A disclaimer: this is my first story posted to Literotica, and the first time I've shared any of my writing (in a somewhat complete form) since grade school. This story grew out of an email correspondence, a while back, and I've been sporadically revising it for a long time. I'm not sure I'm entirely satisfied with it, but after generating several other pseudo-stories via emails, I felt like it was time to put this out for public consumption and see how people like it. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for reading.
*****
We show up at the store late on a Saturday night, so we know it'll be busy. She's not quite comfortable with the idea, not quite comfortable with the clothes; she's married, she's respectable, and I've made her dress up like a streetwalker.
But she wants something different, desperately; it's the hook in her that I use to pull her along, through the bad part of town, through overly long glances from passerby's, over sidewalks starting to ice over from the first cold of winter.
The micro-mini is short, stretchy, and barely manages to cover even half of her backside; she's constantly tugging down on the hem, nervously looking around, hoping nobody can tell she's not wearing panties, the winter air probably a bit jarring as it hits her freshly-shaved slit. The shoes are wobbly, uncomfortable, with tight straps snaking halfway up her legs, and the top is little more than a band of nylon mesh, her breasts barely contained, large nipples obvious through the translucent fabric. And then there's the collar-a thin strip of leather, with shiny, blocky metal letters spelling out C-U-M-D-U-M-P across the front.
Her eyes dart around as we enter, as she feels dozens of pairs of eyes immediately swivel to gaze upon the sole female in the room.
I give her ass a squeeze, leaning in and whispering, "Go buy that dildo. The one with the suction base."
She tentatively moves towards the wall display of plastic dongs, face burning; the one I've pointed out is on the top row, and she's forced to stretch up to get it, the miniskirt riding up as she does so, her cheeks popping out from below, visible to the entirety of the store, as she fetches the oversized black rubber toy. I throw a few wadded bills on the floor in front of her, and she squats awkwardly, one hand trying in vain to keep the hem of the miniskirt down, her breasts on the verge of coming free from her top as she scoops up the cash. She makes her way to the counter, eyes down, shaking hands spreading the bills out carefully on the glass countertop.
"Unwrap it," I said, loudly enough to make her visibly wince.
She holds it delicately, awkward, trying to avoid grasping it by the shaft, and I march her towards the back of the store, towards the video booths. I can see, out of the corner of my eye, some of the other customers begin to drift in the same direction. The shakiness of her breaths suggests that she's noticed, as well.
The arcade is dark and humid, air heavy with the scent of lube and disinfectant. Light and muffled sounds, music bleed through the swinging doors of occupied booths as I walk her down the aisle, recorded moans and flesh-on-flesh sounds mingling with more immediate noises-coughing, a moan of release, wet sucking sounds. I push open the door to an empty booth and steer her inside, leaving the door ajar. There's a folding metal chair in the middle, the backrest up against the wall with the dormant video screen.
I hold the toy up to her mouth. "Spit."
She looks at me sideways, but complies, spitting on the toy, saliva running down the thick, veiny shaft.
"Good girl," I tease her, letting my fingertips worm beneath the mini, fingertip finding her slit, penetrating her ever so slightly. "Now, take it in your mouth. All the way."
She manages a quick, tiny shake of her head, and my finger curls inside her, causing her to gasp and whimper. Her eyes still locked on mine, she complies, opening her mouth, fighting against her gag reflex as I slowly feed the length of the toy down her throat. She fiddles with her hands, resisting the urge to reach up and push it away, trying to stifle her gags, eyes watering as I slide it deeper and deeper, until it comes to rest against the back of her throat, the flared base now snug against her lips. She convulses, gagging loudly, and I withdraw the toy, a long, sticky strand of spittle stretching from the head to her lower lip and chin.
As she recovers, I plant the toy onto the center of the chair, anchoring it, and slide a bill into the money slot on the wall; the screen flickers to life - a grainy, low-quality image of a sulky-looking, tattooed girl in cheap-looking lingerie on all fours atop a bare mattress on a concrete floor. The camera moves, shakily, carried by hand, circling around her, catching views of bare male legs in the background, waiting.
"This'll do," I tell her, nodding to the toy, "have a seat."
