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A Live One

Please note: This piece contains sexually explicit material. If you are under the legal age in your location for reading sexually explicit writing, or if you are offended by sexually explicit writing, please stop here and do not read any further. By continuing to read this piece, you are confirming that you understand that this is adult material and that you are of legal age to read it.

A Live One
by Greta Christina

What an asshole, Sheila thinks as she plays with her pussy. He's been popping quarters into the booth like they were rock candy. A smile wouldn't cost anything extra.

She smiles down at the customer through the glass, a sugary, seductive smile full of bubble and promise. He responds with the same blank stare he's been giving her for the last five minutes. His face is flat and listless, a cheap cement statue of a gloomy frog, with a faint trickle of hostility leaking through the stone set of his mouth.

She sighs and spins around, giving up, turning her face away. She sticks her butt in the window and runs her hand slowly over her ass. The fucking brick-wall men, she thinks. I've never understood why they come here. I mean, I can give them the sight of a dancing naked woman, but I can't give them the joy of watching a naked woman dance. Don't they get that they have to bring that themselves?

She licks her forefinger and runs it up and down her pussy as she gyrates her hips to the thumping music. She catches Tanisha's eye and gives her the contemptuous look she can't give the customer. Tanisha gives a quick nod of sympathy and turns back to Danielle. The younger girl is sprawled over Tanisha's lap; she squirms and rolls her hips dramatically, putting on an extravagant show for the two drunken sailors in the corner booth. Tanisha scowls ferociously and slaps Danielle's tight, round rump; Danielle gives a theatrical squeal and wriggles in delight.

I like a girl who enjoys her work, Sheila smiles to herself. She knows these two; they'll be doing the real thing later on. They love faking the guys out, but they never do it for real for money.

She hears the panel slide down behind her, and glances over her shoulder. Yup, he's gone. What a tragic loss to the human race. She arches her back, sore from bending over, and looks around dutifully for a new customer.

Sure enough, just as she finishes stretching, the panel in the other corner booth slides up. She glances at Lorelei, who's busily spreading her pussy for a middle-aged man with a briefcase in one hand and his dick in the other. Guess the new one's mine, Sheila concludes. Conscientious as always, she shimmies over, squats in front of the guy, and smiles. "Hi," she hollers over the deafening synth-pop din. "I'm Chloe."

In response, he pulls a pad and pen out of his pocket and begins scribbling. He holds it up to the window and smiles back. Hi Chloe, it reads. I'm Henry.

Her eyebrows shoot up, surprised and impressed. Smart guy, she thinks. Inventive. And he actually wants to talk to me. Maybe this will be a live one.

She tucks her legs under her like a cheesecake model and runs her hand over her torso. "So, Henry; you come here often?"

He writes furiously and holds the pad up again. Yes, it says. That's why I brought this. I know it's too loud in there for you to hear me...

He flips to another page and scribbles some more. But I want to be able to talk. This is the best I could come up with.

He reaches into his pocket and drops a handful of quarters into the slot. She ducks her head and blushes; she knows she should know better, but she's always a little surprised when guys drop their money just to look at her. She licks her finger and runs it over her nipple. "So, you like me?"

Yes, he writes. You seem... friendly.

She leans back, spreads her pussy lips open for a teasing moment, then lets them close again. "I try," she answers. "So what would you like to talk about?"

You, he writes.

"Sure," she smiles. "What would you like to know?"

He thinks for a moment, then scribbles again. What part of your body do you like best?

Her eyebrows shoot up again. "Interesting question. No one's asked me that before."

Really? Nobody?

"Well, nobody in here," she shrugs. "But to answer your question, I'd say... my ass. I like my ass a lot. Would you like to see it?"

He scribbles hastily. Sure I'd like to see your ass...

He flips to a new page. But I want to see your face, too.

"You got it, bub," she says cheerfully. She leaps to her feet, spins around, flops over at the waist and gapes at him between her legs. "How's this?" she grins.

He laughs and shakes his head. That's really silly, he writes.

"You're right," she answers. "I never understood that one either. Okay... let's try this."

She gets on her hands and knees, putting her body in profile. She gives him a smoky look over her shoulder, tousles her hair and growls. Tiger woman, she thinks. Queen of the jungle. She shifts her leg to show him her soft, round ass, arches her back and grinds her hips in slow circles. "How's that?" she asks.

