The Tip Jar

The Tip Jar by Dodge & Becs (aged 56 & 25)

"Dad, can I just use your PC for 5 minutes?"

"Go for it."

I ushered her into my study and she plonked herself down at my computer. I sat on one of the comfy sofas studying my phone.

"I just need to check Google Maps, the phone display is so small. Won't be a minute," she explained moving the mouse around.

"Oh yeah? going somewhere?"

"Don't know yet, might have a week in Toulouse, anyway ssh I need to concentrate."

"Toulouse? How come?"

She ignored me and made some notes on her phone.

"Right....done."

She closed the window down, and suddenly burst out laughing.

"What?"

"Nothing."

She could hardly suppress her giggles as she sat beside me on the sofa.

"Yeah I know it's funny isn't it, Google Maps? Especially that bit with the street view, just hilarious. Satellite view cracks me up every time."

She turned to me and cocked an eyebrow, a sardonic smile.

I let it pass. Young people- unfathomable. Women- unfathomable. Young women? Forget it.

"So you came straight from work? Train on time?"

Our relationship had become somewhat strained since my separation from the family home, but we were getting there.

"Yes."

I nodded sagely as though weighing up her detailed response. I suppose I'm something of a rambling man, and terse conversation makes me uneasy. I found my heel tapping on the floor, nervous.

"Yes, you came straight from work? Or yes the train was - "

"What's Chaturbate?"

"What? Chatter what now?"

"Chaturbate, the site."

I made a puzzled face, somewhat exaggerated, and shook my head, shrugging.

"There's a link to it on your desktop."

"OH yeah....yeah it's an AI program, does chatting in different languages-"

"Oooh really? Show me?"

"We-ell, we should be thinking about dinner...curry."

"OK, I'll ask again. What. Is. Chaturbate?"

I knew she knew. She knew I knew she knew.

"Just...y'know, women. Women doing things on camera."

"I see."

I couldn't read her. Was she pretending to be disgusted? Was this all a little game she was playing? We had always enjoyed these battles of wits, pushing the other to admit defeat, sometimes the contests would last hours.

I decided to parry her thrust with a high status move.

"Yes that's right Rebecca, women. Delicious naked women. Sometimes touching themselves for the pleasure of their viewers who also masturbate. That's the 'Bate' part, see?"

She breathed heavily. She'd lost the upper hand. She needed me embarrassed, squirming.

"And what do they get out of it, these slag- sorry, these delicious naked women?"

"Money. Men put tokens in her tip jar. The more they tip, the more she reveals."

She sensed a winning move. Paused, waiting to strike like a cobra.

"And you, father? Do you 'put tokens in her tip jar'?" She spat out the words while doing the air quotes.

She stared directly into my eyes, serious, excited at having played the winner.

I met her gaze. Not going to lose this one. I licked my lips.

"If she's worth it."

We maintained the stare for several seconds, then I saw a smile break at the corner of her mouth. I laughed. We laughed.

Good match, quick, light.

Except.

She left the room and went to the kitchen. I heard her rummage in one of the cupboards.

When she returned she sat opposite me on the other sofa and placed an empty coffee jar on the small table between us, relaxed, leaning back, saying nothing. She tied her hair back in a pony tail with a scrunchy.

Was she annoyed? I mean, a man should be able to enjoy videos of consenting adults without -

She leaned forward and removed the metal lid from the jar, unscrewing it slowly.

Sometimes I'm very slow on the uptake, but not this time. The game wasn't over. That was just the first half. She'd come out refreshed, and ready to claim victory.

We held the stare again as she shunted the jar towards me with a sock covered foot.

I reached into my pocket and retrieved a meagre £4.79 in coins, counting carefully. I nonchalantly tinkled a pound coin into the jar.

Nothing.

Then suddenly she reached down and took off a white ankle sock, her foot resting on the opposite thigh, her skirt riding up a little. Then the other sock. She tossed them lazily onto the floor.

I surveyed the situation like a pensive chess player, hands to my mouth. I picked up a sock and smelt it. Sweaty, bitter.

I dropped the loose 79 pence, plus a pound coin into the jar and leaned back, hands in pockets.

