Penthouse (23 page)

At last Rosa let out a long, loud wail as she hurled her cunt—and the cock—against me one last time. I knew she was coming;
the dildo thrust into me so hard that it released my own explosive orgasm. We writhed together, our cunts greedily pushing
against each other to extract every remaining wave of pleasure that had built up inside of us. As the throbbing subsided we
kissed again, our tongues wrapping around each other the way our arms and legs were now intertwined. We lay like that for
a while, dozing off and on as the candlelight flickered on the walls and the afternoon on the other side of the window shades
eased silently into night.

After a time Rosa looked at me and smirked in her devilish way. “Well,
chica,
” she said, “I hope this isn’t premature, but all that food you helped me carry home is gonna go bad if I don’t do something
with it. I don’t make a habit of cooking for strangers—but if I do whip a little something up, any chance I could tempt you
into staying for dinner?”

“That depends,” I said, lowering my mouth to her already hard nipple, “on what you’re planning for dessert.”

BY
G
RETA
C
HRISTINA

W
hat an asshole, Sheila thinks as she plays with her pussy. He’s been popping quarters into the booth like they were rock candy.
A smile wouldn’t cost anything extra.

She smiles down at the customer through the glass, a sugary, seductive smile full of bubble and promise. He responds with
a blank stare, the same blank stare he’s been giving her for the past five minutes. His face is flat and listless, a cheap
cement statue of a gloomy frog, with a trickle of hostility leaking through the stone set of his mouth.

She sighs and spins around, giving up, turning her face away. She sticks her butt in the window, bends at the waist, and runs
her hand slowly over her ass.
The flicking brick-wall men,
she thinks, as she rocks her hips slowly from side to side.
I’ve never understood why they come here. I mean, I can give them the sight of a dancing naked woman, but I can’t give them
the joy of watching a naked woman dance. Don’t they get that they have to bring that themselves?

She licks her forefinger and runs it up and down her pussy as she gyrates to the thumping music. She catches
Tanisha’s eye, and gives her the contemptuous look she can’t give the customer. Tanisha rolls her eyes, gives a quick nod
of sympathy, and turns back to Danielle. The younger girl is sprawled over Tanisha’s lap; she squirms and rolls her hips dramatically,
putting on an extravagant show for the two drunken sailors in the corner booth. Tanisha scowls ferociously and slaps Danielle’s
tight, round rump; Danielle gives a theatrical squeal of pain and fear and wriggles in delight.

I like a girl who enjoys her work,
Sheila says to herself. She knows these two; they’ll be doing the real thing later on tonight. They get a kick out of faking
it for the guys, but they never do it for real for money.

She hears the window panel slide down behind her, and glances over her shoulder. Yup, he’s gone. What a tragic loss to the
human race. She arches her back, aching from bending over, and looks around dutifully for a new customer.

Sure enough, just as she finishes stretching, the panel in the other corner booth slides up. Sheila glances at Lorelei, who’s
on her hands and knees, busily spreading her pussy for a middle-aged man with a briefcase in one hand and his dick in the
other. Guess the new one’s mine, Sheila concludes. Conscientious as always, she shimmies over, squats in front of the guy,
and smiles. “Hi,” she hollers over the deafening synth-pop din. “I’m Chloe.”

In response he pulls a pad and pen out of his pocket and begins scribbling. He holds it up to the window and smiles back.
Hi Chloe,
it reads.
I’m Henry.

Her eyebrows shoot up, surprised and impressed.
Smart guy,
she thinks.
Inventive. And he actually wants to talk to me. Maybe this will be a live one.

She tucks her legs under her like a cheesecake model
and runs an exploring hand over her torso. “So, Henry, you come here often?”

He writes furiously for a minute and holds the pad up to the window.
Yes,
it says.
That’s why I brought this. I know it’s too loud in there for you to hear me….

He flips to another page and scribbles some more.
But I want to be able to talk. This is the best I could come up with.

He reaches into his pocket and quickly inserts a handful of quarters into the slot. She ducks her head and blushes; she knows
she should know better, but she’s always a little surprised when guys drop their money just to look at her. She licks her
finger and runs it over her nipple, pinching it lightly. “So, you like me?”

Yes,
he writes.
You seem… friendly.

