In My Line Of Work

In my line of work, you don't sleep in: the morning rush is good, easy money. I don't wake up so much as rise from my brief catnap, grabbing a quick shower, putting on minimal makeup and shimmying into something provocative. Today it's a tight, short blue dress, the one Mr. G likes because he's a regular and sometimes tips extra, along with matching pumps and no bra, throwing a black raincoat over the whole ensemble. Thirty minutes to get ready and then I'm out the door of my hotel room, shooting him a text as I walk downstairs,

"rdy?"

As usual, Mr. G is quite punctual, flashing his lights as I step out of the hotel's lobby and onto the sidewalk, his black luxury car sliding up to the curb with doors already unlocked. It's a gesture I appreciate, especially wearing what I am and doing what I do so I smile and greet him warmly. He simply nods at me and I look at the envelope he has placed between my seat and the center console, marked in bold black letters "GIFT". Mr. G is good with instructions and I shed my coat, letting him take a good look at me – between watching the road - before we continue. Once he's had his fill, I again smile before leaning over his seat and unzipping his pants. This won't take long.

Letting my hand fish out his dick as he drives, I lean down and nuzzle his stomach through his dress shirt, purring while I take a long look at his cock. He's already hard, with precum forming on the tip. But even when ready his cock is on the small side of things and Mr. G is perpetually on a hair trigger so I'm careful not to over-excite him, bringing my head forward, gently licking it up and down. He takes one hand off the wheel and runs it through my hair, my cue to begin in earnest, taking the head between my lips and giving it slow, deliberate sucks while my tongue flicks at his peehole. Mr. G loves that and I like doing it, since its less work than trying to juggle deepthroating and breathing.

Soon copious amounts of precum are flowing out, a sure sign he won't last much longer. I bring my hand back into action, fondling his very sensitive balls through his slacks as I take more of his dick into my mouth, bobbing my head up and down, nice and steady. My tongue slithers on the sensitive underside of the crown of his dick, adding a little twist while my lips work. Mr. G can't hold out, breathing through gritted teeth and gripping my hair tight, the first bit of cum a half-hearted dribble, then a pair of thick, salty ropes, typical for a weekday. I keep my lips tight around him while he finishes before using my tongue to lick him clean and stuffing his cock back into his pants. I come up off his lap and look around – six blocks away from my hotel, slightly longer than usual, but still better than his eight block endurance record – grabbing the envelope before I hop out of his car with the words, "Hope you had fun, sweetie. I certainly did."

I take my time walking back, it's usually uneventful, but in my line of work you sometimes score big on the long shots. Not this time however, just a half-hour trot back to my hotel under a dreary overcast sky. Getting back into my room, I kick off my shoes, shed my coat and the tight blue dress, swig mouthwash, brush my teeth again, then take another shot of mouthwash to get the taste of Mr. G out before breakfast. I haven't been at this hotel very long, but the Mexican staff in the kitchen already recognize me well enough (maybe figured out what I do?) that they remember how I like my omelet. I appreciate small gestures like that. After breakfast it's back to bed for me, another few hours before I get ready for the lunch time crowd.

***

I used to love riding along with my Papa after school while he'd patrol the quiet suburban neighborhood we called home. He was a tall, jovial man, with blond hair the color of the sun and blue eyes that shined like diamonds, especially when he smiled. And Papa smiled often. He called me "Pumpkin Patch" and teased me about being such a fat baby I figured out that rolling around the house was easier than walking and sang my favorite songs with me, over and over and over while we shared time together in his police cruiser. Those were some of my fondest memories together: mouths open wide, practically screaming the lyrics to a children's song, driving through the back streets with the smell of the car's upholstery filling my nose.

They still are.

***

The blaring of my alarm at nine-thirty gets me right up and I instantly check my phone, two messages, one from home that I save for later and another from Mr. Y. I'm not especially fond of Mr. Y: his personality is grating on his best days and any other time he's an emotional anchor who brings down everyone he interacts with. And that includes me. The only reason I put up with Mr. Y is he's a big shot executive who is either too dumb to realize I charge him two-and-a-half times what I do my other clients or too rich to give a care. Today Mr. Y wants his usual, a lunch date in his office at noon sharp. Not a problem for me.

