One more token, that's all I needed. One more woman, or even a guy, who cares. But there were only fifteen minutes left in my shift in the Kissing Booth.
It had been a good day, though maybe not the same as your definition of 'good.' In ten hours, while chained on my knees inside a wood table with black walls on either side of me, I had brought off nineteen people, sixteen women and three men. Of course I didn't have a counter, but I'd gotten good at keeping count of sound of the tokens sliding into the slot.
It's not like I have a lot else to do.
You only needed ten to not get whipped, but I made that quota on most days now because of my experience. But somehow it's a rare day when I get the twenty I need to be allowed to touch my cock. Just the possibility of getting to touch it has me hard as Differential Equations.
I see a pair of legs come by, encased in a jeweled tight evening dress. They stop in front of the booth and I pray, but then I hear talking and laughing. I recognize the voice, it's Lady Indigo. Her cunt is very salty and her clitoris is impossible to find, but she has an enormous sensitive G-spot that swells up like a pillow, which is a reliable way to push her over the edge.
I have no idea what her face looks like. But she has a spectacular ass, all wrapped up like that. She's talking to a guy. A Lord, a free man. Something I am never going to be. It sounds like they're going to go fuck. Something I am probably never going to do. I shouldn't be thinking about this since I'm probably not going to get my twentieth token today.
There's another five minute beep. Ten minutes left. Usually this time of the day I am praying for them to come, but now I am trying to mentally slow time so that someone, anyone can sit in the chair that my neck is attached to with a two foot chain.
I look down at my erection, so close and so far away. It's not locked up. For one thing cages are expensive and I'm just a stupid slave. Besides, my hands are nearly always chained behind me as they are now, and there's never a moment when someone isn't looking at me or at least might be. As for touching it when I'm not supposed to, well I tried that once. Once is as many times as any sane person will try it. I just survived the punishment, and I don't want to see if I can survive it twice.
I never thought of it as small, but it's not nearly big enough to get me promoted to bedroom duty. There are other things that I could be, but my sex slave career has kind of stalled out at the kissing booth.
It's kind of my fault, since I've gotten so good at it. It's my fault too that I get to jack off so rarely, since I have specialized in servicing women. Of course anyone can sit in my chair, and I have to serve them. I can give a perfectly serviceable blowjob, plenty good enough to get almost any guy off. But that's not exactly rocket science. The people who are really good, mostly women but some men too, can bring a Lord to the edge three or four times before pushing them over, and then they feel the orgasm tingling through them for ten or fifteen minutes afterward.
Or so I'm told.
A small, slender pair of naked white legs covered in purple and red stripes approaches Lady Indigo and says something to her in a tiny voice that I can't hear from under the table. That would be 38217, or seventeen for short. She's a runner. I could be promoted to runner; a few masters that have bothered to look at me have joked that I'm too good looking to be locked under a table.
"Did you deliver the message or not, you titless little lily-white cunt?" snaps Lady Indigo.
A stream of excuses pour out of seventeen, all completely irrelevant. They are cut off by a loud slap, hard enough to make seventeen stagger back a few steps. I'm sure it's not seventeen's fault. Maybe the Lord or Lady she was to deliver the message to wouldn't give her permission to speak so she could deliver it. Maybe a superior door slave wouldn't let her into the chamber that the recipient was in, possibly just for the fun of knowing she'd be whipped. Maybe Lady Indigo had given her a deliberately impossible task just to have a reason to punish her.
It doesn't matter; she's a slave and Lady Indigo is a Lady. It's not supposed to be fair.
Lady Indigo tells seventeen to have herself put down for five with the crop, and her tiny whip-bruised ass disappears from my view. Probably just as well if I never get that promotion. Supposedly sometimes you'll bring someone really good news and they just might fuck you because they're in a good mood. Most of the time people are just pissed off about whatever you tell them and put you down for more whippings.
At least what happens to me depends on my own skill. Pleasing a woman is so much harder. There are so many different places to lick, so many different ways. Some want your tongue deep inside, some want you licking up and down the whole slit, some want you flicking their clit like a hummingbird's wing. Even if you get it right it takes a lot longer than for a man. But I have developed a sixth sense, a combination of reading the sound of their moans, the way they twist their thighs, the clenching and unclenching of their fists. I can taste the difference in their cunt juice when they're getting into it.
I guess I take pride in being good at what I do, at least. Stupid to think that that's the only thing I'll ever be proud of. There was a time when I had reason to hope I would be so much more, back when I was free.
