by Cara McKenna
“Good evening.”
“We’ve just had the most wonderful date,” Suzy—Mrs. Parks—told their guest. She squeezed Meyer’s hand and shot him an adoring glance. She found the improvisation part of their camming natural, a fun game. Meyer much preferred the actual fucking to all this scene-setting, though you wouldn’t guess it to watch his face. He’d have made a great con man in some alternate reality. Nobody could lie to your face and make it sound like God’s honest truth quite like Meyer Cohen could.
“Mr. Parks surprised me with a lovely evening at a wine bar,” Suzy told the camera. “We talked about you, over a bottle of the most amazing cabernet.” Beside her she could practically feel Meyer breaking a sweat. He hadn’t touched a drop in ages, but he still fantasized about alcohol the way one might recall the best lay of their life. If he weren’t the most stubborn, willful person she’d ever met, she’d hesitate to taunt him this way.
“We’re dying to know what you’d like to see, tonight,” Meyer said, his voice sounding deeper, velvety. His hand let Suzy’s go to run down her thigh, the contact rough and hungry, but elegant all the same. “It’s been such a romantic night already, and we know you’ll only make it better.”
Good one. She clasped his wrist, following the strokes of his hand.
“Shall we kiss, to start things off?” Suzy asked the camera.
After a moment’s pause, “Yes, please.”
She turned, smiling, to Meyer, and though it had been well over a year since their own first kiss and many months since their first time camming together, she felt a frisson of excitement sizzle through her all the same. He was the best-looking man she’d ever dated, ever fucked, and sure, ever kissed, and she knew without a doubt exactly what he was capable of. He got her hot in a way no brand-new lover ever could. Those cool hazel eyes still gave her a zap as they traveled down and up her body in a breath. He made a woman—and surely a man, as well—feel like a target in the hottest way possible. Like his stare was a pair of crosshairs, making an inventory of her mouth, her neck, her breasts and everywhere beyond, an invisible finger stroking a trigger deep in her body.
Kissing at all had begun to feel forbidden. Most of their clients were men—or so she presumed, based on their screen names—and few requested much foreplay. They had a couple regulars, in fact, whose tastes required a little pre-gaming. Suzy would have to get herself thoroughly ramped up ahead of time, lest she wind up savaged. It was all worth it, though. They could pick and choose their audience members based on whether the sex they wanted to watch jibed with their own comfort levels. No problem for Meyer—he had no boundaries. Suzy was pickier, but she liked the various appetites of everyone in their current stable.
But Lindsay . . .
Thank you, she wanted to tell the camera when Meyer lowered his mouth to hers. Thank you for some subtlety, some savoring. For appreciating foreplay enough to dedicate up to half the hour to it. Only a woman, Suzy thought, and welcomed Meyer’s stroking tongue, thinking of all the other talents it possessed and knowing Lindsay would ask to see those things, too.
Both she and Meyer enjoyed veto power over clients. Before they cammed for anyone, they had prospective viewers fill out a short form, giving a sense of what they’d like to see. Meyer was game for whatever, and the kinkier the better. Suzy was pretty open-minded herself, but she drew a hard line at anything involving too much humiliation or other verbal abuse, and anything that sounded likely to fetishize her ethnicity. She remembered Lindsay’s proposal message, practically word for word.
I’d like to watch two people who care for each other having passionate intercourse, with special attention paid to the woman’s pleasure.
Meyer had snorted at the I-word—intercourse—but Suzy found it charming. She knew, from that moment, this wasn’t a client who’d ever order one of them to fuck the other. In fact, Lindsay didn’t order at all. She requested. Even if a direction came as a statement, you could sense the tentative please behind it, even read out by the computer.
“Undress her.” Case in point.
No matter that the generated voice was stilted, vaguely robotic. Suzy was feeling this entire scene, and her imagination had no trouble softening the awkward corners of the dictation.
Meyer ended the kiss with the softest, sweetest little bite of her lip, and smiled as he pulled away. “Slowly,” he said, not quite a question, more an invitation to be contradicted, though Suzy knew he wouldn’t be. Lindsay was never one to rush.