Mr. Y prefers discretion so I stroll through his building wearing the power uniform of a professional working woman: my hair in a tight bun, a subdued necklace, white blouse with undershirt and bra, charcoal grey skirt terminating just at the knee, matching jacket, with heels workplace appropriate but with just enough provocative in them to nudge the hackles of older women. Mr. Y of course doesn't keep an open door policy, so I'm forced to check in with the sneering raven-haired intern whom he grandiosely bills as his "executive assistant." I can't tell if she knows why I'm here or if she's just a bitch to everyone she meets. It's my feverent hope it's the latter, not because I particularly care if she knows my line of work, but because I rather like to imagine she's just as awful to Mr. Y throughout the day.

He certainly deserves it.

Fortunately, she doesn't appear to be in the mood for games today and passes me right through the door. Mr. Y's office is a huge, corner window affair, with an appropriately massive wood desk at the far end. Probably mahogany or some other expensive tree, I can't tell the difference and don't care to ask him. Of course, it wouldn't be a Mr. Y appointment without some subtle (or not-so subtle) degradation involved so he's not here. A quick glance at my watch confirms its one minute to noon and Mr. Y is still an asshole.

With nothing better to do, I spend the better part of fifteen minutes pacing back and forth in the office, waiting for Mr. Y to make his appearance, letting my mind drift back to happier days.

***

"Papa, why're those people so angry?"

My father's face wasn't holding his normal smile, his beautiful, twinkling eyes. Instead it was a look of intense concentration as he hunched forward in his seat, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, one hand holding the radio that he occasionally spoke into using coded, numerical language. I couldn't follow much of it, but I knew if I was patient, Papa would explain it all.

As if he suddenly realized I was there, he dropped his mask, displaying concern for the first time since he'd heard the words over the radio. I was singing too loud to hear them the first time, but he'd shushed me and asked the dispatcher to repeat. Now he looked concerned, opening his mouth and closing it, then opening it again, "Pumpkin Patch I'm gonna need you to get out here and walk on home. Papa's gotta do some work, OK sweetie? Go right on home and tell your Mama I'm gonna be workin' late, alright baby? Good girl."

***

I'm snapped back to the present by the baritone voice of Mr. Y his sandy brown hair slicked back and freckled face formed into something resembling a cruel mockery of a smile, "Good girl, you've learned to be on time."

As a matter of fact, I've never been late for an agreed upon time. Mr. Y, however, has certainly unilaterally decided upon an earlier time without informing me, then berated me for my "tardiness." Still, in my line of work, you learn that it's all about power and some people get off just as much on showing how much they have as they do from using your body. So, suppressing my annoyance, I pour on the sweetness, "Well, what can I say, I'm excited to see you," putting on my best million dollar smile and giving a short curtsy.

Mr. Y smirks – god, I hate that look so much – then walks over to his desk, undoing his slacks and letting his dick flop out. I have to say one thing about him, Mr. Y has one seriously nice dick. It's not exactly long, but the girth is nice, circumcised and crisscrossed by thick veins with a shovel-shaped head with an uneven tone that varies from pale pink to bright red. It stands in stark contrast to the rest of his tanned to perfection skin. I walk up to him, swaying my hips seductively, giving him a lip-licking smile as I reach his desk, sliding over the table and then slowly going down onto my knees. He takes my head in his hands and pushes my mouth onto his cock, exhaling as I get halfway then begins his favorite douchebag move: putting on a headset and handling his leftover morning calls.

I wrap my lips tight around my teeth, deliberately drooling and slurping excessively as I suck, hoping that some prudish client on the other end of the line hears what's going on and figures out Mr. Y is getting blown while conducting his business. But I know Mr. Y is near the top in his field so even if they could hear, they'd probably let it slide. Prick. At least it makes the actual act more fun, fantasizing about Mr. Y in the unemployment line thanks to my head skills.

