Stripped Down (12 page)

“I'm going to come…,” she gasped, as Babe kept up the delicious rhythm. Rebecca tried to hold herself back, but Babe wouldn't let her. She knew she came very wet, and didn't want to drown Babe. But in a moment, it was beyond her control, and she felt herself gushing. Babe's busy tongue lapped it up, and thrust deep inside her vagina, licking and probing the walls in a pleasurable examination. When she lifted her face to Rebecca it was glistening, and her broad grin shone wetly. She crawled up to cuddle with Rebecca, who was still pretty much incapable of speech, kissing her cheeks and eyes and lips.

“You know,” she told Rebecca, “when I was with men, I always had a hard time coming, and one of the only ways I could was when the guy went down on me. And they never wanted to do it, or do it long enough. When I finally came out, I determined to be the best pussy-eater in Danbury, then work my way up to Chicago…maybe the whole Midwest.”

“You're definitely on your way,” Rebecca sighed.

“I know you're not going to move out here,” Babe said.
“But I didn't want to let you get away without at least trying to get to know you a little….”

“I'm glad you did,” Rebecca told her. “Sometimes I regret not following through on my own impulses. I liked you, too, but I was too shy to do anything about it.” Babe seemed to be waiting for her to say something else. “I could come here again. It's not
that
far away.”

“Or I could ride you back to Chicago,” Babe offered. “You know, I still do some runs in the truck on the weekends,” Babe told her. “I like someone to ride along. If you feel like riding shotgun, I could show you around…”

“The interstate?” Rebecca teased.

“The part of a rig where the trucker sleeps…or whatever,” Babe told her.

“I've never done anything like that,” Rebecca said wonderingly. Babe watched her carefully, looking, Rebecca was sure, for some sign of rejection or disdain. “I think…doing things I've never done before has made me a happier person. At least some of the time.”

“Then you should definitely pick up a load of onions in Vidalia, Georgia, with me next month,” Babe told her. “They're the sweet kind.”

“Like you,” Rebecca said, and Babe blushed once more.

TOUCHÉE

Jean Roberta

 

 

 

 

“Sheila.” The large, friendly manager seemed to be smiling all over. Her short, wheat-blonde hair and pink face gave a perverse impression of wholesome sleaze. “You know what this job involves, don't you?”

Sheila McLean shifted in her chair, hoping that her outfit was the best choice for this interview. She was a small, shapely brunette with a shrewd face dominated by dark-chocolate eyes. In her short black leather skirt and turquoise knit top, she managed to look tough and vulnerable, young but worldly-wise. She was quick, naturally graceful, and wary. She was sexier than she knew. “Yes,” she answered.

Frances Veronica, the manager known as Vern, studied her. Vern had grown up in a
series of unsuccessful cafés, coffee shops, and nightclubs run by her parents, and she liked to think there was nothing she didn't know about the service industry. She also liked to think she was a sensible dyke and a good judge of character. She wouldn't admit that falling in love could make her forget her own name.

“I see you have serving experience,” Vern remarked, skimming over the resume in her hand. The paper was clean, the laser-print type sharp and impersonal, but a faint perfume rose from the sheet. Vern felt as though she were already touching the new job applicant, but first she wanted to satisfy her intellectual curiosity.

“Have you ever worked in the sex business?” Vern softened the question with an inviting grin.

“No.” Sheila licked her lips. “But I…no.”

Vern was intrigued. “But what?”

Sheila dropped her eyes. “I lived with an alcoholic for a while. I used to give, um, her whatever she wanted to keep her calmed down. She had a temper.” Vern waited for a punch line that never came. “So I'm used to being available for sex,” concluded Sheila. “Anytime.”

Vern was moved in spite of herself. So this wounded little cat was into women, and at least one had used her badly. “Honey,” she sighed. “You probably need some time to get your life together. This probably isn't the job for you.”

Sheila's eyes flashed fire. “You don't have to protect me,” she returned in a voice of dull steel. “I worked in a restaurant where the cook and the owner were always making stupid remarks about my ass, and another place where the customers couldn't keep their hands off me and all the manager cared about was how fast I could get their orders out to them. Here
I'd know what to expect, and I'd be ready, and I'd get paid fairly. That means a lot to me.”

