Goody Two Shoes

by Cooper, Laura

  “Here, take this card,” She fiddles in her handbag and hands me a business card with the title Brassiere Specialist typed on the front. “She’ll fit you into something that’ll make you look like you’re twenty again!”

  “I haven’t seen twenty in a while. Thanks!”

  “And aren’t you glad! I wouldn’t redo my twenties for all the gold in the world. All that baby poo and spit up. Yuck! They were cute little ducklings though and I’m glad I did it. My sister never had children and I want you to know she still looks young. Those midgets aged me I tell you! How about you, kids?”

  “Three, one Grand-daughter,” I answer with a proud grin.

  “Ah yes, the Grands are so much better.” She’s distracted by the continuous buzzing coming from my lap.

  I’m extremely distracted by it and it’s taking all I have to force it to the back of my mind.

  Her voice softens at my state of affairs, “Wouldn’t it be easier to just come and get it over with?”

  I look around the near empty waiting room as the obvious answer for why that’s not possible. “Of course it would, but…”

  “But what? Here, take my hand and let it go.” Her soft hand clasps mine and she leans forward in front of me as if she’s going to hide my orgasm from the rest of the room.

  I giggle uncomfortably, have I mentioned that this kind of interaction makes me as nervous as a June bug? “No, I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Just close your eyes, imagine no one is here and let it go. Not a single person will know.”

  I’d like to tell her the million excuses for why this isn’t possible but Vagina and Clitoris are throwing a key party between my thighs and things are getting out of hand. It’s like having a splinter; the only thing on my mind is getting it out of my skin. Trust me when I say that if I had another option I would’ve taken it in a flash, but there are no options. Jonathon has left me with none. I grasp her hand and let it go, the orgasm flushes through my skin making me as rosy and unscathed as the woman I’m clinging to.

  *-*-*-*-*

  By the time Friday comes around I can honestly say that I’ve never felt as refreshed. I’ve taken the time - from my busy schedule – to buy new bras, slather my body with Dr. Kellar’s lotion, and have my hair highlighted. I feel like a new woman.

  I arrive at O’Malley’s exactly at four, and I’m ushered into the closed establishment by the same waitress that we’d had the other day. “Good afternoon Tara!” she bubbles as though I’m her long lost sorority sister. “Just so you know, Jonathon called and he’s going to be late. He says to go ahead and get you started. I hope that’s okay with you?” The waitress, Grace, smiles brightly. Almost too brightly I think. She reminds me of one of those nurses at the mammogram office; they’re creepy and we all know it. They’re like female gynecologists; at what point in their lives did they say, ‘I like pussy so much that I think I’d like to look at them all day long?’ Just strange, and hell no it’s not okay that Jonathon’s not here today. And what the hell does she mean she’s going to get me started? My nerves strike a new chord and move into an entirely new level of apprehension.

  Grace’s arm moves to mine and she holds my forearm gently as she gazes into my eyes, “We’ve all been here dear. I swear it’ll be worth it.” There it is again… it’ll all be worth it. Of course Simmons will be happy, and no, you aren’t cheating on him. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not going to be asked to rehearse those lines over and over again just so I can repeat them just as perfectly. But she can see the look of terror in my eyes and softens, “Alright listen, don’t tell Jonathon I told you this, but today is about surroundings. I’m here to tell you that the men’s bathroom isn’t a very sensually inspiring place.”

  “Bathroom?” I say nervously, ignoring the fact that she’s still holding my arm a tad too romantically.

  “Right, you need to go into the men’s bathroom and sit in the stall next to the door and wait. The lesson will present itself,” the tinted redhead grins and guffaws at her own comment.

  I groan audibly, “Down that hall?”

  “Yep! Have a great time sweetie.” She practically bounces as she speaks which makes me wonder how much those perky, perfect boobs cost in the free market.

  I sigh, “Any way I could get a shot of vodka?”

  Grace giggles, “Already got one chillin’ for ya!”

