by Joanna Angel
I felt so much release. She took the Hitachi off my clit and just sat there for a minute, laughing and grinning. I was covered in tears and squirt. She untied my wrists and then my ankles. I’d forgotten what it was like to have control over my own limbs, and it took a few moments to process that I could actually move my arms again. I sat up.
“Thank you, Mistress,” I said. She smiled.
“You did fucking amazing,” she replied.
“No, YOU DID, Mistress,” I insisted.
“You can go back to calling me Rachel,” she laughed.
“Well, I’m not sure if I want to!” I said. She grabbed the back of my hair and looked me deep in the eyes, and then kissed me. As we kissed, we listened to the reverb of the electronic music blasting from the other room. I felt truly connected to her. Sometimes a slut just needs some good old-fashioned romance. I never thought I’d be getting that in the back room of a dungeon, but I most certainly was.
To go back and see Naomi dominate someone, turn to page 97.
To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 115.
ONE YEAR LATER . . .
Ashey the Ashtray is kneeling on the shiny hardwood floor of my high-rise penthouse apartment in Manhattan. Ashey pays me a generous wage to sit at the foot of my couch and well . . . be my ashtray. He also pays for this apartment. I never thought that picking up a smoking habit could be so profitable.
There’s another slave in the bathroom scrubbing my Japanese toilet with a toilet scrubber gag attached to his mouth. Another slave is folding the laundry, and another is just underneath my calves, serving as my coffee table in the center of my open floor plan living room. I like to rest my legs on him after a long, hard day of torturing everyone here. I work a few nights a week at “Ananas,” (that’s the name of the dungeon—it’s “pineapple” in French, get it?). I also do some sessions out of my apartment. I mean . . . I know I’m just lounging around in my living room right now, but technically I’m working, and while my ashtray, my coffee table, and my toilet scrubber may all look distressed, trust me, they’re happy right now. In fact . . . WHACK!
“TOMMY, YOU KNOW THE RULES HERE.”
“Sorry Mistress.”
Sorry about that. My coffee table was clearly getting a boner, and he knows that’s not allowed without asking.
I still work a few days a week at Club 42. It’s a good playground to meet some new clients, and well, it turns out I also happen to like dancing. Oh yeah, and my wife works there.
“Good boy, Rucifer! Good boy!” Rachel just walked through the door with our pet Rucifer on a leash. She was taking him on his afternoon walk through Central Park. He’s part pet, part stockbroker. A mixed breed, he’s very loyal, but not so well behaved. We’re working on it. Rachel puts Rucifer back in his cage, and sits next to me on the couch, stretching her legs right next to mine across Tommy, the human coffee table. A slave rushes over and hands us both a bottle of carrot juice.
We sip on our healthy doses of beta-carotene, holding each other’s hands, both of our palms covered in fingerless latex gloves. I look out the vast windows surrounding us, staring at the city underneath me. It’s a perfectly clear day, and I can see the NYU campus where my city life began. I can see the multitude of coffee shops who never hired me, and the one that fired me. I see the strip club that saved me, and then the dungeon where I found myself. There were times in this city when I wanted to give up, when I didn’t think I could make it, when I was one coffee spill away from moving back in with my parents. Now, this city submits to me.
THE END
To find another fantasy, turn to page 119.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass for now. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know!” I replied. I was hoping my cheerful tone would offset my complete lack of desire to visit a dungeon, but she still looked kind of offended.
“By the way, you can’t be naked on the floor, remember?” I had my polka dot dress draped on me like a robe and my lingerie scrunched in my hand like it was some kind of lacy dishrag. I was sweaty and chugging a bottle of water. I looked like a hungover hipster who’d made a pit stop at a strip club on their walk of shame home. Which, come to think of it, was not actually that far off from how I got here.
Just then, Brandi walked past me, and stopped in her tracks when she saw me attempting to button up my dress, chug water, and not drop what I think was about half my rent on the ground.
