DangeroustoKnow (2 page)

His breaths were sharp above me. A drip of dense fluid
landed on my tongue, a promise of what was to come, and I lapped it up. In my
heightened state, I was aware of my knees suffering painfully on the sharp
concrete so I shifted and he allowed me to move back onto my haunches and press
my spine against the wall. Instantly my own lubrication slid down the cleft of
my pussy. It trickled to my anus and sat there, sopping, forming a drip that
became increasingly heavy then ran down my buttock.

I kept my mouth firm, sucking as much as I could, oxygen
allowing. With my lips I hugged his shaft, and my tongue was a long, wet slide
of muscle for him to jack against. When he let out another groan, I searched
for his balls, found them firm and packed tight in his briefs. Through the
material I cupped them, squeezed and massaged, my fingertip straying behind to
touch his anus.

“Dirty fucking whore,” he grunted, shoving to the back of my
throat with extra gusto.

My head hit the wall and I gagged, painfully. His cock
thickened and grew, and I knew it was about to erupt. His whole body went still
except for the faintest of trembling in his retracting balls. Fighting the urge
to pull away, I braced for the flooding. Then it was there. He jerked out and
shoved in again, his semen jetting into my mouth, filling my cheeks, soaking my
tongue and gushing down my throat.

“Ah yes, fuck, yes,” he rasped on a sharp inhale before
pulling his cock out.

I released his balls and he stepped back. In a flash he’d
tucked himself away and tugged straight his t-shirt. Only his hoarse panting
gave any indication of the fact he’d just come.

Staying squatted, I stared up at him through the dim light.
My legs ached. My back and head were scratched from the gritty wall and my lips
and jaw were numb from the stretching and pounding I’d just taken.

He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Plucked out two
tens and dropped them. They fluttered to the ground and landed at my feet next
to a grimy rubber glove and a blob of blackened gum. As I looked at them, a new
trickle of moisture slipped over my perineum and sent a shudder of bliss, pure
wicked bliss, snaking up my spine.

Without another word, he turned and disappeared around the
front of the Dumpster. The sound of his boots banging on the ground echoed
between the tall walls until eventually they faded. Still breathing hard, my
body felt on fire. I was so turned-on I was dizzy. I’d been used as a sexual
object. I’d given pleasure, upheld my end of the bargain and been paid. My
pussy was thrumming—it needed attention. Standing, I gripped the rim of the
stinking Dumpster and began to fret and pinch my clit with my other hand.

It took only a couple of nudges to send me skyward. I’d been
hovering on the brink the whole time I’d been sucking off my client, and now it
consumed me, hard and fast. As I came I shoved three fingers into my soaking
pussy so it had something to grip, and cried out as my body shuddered through
shock waves of pleasure. They ripped into my core, tangled in my soul and
filled every cell.

I knew in that blissful second that I wanted to be a whore
again—soon.

Chapter Two

Fulfilling my fantasy was like taking a drug that became
addictive after just one hit. Far from wandering home, feeling satisfied, I
rushed back and jacked myself off again as I looked through binoculars at him.
He was reading his paper, his ankle crossed over his knee as he smoked a
post-blowjob roll-up.

My knees were dirty, my hair scruffy and my lipstick
smudged. I must have looked a sight scrambling from the alley and dashing into
my building. There was even my own juices dripping down my leg as I’d stood in
the elevator. But I didn’t care. My brain was buzzing with more ways to get my
client’s attention.

By that evening I’d come up with yet another way to feed my
foul needs. It would require an unusual photo of myself.

* * * * *

Saturday afternoon was again bright. The birds flitted
through the trees and New Yorkers were enjoying their freedom from the office.
I too was glad not to be smiley receptionist Karen sorting out everyone’s
ophthalmology appointments.

He was there, in the park, had been for an hour. I donned my
slutty clothes and scrawled my mobile number on the back of a photograph I’d
taken and printed off the evening before.

The photo was of my pussy. He’d called it pretty so I
figured it would be the best thing to offer him.

The shocking image was lewd and in your face. I’d shaved off
my pubic hair completely, using a magnifying mirror to ensure no stray curl was
missed. Rubbed an expensive moisturizer into my folds; gotten carried away as
I’d spread it around and ended up masturbating—again. But the result was very
pleasing. The extra rush of blood ensured my vulva was thick and swollen, the
skin shiny and flushed, as if it was an open mouth waiting to be kissed deep
and hard.

Clutching my shocking photo, I headed for the park. My
insides were alive at the thought of offering him more of my services, and I
prayed he’d take the bait, call me, thrill me, set up another whore-client
transaction.

This time he looked up when I sat on his bench. His eyes
held no surprise at seeing me. It was as if he’d been expecting my visit. But
there was detachment too. He wasn’t bothered either way.

Good, I wasn’t supposed to mean anything to him.

“I’ve brought you a business card,” I said.

He plucked a roll-up from his top pocket and lit it with a snap
of a silver lighter. “Oh yeah.”

“Yes. If you need a whore, call me.” I held out the
photograph, pussy-side up.