She studied the jar critically. Cocked an eyebrow.

She slowly undid all but the bottom button on her work blouse: white, simple. A tiny strip of skin showing between the two leaves, the centre front hook of her white bra. She closed her eyes and swayed slightly to some imaginary tune. Unconcerned.

The final two pounds clinked into the jar. She knew this was the last contribution, no more change.

She nodded, reached up inside her blouse and expertly, in that way only women understand, removed her bra, all the while managing to reveal nothing at all, her blouse skillfully kept in place by the remaining button and judicious elbow work.

She held the article aloft then let it float to the ground, enjoying my discomfort. The gap had widened a little, her cleavage now on view. I detected a slight poking through of a nipple.

She assumed she had won, and prepared to pick up the jar.

Nope. Not over yet.

I took out my wallet. Her eyes shone. How she loved such a worthy adversary.

I took out a five pound note and slid it under my nose, enjoying its crisp newness. I folded it ostentatiously in half, leaned forward and poked it into the jar. Leaned back.

She seemed somewhat at a loss. But....five pounds is five pounds.

She tossed her head back, gathering confidence. She pulled one half of her blouse off her shoulders, then the other, undid the final button, and tossed the item to the floor. Her naked nipples were clearly aroused as she sat, swaying to the sound in her head, her breasts rippling with the contours of her rhythmic movements, hands by her sides.

My erection was uncomfortable.

I unzipped my trousers and undid the top button, providing some relief. Making sure she could see my form through the material.

I sniffed a ten pound note, sifted it between thumb and forefinger as if not sure, then dropped it in the tip jar. I was winning this easily.

She made a decision.

Slowly, sensually, wantonly, she reached up inside her black skirt and tugged at the waistband of her knickers, shimmied them down off her legs, then clamped her thighs together.

She made to throw them to the floor, but I shook my head and held out a hand to take them from her.

I held the knickers to my face, inhaling her scent, erotic and stale after her day at work, and the train journey. I rubbed myself through my trousers as I sniffed the flimsy knickers, each sniff sending pulses of sheer lust though my body.

We stared. We understood.

I tossed the fifty pound note into the jar and put the empty wallet back in my pocket.

She squirmed in her seat. She had to do it. She couldn't! She must.

She made to unhook her skirt at the back, but I shook my head.

"Skirt stays on."

She understood. Men like clothes. The fifty pounds was for something else.

A dense silence fell on the room, the only sound the faint whirring of the timer on the cooker in the kitchen.

Quivering, she draped a leg over the arm of the sofa, her shaved, glistening cunt now open and exposed to me. She traced a finger between her legs and slid a finger either side of her engorged clit. She dipped a finger into her hole, her orgasm building. She looked at me.

I slid my trousers and boxers off my legs to my ankles, my cock sprung into view, wet with precum, veiny, thick.

I stroked the ridge at the tip, she gently circled her clit with a fingertip.

I pulled at my foreskin, thumb circling the frenum. She pushed two fingers inside her, coating them before sucking them, lips pouting.

More urgent now, I stroked faster. She stroked faster.

We watched each other pleasuring ourselves, both desperate to cum, both still wondering- would that be the final defeat? One of us orgasming alone?

But we were too far gone now to worry about the game.

I gave her a questioning 'ready?' look. She nodded.

And we came together. My thick gloopy sperm roping a few inches in the air before cascading down my shaft. She clenched, tightened, then let out a long ecstatic moan as she drained the last few drops of exquisite pleasure from herself, her lips oozing.

The alarm beeped on the cooker.

As my cock softened, twitching, she looked over. She stood, pulled her knickers back on, relishing in my continued desire to watch. She refastened the bra, a last delicious view of her beautiful breasts. Then slipped into, and buttoned up, the blouse, smoothing it down in a prim and proper way.

I too re-organised my attire.

We stared across the small coffee table.

I offered a pinky finger for her to lock.

"Draw?" I offered.

She rejected the pinky deal and made a sound to imply disagreement.

I looked surprised.

She picked up the jar, took out the notes, fanned them out deliberately, and sniffed them with faux relish before stuffing them into her bag along with the emptied out coinage. She left a 2p coin at the bottom.

She'd won.