“Oh hey!” she said. She seemed so happy to see me, and I had no idea why, but her smile was so heartwarming, I found myself happy to see her right back.
“Hey!” I replied. I mean, that seemed like the appropriate reply.
“Here, I grabbed this from the dressing room for you. I swear to god I’m gonna have a panic attack if I see you try to put that on one more time,” she laughed, handing me a little pink sparkly dress. I felt honored. This was a hell of a lot more exciting than the day I was handed a coffee-stained apron at Fix. I slipped it on, and I felt free.
“Thank you!” I said.
She pointed toward a relatively dark corner of the floor. “There’s a customer over there who’s staring at you,” she said, smirking. “Go give him a dance!”
“Oh. I don’t—”
“You have to grab them right after you get off stage, before another girl does,” she urged. She nudged me toward him. “Anyway, should be easy after that birthday boy.”
At this point, I’d done everything I could possibly do on that stage. And she was right—a lap dance didn’t seem so “advanced” after I’d whipped a man with his own belt. Although, I wasn’t entirely sure it was me the guy was looking at. “I think he’s staring at you,” I suggested.
Brandi shook her head. “Seriously, does it matter? You want the dance, or not?”
I balled my dress up and stashed it at the edge of the bar. The bartender glared at me and kicked it out of view of the customers. Apparently, we were not friends anymore.
“Come on!” Brandi said. “Are you coming?”
To see Naomi give a lap dance, turn to page 52.
To see Brandi give a lap dance, turn to page 58.
I had so many questions, and Tony wasn’t going to answer them. He was already out of my eyesight by the time I’d formulated a reply. He said the shift starts at 10:00 a.m., right? Was that official? Did that mean I needed to be there at 9:30? Did I need to fill out a W-2? Or . . . anything? This seemed too unofficial for a job in Times Square. But even so, I was excited to begin.
“Congrats!” the bartender said. “The girls all really like working here—it’s a good club!” she added as she threw an Ellio’s pizza into the toaster oven. I didn’t know it was legal for anyone in New York City to ever eat frozen pizza under any circumstances. I suppose when vaginas are exposed, anything is possible.
Later that evening, I was finally back in my comfort zone—a bar with alcohol in it, surrounded by people in clothes. Real clothing, you know, like unwashed T-shirts with the names of cities on them, ripped jeans that were purchased purposefully torn, and cowboy boots, even though we were nowhere near a ranch or any cattle that needed tending. Brooklyn was my home un-sweet home, and while lots of unique things here were “cool”—like having a diner booth as apartment furniture, or drinking wine from a can, or playing professional Skee-Ball—being a stripper, especially a stripper in Times Square, was certainly not cool. But none of us cared about being cool, that was the point of our deliberate alternative lifestyle, so the fact that I was being so blatantly uncool was actually . . . cool, right?
I was on my third date with a guy named Rob. I’d met him a few months ago at a party that happened in my living room. When strangers started meandering into my apartment at 1:00 a.m., I was understandably pissed at my roommate Jessie, who, as a side note, I referred to behind her back as “Messy Jessie.” What? The dishes were always hers, and she never cleaned them. Anyway, I had recently gotten my job at Fix, which forced me to wake up at 5:00 a.m., an ungodly hour in New York City,
where it might be excusable to be out from the night before, but it’s definitely not okay to be waking up to start a day. Unfortunately, it turned out a coffee shop job in Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t sophisticated enough of an excuse to call off a party in your living room that you couldn’t call off anyways.
But back to Rob. Yes. He showed up on my couch with a pocket full of pre-rolled joints on a random Sunday. He had been dragged there by one of his friends, a person who was kind of friends with Messy Jessie. Rob had shoulder-length black hair, a lot of unfinished tattoos that were so far from being complete I’m not entirely sure what they were trying to be, a muscular build, slightly tanned skin, piercing brown eyes, and, I assumed, a closet full of torn flannel shirts that could just as easily have been from a gas station as from John Varvatos. Either way, it was wonderful.