His cock is a stubborn one though, resistant to most of my oral charms: tightening my lips around the tip while tonguing the crown, running my mouth up and down the length without sucking, licking at his balls while I deepthroat him, and all the others - the full toolbox of tricks acquired over my years. Nothing brings him off consistently so I have to constantly change it up, my lips, tongue and throat working away on his meat while he drones on about TSP reports or some other corporate bullshit. I would get my hands into act, but he wants all mouth and no hands while I'm blowing him, it's one of his cardinal rules. But I suddenly get a bright idea, pulling off after a particularly extended deepthroat dive and taking his cock into my hand, gripping the base and slapping my face with his prick while looking up at him. I watch him closely for his reaction and see him close his eyes briefly in ecstasy. Jackpot.

Of course an asshole like Mr. Y would enjoy the woman servicing him intentionally degrading herself.

Then I do it again, dropping my mouth onto his fat dick, sucking when my lips touch the base and deliberately gagging myself this time, pulling off, just before the urge to vomit becomes unbearable, to rub his dick across the entire front of my teary face, letting my makeup run down my cheeks while I purr like a lazy cat. My reward is the feel of his cock twitching something fierce, almost throbbing with anticipation. He won't last long now.

I go back down, grabbing the back of my own head and forcing myself down further, letting my gag muscles work the head of his dick while I lick the base with quick flicks before coming up, loudly gasping before I press my own face against his dick. His head rolls back and he breathes out hard, popping off hard with one jet of cum marking my forehead before I use my lips and tongue to press his cock against his shirt as he continues blowing his load, leaving a huge wet wad pointing up the fine, dark material. I smile outwardly and inwardly, projecting a sexy image while I wonder how he's going to explain that huge stain on his shirt.

He breathes in and exhales loudly again then snaps his head forward as he remembers he's on the phone, sputtering out a lame excuse and trying to catch up on the flow of the conversation, probably ineffectively. It's only after a good thirty seconds that he looks down and realizes he's unloaded on himself, face scrunching up in a severe frown before staring daggers at me. I continue smiling innocently up at him and he snaps his finger, pointing toward a coffee table in the corner of the office with the envelope marked "GIFT" in plain view.

I get up off my knees, straightening out my skirt and walk to the side cabinets where I know he keeps moist napkins, getting the spit and cum off my face before picking up the envelope, and taking a few minutes to fix my hair and makeup, before finally strolling right on out of his office, arms swinging merrily, head held high.

***

"Pumpkin Patch, there is evil in this world, you know that don't you honey?"

I nodded solemnly. Papa was kneeling in front of my chair with his expression fixed, stern, no sign of laughter to be found. Mama was sitting behind him, red-eyed with mascara running down her face and holding my baby brother in her arms, rocking slowly back and forth. Papa turned and looked back at her, getting a nod of assent from Mama before he continued speaking, "And, Pumpkin Patch, when a good person meets evil there's only one thing to be done: you fight it."

He stood up, putting his hands out wide, "You fight it with anything you have, any means, any way you can think of. You understand Pumpkin Patch? You fight!" He brought his hands together suddenly, punching his palm with a loud smack. I simply continued nodding, even though it frightened me. I'd seen Papa being animated and expressive, but always with happiness in his heart, never... this.

***

While I was handling Mr. Y, I'd received a text from Mr. D, which is unexpected. Mr. D is much more of a weekend guy, an overweight trust-fund baby with a mop of unruly brown hair, a mouth that seems like it has too many teeth and a nasty drug problem who likes to get hammered and spend piles of his mother's cash on roulette and cocaine. I honestly wonder how he manages to stay fat snorting all that coke, but I suppose he could've been even fatter before I met him. He wants a meet-up at one-thirty in an especially upscale hotel that isn't too far away. The timing would be close, but Mr. D is almost always a spur-of-the-moment type.

Still, in my line of work, you have to be adaptable and I'm nothing if not professional. Consideration on what to wear took a little thought and creativity, given Mr. D's rather unique tastes but I settled on something I knew he'd like: an oversized flannel shirt, baggy jeans and hiking boots. I completed the look by mussing my hair up and ambling right out of the door with Mr. Y's taste still in my mouth.

