The John

She held it in her hand, stroking the tip with her thumb.

Soft and warm, she thought. Just like a baby bird.

Above her, the old man with the faded tattoo of an anchor on his chest moaned.

Sticking out her tongue, she gave it a slow, long lick.

Though his eyes fluttered, his penis remained flaccid.

Sucking a soft penis was different, but not altogether unpleasant. There was no rush or force. Taking it at her own pace, she sucked in her cheeks, drawing him in. As minutes passed, her mind quieted and wandered. In between sucks, she swirled her tongue as if she were giving a French kiss. Though still limp, she fixated on the man’s serene face, ready to take direction.

With gritty longing, he sighed. “My balls, Song . . . lick ‘em, Baby . . . please.”

Strangely, a spasm of pleasure shot between her legs. Sure, he was old and had gotten her name wrong, but that wasn’t uncommon. She’d been called many names throughout the course of her career.

“Oooooh,” he groaned with emotion. “I missed you, Song. For so long. I never stopped missing you.”

Crouching between the old man’s legs, crisscrossed in pale blue veins, she lapped and flicked one sack and then the other. When she was rewarded with a thick groan, she slurped loudly, letting a thread of spit hang from her bottom lip.

Johns tended to prefer sloppy.

Though this one didn’t appear to be watching. His eyes had remained closed from the moment she’d dropped to her knees, and he’d wrapped her long hair into his liver-spotted fist. Stopping, she ran her tongue up the sour seam of his perineum.

Above, she heard him gasp; the hand in her hair reflexively tightening then relaxing almost as if in apology.

No-no-no.” It was half grumble, half laughter. “My girl isn’t the sort who does those sort of things.”

Withholding the impulse to giggle at the unexpected chivalry, ever mindful, she glanced at the red numbers on the clock.

“Mister,” she politely interrupted. “We only have a few more minutes. Is there something else you’d like to do?”

He had, after all, paid for more than a blowjob.

Eyelids fluttering open, his gaze sharpened on her upturned face.


Disoriented, the rheumy eyes flit across the room, so lost he was in another time, another place.

Sounding afraid, he asked, “Where is my Song?”

“I’m sorry,” she started. “I’m not . . . Song. Don’t you remember? I’m a—“

She stopped, seeing tears begin to well in his eyes.

Sinking slowly, he sat on the bed, put his head in his hands, and began to weep.

Not knowing what to do, she placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Are you OK, Mister? Is there someone I can call for you?”

The No was so faint and muffled, she almost didn’t hear it.

Hesitantly, she got dressed. Still uncertain whether to stay or go, she reached for her bag and walked to the door. When she opened it, streams of sunlight illuminated the dank, dark motel room.

Though she was about to leave, something made her stop and turn.


When he looked up, the sun caught his eyes, turning them a clear, brilliant blue. And the only person she could see sitting on the bed was a handsome young man in a crisp white sailor’s uniform.

Though she blinked, he was still there.

“I . . . I’m sorry you lost your Song.”

Straightening, the young man flashed a sad smile and gave her a curt salute.

Shaking her head, she shut the door behind. With the LA sun—blinding and hot—on her face, she popped a stale breath mint into her mouth and went back to work.

She’d return in two hours though, unable to shake thoughts of the old man.

Blue lights flashed.

“I didn’t know he was that sick,” she cried to the paramedic lifting the gurney. “I swear if I had known, I would have called 911 this afternoon.”

The paramedic lifted an eyebrow, fixing her with an odd stare.

“Wouldn’t have helped much, Ma’am.” He wrinkled his nose. “Old dude’s been dead for at least a week.”



The bell on the door tinkles and is quickly followed by the familiar taptap of expensive high heels.

Not lifting my eyes from the piping bag, I greet her with nonchalance. “Morning, Mrs Roseberg.”

“Hello, Emily.”

The tone, as sharp as the diamonds that pierce her lobes, makes me stiffen despite being used to it.

Craning her long neck over the display case, she asks, “What’s that you’re working on? Is that buttercream?”

Mousseline buttercream,” I correct. “It’s for the Davis’s 50th anniversary.”

