LAST NIGHT
The cock driving into my ass was not exceptionally big, but he had a wicked upcurve. The thrusts were sweet, but the pull-backs were hitting some nerve that made my whole lower half spasm. It was painful yet not unpleasant.
The pussy I was eating was snippy with the cock as each spasm made me yelp. My lips and tongue were not doing their best work.
She scoffed in disgust and grabbed my hair, introducing me to the floor. “Had enough of you, slut! You, Red, eat my cunt.”
My sex sister, flame-haired Angel, responded immediately, “Yes, Miss,” and was on the floor next to me, hands behind her back, and eating that pussy like a starving dog.
The new freedom gave me the opportunity to drop my shoulders to the floor, stick my fully fucked rear entry up higher, and moan, “Honor this slave! Sir!” I reached back and held my ass cheeks open. It didn’t adjust the fuck at all, but most cocks liked the gesture of accommodation and servitude.
He grunted three thrusts later and emptied a respectable amount deep in my bowels. I was close to cumming, but the pain wasn’t quite the right flavor. He pulled out, and I stayed in place as per our training. He gave my dripping, gaped ass a really hard smack with his open hand, and I growled.
I also came…
A typical Friday morning at one AM.
***
EIGHTEEN HOURS LATER
Oh, fuck I’m gonna be late…again.
Maybe if these fucking people would move, I could make it to the building on Ninth in a magical three minutes.
And why the fuck is it raining?
Mistress was not kind after my third tardy this year; I can’t imagine what she’ll be like after number five. Lucky for me, she would most likely forgive it, for on a busy Friday, we would need “all whores on deck.”
There was some comfort in the outrageousness of the phrase.
I promised myself this would be just a summer thing before I went back sophomore year. I was desperate for cash; my stepmom was claiming they had no extra that semester. Bullshit…
The paper ad on the wall at the dorm said, “Young Women Needed. Must be willing to show your body. Excellent pay and benefits. Discretion and Security Guaranteed.” My friend, Loni, said it was legit. She looked at the site but passed. “It’s a sex club,” she had said under her breath.
I soaked my thong.
One summer turned into two. Two summers turned into six months, and now, at age 22, I have a full-time job as a club fuck five nights a week (and brunch every other Sunday) at “Flames!”, a private sex club in Manhattan. (Are there any sex clubs open to the public?)
My late mother was so insistent that I get a degree and find a good career. Rest in peace, Mom, because I’m actually happy having the one and not the other.
I love my career as a sex worker, and I don’t miss having a degree…yet.
Judging me is completely fine. We all do it. In small ways, like where we sit on the subway because of potential odor. All the way up to loudly condemning politicians for being hypocritical assholes, a few of whom I have seen do humiliating things inside my employer’s safe space. NDA saves the day.
After my mother caught me having sex with my bf behind our garage:
“What the devil? Stop this immediately, young lady!”
I should not have responded, “One second, I’m almost there!” But I did…
Inside the house, she educated me on nymphomania: a disorder of wanting sex so badly that a girl was willing to compromise their own integrity and dignity. Yep, that was me.
I lied and said it was my first time, and she put me on birth control. It was actually my tenth, and I already had the pills. My friend’s mom helped out. I learned early on that I like to have sex. I love to have a cock in my holes. I love the taste of pussy and the feel of a hardening nipple in my mouth. And I LOVE to kiss.
I call this the honor roll slut life.
A funny word slut. I once had a rather deep philosophical conversation with my roommate at Fordham about it.
It used to just mean a woman who was untidy, who forgot how to put herself together like a lady was meant to look. The sexual burr attached over Euro centuries as women of the lower class (who couldn’t afford to have nice dresses nor bathe regularly) were assumed to be tarts or trollops, or at least one breadless week away from whore.
Caste systems at their best.
I wasn’t thinking of any of that as I danced myself through a rainy alley, avoiding as many puddles as possible. Despite an umbrella, my shirt was plastered to my bouncing tits, and my hair was a sight.
I rushed past the thick metal door Teddy held open for me. A sweet guy, he was always looking out for us, getting us a cab or making sure we were safely heading down the subway steps. Called us “His girls.”
His voice was smoker-ruined Jersey yet kind. “Yer good, Ry-enn. Plenny a time.” He tossed me a towel.
“Thanks, T-man!”
He was a good liar, too. I was very late.
Ryanne (Rye- ANN) was my slave name. I mean, let’s be honest, that’s what club girls are. Slavery still exists worldwide; in some places, people are openly traded and trafficked. It’s a horrible existence that should be eradicated.