  Following her to the bar I’m caught by my own twisted mind. It’s roaming around the possibilities of what could be waiting for me in the men’s bathroom stall. And this isn’t the guilty Catholic girl imagining these scenarios either; it’s the new split part of my personality that seems to be a raving slut. I really should go ahead and name her at some point, the alter ego to Goody Two Shoes. I swear it’s as though a lifetime of ladylike behavior has been erased and Clitoris is twitching like a horse at the starting gate. Right here and now I’ll apologize to those girls I called a slut in High School. You dressed like sleazes and I made fun of you, but who’s the sleaze now? That’s right, prim and proper Tara Townsend. You’ll remember me as the one in kilts and monogrammed button downs. But today, ladies, I’m wearing a black - must be nylon - dress that I bought on a whim, five years and ten pounds ago. Not only that, but I’m in a public place speaking to others as though this unlikely attire isn’t unusual. Truth be told, you were right all along. It makes me feel appealing and you know what? It’s really, really comfortable. Until this moment I considered the words sexy and comfortable, antonyms. You were right, I was wrong, enough said.

  So I slam the chilled vodka shot, alarmed by the bitter taste. Grace grins with a giggle, “Dill Pickle Vodka.”

  I nod sharply as the burn melts my esophagus. Lucky for me I like pickles. Simmons can’t stand them. He relegates them to the far left corner of the refrigerator and would have a heart attack if one was accidentally placed on his plate. But I push the thoughts of him from my mind. “So to the men’s room it is then,” I smack the small shot glass down on the wooden bar.

  “Have fun!” Grace encourages as I slink off to my fate.

  I cautiously wander into the men’s room as though I’m searching for a ghost. Peering into both stalls, I find the room vacant and breathe a small sigh of relief. I have to say that I’m pleasantly surprised to find it very clean and nice. Jonathon spared no expense to ensure that his patrons have the cleanest amenities. I step into the stall closest to the door, which is twice as large as any other; handicap capable. A note taped to the stall wall simply says, “On your knees, and remove the toilet paper container from the wall.”

  I stare at the unlikely toilet paper holder; its metal like any other in a public bathroom. But I lift it upwards and it slides from its bracket into my hands. I set it on the floor and peer through the small hole behind it in the wall. It’s the other bathroom stall of course, I don’t know why I even bothered to bend down and look. In my defense, life has gotten a bit crazy lately, so a magical world appearing on the other side of the hole probably wouldn’t shock me at this point. Narnia could be over there with all that’s been going on in my life.

  I’ve read about Glory Holes in my recent internet research. I’ve even seen a few videos. As a matter of fact, I’ve even thought the concept of sucking a strange cock might not offend my virginal senses quite so much if I didn’t have to actually face the person attached to it.

  A rush of excitement floods my veins as I hear the bathroom door open and footsteps sound on the tile floor. A figure moves into the bathroom and steps into the stall beside me. I hear some shuffling and I’m sure I hear the distinct sound of a zipper being worked. It must be a lot like being blindfolded, I consider. Because you only have a few visual hints, your entire being absorbs every detail and creates an imaginary vision. I’m intrigued. Personally I chose to imagine that it’s Simmons’ cock that suddenly peers through the hole, bobbing its head to attract my attention. I’m here to tell you I’m a slut because I grab it, and stroke it as gently as a kitten until it ha
rdens in my hands without a passing thought of guilt. I lower my lips to the protruding cock and pull it into my mouth. Someone has flipped the switch on my vibrating panties and I can feel my juices begin to boil. Having a strange cock in my mouth isn’t unappealing. As a matter of fact, it tastes extremely masculine and salty, like the beach. Strangely I find myself craving it now; the thought turns Vagina and Clitoris on. I wonder if Simmons will appreciate my new found hunger for oral sex? A laugh breaks free at the thought, and the man in the stall next to me must have considered my outburst some kind of condemnation of his manhood; his member wavers. I catch it in my lips and say, “No! Oh I’m so sorry, I was imagining my husband’s face if he could see me right now!”