Much better, he writes. So what do you like doing with your ass, Chloe?

She doesn't hesitate. "I like to get it fucked," she replies crudely.

Show me.

She puts her finger in her mouth and draws it out slowly, getting it nice and wet. An unexpected shudder goes through her body as she raises her eyes to meet his. His gaze trails down her back like gentle fingers, and she squirms and wriggles, pleased and flattered and oddly bashful. She reaches back with one hand, opens her asscheeks invitingly, and runs her wet finger up and down the crack. He gazes back at her face, solemn and anxious; she gives him a small, coy smile and waits.

Please?

She grins and licks her lips. She wets her finger again, then slowly slides it into her asshole.

A sudden rush of pleasure rolls into her head. She moans and closes her eyes, almost against her will, as she slowly pumps her finger into her ass. A small, tight spot in her throat begins to dissolve, melts down into her breasts and stomach; she bucks her hips up hard, bites her lip, and begins to whimper quietly. Her ass clenches tight around her finger, pulling it in deeper.

She opens her eyes suddenly, remembering where she is, and gives Henry a wild, intent look. His hands are pressed against the glass, clutching the notebook; his eyes are open wide, shining with lechery and delight. She shoves a second finger into her asshole and begins to fuck herself in earnest, hard and crude and a little rough, just the way she likes it. She moans louder, throws her head back, and lets out a sharp little cry of bliss.

She collapses onto the floor, panting dramatically. She rolls onto her back, pulls out her fingers and surreptitiously wipes them onto the grimy carpet. "Oh, my god," she whispers.

He takes a deep breath and pulls away from the glass. Jesus, you're beautiful, he writes. Thank you.

She props herself up on her elbow. "You're welcome," she says.

Was it real? he writes.

"Mmmmmm," she murmurs. "You bet."

Really?

She hesitates. "Well... yeah," she says uncomfortably. "More or less. I mean, it felt good. Felt real good, actually. But no, I didn't come, if that's what you're asking."

He smiles and nods. Thanks for being honest. I appreciate that.

A softer song comes on the jukebox. So, do you like working here? Henry writes.

The lie springs to Sheila's lips, the automatic lie hammered into her by months of unspoken training. She gives him a long, serious look, looks around to make sure nobody is listening, and speaks.

"Well... here's the deal," she murmurs, as softly as she can and still have him hear her, as loudly as she can without being overheard.

"Yeah, I do like it. The money's good, and the hours are flexible. I don't have to work forty hours to pay the rent. And the dancing itself is fun. I like to dance and I like my body... and I like sex, I like being sexy." He grins and waggles his eyebrows. "And the other women are amazing. They're smart and funny, and they really take care of each other. I just love them to pieces."

But...

It all comes out in a rush. "The fucking men," she says bitterly. "They want it all spoon-fed to them. Pussy and pleasure and all the rest of it. They think sex should be like TV, but with hotter babes and no commercials. They just wanna sit back and suck it down like baby birds. They don't smile, they don't say hi, they don't say 'Thank you' or 'You're pretty' or even 'Nice tits, baby.' They just stare like dead fish. Not all of them... but a fuck of a lot of them." She takes a deep breath, startled by her own anger.

He nods. Men are assholes, he scribbles.

She laughs heartily, her bitterness broken for the moment. "Thank you," she says. "So... what would you like to see now? Anything special?"

What would you like?

She chuckles. "Why don't you take your clothes off and dance for me," she jokes. "Just for a change."

He scribbles seriously for a long minute. Okay. But I'd better warn you, I'm not a very good dancer.

He sets the pad on the bench, runs his hand through his hair, and slowly begins to undress. She stretches out like a cat and watches in awe, amazed that he took her seriously.

He unbuttons his shirt, slowly, caressing his chest as he uncovers it bit by bit. She plays with her own body in response, moving her hand over her belly as he strips off his shirt and shows her his thin chest. Hesitantly, he begins to roll his torso in slow, snakelike ripples. She can smell herself, the sharp, salty smell her pussy gives off when it wants something really badly. She watches hungrily as he slides his hands down over his hips. He begins to rub his dick through his jeans, and she draws a sudden, ragged breath. Her pulse beats hard inside her clit; she shoves her hand between her thighs and squeezes tight.