So why would an intelligent, attractive (if I do say so myself) former anthropology major want to label herself as such?
Because technically, I was only a slave for six hours a night. And I could quit at any time. I only had to follow orders from eight until two, and the benefits far outweighed any stigma that may have crept into a crack in my fortified psyche. We have full medical and dental, and four weeks of leave a year, just never consecutive, except for special circumstances like when Gina got married last year.
And I get a lot of sex. A lot…
Not the worst job, being a slave at Flames!
Maybe “server” was a better word, but I wasn’t bringing you pancakes and extra hash browns.
I ran up the steps to the third-floor dressing rooms, taking two at a time, peeling off my clothes as I climbed. I rushed into room number four of four.
Three almost naked women were applying their makeup at the long, mirrored station. Shift prep had started almost half an hour ago.
Pleasant hellos were exchanged, and no admonishment was given. We have all been there and regularly covered for one another.
I barely registered tonight’s small talk. My uniform was hanging in my dressing booth; really just an open spot one might find in any sports locker room. Tonight’s thong color was blue, apparently. There was a significance to the color rotation that I never bothered to learn. After all, it was just the thong and collar that were blue. The garter set was always black with black stockings and black heels.
“Anyone need the wet room?” I asked my supportive sex sisters.
“No thanks, all yours, and have at it,” were their responses. Star added, “Ten minutes, Ry!”
Completely naked, I stepped into the bathroom, nicknamed the wet room. The toilet and shower were all in one. This came in handy when you had to clean yourself out for the inevitable anal fuck that would happen once or six times before the night was over. Sex was the job; the asshole was a tool.
And I do love good anal. It should hurt some every time, or you’re not doing it right.
The water felt great on my sweaty body, washing away the smell of the city and my late afternoon workout. I couldn’t linger; I was late. No time for a shampoo.
The individual-use enemas and lube bottles were kept in a small warming cabinet next to the toilet. An unnecessary amenity showing that management genuinely cared.
I only ate after my shift before heading home to bed, the only full meal of the day. Protein shakes, fruit, and snack bars fortified my strength and stamina before and during my shift.
And this meant less to clean out. Promise I won’t get graphic, but I am going to take men’s cocks and a few toys up my ass where poop is supposed to come out.
All dried, I brushed my hair and quickly put on my uniform. To avoid interference with my makeup and curly, dirty blonde hair, my collar went on last. No matter the color, there was always a flame logo and the word slave in gold letters.
Required to be put up, our hair would inevitably be pulled down and even pulled on once or six times in the course of the night. Mine was always a big ponytail that looked like a unicorn mane.
Sex was the job; the hair was a tool.
Besides the not-so-subtle street whore chic makeup we did up to match, girls were allowed a tiny bit of individual flair. Mine was a slight touch of green in my eyeshadow to match my eyes. Help them pop, although being noticed was never a problem for me.
I set the ring that my mom had given me when I turned sixteen next to my earrings. No jewelry allowed on the floor. Too personal, and slaves were in many capacities just objects.
My body was built for sex, Deidre, the manager, told me when I had my first completely naked interview. I stood just over 5’9”, nearly 6 feet with my uniform heels. My hair was just long enough to be bold and curly enough to look like I was easy. A great length for face fucks, pussy eating, and blowjobs. Sex was the job; the hair was a tool.
My boobs were young enough to still say “uncorrupted” but large enough to be appreciated. I always thought my nipples were cute and, like many women with a high sex drive, had a direct mental link to my perpetually moist pussy. The connection of nerves was a myth that was made subconscious by repeated stimuli.
If I wanted to improve anything on my body, it would be my ass. I have long legs, and they end quite nicely with round spheres big enough to hold. But I wanted a booty. I wanted something people craved, wanted to grab onto and nibble, and yes, spank. Less like basketballs, my ass cheeks were more like large melons.
I also had a wholesome white-teeth smile framed by full lips. I got a lot of attention and therefore a lot of tips (e-tips via the barcode on my collar. Whoring in the new millennium).
I was even hired to do some private rooms and parties periodically. But I was reminded regularly by Mistress Natasha that I was “not quite” A-level. Yet. I was a submissive, not a star. When I looked in the mirror, I thought I was more of the latter, but maybe it was about having to pay my dues?
A-level girls at the club were called performers and paid quite well. There were three attractively lit stages/platforms with varying degrees of sexual apparatus in the huge former warehouse. Nightly occupied by performers in red uniforms, the three masters or mistresses orchestrated sex with the best bulls and studs. For a fee, members were sometimes allowed to be part of the performance.