  He responds by pushing his furious member deep past my lips. His angry cock becomes more and more inflamed as he prods it against the back of my throat. “Open your fucking mouth, bitch!” his gruff voice sounds. I try to murmur that it is open as far as it goes, but all that comes out is a strand of saliva and a mumble. With a conscious effort I relax my jaw, allowing him deeper into my mouth per his orders. My lips are pressed hard against the bathroom stall, but the fleeting concern over cleanliness is erased by the heavy pounding of my own inner walls. Need is building inside me as though each thrust is a building block towards orgasm. Certainly a woman can’t come by giving a blow job? But this man is rock solid, and his need and desire ia so apparent that my body responds without further consideration. Groans from the other side of the wall are caught within my own passion and become the background music I need to pursue my orgasm. As his cock throbs and pushes, my hand strays between my thighs to comfort my precious Clitoris who screams for human touch despite the vibrations from the silver egg in my panties.

  But before my needs are met, a thick guttural groan comes over the wall, and milky come fills my mouth. I swallow, even though no one would know if I spit it into the toilet beside me. I can’t help it; I like it. Just as quickly, the man removes his cock, a loud ‘plop’ issues with his withdrawal. Instantly I feel like complaining, and the protests and screams from Vagina and her sister keep me from hearing him leave the bathroom. It’s not until I hear the door shut that I realize I am alone. Screw this shit! My body isn’t going to take no for an answer this time. My fingers push inside and find the spot that’s shrieking for a touch, any touch. I moan at the instant comfort, but that’s when I hear the door open again and a new set of shoes step into the stall next to me.

  Fresh hope fills me as another cock presents itself through the hole in the stall wall. I lick it, and then yank it into my mouth like a starving wolf. I can hear a man say, “Damn woman. Slow down!” But blood racing through my veins has temporarily rendered me deaf. My fingers are prodding inside me, but they are a long way from filling me, and that’s when the thought occurs. I stand and lift my dress, turn around, pressing Vagina against the wall directly onto the bobbing cock. Already dripping with need, I slide backwards and moan loudly as it fills me.

  With aching need consuming me, I put my hands on the stall wall across from me and use it for balance as I push back and forth on the protruding penis. Not once did I feel the cock move; it stays steadfast in the hole in the wall as I fuck it at my leisure. And my leisure at this moment is gazelle speed. “Fuck me!” I scream to the unknown man as I suction Vagina to the bathroom wall. My voice doesn’t even sound like mine in this hollow room; it’s guttural and deprived. And the cock begins moving, as though it’d only been momentarily stunned by my animal like need. It plunges into me now, each thrust sends wave after wave of pleasure into my belly. I hold myself stone-like against his cock with my hands pressing against the adjacent tile wall and let him pound into me.

  Orgasm after orgasm flushes past me. I lose count after five but the cock keeps calling me back. Each time it reaches my depths, my need renews and almost instantly another orgasm flows. When I am absolutely positive that every bodily fluid I possess has evaporated, the mysterious man thrusts again, this time deep against my far wall. I squeal with the sharp pain as his liquid fills me, causing another orgasm as my teeth begin to chatter. My head flops downwards between my rigid arms in defeat; I’ve been thoroughly fucked. The need for a cold glass of vodka and my warm soft bed overwhelms me as I hear the door close again.

  I stand up achingly; this isn’t a twenty year old body I’m kneeling on the hard tile floor with! It’s not like they provide a kneeling pillow or anything. Suddenly I break out laughing at the thought of informing Jonathon that maybe this Catholic girl can teach him a thing or two about kneeling. But the door opens again just as I’m straightening my dress. Certainly I’m not supposed to keep going? I glance down at my red knees doubtfully. Jonathon’s voice reverberates against the tile walls. “Tara sweetheart, Grace has chilled vodka for you at the bar. You can stop wearing the vibrating panties if you like. Or you can wear them all day every day. Whatever suits you. I’ll see you next week dear. Oh, and Tara?”

  “Yes?” I mumble.

  “Beautiful today. You were amazing.” With that I hear the bathroom door close. I slide open the lock on my own stall and peer into the room; I am alone. All at once I sway a little as the alcohol and seedy sex adjust within me. Vagina and Clitoris are both winded and trying to catch their breaths. I grab the counter and peer into the mirror at myself; nipples perky, hair askew and wetness around my mouth. I stare long and hard. This isn’t the same woman who once balked at crossing imaginary boundaries! No, the woman standing in front of me looks… wait for it… happy.