We exchanged eye contact multiple times throughout the night. He didn’t say much, but whenever he spoke, it felt like it was directed at me, like we were the only two people in the room. He was a musician. I consistently made efforts in life to not be attracted to musicians, but it never really worked out. There’s something about their arms, their hair, and . . . their inability to get their lives together that is just so . . . satisfying.
He was in some band that was on tour, but not on tour at the moment. So in between one tour and the next, he was crashing on a friend’s couch, the friend that was sort of friends with Messy Jessie. A few hours after I met him, his large, curvy, unexpectedly beautiful penis was in my mouth. While he didn’t return the favor in any way at all during this particular encounter, I was so turned on by the sight of his cock that it somehow didn’t matter. I swallowed every last drop of his semen, and what seemed like moments later, I was telling hoity-toity suit-wearing young professionals about the new brand of oat milk we had available in our lattes.
Since that first encounter, Rob and I had exchanged somewhere close to twenty thousand text messages. Those texts led to meeting up for incredibly cost-effective dinners and drinks, since after all, I did work at a coffee shop, and he was . . . in a band. We hadn’t had sex yet, mostly for logistical reasons. Somehow we kept meeting and eating and drinking near “his place,” and as previously mentioned, he didn’t exactly have a bedroom. But on this night, we’d planned to play a round of Skee-Ball at the bar near my place (and then fuck each other’s brains out in my bedroom, which wasn’t anything fancy, but it was an actual room with an actual door). Since yesterday, the plan had been for me to go to work and then meet Rob at this very bar . . . but somewhere between going to work and going to this bar, I kind of became a stripper, and that wasn’t part of the plan.
Now, Rob was definitely not my boyfriend. But he was the only person I was sending thousands of texts messages to, the only person whose dick had been in my mouth in the past month or so, and the only person I was smitten with. I assumed he felt the same way about me, and that our lust didn’t require a pragmatic conversation about relationships and such. Should I tell him about my new job? Was that too much for the third date?
Technically, I wasn’t going to be a stripper until tomorrow . . . or was I a stripper today? If I had been filling out some kind of form right now and it said “occupation:_______,” would I write in “stripper”? Was I still technically a barista because sometime in the next fourteen days, I’d get a last check?
I walked up to the counter and ordered two PBRs and a pizza to share as I waited for him to arrive. I paid with the crumpled singles I’d earned earlier that day, and something about it felt so victorious. Rob better get here fast,I thought. I was hungry and horny and had about forty unexpected dollars to my name. Anything could happen.
When Rob showed up and saw the pre-ordered pizza and beer sitting on the table like magic, he was duly impressed. Oh yeah, Rob—we don’t have to go dutch on this one, and you don’t have to pull out your credit card that’s almost always declined anyway. He gave me a kiss. He smelled like body odor disguised in cologne, and not disguised very well. I don’t know why the term BO gets such a bad reputation. When you break it down, it’s just the odor from someone’s body . . . and that’s incredibly intimate isn’t it? I wondered if that was how the four people felt near the stage today when my pussy was inches from their face. Could they smell it? Did they like it? I mean, I knew my pussy didn’t smell like a dirty band guy, but it was a hot day outside, and I’m sure it had its own special, intimate charm.
“How was your day?” I said. I rushed to say this first so I could avoid talking about my day. Thankfully, Rob had dedicated his entire afternoon to binge watching a season of American Pickers. If you’ve never heard of it (which you probably haven’t), it’s a show about these people who roam the country in search of antiques. So many people dream of growing up to be a rock star, but Rob anxiously awaited the days that his tour would end so he could watch twenty-plus episodes in a row of a television show about people who search through the trash. He had so many episodes to excitedly walk me through, I had no time at all to admit to him that this pizza was paid for with pussy gyrating money.
“And then, they find this naval artifact just sitting in this dude’s basement that’s been missing for half a century!” he said. It’s amazing the things you can find interesting when you really want to fuck someone. I genuinely at this moment cared about naval artifacts recovered by people on a reality TV show. I hung on to every last word.