As to us, B and C -girls, we were expected to fluff (get men hard and women wet so they can have sex) and provide the use of our bodies for members. We served drinks and snacks and cleaned up any juices that might have dripped onto a chair, a spanking bench, or the floor. Not as bad as you think. B and C levels were pretty much identical, but C was part-time, no bennies.
We were expected to behave submissively pleasant. Never overly aggressive, yet never really having the ability to say “no”. TBH, we can refuse certain things. And direct abuse and rule violations were always reported immediately. All phones were banned from the club, and there were no potentially hacked security cameras inside. But we had the watchful eyes of security everywhere: brick-wall men and women who had no problem removing someone if they got too drunk or too aggressive.
Like every other work night, we eight girls, really women from age 18 to 25, and eight guys in bow ties and cock pouches, lined up on the edge of centerstage for inspection before opening. Mistress Natasha checked us for skin care, makeup, hair, and of course, regulations in the uniform.
Once Hell-ayna left her earrings in, and Mistress docked her an hour. Fifty bucks gone.
She would use her fingers to check if our assholes were properly slick and if we needed any vaginal lube. I actually really enjoyed her finger inspections, and she always winked when I moaned slightly.
And all of us must be hairless from neck down – the guys were allowed short beards or stubble.
During inspection, we were required to repeat our honorifics.
“How may this slave serve you, Sir/Ma’am?” Some women preferred Miss, which we could easily adjust. But they were not mistresses. That title was bestowed by Diedre, the owner, on special members who earn trust enough to use the A Level stars onstage.
“My pleasure.”
“No, thank you, but I will find you someone who can.”
This last one was reserved for certain taboos. After alcohol and a little false bravado, some of the members got their wilder kinks up. I’m sorry, I will not put on ears and bark like a dog.
But Anal-belle will.
Tonight, we were also hosting a birthday party. One of our more prominent members, Mr. Happy, we called him, was bringing in ten guests to fete his wife. (He was a pompous, loud MF. The nickname was a joke). They were all required to sign the same non-disclosure forms that all employees and members had on file. And for one evening, they were granted privileges. Extra security was always around for when one of them invariably forgot a rule.
Member rules were simple:
No drugs
No phones nor cameras
No scat
No loud name-calling nor verbal abuse (both could be done in a controlled manner. It was up to the slave to define acceptable).
Water sports in the back showers only
No permanent marks on employees
And finally: “No” means “No” unless an alternative safe word has been arranged
There were also a few unwritten rules, ethical behaviors, I suppose. Most of them centered around the physical abuse and use of the human body.
Bondage-Discipline-Sado-Masochism involves the giving up of control and the acceptance of pain as part of the pleasure process. I almost never left work without red skin or a few welts on my body. I knew what to do to take care of them and minimize their long-term impact, so to speak. We all had the skills necessary to take it and, more importantly, be able to do it again eighteen hours later. It’s part of a kink, it’s part of the appeal, and it’s not the only thing we did while there.
Nightly, I was fucked. I sucked dick and ate pussy; my tits were often slapped or pulled or bitten. My ass was always, and I mean always, spanked.
I loved all of it. And I had yet to reach a limit.
One night, Jenna, a star performer, was caned so hard by an over-aggressive VIP that her ass cheek started bleeding. The woman deeply apologized and was mortified that she got carried away. Our in-house medic was able to treat Jenna immediately. These things could happen, but luckily rarely did.
Tonight, I was assigned to the B-day party with a good friend of mine, Chrissy. She was the opposite of me in many ways. Just five foot tall, black with short, straightened hair, she had the type of body one might describe as curvalicious. God, I wish I had her ass. It was absolutely luscious. Hopefully one of the guests will want me to have some one-on-one with her, not an uncommon request: the whole white on black thing that really isn’t a kink as it is so commonplace.
At opening, we all lined up in a gauntlet of sorts, welcoming members and pointing to amenities and facilities; the bar, the couch areas, the four private rooms that had large beds. There was also one VIP room, which was just a private room with more space. The main showers, locker rooms, and bathrooms were all non-gendered and were conveniently located between the entry and the bar.
The three couch areas contained benches and cushioned tables that doubled as bed surfaces. The entire facility had a capacity for eighty guests and two dozen employees (on busy nights). Most often, we drew about fifty.
The members came through wearing a variety of club wear. Some brought bags and went straight to the locker rooms to change. There were a few, like Lady Barbwire, who came dressed for the venue: fifty years old, full dominatrix black with a latex corset, spiked heels, and a monogrammed riding crop. She was HOT!
And she loved to use me once a month. She could play me like a pain slut violin.
