As I sat cross-legged in bed with my netbook on my lap, I got a video chat invitation from Ray.
"Come in, Ray," I said.
"Samantha, you are such a nerd." The camera on her was positioned at the corner of a massage table where Ray was reclining in a black sports bra and tight matching shorts. Shaky reception didn't fail to capture the pinkish, fourteen-inch plastic horse cock sprouting from her open fly, nor the thin strand of resilient fluid connecting its tip to the white sheet below her. Standard practice at her studio was to fill the hidden reservoir of such a device with a thoroughly diluted cottage cheese solution. Her eyes brightened as she propped herself up on her right elbow. "I like the new haircut!"
I smiled and nodded, acknowledging the increased similarity in our styles. The long, plain 'do of my youth was now officially a thing of the past. My hand ran through the hazel tufts.
"You think it's me?"
"It looks fantastic, and it'll help immeasurably when it comes time for you to penetrate somebody, not having all those loose strands flapping in your eyes, believe me." Ray adjusted her posture in response to some cue from off-screen. When she was flat on her back with her arms at her sides, and the dick pointing straight up, a male intern in a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants entered the background. She craned her neck to look at the webcam without lifting her head from the tiny pillow. The assistant, whose name I knew to be Peter, rubbed oil between his palms and then leaned over Ray to vigorously coat and tenderize the fronts of her bare, heavy legs from the table's edge with long, deliberate lunges of his upper body. "Matter of fact, that's what I want to talk to you about," Ray continued.
My own back grew erect as I instantly became attentive to her orders. The young man kneaded the firm white flesh of Ray's thighs without affecting her concentration in the slightest. I realized that it must only have been a week ago that she had him leaving ads around the city, printed on vinyl footprints that were made to stick to the sidewalk. A short stay at her gym convinced many employees to sign on for a deeper instruction of some kind or another.
"I'm sending you a movie file. It's an interview conducted here with a troubled college guy who I think you might be able to help. This would be a first for you, understand?" I nodded.
"Study has been intense lately. I have no doubt about my grasp of theory. Physical application alone is untested." Ray's face darkened knowingly.
"We know how vital the difference between those can be." The boy ran his thumbs over the top of her shining foot while the pads of his fingers cradled the balls and arch. He was oblivious to her change in tone.
"Acknowledged." The message she had sent me was clear: a warning not to trust desire or the strength of my body in the performance of my art. To become intoxicated by them could prove disastrous not only for the client, but to myself as well. Fortunately for all concerned I was known at Ray's school as The Geeky Venus, and neither my passion nor brute force was likely to be any danger. That was of course why she was trusting me.
"Good," she said, and relaxed. "Give me a ping when you're done with the session to let me know how it went." Peter was cupping her voluptuous thigh by sliding both hands up its length. "By the way, Samantha?" She caught him gently by the wrist as he reached her hip, and carefully dragged his digits along the top of her thigh to her strapped-on phallus, so that his grip closed around the base. "Don't talk like a nerd." He gulped.
The grinning face bordered by spiky black hair disappeared, leaving a flashing alert on the screen to signify that I'd received her document.
"I'm not a nerd," I grumbled, and pushed my heavy black glasses up the bridge of my nose.
The person in question was named Jason T. In the file he sat at a table with a cup of coffee and recounted in detail how one of his neighbors had introduced him to strap-on sex during his senior year of high school. Apparently, she was a member of a women's baseball team, which enabled her to use her uniform as a fetish to ensnare him. Jason's countless fantasies of playing in the Major Leagues were twisted by the sadistic young woman into a powerful sexual obsession from which he'd found no escape.
A typical afternoon encounter had him completing overdue homework assignments in bed, when he heard someone attempting entry at the patio doors. After darting downstairs to the kitchen he would discover the cause of his crippling anxiety, the average-sized but athletic Nicole C. standing against the marble counter top with a sinister penile bulge in her pants and inky smudges under her cold, lusty eyes. At the sight of her black sneakers, white knee socks, and red jersey, he knelt helplessly before the dynamic and insistent sports-siren. She roughly and slowly unbuttoned her trousers with feigned disgust to let the flesh-colored latex dick she wore spring free, and he inched forward on his knees to take her impressive girth embarrassingly into his mouth, as she commanded. On an unknown number of occasions the dark girl with the brown ponytail skewered him mercilessly on the family's dinner table as his snappish schnauzer Marty watched the penetration uncomprehending. Jason described her fucking technique as authoritative, and claimed her strokes were brisk and powerful. He said she often poised one cleated foot on a chair while pumping him, with a hold on his shoulder and her other hand resting comfortably on her hip.
I called downtown to tell them I would take the case. Fifteen minutes later I received a response informing me that Jason was on his way to my apartment, and would be there shortly. Several deep breaths calmed me, and I quickly tidied up the modest living space.
When he arrived I was struck again by how handsome he was, so that I had to remind myself to keep a professional distance. His mid-length hair was sandy and full, and his face luminously optimistic despite the hardships he'd endured. We introduced ourselves and sat on the futon so I could explain my familiarity with his situation, and what steps I was prepared to take to help him out of it.
"Primarily important is that you trust me," I concluded.
"But what you can do, it's more of the same. It means fucking me. Like Nicole does, did."