“What’s the difference?” she asks with an interest her surgically enhanced features can’t mimic.

“It has a richer, more luxurious texture.”

When the pink of her tongue meets the expertly drawn-on lips, the core of me involuntarily clenches.

The first time we met, she came to the shop to order a cake for her daughter, Mitzi’s, Sweet 16. Two weeks later, she was back for a baby shower. After that, it was under the guise of a bat mitzvah that she pushed me into the back cooler and mashed her tits against mine. The aggressiveness would have been offensive if I hadn’t experienced such a visceral reaction to the lost animal look in her eyes.

Haughtily, she clicks her tongue. “I don’t have all day, Emily. I have important things to do.” Though there’s an underlying hint of desperation.

With a nod, I lay the piping bag on my work table and walk to the back cooler. Behind me, the tap of her heels follows and stops when the cooler door closes behind.

“Oh, Emily.” Her eyes widen and glaze. The mask falls. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

I know. The patterns are intricate. The peaks crisp and high. Inside, the cake is delicate and spongy with layers of oozing apricot and fig.

It’s three feet high. Because size does matter to Mrs Roseberg.

Wasting no time, she unzips the back of the black pencil skirt and shimmies it down her narrow hips. Beneath her sex is smooth and slightly red, telling me she waxed for the occasion. Hurriedly, she unbuttons the white silk top and removes the lace camisole beneath. Her breasts are tiny and pert. Her body is toned, courtesy, I’m sure, of a personal trainer.

While my cakes aren’t sexual to me, I’m affected by how aroused they make her feel. Historically, I have no interest in sex—I find it an awkward non-event—but there’s a clenching between my legs as I watch her straddle, lower, and mash into the tower of cake. It grows with the lowering of her eyes; the way she rubs the frosting over her nipples and between her legs. It’s in the little hitches of breath and whimpers she makes as she rides.

I imagine it’s like being told you have the biggest and best dick in town.

When the cake is demolished and she’s done scooting across the floor, I hand her a towel as a courtesy. Out of breath, she wipes the frosting from between her legs, her breasts, and bottom.

I often wonder where she stops to wash it all off before she goes home?

“Did you enjoy your cake, Mrs Roseberg?”

The question is caustic. It’s meant to be. Shame is as important as presentation and texture.

“It was a bit dry,” she retorts. “Next time make it moist and use that mousseline buttercream.”

Though when she hands me the envelope of cash, she avoids my eyes.

Thoughtfully, I listen to the retreating tap of her heels and then the tinkle of the shop bell.

Later, I’ll go home and think about her lying in bed next to Mr Roseberg and wonder if he’s ever met the sad animal living inside her eyes.

I grab the mop and get to cleaning up.

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“I got it through an arrangement,” the man told the doctor with a scowl. “But it’s defective. It just lays there, giving me dirty looks. It barely does anything at all.”

The doctor appraised it. Wearing the too-short hospital gown, it had long black hair, dark exotically shaped eyes, and big breasts.

“It’s pretty,” the doctor said with a friendly smile, lending a hand to help it onto the examination table. “Does it talk?”

“No.” The man shook his head. “It’s dumb, I think.”

“I see.”

Gently, he placed his hand on its shoulder and pushed, encouraging it to lie on its back. When it was lying flat and he reached down to place its ankles in the stir-ups, it apprehensively tried to scooch away.

“No-no-no, Dear,” he reprimanded, easily snatching a slender ankle and snapping it into the restraints. “We need you still, so we can examine you.”

In response, the dark eyes glittered at him with resentment.

When he went to push up the gown, it tried to push his hands away.

“No,” he snapped firmly. “We need to see if anything’s wrong. If you get in the way, we’ll have no choice but to restrain your arms as well. Is that necessary?”

Though its bottom lip plumped out in dissention, its arms went to its sides.

“Thank you,” he smiled.

Peering between its legs, he was greeted with a thick, yet well-groomed, black bush. The two perfectly symmetrical pubis lips jutted out from beneath the thatch of hair were a healthy purple.

As he smoothed back the hair and pulled the lips apart to get a better look, he asked the owner, “What exactly does it do when you attempt to copulate with it?”

