The Blow Job
Carla pressed her ear to the front door. Hearing nothing, she turned the handle, breath held against the fear of being seen by her friends. Thick drops of oil ran from her hair to her white tank top, turning the thin fabric translucent. Oil, in fact, covered the entirety of her body. It squished inside her shoes and pooled inside her shorts.
The house was empty.
Must be at the beach,
she assumed. Still, she rushed to the shower, pausing only long enough to grab a change of clothes. She stripped the oily clothing off her body while waiting for the water to get hot.
She found the face of a stranger in the mirror. Or, rather, her face wearing a stranger's expression. Her lips were wet and parted. Shiny locks of oiled hair fell across her face and eyes. She inhaled and watched her jaw quiver.
What's wrong with me?
she asked for what seemed the hundredth time.
She slipped a hand between her legs, fingers pressing firmly against her clit. The sensation brought her to her toes, knees so weak they nearly buckled. Her pussy dripped down her thighs, clit swollen and almost painful to the touch. She grasped the sink to keep from collapsing.
Her eyes snapped open in momentary sanity.
Stop!
the sane version of herself cried. Carla was no stranger to masturbation. What she had told Ricky about the frequency of her self-pleasure was true. But never had she masturbated to a fantasy of her own exploitation, let alone the reality of it.
Carla jerked back the curtain to switch the water from hot to cold. She wasted no time entering the frigid stream. Air whistled through her clenched teeth as the shock hit her. For a moment, the burning in her pussy was tamed.
She washed her hair, twice, then her body, shivering and breathless. When she could take the cold no more, she added heat. A third time, she washed, the oil finally giving up its hold on her hair. A subtle hum of arousal crept back with the growing warmth.
She closed her eyes and saw herself from the perspective of the cameras, her body slick and shiny with oil, on her knees and masturbating like a whore.
Her fingers found her clit. She thought of the way she had masturbated for Ricky and his cameras, about the shame she felt and feels now. It took only minutes to find release. It wasn't the all-consuming orgasm she had experienced in the studio, but it was enough to hold her over. The constant buzzing of her sex subsided with the spasms of her muscles.
<<<>>>
The boys, including Aaron, arrived just before nightfall. Apparently, he had sent Carla several messages she never saw and he acted irritated with her for not responding.
Carla had spent hours tanning on the beach and drinking with her friends. So, in her current state of inebriation, she didn't care at all that he was upset, which upset him even more.
"Let's go have some fun guys," he called out to Mike and Andy after turning away from Carla in a huff.
A minor argument ensued between the boys, which Carla did her best to ignore. When Aaron failed to convince his buddies to ditch their girlfriends, he left alone, though he never mentioned where.
At half past seven, Carla stopped drinking, which her friends protested. Loudly. She made the excuse she wasn't feeling well. By ten she was in bed. She overheard Jennifer assume that Aaron's swift departure had upset her.
Good,
she thought.
That's better than the truth.
<<<>>>
Today, the studio differed only in the substitution of the wooden stool for a thick black cushion.
For me to kneel on,
Carla knew. Her face turned red in embarrassment, so strong was the sudden surge of arousal radiating from her sex.
What's wrong with you?
she thought. A question she now asked so often it had become a mantra.
Ricky looked her up and down, appraising. He made a noise of disapproval. "Next time wear shoes," he said. "And socks."
Carla wore leather flip-flops because she thought they matched her soft pink summer dress better than shoes. The urge to protest swelled against her lips, but three days in, she knew the truth. Ricky owned her. "Okay."
"Yes, sir," he corrected, voice firm, eyes speaking the rest of his intent.
"Y-yes, sir," Carla said. She peeked at the cameras capturing the entirety of her submission.
"Obviously you're not wearing a bra," he said. "Are you wearing panties?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good, good," Ricky said. "At least you're wearing something I can gag you with."
She looked up at him in defiance, realizing that until this moment, her eyes had been downcast, like a servant's. Like a slave's. Carla possessed enough self-awareness to marvel at how the intensity of her arousal mirrored the intensity of her humiliation.
My God, I
like
being treated this way.
Her defiance crumbled at the revelation, and she found herself looking at the wooden floor.
"Alright, you might as well take the flip-flops off. Just toss them to the side."
She obeyed.
Gesturing to the pad, "Kneel."
Again, she obeyed. The cushion was large enough that placing her knees in the center allowed only her toes to hang off the edge and touch the floor. Her bottom rested on her heels, thighs squeezed tight together.