Suddenly he stops dancing and snatches up the pad and pen. I feel silly, he writes. I feel like a dork.

She shakes her head, baffled. "You shouldn't," she replies. "You look great. I'm getting totally wet watching you." She stares meaningfully at his crotch. "Now show me more."

He drops the pad and pen, slumps against the wall, and gives her a moody, smoldering stare like a model for designer jeans. She laughs and nods approvingly. He begins to move again, squirming against the wall. Slowly, teasingly, he unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, and tugs his swollen dick out of his pants and into the open air. He cradles it in his hand and gives her a wide-open look, proud and fearful and eager for approval.

She ogles his cock and licks her lips, drinking in his eagerness like water. "Very pretty," she says. "Very nice indeed. But I wanna see more. Turn around and pull them all the way down. Show me your ass."

He complies immediately; he turns to face the wall, and slowly pulls his jeans down over his slim hips. She whistles appreciatively as the fabric drops to his thighs and his bare ass is revealed. He blushes bright red, presses his hands against the wall, and bends over to give her a better look. She stares intently at his ass, relishing his exposure, sucking in the view like a starving woman. Her clit thumps hard, demanding attention, and she begins to caress it in earnest. I love a boy who does what I tell him, she thinks.

"Now turn around again," she commands. "Let me see your dick. Let me see you jerk off."

He spins around to face her, jeans around his knees, face flushed, his dick twitching of its own accord. He jams his back against the wall, licks his hand like a dog, and begins to slide it up and down the shaft of his cock.

A sudden flash of longing stabs into her cunt, and she whimpers and spreads her legs wider. She opens her pussy lips with her fingers and thrusts her hips towards the glass, frantically and insistently, forcing her hole into the open, trying to show him as much of herself as she can. His eyes widen as they take in her sopping wet cunt; he grips his cock with a trembling hand as she spreads herself apart and furiously rubs her swollen clit. Their eyes connect; they stare intently, flushed, shivering, mouths hanging open, eyes wide. His hand moves faster and faster; a shudder travels through his body, and he bites his lip, throws his head back, and squirts into his hand. She sees his face contort, and cries out hard, and comes.

They both take a deep breath and slump backwards. Sheila stretches back and clamps her thighs around her hand; Henry collapses against the wall, lost in quiet bliss. At last he pulls his pants up, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wipes the come off his hand. He picks up the pad and pen. Thank you thank you thank you, he writes.

"Jesus," she gasps. "You're welcome. Thank you."

That was real... right?

She nods. "Yeah," she answers. "That was real."

The window panel starts to slide down. Henry scrabbles through his pockets and quickly drops another quarter in the slot. The panel slides up again; he spreads his hand and shows her the contents with a sad, wistful smile. One more quarter. He drops it in and shrugs. How much time do we have?

"About a minute," she answers. "Shit. You'd better get dressed."

He pulls his shirt on and zips his pants. So is your name really Chloe? he writes.

"No," she replies. "Of course not."

What is it really?

She gives him a long, clear look. Maybe I should make up a fake real name, she thinks. She likes this guy a lot; it'd make him happy to think she'd confided in him. She thinks carefully for a moment, then shakes her head.

"I'm not going to tell you that," she says. "I'm sorry."

Quite all right, he scribbles. I understand. Thanks for not lying.

"You're welcome," she replies.

They stare at each other awkwardly, somewhat at a loss for words. "That was wonderful," she says at last. "Really. You made my day."

He kisses his hand and reaches out to touch the glass. The panel drops down, sliding over his hand, clicking shut. "Come back sometime," she calls into the metal plate. She presses her hands against the window, drained and dazed and a bit forlorn, hoping that he heard her.

She feels a light touch on her shoulder. "Hey, Chloe," Tanisha says. "It's time for your break." She gives Sheila a light slap on the rump. "Nice show, girl," she adds. "Hell, you even got me going."

"Thanks," Sheila sighs. "Me, too. Sometimes I really like this job."

"I know what you mean, babe," Tanisha says as Sheila walks off the stage. "I know what you mean."


Copyright 1997 Greta Christina. Previously published in Penthouse Magazine, February 1997. Reprinted in Penthouse: Between the Sheets, Time/Warner; Best American Erotica 2003, edited by Susie Bright, Simon & Schuster; and Paying For It: A Guide by Sex Workers for Their Clients, Greenery Press.

     

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