The man groaned. “When I first got it, it was practically feral. It spit and made unpleasant noises. It even scratched me, so I had to cut its nails back. After that, I bound its hands and feet. It didn’t like that very much.” He smiled meanly. “So, over time, it settled down.” The man ran an agitated sigh over the stubble of his head. “But mostly it just lies there and doesn’t do anything at all.”

“Does it make any sounds? Any indication of how it feels? Is it possible that intercourse causes it pain?”

“Sometimes it grunts or sighs.” The man looked down, embarrassed. “Once it yawned. But mostly nothing. I don’t think it works right.”

“How does it feel inside?”

“Alright, I guess. But it doesn’t get as squishy as I like.”

“There, there,” the doctor crooned spreading the soft black pubic hair back and gently peeling the lips apart. “It’s alright. Let’s see what you have going on down there, so we can help you.”

Beneath his fingers, he could feel how tense it was. To calm it, he pushed his finger into the soft thatch of hair to find the hooded nub. Though it was tiny, he found it and began to rub in gentle circles. When he did, he felt it jump and let out a surprised gasp. When he looked up, its dark eyes were looking down in confusion.


As he continued the examination and continued to rub the little nub, it grew harder, stiffer, and larger beneath his thumb. A longing mewl even escaped its lip.

“Do you prepare the area before you penetrate it?” he asked even though he already suspected the answer.

“Um. No,” the man stuttered defensively. “That wasn’t mentioned when I got it. Nor was it in the manual. I was made to believe it was coming to me fully functional. No step up required.”

“I see,” mumbled the doctor, running a calloused finger down the thickening lips where fluid was gathering around its breeding hole. “Sometimes it just needs a little help . . . makes it more agreeable. Some of them are more fickle than others.”

Though this one didn’t appear to be difficult at all. In fact, it was lubricating faster than most and showing all the signs of arousal. Quickening breath. Dilated pupils. Erect nipples. It seemed to be on its way to orgasm.

“Come over here, Mister Dodd,” the doctor nodded his head to the man. “I want to show you something.”

When the man was standing behind him, looking over his shoulder, he said. “You see how I’m rubbing this little gland with one hand? It prepares the area. You can also use your other hand to stroke and manipulate the outer and inner lips. Look how they darken in color and get slippery? These models respond very positively to external stimulation. They are self-lubricating. A little work before penetration goes a long way to produce that squishy feeling you mentioned.”

Underneath him, the thing undulated its hips, bit its bottom lip, and moaned.

The man’s brow furrowed. “I swear, Doc. It doesn’t work this way at home! It twists its lips like it ate something rotten and stays dry as a bone.”

The doctor laughed. “Like I said, some of them can be a little fickle.”

“Can I try?”

“Sure,” the doctor said removing his hand, but admittedly with regret. He liked the way this one responded, the way it looked, and the sounds it made. His feelings were unprofessional and left him feeling uncomfortable. He had an overwhelming urge to see how fast and how much he could make it orgasm. He found himself smugly liking that while its owner could not arouse it, *he* could.

When the man got between its legs, instinctively, it flinched. And while the stirrups held its legs apart, they shook with the exertion of trying to close. The man mashed his hand between the pubic lips and pushed a meaty finger into its breeding hole, moving roughly back and forth, causing it to let out a pained cry.

“See what I mean?” the man said with an aggravated puff. “It just clamps down and doesn’t let me in. It’s so frigid. There’s something wrong with it.”

Annoyed, the doctor huffed and pushed the man away. “Here. Just watch.”

Rubbing his hands together to make them warm, he placed them first on the thighs, caressing them. When he felt it begin to relax, he slid his hands down and massaged either side of its outer lips, moving them gently, but firmly, between his thumbs. When he moved on to rub the little nub, it let out a cry and gushed a half a teaspoon of liquid.

“You see, Mister Dodd, you don’t just stick your fingers in the breeding hole right away. You have to get it ready first. You have to relax it. If you forth a little effort before penetration, they respond favorably.”