Before he ever touched her dress, he stripped the garment with his eyes. Suzy swallowed, the simmering lust left by his kiss intensifying, making the blood inch, thick and hot, through her body.
He slipped the fingertips of both hands under her wide collar, tracing his short, tidy nails back and forth along her clavicle. A shiver, and her eyes fluttered shut. Those hands stilled, thumbs caressing her throat.
“Stand,” Meyer said. Fuck, that voice. He spoke mildly, but there was power in the word. He made it sound like an invitation tonight, but so many times she’d heard it issued as a command. Meyer could dominate as readily as he could submit, and enjoyed both roles equally. He didn’t drink anymore; he found his high in the power play sex offered, and wasn’t bothered which side he was on.
Suzy moved to the front of the bed, her back to the camera. Meyer knew her wardrobe as a matter of professionalism. He knew which dresses to lift, which were stretchy enough to slide down her body, which skirts had persnickety hooks above their zippers that required finesse, which bras opened in the front, which the back. There was no fumbling with Meyer in control.
The dress she wore tonight was jersey, stretchy enough to roll down her body or to peel up and away. What would Lindsay want? To pull it down would be an act of exposure, vaguely aggressive, with a hint of bondage in the way it would pin her arms on the way down. Pull it up, and it would be more like an unveiling, Meyer’s gaze aimed upward, as though in wonder. Up, she voted, feeling certain of what Lindsay would prefer.
Meyer’s hands slid down her front, over her breasts, her ribs, her hips, to the hem that fell just above her knees. He tucked a thumb under each side and she ran her fingers through his hair, nails grazing his scalp. Their eyes locked. She smiled.
A whisper of fabric and the warm pads of Meyer’s hands glided up her body, tracing her silhouette. She raised her arms and he whisked the dress cleanly away with a soft crackle of static. He smoothed her hair, gaze seeming to take in each of her features with wonder and reverence. He was a hell of an actor. At moments like this, she could almost fall in love with the man he seemed to be.
Meyer stepped back, admiring her bra and panties as though they hadn’t been arguing the entire time she’d been selecting and donning them, as though they were a complete surprise to him.
“Beautiful.” He murmured it, but loud enough for Lindsay to hear. He glanced to the camera. “Shall I keep going?”
“Yes. But lay her on the bed, first.”
He sank to his knees and slipped off Suzy’s shoes. The hardwood floor was cool under her feet, his touch pure chivalry. Meyer stood and gestured to invite Suzy to lie down. He kept a hand on her thigh as she stretched out. She reclined in profile to the camera, so Lindsay would have a good view. Meyer sat at the mattress’s edge and unlaced his own shoes. As he did, his shoulder blades fidgeted beneath his snug sweater, leaving Suzy excited by the promise of his body. He felt new when they performed for Lindsay, as though she’d never seen him naked, or kissed him, or done the thousand other filthy things they had, together. Through Lindsay’s eyes, everything that went on in this room felt like a new frontier.
He shed his socks and sweater, freed the buttons at his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. She shivered at the trademark precision of his movements and at the sight of his forearms, at the tendons that twitched there as he loosened his collar. He joined her on the bed, easing her legs apart to kneel
between them.
“I like these,” he said, tracing the hems of her panties with his thumbs, light and taunting.
“I knew you would. I bought them specially.”
“Like unwrapping a gift.” He lowered, planting his hands beside her ribs, dropping low enough for their noses to touch. “Like it’s Christmas every time I take you to bed.”
Says the wayward Jew. She smiled. “Aren’t you the smooth talker, Mr. Parks? But I believe Miss Lindsay is waiting on her request.”
“She doesn’t mind me flattering my wife, surely.” He turned to pose the comment to their audience.
“Not at all. Please, don’t rush.”
Meyer smiled down at Suzy. “You see?”
“Then by all means. It’s your present. Open it however you like.”
In a blink, Meyer sat back on his heels, tugged her gruffly by the waist to him so her hips were raised, crotch pressed to his. She’d gasped, audibly, and giggled at her own shock.
