She had all sorts of ideas now, and no one to share them with. She wondered again where he was, and why he hadn’t called, like he said he would.
Leaning over with a sigh, Amber put the lotion on the windowsill above her bed. As she did, her gaze landed on the space beside her nightstand.
On the little red box peeking out from under the bed.
In that box resided a variety of adult toys—everything from vibrators to dildos and from pearls to clamps. She looked at the box for a very long time. In all her worry lately, her sexual desire had taken a vacation. She had played with herself the day before and found that the resulting orgasm wasn’t worth the time. It was nothing but a thin, joyless spasm of physical release that left her feeling even worse than she had before she started.
But as Amber looked at the box, she started thinking.
First she got sad.
Then she got angry.
Then she got busy.
She yanked the box out from under the bed. Something in there rattled—batteries, probably. She opened the top and looked at the first toy there: the dildo that looked quite a bit like her boyfriend’s cock. She picked it up, testing the weight of it in her hand. She looked at the phone. It sat there silently, mocking her hopes that she would hear his voice, while she contemplated exactly what she was going to do with that toy.
Because she was going to do something with it, by God.
Something kinky.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The plastic had warmed in her palm. It still didn’t have the heat her boyfriend’s body did—what could?—but it would do in a pinch. And if this wasn’t a pinch, she didn’t know what was.
Her hand drifted down her chest. Her nipples were hard and hurting already. She ran her hand along where he had been, traced the bruise his tongue and teeth had left there a week ago. She shifted in the bed, lay down on her back, and let her fingers walk all over her skin. It was slick from the lotion, warm from the shower. Goosebumps rose everywhere when she thought of the kisses he had bestowed on the back of her neck, of the way he had kissed her ear and made her sigh. She touched all those places and then some, and hardly realized her other hand was moving up and down on the toy in long, fluid strokes.
Her legs shifted. Her knees opened. She slid one hand down between them, careful not to touch the most sensitive places. She loved the way her legs felt. The smoothness of them was delightful, and she lingered there. Soon she was moving a little, pushing her body up to meet her hand. She spread her fingers and slid them between her legs.
She was wet. A tiny moan escaped her.
She lifted her hand to her lips, licked first one finger, then another. She moaned again, a low and secret sound, something for herself alone. She tasted sweet, maybe even a little sweeter than usual. She suddenly remembered the toy in her hand. She slid it across her thigh and let out a shuddering breath. She wanted to be filled, to be slammed hard, to be made love to. All at once.
She pushed the toy against her clit. Her moan was louder this time, and the sensation rolled through her with the force of a fast-moving wave. Good grief—had she really been that tense? The relaxation and the tension combined together, made her struggle to move slow.
“Slow,” she said out loud, taking a deep breath. The toy slipped against her clit, back and forth, warming even more as her wetness spread over it. She arched up and took the tip inside her. Her pussy was as smooth as her legs were. The wetness flowed unchecked across her lips and down the crack of her ass. She would have to change the sheets later. She didn’t care.
Her mind slipped away to another place. There was a man hovering above her, a fantasy behind her closed eyelids. She didn’t see his face, but she heard his voice in her head, the familiar, smooth tone that turned her on when he said those oh-so-right things.
You want that, don’t you? You want my cock.
She wiggled her hips back and forth, trying to take in more of the toy. Her hand at the base of the toy was trembling. Her other hand was playing with her nipples, pinching them into hard little nubs, sending shocks of delight through her whole system.
She slipped the toy in another inch. The walls of her pussy stretched deliciously around it. She bit her lip as her boyfriend’s voice whispered again in her head, and she imagined she could feel his strong arms on either side of her, holding his weight above her body. A drop of sweat rolled down her forehead, and she imagined that it had dripped from the man in her mind.
You like that, don’t you? You can’t get enough.
The word slut crossed her mind, and as it did, her man chuckled in her ear.
“Slut,” huh? That’s what you like to be called? Slut. You’re a good one, aren’t you?
She arched up and slid the toy home. It made her gasp, made her whimper, made her stretch. It made the man in her mind laugh out loud.
Look at you, how bad you need it. You’re a slut, you’re in heat, and you’re ready to take on the whole neighborhood. Aren’t you?
She was right on the edge. That fast, that hard, that steep was the climb. She withstood it for three long strokes, and with the fourth, she turned her head into the pillow to muffle the scream as she came.
Amber lay quietly, dazed. The orgasm had knocked the breath from her.
The whole neighborhood, he taunted again.
She reached blindly and found the toy box. Without opening her eyes, she felt around until she found what she wanted. What she needed. She grabbed it from the box and let it drop on the bed beside her. For now.
Oh, look at that. You really are a slut, aren’t you? How many do you want?
She spread her legs wider. The toy still inside her began to move in and out of her again, harder this time, long strokes that made her want to moan. She got the angle just right, and the tip of the toy hit her G-spot, just like her boyfriend did, with every good thrust. Her heart pounded. She could come a dozen times like this, if only she had the patience.