To prove his point, he reached into his pocket, and showed the man a medium-sized plug. After squirting some lubrication on it, he addressed It. “I’m going to put this inside your anus. I want you to take a deep breath in as I do. Do you understand?”

Though its eyes widened with worry, it took a deep breath. Slowly, he slide the lubricated plug into the dark of its rosebud. It was a tight fit, and he felt it stiffen.

“It’s alright,” he assured. “Just keep breathing.” As it did as it was told, he pushed the plug in further until it was completely in. “I know it’s a little uncomfortable at first. But it builds a sensation of fullness that you will grow to enjoy the more you practice.” When the plug was snug and fully inserted, slowly he began to move it in and out. The thing let out a little animal noise of pleasure and writhed its sexy hips.

“See?” he told the man. “It wants things inside it. It’s what it’s made for. You just have to prep them a little.”

The creature’s cunt lips were so swollen and wet, he couldn’t keep his eyes off them. Needing to know what it felt like inside, he looked to the man, trying to keep a professional tone though his cock was hard as a rock.

“May I demonstrate?” he asked.

The man let out an Hmph, clearly not thrilled with the idea, but in the end shrugged his shoulders and said meanly, “Be my guest, Doc. But it’s a horrible fit. They must have sent me a used model.”

Cocking a skeptical eyebrow, the doctor unzipped his trousers, pulled down his boxers, and fisted his hard cock in his hand. The thing’s mouth parted as it watched him, its gaze sliding down to the hard cock he was gripping in its hand. He couldn’t help it. He stared into its dilated eyes, knowing his own were also dark with desire. It wanted him. He wanted It. He couldn’t wait to feel it from the inside. Slowly he slid himself between those thick wet folds, working his length into its channel. Both he and It gasped at the penetration. It was so sleek and so warm—such a snug fit. Everything an animal cunt should be. It was so beyond good, he let out an unprofessional groan as he pulled back and slid back in. Underneath him, the thing accepted and gripped his girth; its breasts heaving with arousal.


Trying to keep his voice steady and his thrusts even, he rasped, “Are you watching, Mister Dodd? Do you see how its accepting me?” When he said it, its walls begin to pulse around him like it was ready to release after just a few thrusts.

OhmotherfuckingGodinHeaven. Where did he get IT? I have to get myself one!

He liked the way it squeezed his cock so much, he couldn’t stop from putting his finger on the nub and rubbing it as he steadily pumped. It mewled and its hands reached up to touch its nipples as he pounded. So responsive. Reaching down, he thrust the plug in time to the thrusts of his cock. Beneath him, the response was immediate. It shook and gushed liquid that dripped down his balls. Though ejaculation wasn’t a part of standard exams, he couldn’t help it. His balls tightened and he shot his load inside it with a growl.

Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he looked at it beneath him. This man’s property wasn’t defective. It was perfect.

Next to him, the man shifted uncomfortably, reminding him they weren’t alone. His face was red with anger. “Well, of course, it has to take it when you have the legs restrained! But it won’t suck your cock, Doc! It wrinkles its nose and acts like it’s going to vomit!”

Though he didn’t want to pull out—it was so tight and warm–he did. Besides, he was curious now. Moving so he was standing next to its head, he gripped and examined it’s long, slender throat against his fingers. Though the eyes widened in surprise, it didn’t fight him. Pushing its head to the side and closer to the edge of the table, he held out his softening, but not completely unaroused cock. Rubbing the head against its plump lips, he told it, “Put it in your mouth.”

It opened immediately and took him.

Staring into its eyes, he asked the man behind it, “Do you hurt it?”

“What do you mean?”

Gripping it tighter around the throat, he raised his other hand and smacked it in the face. Though it flinched, it dutifully moved its lips up and down his shaft faster. There was the swirl of a tongue. What a good wet mouth it had. When his hand print began already showing on its cheek, he felt a sudden surge of possessiveness.

“I see it likes to be hit,” he muttered.

“I suppose. But it won’t swallow,” sneered the man. “It vomits instead. It doesn’t appear to like the taste. Thinks it’s too good for it or something.”

Looking into its dark eyes which were fixed on his, the doctor asked, “Do you think you’re too good for my seed? Nod your head if you think you have a say in the matter.”