Vern shook her head. “Sheila, we get adults of all kinds in the Petting Zoo. Men, women, and everything in between. They all have the right to touch the servers within limits. Some will want to finger-fuck you, and some will want to go further. Against the wall or bent over a table. You can say no, but if you do, you won't get a tip and they might not come back. Some will bring in nipple clips for you to wear while you serve them. Some will want to spank you if they're not satisfied with your service. If I agree with them, I do it myself.”

Vern paused for breath. “You don't have to let customers hit you, or use anything but their hands, but they will try. Especially when you're new. Customers come here for the servers. We serve good food too, but they could get that in other places. We'll protect you from real violence, and we won't hesitate to kick out crazies and drunks. But you'll be touched all the time. Whenever you're on the job.”

Vern warmed to her topic as she looked Sheila in the eyes. “Do you know the term
bottom space?
” she demanded.

“Yes,” smiled Sheila. She hadn't been dismissed, and this was a good sign.

“That's the only acceptable attitude for this job,” Vern warned her. “You can't be a martyr and put up with getting pawed just because you need the money. You have to offer yourself and show how much you want to please every single customer. You have to need this. You'll be the special on the menu every day. It's not a job for everyone.”

Sheila stood up, trembling only slightly. “Try me.” Vern let her gaze rise slowly to Sheila's breasts, where her hard nipples were clearly visible. “I'll show you. You could try me out.”

Vern looked at the girl just long enough to let her reach the edge of panic. “Come here,” Vern ordered. She pulled her chair out from behind the desk and sat with her thighs spread and her hands firmly planted on them. She wasn't smiling.

Sheila walked up to her expectantly. “Take your clothes off,” the manager told her calmly. “Slowly. Don't show off, but give me a show.”

Sheila shrugged out of her top, clearly fighting the impulse to hurry up and get it over with. Her small breasts pointed at Vern with brave impudence, and her nipples were redder than Vern expected. Looking down to pull off her skirt and panties, Sheila wiggled to ease fabric and leather over her hips. Vern felt stirred. The girl's movements weren't smooth yet, but her desire to please burned in every gesture.

Sheila stood naked for Vern's inspection. A silver ring with a ruby-colored bead winked in the girl's small, shallow navel. The shockingly dark triangle of her chestnut bush made her surrounding thighs and belly look pearly white and vulnerable.

“Not bad,” chuckled Vern. “Turn around.” Sheila pivoted to drumbeats in her mind, showing a butterfly tattoo on the back of one shoulder and a rose-and-briar design below the small of her back, just where her flesh curved into buttocks that certainly deserved to be noticed. The black lines of the rose were smudged, and the image looked like high school artwork, but the butterfly was an exquisitely detailed monarch in clear tones of orange, yellow, white, and black. It looked as though it could fly away. Vern decided to ask about the tattoos later.

“Close your eyes,” Vern instructed. Sheila's smoky eyelids dropped apprehensively. She wanted to pass the manager's
test, and she didn't realize that Vern was trying to make it easier for her by taking away the distraction of sight. Vern cupped one of Sheila's little breasts in a warm hand, bouncing it gently before advancing on the uppity nipple with grasping fingers. “Are you my slave girl for the evening?” she prompted.

“Whatever you want me to be,” agreed the girl. “I'm here to serve.”

Vern pulled one nipple, stretching it, while squeezing the other. “I'll have a dark rum and coke, honey,” she ordered, “and maybe I'll drink some off your cute titties.” She pitched her voice to sound masculine, and slurred her words. “I'll have the stuffed mushrooms to start. And the sixteen-ounce sirloin for the main course. I'll have brandied pears and Colombian coffee for dessert. You got that?”

Sheila repeated the order. She had studied the menu.

“Any questions?” prompted Vern.

“How do you want your steak done?”