  Simmons isn’t home when I get there, but there is a note that says that he’s doing a bunch of research at the Library and doesn’t want to drive home after dark. He says he’s going to stay at the Francis Marion overnight. I don’t blame him on that one; traffic can get weird in our town. Stop lights sometimes work and the city council may have decided that it’s time to work on a random road. They do that when they get bored. People who have to wear reading glasses shouldn’t risk that at night. But there I go sounding all ancient and decrepit, and that’s far from the way I feel. I feel like a schoolgirl again. There’s nothing quite as pleasing to a middle aged woman as a compliment from a handsome stranger. And Jonathon Galloway makes me feel desirable again. God help him, he’s performed a miracle.

  I wander down my silent hallway thinking of this road I’m on. At first I thought it was a straight path to Hell in a hand basket, but it’s astounding how happiness can adjust your thoughts. Right now I want to cuddle, snuggle and feel comforted. That’s the part that’s still missing in my transformation, and the only man I want to cuddle with is currently shacked up at the Francis Marion Hotel with a bartendress. I shower and put on my Walmart fuzzy bathrobe and slink into Simmons office. I’m drawn back to Ellen and Jonathon like a bug to a blue light. I settle in to read, hoping to find Jonathon’s secret to romancing women within the words. Maybe I’m not the one who needs classes, I think wryly, imagining Simmons receiving a firm spanking.

  “This man is tied to this chair because he asked to be. He requires discomfort for release, but he’s tiring of it. He wants to give up. If I let him go, then he’s un-satisfied and as a result un-happy with himself. He needs me to help him push through this, and I’ve promised I would. Bourbon is only going to numb his uneasiness. I need him raw.”

  Ellen Devereux

  The Tramp Stamp Club

  By Quinn Carmichael

  Bondage

  It’s my third meeting with the Galloway’s and I shouldn’t say it, because that would be a bad omen, but I don’t think they can shock me anymore. Famous last words. Hawthorne leads me directly into the Library this time, and I step inside as he closes the door behind me. I stand still for a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the forever dark room. As soon as I can focus, I head towards Jonathon’s Bourbon Bar in the corner. I pour a tall one and add a few ice cubes as a mixer. Sipping it I glance around the room. There’s no one here yet so I arrange my laptop and recorder on the armrest of my familiar leather
chair.

  SCREEEEEEECH

  What the hell was that? My eyes nervously look towards the corner for revelation; it wouldn’t be the first time I imagined myself alone in this room. But Ellen’s lounger is empty. I step further in that direction because I’m absolutely positive I heard a noise too loud to be the creaking of an old house. Then I see him.

  A man, apparently bound by a deviant rope master, is naked in a plain wooden chair next to Ellen’s lounger. His head is down, looking at his feet, and beads of sweat drip into tiny pools on the hardwood floor below him. I should say something - to attract his attention - let him know I’m here - but for the life of me I can’t decide on an appropriate introduction for this kind of moment. So I wander towards him, drink in hand, slowly as if I’m creeping up on him. If he wasn’t heaving slightly with each breath I would think he’d seen the end.

  As I near, his head rises to meet me. I don’t recognize him. He’s not the Governor or some equally odd character. In fact, he’s much younger than anyone I’ve seen here to date. “Quinn Carmicheal,” I announce, but don’t hold out my hand. After all that wouldn’t be polite considering his are tied to the back legs of his chair.

  “Bourbon?” he moans.

  “Bourbon?” I look down at my wilting glass. “What? You want some bourbon?”

  His head nods hopefully. Of course now I’m not sure if I should give it to him. I have no idea as to why he’s tied up like this, or what possible instructions may have been ordered. And it astounds me that I’m thinking of instructions. But I’ve read Fifty Shades (it was one of the ten required readings to get this job) and I know this kind of oddity always comes with instructions. So I glance over my shoulder at the empty room as if I’m checking for spies, and step towards him.

  Poor guy looks parched. As I pour the liquid into his open mouth I study the intricate knots that bind him to the chair. “Talk about a pickle,” I mutter.