting.”

Brad doesn’t understand. Brad’s a Barbie boy in a Barbie world.

“Hey, Brad.” Speaking of Barbie, here’s the life-size version. The place is almost worse than California. Almost because even though the tits are fake, the faces aren’t. They all have something, some imperfection that has been left alone and this imperfection alone, juxtaposed with the impossibility of their dimensions, makes them beautiful.

“Lee, how’s it?” Brad replies, turning around and getting a glass, “usual?”

“Naw, it’s been a shit night, I need somethin’ to slap me awake. Gimme some tequila.”

“Lost some money?” I ask her.

She smiles, “oh, I made money. But it was pullin’ teeth gettin’ it.”

“You be careful, Lee,” Brad warns, and I realize he’s not talking about her night; he’s talking about the conversation.

Lee’s a hooker. I look her over; she’s dressed in a short jean skirt, a tit-popping shirt and cowboy boots. It’s the Jessica Simpson look, safe but still skanky enough to do the trick. Or turn a trick, rather.

See, prostitution is legal in Nevada, but not all Nevada. According to Nevada Revised Statute 244-345, the license board in a county with a population of 400,000 or higher may not license any houses of ill fame or any person for the purpose of engaging in prostitution. Clark County, where Las Vegas is located, is the only county in Nevada at present with a population exceeding the limit imposed by this regulation.

Lee downs the tequila.

“OK,” she says, “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you later maybe.”

She turns to me, “it was nice meetin’ you.”

“She’s really nice,” I say to Brad after she’s gone.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little quiet, “she is.”

“Hey, Brad, can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.” The smile is back again.

“I want to be with a girl tonight. Can you help me?”

“I know a lot of great pick-up lines,” he jokes.

“No,” I say, without smiling, “you know what I mean.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. I serve drinks at a casino. That’s all.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Eight years.”

“Then you must know someone who can help me.”

An older man in a hat and aviators comes to the bar and takes a seat a few stools from me. Brad straightens up and walks over to him, “how’s the night going, Don?” he asks the stranger.

“Still young, still young,” Don replies, putting out his cigarette. “Cuba libre.”

“Coming up.”

“How you doin’?” Don asks me, looking over.

“Frustrated.” I reply.

“That’s no way to be. Brad, give the lady another of what she’s having.” Don reaches over, “I’m Don, I play to win, but sometimes I don’t. I don’t get frustrated. I just wait for the next hand.”

“Well, Don,” I say, “I’m Joan. And you’re my next hand.”

“Is that right?” he asks smiling.

“Joan here’s a writer,” interjects Brad.

Where did Brad get that idea? A woman drinks coffee and smokes and suddenly she’s a writer? If I’d known it was that easy, I wouldn’t have gone to college.

I ignore Brad, “Don, I’m going to be with a woman tonight.”

“I fuckin’ love you!” he says laughing.

“In order to do that, I need a woman.”

“What kind of woman you want?”

“A beautiful woman. An interesting woman,” I say, “a real woman.”

Don lights another cigarette, “fake women are no fun.” He chuckles.

“Come on, Don, help me out here.”

Don looks at Brad, “call up Miriam, kid. Joanie needs to meet Miriam.”

Brad looks hesitant.

“Call Miriam, goddamnit before I fire you.”

“Are you his boss?” I ask Don.

“It’s an expression, Joanie,” he puffs on the cigarette. “Oh… I think you’ll love Miriam. Shit, I love Miriam. Brad! Get Miriam to come over here! I want Joanie to meet her!”

“Brad, are you being a cock-block?” a sing-song voice asks behind us. “Who’s Johnny?”

“I’m Joan.” I say and spin on the stool until we’re face to face.

Miriam has long, straight auburn hair and bangs. It makes me think a bit of Winnie Cooper off The Wonder Years, only with reddish hair and hazel eyes, a too-short skirt, knee-high stiletto boots and a cropped white top. She has no tits and isn’t wearing a bra, so I can see her nipples through the t-shirt.