“Rare, baby,” answered Vern in the guise of a smug male patron. “I like my meat almost raw.” One of her hands slid down Sheila's rib cage to tug at her navel ring. Two fingers went south to stroke dark hair. “You wet for me yet, cunt?” she sneered, trying to catch the girl off guard.

“Oh yes,” sighed Sheila, shifting her weight to give the manager easy access. “Sir,” she added. Vern plunged two fingers into her, skimming over her clit and aiming for a sensitive, spongy area in her depths. Vern deliberately moved her fingers in wetness until the swishing sound was louder than Sheila's breathing.

“What else do you need to ask me?” demanded Vern. “I shouldn't have to remind you.” Vern's experienced fucking finger massaged Sheila's G-spot until the girl could feel deep
tremors moving toward a crisis point. “You better not come,” warned Vern. “What do you need to know, bitch?”

Sheila was having trouble staying upright, and she didn't dare clutch the manager's shoulders for support. She racked her brain. “Do—you—want—soup or salad—” she gasped, “with—your steak?”

Vern withdrew from her victim, stroking her clit on the way out. Sheila guessed that she was wearing a latex glove. “What's the soup du jour?” teased Vern. “I don't want your clam juice.”

Sheila was desperate, but she knew better than to hesitate too long. “Tomato rice or country chicken,” she blurted, hoping these answers were in the realm of possibility.

“I'll have the tomato rice,” ordered Vern. “Good girl,” she added. “What else?”

Sheila took a deep breath. “Baked, mashed, or French-fried potatoes or rice?” she asked.

Vern ran a moist hand lovingly over Sheila's hip, and the smell of the girl's lust rose to her own nose. “Mmm,” mused the manager. “Crispy, golden French fries,” she suggested, making them sound obscenely tempting. “Sit here,” she invited, pulling the girl toward her with two kneading hands on her asscheeks. Without opening her eyes, Sheila found her way onto Vern's lap while holding her arms for support. “You still cooking?” snickered the manager.

“Oh yes,” sighed Sheila. Her need had become a persistent, throbbing ache that showed no sign of going away.

“Good,” Vern approved. “Let it motivate you, Sheila. But remember that your customer's needs come first.”

A deep, half-muffled groan emerged into the air like the last sound from a captive who no longer expects to be rescued.
“Should I call you Sir?” begged Sheila. “What would you like me to do? I want to know what you want.”

“Easy, honey,” soothed Vern, rubbing Sheila's back as though she were a young child. “When I want something, I'll ask you. Meanwhile, just respond. Trust your instincts. And call me Sir until I tell you to call me something else.”

Vern tucked Sheila's head beneath her own and idly played with her glossy chin-length hair. It was gelled into long spikes in a haystack style that looked wild in such an artful way that Vern thought it might as well have been pinned and sprayed into a 1960s French twist. Vern ran her fingers through it, wanting to peel off the gel and touch dark feminine softness.

She inhaled the scent of Sheila's scalp. “You smell good,” Vern told her, “but you put too much gunk in your hair. I'd like it clean and natural.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” mewed the girl. Vern ignored the apology.

She wrapped her arms around the lightweight girl on her lap and played with her breasts. “You ever have milk in here, honey?”

“No,” laughed Sheila. She was tickled by the unexpected question.

“You like this?” persisted the manager, giving one breast a hard squeeze.

The realization that Vern wanted to give her pleasure seemed to ripple through Sheila's flesh from her still-tingling scalp to the soles of her feet. “Yes, Sir,” she gushed, blushing prettily. “I love it.”

“Open your eyes,” Vern told her. Sheila looked up at her, and Vern bent her head to give the girl a long, slow, juicy kiss.

Then she let the girl go, gently but firmly. “Where'd you get your tattoos?” She rested one hand on Sheila's bottom, below the ragged rose.

“Oh.” Sheila seemed distracted. “The rose one was done by a guy I knew who wanted to practice. He was learning to be a tattoo artist.” Vern sensed that both the needlework and the relationship had hurt the girl more than she expected. Vern ran a finger over the stylized vine. “I got the butterfly when I was in art school and I met Mike Flash. Do you know who he is?”

“A famous tattoo guy?” joked Vern.