She strutted through and caught my gaze. I looked down immediately and said, “Good Evening, Miss. How may this slave serve you?”
She put her long finger under my chin, and her black, sharp nail lifted it up until she was burning her eyes into me.
“You may not. Happy has you for the night, much to my dismay.” She flicked her nail, and I got a small scratch. She strutted away, so powerful that I felt like I had personally let her down. She had Jazzmine in tow on a leash. Lucky whore…
The room filled up nicely, and Chrissy and I found ourselves in area A with Mr. Happy and his guests, five men and three women. All were of various ages and looks, but none were skanky or gross. The club rules required a certain…acceptable level of personal care. We had overweight members and one legless man in a wheelchair. And none were ever undoable.
The drink pre-order was already at the bar, and Chrissy and I served as we offered ourselves. The crowd was already hearty and horny.
I was soon on my knees before a fit mom type who was obviously a lifestyle virgin. Her husband was obnoxious and teased her about it as he sat behind me and played with my ass and pussy. I am sure he thought his paws were turning me on. It was his wife.
She looked at me with nervous brown eyes. Her small breasts rising in her LBD.
“Please allow me to please you, Ma’am. You can trust me.”
She nodded. Then said almost too softly under the suddenly quite noisy warehouse club, “I’ve never had sex with a woman before. My husband said you people are… talented.”
I smiled and nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”
My hands gently pushed apart her thighs, and she had a beautiful, very wet pussy. A trimmed triangle pointed at her bulging clitoris. My mouth was on her rather quickly, and I moaned as she lost her breath and arched her body.
I was giving her the first of several orgasms, so I barely noticed that her husband had pushed his adequate, hard cock into my pussy and was fucking away. It was half an hour after opening.
The night went on as they usually do. I rode two different cocks. I had a DP with Mr. Happy and the birthday-girl-definitely-not-his-wife using a strap-on in my ass. She was only a few years older than me and called me a “Dirty whore!” She wasn’t wrong.
Chrissy and I took our mandated breaks at 11:30. The staff would rotate, so there would be slaves on the floor at all times.
As I came back from a snack and energy drink, and a fresh clean out, I saw Mandee getting drilled by the dildo machine in area D. She was strapped down and was wearing nipple clamps on her little B-cup breasts. The machine was almost to full speed, and she was screaming as she repeatedly orgasmed. She looked exhausted. Lucky whore.
I had cum a few times so far tonight. Despite my dislike of Mr. Happy, he knew how to fuck. And tip.
Back in our group, Trevor, one of the male slaves, was brought over and was fucking one of the husbands in the ass while his wife made fun of him for being such a sissy. Husband seemed to really enjoy it as his rather small cock was dripping all over the couch. I would be expected to lick it up later. We took all kinds of kink in this place.
The former club-virgin wife that I had eaten to two orgasms at the beginning of the night was in 69 with Chrissy, while Jay-sin, a hot black bull, drove into her pussy with practiced power.
Looks like she had drunk the Kool-Aid.
I retrieved a few drink refreshers and was passing them out. I felt a large hand on my ass cheek. I stood in a submissive position, eyes front, and allowed it to explore my body. It slid around to my torso and ran up my abs. It felt masculine yet I knew better than to look down.
Despite the amount of sex I had already had tonight and the previous night, my body could handle more and craved it. This is the best job ever, I thought, as fingers traced over my slightly sore left breast (One dude loved slapping them) and twisted the nipple. My breath caught, and I trembled slightly.
A sultry feminine voice was inches from my ear; hot breath dancing over my neck like sweat in a sauna.
“This ass and back are entirely too plain. I think they need some pink and red, don’t you?”
Lady Barbwire!
My body shivered, and I lost some of my professional demeanor. Maybe this is why I wasn’t quite A level yet.
The command was clear. “Happy is distracted. Come with me.”
I began to turn to politely say no, as I was already committed for the night. She was too quick and had a long silver and black leash attached to my collar. The click told me I had no choice. My Cunt confirmed it.
Her fingers wrapped around my jaw, and she pulled me in inches away from her burning, dark brown, almost black eyes.
I melted.
“Yes…Miss. How may this slave serve you?”
She snarled and let go of my face. Without answering, she turned and walked towards the back, near the private rooms. Arms behind my back, I waited until I felt the tug of the leash (I loved the choke) and happily followed that gorgeous plump ass. Happy Saturday to me!
TO BE CONTINUED
Thank you for reading! If you liked it, hit the heart. If you really liked it, go clean up, then hit the star!
And as always, leave a comment. I try to respond to them all.
Peace, like real fucking peace already, Matt