He took it, surveyed it, then glanced at me. “You shaved.”

I swallowed a tight lump. Had shaving been a mistake? Was he
a guy who preferred the forest look?

“I like it.” The right side of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t
a smile but it was something.

Exhaling, I twisted my hands on my lap. “So call me. My
business number is on the back.”

He flipped it over and sucked on his cigarette. “I might just
do that if I’m feeling flush and horny at the same time.”

Words tumbled through my brain. I wanted to scream at him
that he must call me and the sooner the better. Leaving me dangling was unfair.
I was his whore. My crude needs were focused solely on him. No one else would
do. If he didn’t call me, I would die of frustration.

Standing, I reached for his roll-up and plucked it from his
fingers. I held it to my lips and inhaled deeply, letting the dense smoke fill
my throat and lungs. After I’d blown the smoke out, a fraction to the right of
his face, I smiled. “Make sure you do,” I said, passing back the cigarette.
“Soon.”

I turned and walked away with my chin in the air, rolling my
hips and wiggling my ass. Trying my best to look wanton rather than desperate.

After ten paces I heard the trill of a phone behind me, then
his gruff voice. “Yep, this is Jovica.”

Jovica. His name was Jovica. My body tensed at the knowledge
and I played with the word in my head. I’d never heard it before but it was
beautiful in a hard-cut, foreign kind of way. And it suited him. Had he been
Stephen or Edward or John I would have been hugely disappointed. I wanted my
rough client to be different, not to mold to the norm, because let’s face it,
whatever this was we, I, were doing, it was anything but normal.

Surprisingly I didn’t have to wait long to get a call from
Jovica. Early evening, just as I’d poured myself a gin and tonic, my mobile
blasted out the latest Lady GaGa song.

“Hello,” I said, not recognizing the number but feeling sure
it wouldn’t be him. Not yet.

“Hello, whore.”

My heart tripped over itself. Oh God, it was him. I took a
slug of my drink and sat heavily on the couch. It was a hot, muggy evening and
my window was wide open. A pleasant breeze filtered in, flapping the net
curtain and cooling my suddenly flushed skin.

“What do you want?” I asked in as smooth a voice as I could
muster.

“Your services.”

“Be more specific.”

There was a long silence then finally, “At first I didn’t
want to fuck a whore’s squalid pussy. One that’s been used a thousand times by
a thousand guys, stretched and made saggy, worn and diseased. But there’s
something very appealing about your cunt—and your asshole too. That looks
tight, good and tight. I might wanna ram my dick into that until you scream in
agony. Fuck your ass and come inside your slutty body deep, so deep. And you’ll
love it, won’t you, filthy fucking whore that you are? You’ll love me fucking
your stinky cunt and then your tight, hot ass.”

We were both quiet for a moment. What he’d just said was
absolutely foul and had slid from his foreign tongue as smoothly as a beautiful
poem might.

“How do you know?” I asked, my throat in knots.

He let out a huff of amusement. “How do I know what?”

“How do you know that you can say that stuff to me and I
won’t slam down the phone?”

“You’re easy to read.”

Was I really? Had I been an open book? From what he’d just
said it seemed that I had. Either that or he was a fucking body language expert
of some sort. “So what do you see? Tell me and I’ll let you know if you’ve got
it right.”

“I would guess an easy childhood with kind parents,
reasonable grades and now you’re holding down a dull, law-abiding job, which
makes you independent. You’re all blonde curls and blue eyes and everyone
thinks you’re sweet and nice.” He paused and I heard him suck then blow,
probably on a cigarette. “Except that’s not enough, is it? You don’t want sweet
and nice when it comes to men, when it comes to sex. Dashing Paul from the
office or happy Henry just don’t do it for you, do they?”

I said nothing.

“Do they?” His voice was stern.

“No.”

“Because beneath that perfect veneer, you’re a horny little
bitch and you want to see how the other half lives. The women who are not as
fortunate as you, the ones who have to offer their bodies to men for money. The
whores who are abused and humiliated every day of their lives just to put food
on the table or feed their drug habits.”

I hunched one shoulder and wedged the phone to my ear,
sipped my drink. “Go on.”

“It thrills you, doesn’t it, being used as an object rather
than a lover?”

“Yes,” I whispered, setting my drink on a nearby table,
spreading my legs and tugging up my skirt. I ran my fingers over the damp
gusset of my panties. “It does.”

His voice lowered. “And did I get it just right for you the
other day, in the alley? Did I treat you how you wanted to be treated?”

“Yes.” I dipped my fingers under the elastic of my panties
and slid them into my damp folds. Oh, the memory of the alley, that was going
to be fodder for masturbating for years to come, and hearing him talk about it
was double the pleasure.

He sucked on his cigarette again and blew. “You took my cock
into your mouth like the perfect whore, all submissive and willing. Doing it
exactly how I told you to.”

“I did it because you paid me. I needed the money.”

A deep rumble of mirth came down the line. “You don’t need
the money. The only reason you did it was because it got you off as much as it
did me.”

I was silent.