She’s looking at me the way women look at each other, with a quarter of admiration and three-fourths envy. She doesn’t know I’m not on her turf. She doesn’t know I am her turf.

“Joanie here is looking for someone like you, Miriam,” Don tells her, puffing on his cigarette. “She’s been asking all night for a girl like you.”

“And what would she do with a girl like me?” Miriam asks him.

“I’d fuck you,” I respond.

“Miriam, do you want a drink?” Brad asks.

“No,” Miriam takes the stool next to me and comes really close and lifts my face with a finger, “is that what you want, Joan?”

I sip my coffee.

“How would you fuck me?”

I’d fuck her hard. I’d hurt her. I’d pinch her nipples until I heard her scream. I’d slap her pretty face until that smug, whore look fell off it.

“Surprise, is it?” she asks, taking away her hand, “or is it you don’t really know? Is this new to you, Joan? Have you ever been with a woman?”

“Joanie’s a writer,” says Don, “a damn good one, aren’t you Joanie?”

“What do you write, Joan?” Miriam asks me.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t write. You only fuck.” Miriam takes one of my cigarettes from the pack on the table. “OK, then. When do you want to fuck me?”

“I don’t,” I say, pulling a ten out of my wallet and setting it in front of Brad, who’s staring at us without moving. I get up and leave.

The room is dark when I walk in and I leave the light off. I undress and get in bed and begin to wonder why Don wanted me to meet Miriam. Of all women, why her? She was nothing like I’d imagined a hooker should be. She was a hooker; there was no doubt about that. But I’d been thinking about someone more like Lee. It wasn’t that Miriam wasn’t sexy; she was sexy, in her way.

She just wasn’t what I was looking for.

So why Miriam?

Because she was real. Miriam wasn’t like Lee; she doesn’t make your fantasy happen. Miriam has it on her terms, whatever it is. What are her terms? How would she do it?

I think about her sitting on that stool in the casino bar, in those cheap-looking boots, that little translucent top. I think about her nipples that I could just barely see through it.

“How would you fuck me, Joan?” she asks me, running her tongue over her lips. They’re coated in strawberry champagne lipgloss, or some other disgusting combination and her breath is smoky, like the bar.

“How would you fuck me?”

I part my legs and my hand trails down over my stomach. How would I fuck you… I wouldn’t fuck you, Miriam. I wouldn’t.

I pull her hair and bring her to her knees, off that barstool, on the tacky carpet that decorates the bar. I push her skirt up until it’s around her waist. She’s wearing nothing underneath.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Miriam?”

She stays on hands and knees on the ground, her head bent and I pull he pony tail again until her head is lifted, until her back is arched.

“You want me, don’t you, Miriam?” I slap her skinny ass. “Don’t you?”

I stroke my pussy thinking about Miriam on her knees, waiting. I run my other hand over my tits. I think about her lips, strawberry champagne, parting as she waits.

I’d make you wait, Miriam. I’d make you wait until you couldn’t wait anymore.

I flip on my belly, my hand still playing lightly on my clit, teasing myself. I get on all fours on the bed, shrug the sheets off.

“Give it to me, Joan,” I imagine her moaning.

I lick my finger and bring it back, this time over my back, so I can thrust it easily into myself.

You like that, don’t you, Miriam? Yes, you like that. You want more. Another finger. And another finger. Beg, Miriam. Beg for me to fuck you.

Fuck me.

I can’t hear you.

“Fuck me!” I scream.

The lights come on; I look over my shoulder and see Thomas standing at the threshold, leaning against the wall, his cock pushing against his pants. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.

I raise my eyes to his, “so?” I ask, “are you going to fuck me?”

He walks into the room, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants and his shirt. With a move of my head, I throw my hair over my back and look at his reflection on the glass of the painting over the bed.