She leans back, spreads her pussy lips open for a teasing moment, then lets them close again. “I try,” she answers. “So what
would you like to talk about?”

You,
he writes.

“Sure thing,” she smiles. “What would you like to know?”

He thinks for a moment, then scribbles again.
What part of your body do you like best?

Her eyebrows shoot up again. “Interesting question. No one’s asked me that before.”

Really? Nobody?

“Well, nobody in here, anyway,” she says with a shrug. “But to answer your question, I’d have to say… my ass. I really like
my ass a lot. Would you like to see it?”

He scribbles hastily.
Sure, I’d like to see your ass….

He flips to a new page.
But I want to see your face too.

“You got it, bub,” she says cheerfully. She leaps to her feet, spins around, flops over at the waist, and gapes at him between
her legs. “How’s this?” she grins.

He laughs and shakes his head.
That’s really silly,
he writes.

“You’re right,” she answers. “I never understood that one either. Okay, let’s try this.”

She gets on hands and knees, putting her body in profile. She gives him a smoky look over her shoulder, tousles her hair,
and growls. Tiger woman, she thinks. Queen of the Jungle. She shifts her leg to show him her soft, round ass, arches her hips
into the air and grinds them around in slow circles. “How’s that?” she asks.

Much better,
he writes.
So what do you like doing with your ass, Chloe?

She doesn’t hesitate. “I like to get it fucked,” she replies crudely.

Show me.

She puts her finger in her mouth and draws it out slowly, getting it nice and wet. An unexpected shudder goes through her
body as she raises her eyes to meet his. His gaze trails down her back like gentle fingers, and she squirms and wriggles,
pleased and flattered and oddly bashful. She reaches back with one hand, opens her ass cheek invitingly, and runs her wet
finger up and down the crack. He gazes back at her face, solemn and anxious; she gives him a small, coy smile and waits.

Please?

She grins and licks her lips. She wets her finger again, teases her crack for a moment, then slowly slides her finger into
her asshole.

A sudden rush of warmth and pleasure rolls into her head. She moans and slumps and closes her eyes, almost against her will,
as she slowly pumps her finger into her ass. A small, tight spot in her throat begins to dissolve, melts down into her breasts
and stomach; she bucks her
hips up hard, bites her lip, and begins to whimper quietly. Her ass clenches tight around her finger, pulling it in deeper.

She opens her eyes suddenly, remembering where she is, and gives Henry a wild, intent look. His hands are pressed against
the glass, clutching the notebook; his eyes are open wide, shining with lechery and delight. She shoves a second finger into
her asshole and begins to fuck herself in earnest, hard and crude and a little rough, just the way she likes it. Her asshole
grabs her fingers like a vise, demanding and insistent. She moans louder, throws her head back, and lets out a sharp little
cry of bliss.

She collapses onto the floor, panting dramatically. She rolls onto her back, pulls out her fingers, and surreptitiously wipes
them on the grimy carpet. “Oh, my God,” she whispers.

He takes a deep breath and pulls away from the glass.
Jesus, you’re beautiful,
he writes.
Thank you. That was wonderful.

She stretches out and props herself up on her elbow. “You’re welcome,” she says.

Was it real?
he writes.

“Mmmmmmm,” she murmurs. “You bet.”

Really?

She hesitates. “Well… yeah,” she says uncomfortably. “More or less. I mean, it felt good. Felt real good, actually. But no,
I didn’t come, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He smiles, nods, and writes for a long moment.
Thanks for being honest. I appreciate that.

A softer song comes on the jukebox, a sweet, slow-dance love song with a low female voice.
So, do you like working here?
Henry writes.

The lie springs to Sheila’s lips, the automatic lie hammered
into her by months of unspoken training. She gives him a long, serious look, closes her lips tight, looks around to make sure
nobody is listening, and speaks.

“The truth?” she asks, leaning into the glass.

Of course,
he writes.

“Well… here’s the deal,” she murmurs as softly as she can and still have him hear her, as loudly as she can without being
overheard. “Yeah, I do like it. The money’s good and the hours are flexible. I don’t have to work forty hours to pay the rent,
so I have time to do my own stuff. And the dancing itself is fun. I like to dance and I like my body… and I like sex, I like
being sexy.” He grins and waggles his eyebrows. “And the other women are amazing. They’re smart and sexy and funny, and they
really take care of each other. I just love them to pieces.”