“I’ve made you horny just talking about it, haven’t I?” he
asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, poking my finger into my entrance and
smoothing over wet flesh.

“Are you touching yourself now?”

“Yes.”

“Good, keep doing it.”

I flopped my knees wide, penetrated with two fingers and
thrust my pelvis onto them. The way he was talking about my innermost fantasies
so accurately was alarming but also deeply exciting.

“What do you think of when you shove into your cunt and make
yourself come?” he asked.

Now I felt inhibited, because saying the words, admitting it
for the first time was somehow worse than acting it out. It was irrational, I
knew, but it was how I felt. I’d often worried that I had some deep primeval
guilt about sex that made me want to surrender control and take payment. I
couldn’t analyze it, even though I’d tried. It was just who I was.

“Come on. Tell me.”

“Okay,” I said breathily, staring out the window at the
building opposite. My net curtain had shifted completely in the breeze.
Neighbors opposite would be able to see me spread-eagled on the sofa touching
myself if they looked in. “I think of sleazy clubs full of men I don’t know.
Rough men, men who are there for one thing only. Sex.”

“Go on.”

My palm caught my clit and I jerked over myself faster. “I
think of being paid to be naked and available, ordered to give blowjobs and
opening my legs to be fucked by anyone with money in their wallet and a dick
that’s hard.”

“I have money in my wallet.”

“And your dick?”

“Yeah, whore, that’s hard. Hearing you getting yourself off
has made it hard. I can picture you now, lying on a pretty pink sofa,
delicately embroidered cushions scattered haphazardly around and your long legs
spread wide, so wide.”

“So what do we do next?”

“Make yourself come and I’ll tell you.”

I could hear his breaths, light and fast. “Are you jerking
off?”

“No, I’m saving it all for you.”

I didn’t believe him. He was jerking off, all right. I could
make out the rub of skin on skin. Jovica was tugging at his cock as he spoke to
me. He wanted me again. I knew it. Why else would he be calling me, talking
about my fantasies?

The knowledge that I’d found the perfect man to reveal my
depraved side to tipped me over the edge and my orgasm raged through me. “Oh
God, yes, yes, fuck.” I heaved my hips upward and rammed into my pussy harder,
faster, over and over. I could barely breathe as I became a mass of pulsating
ecstasy.

He gasped and groaned, the sound long and guttural. It
settled in my chest as I continued to ride my hand. I was panting and shaking,
coming for an exquisitely extended period. “Oh yes, that’s good, really good,
ahh…ahh…”

“Oh, you sound so fucking filthy when you come,” he said in
a rasping, breathy voice.

“Yes, yes filthy, that’s right.” Fighting to catch my
breath, I felt as if I’d been turned and twisted upside down. My pulse raged in
my ears, my heart thudded and my vision blurred. Stunned was a good way of
describing my emotions after masturbating over the phone for a stranger.

“So now it’s my turn,” he said eventually.

“For what.”

“To come.”

Ah, so he was still pretending that he hadn’t jacked off. I
would bet my life on it that right now he had a silvery glob of cum wrapped in
a tissue that he’d just cleaned off his stomach. But I would let him have his
secret. “When?” I asked.

“Half an hour.”

Shit, really?

“Where?”

“My place.”

I tugged my fingers from my cunt and looked at them
sparkling in the sunlight. It was as though they’d been coated in slick, sticky
glitter. “Your place?”

He grunted. “What, you think you won’t be safe? You’re a
whore. Women like you get murdered all the time. It’s a risk you have to take.”
He paused. “Besides, if I’d wanted to kill you I would have done that in the
alley. Much cleaner forensically than in my home.”

My post-climax brain was struggling to function. He wanted
me to go to his home. He wasn’t going to murder me. It was his turn to come.

“You still there?”

“I, er, yes.”

“Good, meet me in the park and I’ll take you. It’s just
around the corner.”

“Give me the address.”

“No. The park, half an hour.”

The line went dead and I dropped the phone to the sofa. It
bounced and landed on the carpet with a soft
whump
. In half an hour I
would return to my whorish state. Anticipation built inside me, along with
gratitude for the good fortune I’d had to find a man who understood my nasty
needs.

I glanced out the window and met a pair of spectacled eyes.
They belonged to the elderly woman who lived opposite. I snapped my legs
together but it was too late. I could tell by her expression that she’d been
watching me for some time.

* * * * *

I wore my slutty purple skirt and silver stilettos again,
but this time I teamed it with a tight bottle-green top, large gold hoop
earrings and a short denim jacket. I pulled on a pair of panties, black lace,
quite pretty for a whore. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t be on long.

He was waiting for me, standing with his hands deep in his
jean pockets. He wore his usual clumpy dark boots and today a
faded-at-the-seams black U2 t-shirt. As I approached him, walking sluttily and
provocatively, I once again realized how damn tall the man was. He was lean and
not overly big built. His long muscles were sinewy and defined, his shoulders
wide and angular, and his pants just hugged the top of his thighs. He hadn’t
shaved for some time. The stubble on his jaw was dense and shadowed down his
neck. It wasn’t much shorter than the closely shorn hair on his head.