“Wow! That’s crazy!” I said, shoveling down pizza so fast that I burned the roof of my mouth. “Try to hold off on the next season so I can watch it with you,” I giggled.
“Alright.” He paused. “I’ll try.” This meant we were getting somewhere in our relationship. He was already showing that he would make sacrifices for me.
The antique trash gave us enough excitement to just focus on his day and not mine. Our thin metal tray of pizza turned to nothing but pieces of crust and crinkled up napkins, our pint glasses of PBR became empty. I gave him a kiss, and he gave me a filthy stare, and we both knew what this meant—we were going to skip Skee-Ball.
Back at my apartment, he threw me against the wall, which . . . may or may not have been a great idea, because the walls were awfully thin here, and there was a strong chance we could simply fall through it and land in the middle of a group of hipsters. He reached his hands inside of my panties. Unfortunately, the lights were off and he didn’t even get to acknowledge that they matched my bra. It’s okay. Enough people saw my panties today. Shhhhh.
He played with my soaking wet pussy and fingered my clit up against the wall. Why does everything sexual feel so much filthier when up against a wall? There was a bed right there. My bedroom wasn’t big at all, it was definitely about 80 precent bed, and with all the shelves and piles of random things on top of each other, there was only 20 precent of cleared wall, so of course we chose that space.
He REALLY wanted to make me cum. I could tell. He kissed me and moved his fingers around—in some magical way, he knew exactly where to go and what to do. Musicians never know what to do with their lives, but they always know what to do with their hands.
My legs shook, and I was kind of angry at him that he made me cum so hard. I laughed and threw him on the bed. It was time to get down to business . . . and to get away from the one foot of available wall. I slid his pants down to reveal his very large boner. I climbed on top of him, and my pussy was so wet that I slid right onto him. The first time I’d seen his cock, I was actually intimidated—there truthfully aren’t a lot of well-endowed hipsters over here in Brooklyn. Lots of people with wit, charm, and home breweries . . . but not large penises. I had purchased a bottle of lube shortly after I saw his cock. But my dripping wet pussy certainly didn’t need it now. I could have fit two more of them in there if I needed to.
Oh. Now that was a thought. I wondered what the rest of his band looked like. . . . Okay, never mind.
I rode him, sliding my pussy up and down his cock. I wasn’t used to riding this much cock, so those extra seconds that it took
to get from the top to the bottom were unlike anything I’d felt before. We laughed, we were always laughing. I was never quite sure if I was laughing at him or with him, but I knew for sure that he was laughing with me. His cock stretched me open, filled me, completed me. The feeling of us joining together on my IKEA bed was incredible. I didn’t want it to end.
But it did.
He pushed me off of him mid-grind and came all over his own hairy stomach. I lay on his chest and wrapped my legs around him, kissing him, and watching the jizz disintegrate into his body hair. For a while, we simply lay there and listened to the sweet sounds of car alarms and stalling trucks through the window.
“What time do you have to get up for work?” he said.
“Oh! Not till like . . . nine,” I replied.
“Oh, sweet. I thought you had to go at like 5:00 a.m.,” he said.
“No . . . not . . . anymore,” I answered.
Rob wasn’t technically my boyfriend, and I wasn’t sure I was technically a stripper at this moment, so technically I wasn’t a liar, and in the court of relationship law I figured I would be declared innocent. Should I explain to him what I was really doing tomorrow morning? He would never guess. Mostly because I look nothing like a stripper, and also because nobody ever assumes anybody is stripping in the morning.
Should I tell him?
To see what happens if Naomi keeps this a secret, turn to page 127.
To see what happens if Naomi tells Rob, turn to page 242.
“Cool,” he said. And then he shut his eyes. I was shocked and a little offended that he wasn’t the least bit curious as to why my schedule had changed. But since his entire schedule consisted of nothing but watching Netflix until whenever his next tour started, I suppose I could understand why this concept of needing to be anywhere at all at a certain time was beyond his powers of comprehension.