“Very masterful,” she told him, and though she was teasing, the surprise had shot a bolt of true excitement through her. Images of the darker, pushier things they’d done—for their audiences and also just for themselves—flashed across her imagination, lighting her up.
Meyer slid his hands and wrists under her back, plucked her bra’s two hooks free, effortlessly. As he lifted the cups away the focus left his eyes, lust settling in that gaze and flashing it from cool to hot. She squeezed her thighs to his hips, her own excitement sparking. She couldn’t reach much, but she clasped his belt, hungry.
His smile was sharp. He grasped her hands, pinned them to the covers above her head in a quick motion, stealing her breath for a beat. Rougher than they normally were for Lindsay, but she could sense he was impatient. A touch impudent. He was going to push things, though not far enough to lose them a paying regular—Suzy trusted that much. It gave her a fresh thrill to wonder what Lindsay would make of it, and if it just might excite her, in ways she’d never anticipate.
Or not. One way to find out.
“Don’t rush me,” Meyer warned, though his tone was warm, fond. The sweetest threat. He let her wrists go. “I’ve been waiting all night to find myself in this bed with you.”
He looped his fingers under either side of her panties, and Suzy raised her legs so he could slide them off. He kept his eyes locked to hers the entire time, the contact searing. Christ, she’d miss fucking him once this year of lucrative monogamy wrapped.
“What next?” He stage-murmured it, loud enough for their audience, gaze still holding Suzy’s.
What always came next, on Lindsay’s evenings, was Meyer giving Suzy head until she came. Use your mouth, the computer voice would direct, as soon as the text came through.
“Whatever she wants.”
Suzy saw surprise flicker across Meyer’s face—the same surprise she herself registered at those words. The sentiment wasn’t shocking, but the deviation from the predictable script was.
Our little creature of habit is getting restless, Meyer’s smile seemed to say. His lips said, “Lady’s choice,” and he let her wrists go, a little act of deference.
Suzy knew what she wanted, what she’d been wanting from the second he’d pinned her hands, and what she’d not expected a chance at, tonight. Would Lindsay approve? If they did it right—kept it sensual, kept Suzy’s pleasure front and center—she hoped so.
She sat up, shuffled back a foot or so and knelt before him. With a smile, she reached again for his belt, and this time he didn’t correct her. She tugged the clasp open, unthreaded the leather from the buckle. Untucked his shirt and plucked the bottom three buttons open, revealing a slice of taut belly, a glimpse of the line of soft brown hair that led from his navel to his cock. She looked up at that exquisite face as she undid his fly and lowered the zipper. His hips and ass felt hard as she pushed his pants down a few inches, though not half as hard as his cock, trapped behind dark gray silk. She stroked him through his shorts. She’d done this a hundred times, yet it felt entirely new. She was about to do what Lindsay would never ask for. To serve him, instead of the other way around.
“Lie down,” she told him. The bed was wide, a king, and he lay in profile to the camera as Suzy had. She straddled his legs, got comfy. It had been only two nights ago—the last time they’d cammed—that she’d gone down on Meyer, yet she wanted it now as though she’d been denied this for weeks, months, a lifetime.
They were different, with different audiences.
No—we’re different with Lindsay. They were different people, different lovers. They were a couple who’d never done this before, nearly, with those mysterious, innocent eyes on them. The thought of it had Suzy aching.
She stroked him with the heel of her hand, wishing Lindsay could share every detail; the ridge of his erection through the soft fabric, the dark spot of dampness at his head. The smell of him. Soon, the taste.
Have you ever done this to a man, Lindsay? she wondered as she peeled his waistband down. His scent was sharp, his flesh hot. He had a gorgeous cock, and she knew this as a woman who’d seen her fair share. Had Lindsay seen a man from this close? Had she felt the warmth of such smooth, intimate skin as it dragged along her lower lip?
Meyer’s breathing sped up—Suzy could hear it, and see it in the way his belly rose and fell. She bet his eyes were shut, bet the chances were high he was imagining what he’d been going without for four months now—a man’s lips on him. Then his hand alighted on her head, and her hair no doubt queered the illusion. But what Meyer wanted was no matter just now. He was Mr. Parks, and the third set of eyes in this room were Lindsay’s. This was for her. This was a fantasy, pure and simple . . . though one that had Suzy hotter than she’d felt in ages.