The lunchtime rush was still pretty bad and I was actually about fifteen minutes late getting to Mr. D's room, but I doubted he was sober enough to realize I was late when I knocked on his door. He flung the door open, eyes darting around before looking at me, squinting hard for a few seconds before realizing who I was and then falling over himself to invite me in. Between his effusive gestures and his overly-gaudy yet shoddily tailored white suit, I notice the room was actually surprisingly shitty for such a nice hotel, with what looked to be a barely functional Jacuzzi on one side, two small beds in the middle, a bulky 19" or so TV dominating the wall and the lingering smell of hospital in the air. I suppose Mr. D was known to this particular branch and suited according to his tendency to engage in drug-fueled rampages, leaving mayhem in his wake and claims that he had no idea what happened.

Still, I've personally never had a problem with him (beyond the occasional coke-induced erectile dysfunction) and so I let him prance around the room excitedly, telling me all about his day: his recent business idea, his new car, the girl he'd talked to at the county registrar desk, all the things nobody else would listen to (for free, at least) that he'd experienced since I'd last seen him. He finally sat down after telling me the great lines he'd used on the desk girl, beaming with pride at his awful pickup technique while I nodded, smiled and scooted close to him, unbuttoning my jeans and sliding them down to my thighs. He didn't exactly take the hint, persisting in telling me – in excruciating detail – how he'd accidently entered his own number into his phone instead of hers. I decide this calls for direct corrective action, grabbing his hand and putting it against my panty-clad pussy, which seems to derail his train of thought entirely and brought the first awkward question he's asked of me, "...uh have you been fucked today?"

I shake my head ruefully and his face shows his disappointment before he remembers another avenue, blurting out at a hundred miles an hour, "But you've sucked some cock, right? How many today? Did you swallow any? Can you still taste it?"

I smile sweetly and pantomime jacking off into my mouth, using my tongue to simulate a dick bulging my cheek outward while staring straight into his eyes. It's not a subtle gesture and he grins like an idiot, pushing forward to kiss me before I stop him, still smiling as I speak, "First things first... my gift?"

He nods rapidly and stands up, reaching directly into his pocket and fishing out a balled up stack of twenties, thrusting it into my hands. Mr. D is many things, but street smart isn't one of them. Still, I'm about ninety-nine percent certain he's not a cop given his demeanor, his ill-fitness and his rampaging coke habit so I feel safe accepting the cash directly into my hand, stuffing it into my bra for safekeeping before grabbing the back of his head and pulling him atop me, wetting my lips for a sloppy French kiss, leaving him moaning into my mouth while our tongues swirl around each other. It's his favorite fetish, taking sloppy seconds (or thirds or fifths or however many men I've been with that day) on a grungy looking girl and I regularly indulge him; mainly because it's easy.

Mr. D pops off from his own hand within minutes of starting kissing, instantly losing interest in any form of sexual contact. I still kiss him on the top of the forehead as I push him off and sit up, pulling up the jeans most of the way before standing and buttoning them partially. I quickly jet out of the room, but not before looking back with a lopsided grin. Mr. D is already doing another line when I shut the door behind me.

***

We were riding in Papa's truck for once and I was crammed uncomfortably in the middle seat while we bounced along a rutted dirt road through the backwoods of our county. It wasn't like our afternoon drives at all: firstly, it was night and Mama was along with us, trying to keep my baby brother hushed up while Papa was murmuring to himself most of the way. We were all wearing matching white and my one question was met with a sharp, stinging rebuke of answer, "Don't you worry Pumpkin Patch, it's just like a candlelight vigil, 'cept for fighting the evil in our community."

I still felt uneasy and wanted more than anything to get out and walk home. But it was dark and neither Papa nor Mama would've allowed it in a million years. So I bounced along in an uncomfortable silence, my ears filled with the sounds of a baby's cries and Papa's murmurs.

***

After Mr. D came Mr. E who was conveniently enough at a motel room on the way back to my own hotel. I should've called Mr. E something more like Mr. Whitebread; he looks like the poster child for suburban fatherhood, average height, average weight, average build with a comb over to cover his thinning blonde hair, dull grey eyes that make him look dumber than he is and hands that are too big for his body. He likes it exactly one way and one way only: a five minute warm-up blowjob, approximately fifteen minutes of missionary position fucking, followed by two or three minutes of doggystyle to finish. We've been doing this for over three years and he hasn't varied the routine even once. I can't even remember what his dick looks like anymore, it's been so long since I actually looked at it, but I assume if you took the median penis characteristics in America, it'd be a perfect match.