It continued to look up at him, greedily sucking. Even trying to shift on the table to take him further down its throat.

“It wants it,” he told the man, not breaking eye contact. “I have no doubt of that.” Then he paused, “I don’t think it’s the right fit model for you, Mister Dodd. I suggest you send it back and get another one that better suits your needs.”

“But I don’t want to!” whined the man. “I like the way it looks! I just want it to do what I want!”

The doctor sighed, regretfully pulling his cock from the sweet suctioning mouth. As he did, it made a popping sound.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said the doctor. “I’ve examined it. I can’t find a thing wrong with it. And I’ve examined hundreds of these models.”

“Well,” the man huffed. “Maybe I need to take it to another doctor who knows what he’s doing! Not some quack!”

The doctor let out another sigh. “Alright, alright. I have one more test. But I’ll need you to leave the room, Mister Dodd.”

Suspiciously, the man arched an eyebrow. “What are you going to do?”

“Please,” said the doctor patiently. “You have my word. It will be fine. I need to be alone with it.”

After the man left the room, he looked down at it lying back on the table, looking up at him nervously. Removing its ankles from the stirrups, he helped it sit up.

“I suppose you know how to speak?” he asked, closing and tying the gown over its breasts.


He smiled.

Shyly, it smiled back.

“Would you like me to tell Mister Dodd you are defective?”

Without hesitation, it nodded its head.

“I’ll come get you after the exchange is complete, and it will please you.”

It nodded.

“Good. It’s decided. Now bend over the table. I’m going to hurt you.”

It appeared to glow.

And did exactly as it was told.

They Sparkled

She acts as if she hasn’t been touched in years.

Maybe she hasn’t.

I wouldn’t know.

I don’t know anything about her.

I know there’s Legos on the floor. I know a Thomas the Train sipey cup is turned over on its side on the coffee table. So, I assume there’s a kid. Which means she’s a mother. Since there’s no wedding ring and she was alone, I assume that makes her a single mother.

She’s older, but pretty. Hell, I wouldn’t have left the bar with her if she wasn’t. When I offered to buy her a drink, the tiny laugh lines around her eyes crinkled, and her blue eyes sparkled with surprise and pleasure.

I didn’t know eyes could do that, you know?


Beneath me on the floor, she’s quite a sight to behold:

Black skirt hiked up to the waist.

Heavy tits with silver dollar-sized nipples heaving and spilling out over a turquoise, sort-of frayed-with-age bra.

Mismatched peach panties haphazardly dangling from one ankle.

And her thighs spread so wide, I can see everything.

I mean, everything.

I’m fingering her cunt, and I’ve got to admit, I’m mesmerized. I’ve never felt a woman this wet. Above me, she’s moaning and pushing into my finger like we’re already fucking. It’s hot as hell, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard.

As if momentarily coming to her senses, I hear her self-consciously try to explain. “I’m sorry it’s not shaved . . . it’s not normally this . . . hairy . . . It’s just I didn’t expect . . . I didn’t plan . . .” but fades off into a gasp when I part her full, silky bush with my tongue.

“Oh baby,” she moans.

I’ve never cared much for pet names of endearment. Especially from women who I barely know. But for some reason, it sounds really sexy coming from her. Like she didn’t mean to say it. Like it was ripped from her throat, and she couldn’t help it.

I fuck her clit with my tongue. As I do, she gasps and pushes into my face. I slide one finger inside that perfect, wet pussy and add another. When I do, I actually feel the muscles clench and bare down.

Briefly, I think of Sandy.

Hot, perfect Sandy with her firm little tummy and perfect round ass. She was my last girlfriend—and God—was she was beautiful. I remember her laying before me when I’d go down on her like this. Above, posed like a Playboy centerfold, she’d moan and eventually whimper, “Oh God, Ronny! I’m coming!” But she never responded like this. She never quivered and melted on my tongue. She never lost herself so much that she rode my face.

In fact, she never seemed to lose herself at all.

And the light bulb goes off: Sandy. You Bitch.

Thoughts of Sandy evaporate, as this girl—no, this woman—begins to beg me: “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I’ll die if you stop. Please . . .”