Patience was never her strong suit.
She abandoned playing with her nipples and grabbed the second toy. It was longer than the other, but a bit thinner—perfect for what she had in mind. She was more than wet enough. She could feel it on the sheets underneath her.
You want to fuck more than one, don’t you? You need it that bad, you naughty little slut.
Her mind was wiped clean of anything but the sensation. The pounding on her G-spot, the approaching orgasm, the feeling of pressure as she pushed the second toy against the hole that hadn’t been touched in so very long....
Do it. Do it right now.
She whimpered aloud as the toy pushed, stretched, breached. She caught her breath and bit her lip hard as it slid deep inside. She was completely full, and when the wave of orgasms hit her, she groaned aloud at the throbbing that seemed to claim every part of her.
That was a good one, said the man in her head.
But not good enough. She lifted a bit, moved in the right way, and then she was sliding the toy in and out of that little hole, impaling herself on it, moving in all the ways that made her body flush and tighten and beg. She imagined his warm breath against her ear, the deep thrusting, the male voice in companionship with hers.
You want me to come, don’t you? You want to feel me fill you up.
“God, yes,” she whispered aloud.
Both holes. Hot, sticky cream in both of them. That’s what you want, isn’t it?
The thought of it assaulted her, the warm and deep feeling, the spurt and run and flood that came along with the sound, the deep voice moaning in unison with her, the pulse of his body as he shot into her, over and over and over again—
She bit down on her lip, hard enough to taste blood. She saw stars behind her eyelids. In her mind, she heard the groan and the sound of her name whispered with a masculine plea. She arched up one more time, and then she was there, her heart racing, her blood pounding, and her breath escaping in a small scream.
She came hard enough to push the toy out of h
er pussy with the final pulses of her orgasm. The one in her ass was still moving sweetly with the motion of her hand, plunging deep and moving hard. As the last of her orgasm flowed away, the toy slipped out of her. She collapsed there on the bed, her eyes still closed, her head filled with the fantasy.
She drifted in a cocoon of pleasure. She had the idle thought that she might try for more later, but somehow, she knew this wouldn’t be another sleepless night. Tomorrow night, perhaps. But not this one.
Other thoughts of her boyfriend crept into her mind. She wondered if he would have liked to be there, to help her play with those toys, to replace one of them with himself.
Amber fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, thinking of him as she drifted away. She knew one thing for certain: No matter what he was doing, he wasn’t having nearly as much fun as he could have been having with her.
First Date
BY LOUISE HOOKER
“Do you like that?” Ginny asked as she slowly pulled the thin strap of the lacy, semisheer lingerie off her shoulder. She could hear the moan over her computer’s speakers, and she fought to keep her face pouty—the way Mr. Black liked it. “Do you want the other one down?”
Mr. Black’s breath was coming out heavy. Mr. Black was, of course, not this client’s real name. That was an option, to give the girl a fake name. Not that it mattered. The company only accepted credit or debit cards, but that was only after the call girl took the information down via electronic means. But it made them feel safer, less perverted, if you called them by the fake name they gave.
Ginny smiled seductively as she stood before the computer screen, then tugged down the other strap. Mr. Black gasped. She moaned as she traced a crimson nail down her ample cleavage, pulling out a silken red handkerchief she kept there for certain clientele.
“Oops,” she said, carefully dropping it on the floor in front of the desk where her computer sat. She smiled at the screen, which showed only the standard desktop background. Mr. Black was one of the few clients who kept his webcam off, preferring to see Ginny without her being able to see him. Most clients liked to be seen, liked to lock eyes with her while they did all the dirty little things they liked. But Mr. Black only liked to watch, not to be watched. This made him one of the most difficult clients to satisfy, as she literally had to play it by ear alone.
“Pick it up,” he ordered, his voice deeper than usual.
Ginny slowly licked her tongue out across her lower, vermillion lip. She tried her best not to do any forward-bending while working. She did not like the way it made the extra fat on her body look—and she really had some to spare, as she was at least eleven sizes bigger than the “perfect” dress size.
She had never really liked the look of her body, since all her fat seemed to place itself squarely on her stomach. Sure, her legs, arms, and face were a little thick, and her breasts were an ample, natural, 40DD, but she never really worried about how they looked. Her stomach, on the other hand, poked out in such a way that, if she stood just right, she looked pregnant. Because of this, her high school years had been hell. And even though that was six years ago—precisely a four-year degree, plus two years—she had still not fully abandoned her insecurities about her size.
Ginny fought hard to keep her face sensual as the feeling of shame crept up in her. She lightly bit at her lip now, accomplishing both the nervous twitches growing in her and keeping Mr. Black interested all in the same moment. Then she put on a grin as she slowly moved into a squatting position—another movement that made her self-conscious, though it was better than falling forward. However, before she could even begin to reach for the handkerchief, Mr. Black cleared his throat.
“Not like that. Bend over. Let me see those tits.”