But…
he writes.

It all comes out in a rush. “The flicking men,” she says bitterly. “They want it all spoon-fed to them. Pussy and pleasure
and all the rest of it. They think sex should be like TV, but with hotter babes and no commercials. They just wanna sit back
and suck it down like baby birds. They don’t smile, they don’t say hi, they don’t say, ‘Thank you’ or ‘You’re pretty’ or even
‘Nice tits, baby.’ They just stare like dead fish. Not all of them… but a flicking lot of them.” She takes a deep breath,
startled by her own anger.

He nods.
Men are assholes,
he scribbles.

She laughs heartily, her bitterness broken for the moment. “Thank you,” she says. “So… what would you like to see now? Anything
special?”

What would you like?
he writes.

She chuckles. “Why don’t you take your clothes off and dance for me?” she jokes. “Just for a change.”

He scribbles seriously for a long minute:
Okay, I’ll do that. But I’d better warn you, I’m not a very good dancer.

He sets the pad on the bench, runs his hand through his hair, and slowly begins to unbutton his shirt. She stretches out like
a cat and watches in awe, amazed that he took her seriously.

He unbuttons his shirt slowly, caressing his chest as he uncovers it bit by bit. She plays with her own body in response,
moving her hand in slow circles over her belly as he strips off his shirt and shows her his thin chest. He begins to roll
his torso in slow, hesitant, snakelike ripples. She can smell herself—the sharp, salty smell her pussy gives off when it wants
something really badly. She watches hungrily as he runs his hands over his chest and slides them down over his hips. He begins
to rub his dick through his jeans, squeezing it in rhythm with the slow music, and she draws a sudden, ragged breath. Her
pulse beats hard inside her clit; she shoves her hand between her thighs and squeezes tight.

Suddenly he stops dancing and snatches up the pad and pen.
I feel silly,
he writes.
I feel like a dork.

She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t,” she replies. “You look great. I’m getting totally wet watching you.” She stares meaningfully
at his crotch. “Now show me more.”

He drops pad and pen, slumps against the wall, hooks his thumb into his waistband, and gives her a moody, smoldering stare
like a model for designer jeans. She laughs and nods approvingly. He begins to move again, squirming and writhing against
the wall. Slowly, teasingly, he un-buckles his belt, unzips his fly, tugs his swollen dick out of his pants and into the open
air. He cradles it in his hand and gives her a wide-open look, proud and fearful and eager for approval.

She ogles his cock and licks her lips, drinking in his eagerness like water. “Very pretty,” she says. “Very nice indeed. But
I wanna see more. Turn around and pull them all the way down. Show me your ass.”

He complies immediately; turns to face the wall, arches his back, and slowly pulls his jeans down over his slim hips. She
whistles appreciatively as the fabric drops down to his thighs and his bare ass is revealed. He blushes bright red, presses
his hands against the wall, and slowly bends over to give her a better look. She stares intently at his smooth, tight ass,
relishing his exposure, sucking in the view like a starving woman. Her clit thumps hard, demanding attention; she begins to
caress it in earnest, moving her finger in slow, tight circles.
I love a boy who does what I tell him,
she thinks.

“Now turn around again,” she commands. “Let me see your dick. Let me see you jerk off.”

He spins around to face her, jeans around his knees, face flushed, his dick twitching of its own accord. He jams his back
against the wall, licks his hand like a dog, and begins to slide it up and down the shaft of his cock.

A sudden flash of longing stabs into her cunt, and she whimpers and spreads her legs wider. She opens her pussy lips with
her fingers and thrusts her hips toward the glass, frantically and insistently, forcing her hole into the open, trying to
show him as much of herself as she can. His eyes widen as they take in her sopping-wet cunt; he grips his cock with a trembling
hand as she spreads herself apart and furiously rubs her swollen clit. Their eyes connect; they stare intently, flushed, shivering,
mouths hanging open, eyes wide. His hand moves faster and faster; a shudder travels through his body, and he bites his lip,
throws his
head back, and squirts into his hand. She sees his face contort. She cries out hard, and comes.