Lady, I wouldn’t stop if your seven-foot-five wrestler husband bust in and started punching me in the back of the head.

Her musty scent envelops me—becoming thicker and stronger somehow—and makes me feel drunk; sort of high. Picking up the pace, I flick my tongue over the hard bead of her clit as fast as I can. Her thighs spread wider, begin to shake, and then freeze. Her finger nails dig into my scalp, and she screams.

I didn’t know women came like this. I didn’t know women could come like this.

It’s while she’s still quivering in my mouth that I hear it.

She farts.

For a while, there’s nothing but awkward silence and the sound of her unsteady breathing as she comes down. When I feel her thighs, which are now gripping my head, begin to shake, I wonder, Oh wow. Is she coming again?

But no. It’s not that . . .

She’s laughing.

She’s actually laughing.

“Sorry,” she giggles self-consciously. “It’s been a while. I sort of lost control.”

When I look up, she’s smiling, and her eyes are sparkling.

And I didn’t know eyes could do that, you know?


Sunday Drive After Church

This is how it starts.

In the back seat of a car. Windows thick with the steam of night, warm breath, and shame.

Your slick, sticky ass peeling off the leather seats as it squirms.

A barely-there caress over the front of the panties; light as a feather, yet electric shock inducing. His murmured encouragement in your ear as your eyes widen then close tightly against the battery of sensation.

“Relax. Spread your legs.”

You know you shouldn’t. It’s not what nice girls do.

Nice girls don’t let men put their callused hands up the skirt of their Sunday Bests. Or run grease-stained fingers over the crotch of their floral-print panties. Or rub that secret spot found under the blanket of night when everyone else is asleep.

Besides, what if he tells?

He might, you know.

Then everyone will know. Everyone will know what you are.

And you know what you are . . . don’t you?

But maybe you’ll just let him for a little while. What harm could it do?

Besides, it feels so good. So much better than when you’ve done it yourself. In fact, it feels like every moment up till now was just building towards this.

“Just do it over the panties,” you beg. “Not underneath!”

He laughs. Then rubs. And rubs. And rubs. Until a steady pulse begins to thrum, as the fabric saws back and forth between the plumpness of your lips creating a dirty-sweet friction.

I’m too wet. He’s gonna know that I like it too much.

You look down, watching his hand as it moves between your legs, mesmerized by the sight as if you’re watching it happen from above to someone else.

He’s watching too.

Studying every expression that flits across your face–the tiny puckered O of your mouth, that lick of the lips, the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip to stifle the groans–as he works that traitorous place between your whorish legs.

“Here.” He lifts your feet and plants them wide against the back of the front seat, making you gasp in surprise.

And suddenly there’s room for his entire palm to cup and push against your sex. And though you’re mortified, it feels instinctual and natural to push back into the hollow of his palm as it cups and pumps, providing a fullness you didn’t know was craved.

“Over the panties. Only over the panties,” you moan in a southern drawl as you feel the tip of a finger sneak beneath the fabric. “Don’t touch it direct.”

But the objection gets caught in your throat as the warmth of his finger meets the delicious warmth of bare skin.

“Shush . . .” he coaxes, creating a friction so addicting you think you might die.

And suddenly you’re tumbling over. Falling into something you can’t see, let alone stop. Thighs quivering. Pelvic muscles clenching and unclenching with a strength you didn’t know they possessed.

“Nonononono,” you hear someone stutter before you realize it’s coming from your lips. Which just causes his fingers to slip and slide quicker with barely any effort at all, they practically glide.

Your entire body lurches and then convulses into his hand. Your helpless moans stifled when they’re covered and swallowed by the hunger of his hard mouth and tongue.

Still spasming, you open your eyes and stare, wide eyed, feeling the puddle collect and drip into the crack of your ass.

His beard stubble is sandpaper against your cheek when he mumbles, “Look at my hand. Look at what you did on my hand.”

So, you do. Your face stains red.

You’re so ashamed.

Not so much from the proof that glistens on his finger tips in the red light of the dashboard clock.

But because you know, you’re going to do it again.