Whatever Meyer was thinking of, it was good. His flesh was thick, hard, throbbing, already primed as she slid her lips over his crown and halfway down. The fingers in her hair twitched, and she pictured the gold band glinting on his third finger. Her own sex was wet and ready, eager to feel it when this cock claimed her, and it no doubt would—Meyer wouldn’t finish this way, not unless he was given the order to.
She let Lindsay see how much she wanted this, for herself. She got spoiled rotten on their nights, and she was dying to know now why that was. Did Lindsay want a servant, a man who lived only to please her? Or had she simply never conceived that this act could be for the woman, as much as for the man? I’ll show you, she vowed. Until Meyer couldn’t take any more or Lindsay redirected, Suzy would take exactly what she wanted.
“Sweetheart.” This from Meyer, his voice shallow. Only for Lindsay did he call Suzy “sweetheart.” For others she was baby, bitch, honey, girl, slut. Any number of nicknames, fond and crass alike, but never sweetheart. That was Lindsay’s, and just now he’d said it without thought. No script, only perfect disbelief.
She took him deep, with the zippered edge of his fly in one fist, a hunk of the bedspread in the other. She’d missed this. Giving this, performing this act. For most of their clients, if Meyer was in her mouth, he was the one doing. But now that this was her show to run, she reminded him just how goddamn good she was at it.
As she took him, she stole glances at the landscape laid before her on the bed. There was nothing quite like a gorgeous male body in a crisp dress shirt. Nothing as hot as pressed cotton growing soft and rumpled against damp skin. In due time she’d watch those muscles pumping above her, his chest taut, abdomen clenched, hips thrusting. She loved his body, long and slender. Loved that face, be it smug or mean or placid in sleep. She loved this man as a friend, loved their sex. Loved him in every way except the one that people got so damn hung up over. And she loved his body with hers, hoping their audience was breaking a sweat who-knew-how-many hundreds or thousands of miles away.
He said it again. “Sweetheart.” This time it was a plea, a gasp of desperation. She caught a dozen words hidden in those
two syllables. Stop, for the love of fuck, stop, or we’ll break the cardinal rule. Suzy had the female power of total control over the illusion of her satisfaction. She faked orgasms when she had to—to fulfill a client’s fantasy script, to round out the hour in style—though she nearly always enjoyed at least one genuine one. Meyer, on the other hand, had no such luxury, and their unarticulated promise to the viewer was that he’d never come before the hour’s director wanted him to.
Meyer was a pro, but he was human, too. Suzy eased off, slowed down, then finally let his cock slip from between her lips, glinting in the candlelight. She sat back, rubbing his thighs, and took a good long look at that face—those flushed cheeks and glazed eyes, the sheen of sweat on his brow. A wave of power surged through her, as it did every time she turned this man into a panting mess.
She turned to the camera, misgiving cooling her body as she remembered she’d just hijacked the script. With permission, but still. Lindsay was her favorite client, and it’d sting to learn she’d disappointed her.
“I hope that pleased you,” Suzy told their one-woman audience. She looked back to Meyer as she awaited the verdict, stroked his hard belly and bathed him in her best besotted-wife gaze.
The answer came at length. “I enjoyed that very much.”
“You and me both,” Meyer said, smiling, eyes on Suzy. “Perhaps I ought to reciprocate.” He came forward, crowding Suzy back playfully until she flopped back onto the mattress, giggling. But Lindsay interrupted, a rare act in itself.
“I’d like to watch you make love,” she said.
Meyer was on top of Suzy, their faces mere inches away. He flashed her a smirk, clearly as surprised as she was.
“Very well,” he said, straightening to undo his remaining buttons and shed his shirt. He left the bed, ditching his pants and shorts, naked when he next joined Suzy on the increasingly rumpled covers.
“How?” Suzy asked their witness, but kept her attention on Meyer.
“Fast. But put her pleasure first.”