There was no way around it. She straightened her body and nodded. She leaned way forward, exaggerating the movement, letting Mr. Black see exactly what he wanted. He gasped at the full-frontal view as she plucked the handkerchief from the floor.
“Stay like that, baby,” he pleaded, an all too familiar sound of forced air escaping quickly. She also heard the sound of flesh meeting flesh, over and over and over again. It was almost a flapping noise, like something had come loose, and the usual moaning that always came with it let Ginny know she was doing exactly what she was being paid to do.
“Are you going to cum, baby?” she whispered directly into her computer’s microphone.
“I’m so close.”
She wiggled her shoulders, letting the lingerie fall completely off her upper half. With a few moans herself, she moved her hands over her exposed breasts. The noise coming from the computer intensified as Mr. Black gasped.
“Sit down. Let me see you finish.”
Ginny blinked. This was not one of his normal requests. Usually, he did not give a rat’s ass whether she had an orgasm or not. But that was okay; that was part of the job. The guys linked in and paid their ample sum so they could get off, not her. But she nodded, pulling up her desk chair and propping her left foot up on the seat. She let her knees fall wide and slipped her hand down her stomach—fighting the sense of awkwardness that welled up with that sensation—and reached inside her lace panties. Finding herself wet (it was inevitable, no matter how she felt about the man on the other side of the screen), she put her fingers to her clitoris, rubbing hard and fast there.
“Yes. Yes!” she groaned, squirming in place.
“Faster, faster.”
She followed his orders, finally feeling her toes curl and seeing explosions of color in front of her closed green eyes. Mr. Black cried out, gasping with shuddering breaths, soon after.
“Was it good for you?” she asked.
“Yeah, baby. I’ll be calling you again soon,” he said.
She grinned. He always did. In fact, she would not be surprised to hear again from him tomorrow.
“I’ll be waiting,” she moaned, blowing the screen a kiss.
Ginny got no reply to that, and she did not need one. She knew Black had signed off, and she leaned over to close down her chat, too.
Standing and redressing herself in the lingerie—and with a robe to cover up now—Ginny made her way into the bathroom.
It took only a minute to do what she did after every meeting with a client. She ran a brush through her long, blond hair and reapplied the crimson lipstick she wore only for work. She glanced at the clock she kept on the bathroom wall. She still had an hour left before her self-appointed quitting time—ah, the joys of working from home.
Turning on her heel, she made her way back to her laptop and reopened the chat. She smiled at the name that instantly appeared under ONLINE. Her hand itched to click it, to open it, but that was taboo in her business. One of the first rules on the list her “boss” gave her was to always let the client come to you. So she waited a moment longer, and finally, the invitation to chat popped up. She clicked ACCEPT with a smile.
“Justin, baby, are you feeling hot this evening?” she chuckled.
Justin was another one of her regulars, but he was easily the strangest customer she kept—and the only one she would work overtime for. His honey-colored hair was a little on the shaggy side (a hairstyle she had suggested for him), and his brown eyes were as bright as his smile.
He shook his head. “I’m just talking tonight,” he answered.
She nodded. “Just checking.”
Her first meeting with Justin had happened a year ago—he was one of only ten of her regulars to have lasted so long. The first time, he had been just like any other customer: He paid his money, unzipped his pants, and told her what he wanted to see her do. His requests that first time had been typical: undress slowly; bounce her breasts a little, like she was riding him (another movement that made her feel like a jiggling fatty); and finger herself until they both came.
But when he called back two weeks later, he only wanted to talk.
Now, their meetings went back and forth between dirty little encounters and simple conversations. He easily knew more about
her than any other client, and while that would make most of the other girls in the business a little uneasy, it made Ginny feel kind of nice.
“Talking it is, then. How was your day?” she asked, leaning back and tying shut her robe.
“Same old, same old. Work, home, and chatting with you, which is my favorite part of my day, by the way. Did you have many clients tonight?” he asked, his face and tone a little too even.
This was always a loaded question. Some nights, when Justin was feeling a bit frisky, the truthful “yes” that usually came in response to that question gave him instant wood. But other nights, it made him frown. Tonight, it would seem, was one of those other nights, and he looked a little bit more tense about it than usual.
She nodded.
“Oh,” was his only response.
“It’s my job, baby,” she said, fidgeting in her seat.
She hated it when he looked disappointed or angry with her—something she didn’t give a damn about when it came to the others. But Justin was a little bit more than just another client, another job, to her. It was trouble, and it made her feel horrible about charging him just to chat with her . . . but those were facts that were not easily changed.
“I’ve been thinking about some things,” he said, when he finally got his teeth to unclench.
“Oh?”
“I want to meet you, for real. In person. Like, on a date.”
Ginny blinked. This was bad. Really bad. Alarms began ringing almost instantly in her head—red flags going up all over the place. She shook her head. “I don’t date clients, Justin, you know that. You’ve asked about the rules before.”
“Is that an official rule, or a personal one?”
“Personal.”
“Have you ever actually dated a client before?”
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