He runs a hand over my ass and then slaps it hard. I think I feel his cock on my thigh for a moment, but then the heat diminishes and there’s nothing. I try to look over my shoulder, but he takes my hair in his hand and pulls my head back so my eyes are on the wall.

I feel his grasp release my hair and then my eyes are forced shut by the force of something being tied around my head.

I see black and the little streaks of light that filter in around the blindfold. There’s no sound.

I feel his fingers on my clit. Fingers or lips, I can’t tell and I don’t care. It feels good. Then his tongue, slightly circling my cunt. I want him to thrust it inside me, so I can feel it wiggle against the folds of my pussy, a real tease. I reach back and touch his head, as to insinuate; he pushes my hand away.

He stops. I turn to look, moving my head up so maybe I can see through the slit between my nose and cheek but he takes my hair and straightens my head so I’m looking forward again. He takes one of my hands and then the other; I fall against the bed. He pulls my hands over my head and I feel him tie something around them.

He’s over me. I feel his weight on my back, my thighs struggle under me. His breath is on my neck. As I pull yourself up, I feel my pores open with the shallow gusts of breath against my back. The pressure on my legs releases as he pulls himself up and off me.

I feel his hands on my ass; they run up my sides and slide under me until they’re cupping my tits. He flips me over easily and I stretch my legs.

I feel his breath on my thighs, closer and closer to my pussy until his tongue is on my clit again. I moan, one ounce of pleasure and two-thirds of frustration.

“I want your cock.”

His tongue digs deeper, teasing me, slipping over me without rhythm or focus until I can no longer register the pleasure; I’m desensitized to the motions.

“Fuck me!”

I bring my hands down to reach him, but I can’t. He pushes them up and slaps my tits. The sting echoes over my body.

“You want my cock?”

“Yes,” I say to him, “YES!”

And I feel it rush into me hard and deep. He pulls out, so the head of his dick is nestled in the folds of my cunt. I moan, frustrated, and draw my legs around him. I want to force him in, to make him fuck me.

Not yet, Joan.

I’m powerless. One inch. Two inches. Out. One inch. Three inches. Out. I thrust against him.

And then all the way again. He starts fucking me like I want it: hard, without stopping. He puts one of my legs over his shoulder and pounds into me hard and deep. It hurts; it hurts good. He puts my other leg over his shoulder and pounds. I can hear my body slap against his with every stroke.
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. And then faster, slap-slap-slap-slap-slap. His balls are slapping against my ass.

I feel his hand over my mouth; I didn’t realize I’d been screaming.

He rolls us over the bed, so I’m on top, facing away from him. I put my feet down on the bed and lift myself into a crouch so I can maneuver myself on his cock. I start to bounce on it. His hands grip my hips and he thrusts up to meet me, with his cock deep inside me.

I slow down and stop so I’m hovering over him, he takes my hair with one hand and pulls, to bring me down but I resist. I slip out of the tie he’s used around my wrists and then remove the scarf from my face.

I look over my shoulder at him and then sink so his cock is inside me and then I begin to move up and down, faster and faster. I watch his cock go in and out of my cunt; it glistens with how wet I am. I love watching myself get fucked like this. Seeing his cock inside me makes me go faster, until my thighs can’t handle it anymore and I fall to my knees like I’m riding him. I imagine him as a horse, then, as I bounce on him. I lean forward so he can get a view of my pussy and ass; I feel his cock against my g-spot.

Moans—mine or his. Mine and his. I’m riding him hard. The sight turns him on and I feel his cock throbbing inside me. M vagina contracts around his dick. I contract, he expands; then I feel his cock contract and I know he’s close before he whispers, “I’m close.”

I’m close, too, but he comes first. It’s the feeling of his hot cum shooting into me that sends me reeling and I come hard after, my whole body still except for my cunt that shakes with my orgasm long after it’s gone.

I fall back on the bed, wet with sweat.