He leans down to bring his face closer to mine. His pretty eyes sparkle, but I see something manic in them, too. He’s getting into this. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Because I’ll know. If that’s a used cunt, I’ll know when I’m stretching it on my cock. So you better not be a lying whore, Trixie.”
“No, John. I’m an honest whore.” Who bites his thumb, making him grin. Yeah, we’ve got this figured out, and I am going to be the best whore.
I anchor one hand on his abdomen, above the thong, but the stupid thing is so low that I can literally feel how he’s glued it to his skin. My touch alone is enough to make his cock thump angrily in its confines. With my other hand, I lower the boot zipper, stretching my arm so I can suck on his thumb.
It’s soft. I suppose I noticed it before, but everything is piecing together now. His build, his waxed skin — his legs andstomach are definitely waxed — his careless but flawless hair, his expensive boots, his soft hands.
He must be an actor.
I consider giving him a closer look, cataloging the occasional mole and the faint scar on his knee, of guessing what he looks like under the prosthetics. I’ve worked almost exclusively with the Bulletproof Verse. I’m positive he’s not anyone I’ve worked with before, but there are plenty of other celebrities in the superhero genre, and I wouldn’t be even slightly surprised if he were one of them.
I decide against putting more thought into it. I’m going back to work soon. I’ve filled my calendar for the next six months, taking everything I’ve been offered. Two months will be working a Regency cast, even though I loathe doing historical gowns. I need money.
I’m drowning.
And I don’t want to be wondering if every tall, physically-fit, twenty-something man with dark skin that I work with is my John.
He lowers his leg so he can lift his foot out of the boot, leaving himself in just the lamé thong. I tuck a single finger into the waistband, inching it down the line from his hip to his pelvis.
Just to tease him, I slide my nail under where the cup presses against his skin. I don’t delve very deep, but I picked long nails for the weekend, and I’m sure he’s cramped up in there. He takes a sharp breath, staggers slightly. I withdraw my finger before he can say anything, reaching the adhesive.
“Go on,” he says when I hesitate there. No hair to tug on, but I don’t want to hurt him, and it’s going to hurt no matter how gentle I go.
I go gentle. He may not want that. For all I know, he’s got a pain kink, but he doesn’t say anything as I work my nailaround the strip of spirit gum, lifting it off his skin as carefully as I can, wishing I had some remover so I didn’t have to worry about leaving a single mark on his flesh. The whole time, he rubs my head, using enough pressure to make sure I feel it through the wig, more than necessary because he has no idea it sits directly on my scalp, barely any real hair to dull the sensation. It feels good, though. Soothing. I’m ready to nuzzle in between his legs by the time I get the thong loosened off his skin and peel it down his thighs, unfurling his cock.
Unfurling.
“Fuck me,” I whisper, unable to hold my words back as I watch the thick column of dusky, velvety flesh strain up toward his navel. It’s massive, so swollen it looks painful, and it lurches against my palm when I slide my hand up it. Pre-cum sputters out of it as though begging me to suck it down my throat.
I nearly do, but John holds me back. “Now go get a damp cloth. You’re going to wash me.”
I kneel there, sitting back on my ankles.
He’s put music on. I don’t recognize it. The lyrics aren’t in English, and I’m not sure if they’re words at all or vocalizations. It has a slow, driving beat, a deep baseline, and an ethereal quality that turns this moment into a fantasy.
He is bare before me, his hands anchored at his hips, his gaze intense. The king of this castle, looking over his property.
I’ve never washed a man’s cock before, not outside of an actual shower or bath. It seemed like a strange request, like he figured that after an evening in an unventilated cup, he assumed his junk was gamey and this was two birds, onestone, but as I take hold of him and drag the washcloth along it, it’s nothing less than powerful. He doesn’t moan, doesn’t flinch, but I feel his pulse in his shaft, see his pupils eclipse his irises. His lips tighten. I want to lick the remains of the gold lipstick off them.
Instead, I place a kiss on his shaft as I bring the cloth down to his balls and give them a good squeeze.
That gets him finally tipping his head back and groaning at the ceiling. My pussy clenches at the sound as much as at the bobbing of his cock on my lips. His hips begin to rock as I take his warm, slick head in my mouth, suckling it as I lick the pre-cum away. Taking his shaft in my hand with the rough cloth between us, stroking him that way, has his whole body tipping enough that I’m wondering if he’s the type of guy who likes a finger in the asshole.
I mean, you ask me, I think they all do, they’re just too sensitive to admit it.
“Such a good little whore,” he groans, his voice deep but breathless. “I bet you love taking loads down the throat, don’t you?”
I nod, but I keep my lips suctioned to his cock so he can feel how much I want him to unload in my mouth. I’m pretty sure if he keeps talking like this and his stomach keeps rippling like that and he keeps making me do unexpectedly hot stuff, I’ll come right here in my panties. But I really do need to get laid, so I’m even happier when he says, “Fuck, no treats for Trixie. You need to earn it. Where’s your condoms?”
I’m happy for a second, but then I realize I messed up. I never thought I’d bring anyone back here. “Shit, I don’t have any.”
I expect him to be irritated, but he shrugs and says, “No big deal.”
It should be a big deal. We’re strangers. Unprotected sex is a huge no-no. I did stupid shit like that when I was younger, but not now — does it even matter, though? Ovarian cancer nearly killed me, and not a single choice I’ve ever made caused it or prevented it. It just was.
In another thirty years, my sister and I could be sharing a suite in the nursing facility my father is currently dying in. Twenty years, even. Ten, five. Dad was diagnosed with Huntington’s at 43, but a lot of people are diagnosed in their thirties, which isn’t too far off for me. I may have survived cancer just to die young anyway.
I’m feeling reckless.
