Loading...Claire knew it was three-forty. She knew because she had just checked the clock a few seconds ago, but she looked anyway. It was three-forty.
She had already closed what she’d been working on, so she opened a couple of spreadsheets to clutter the screen. She picked a paperclip – a fancy one with a red no-slip plastic coating – from the magnetic dispenser to the right of her phone and un-bent it to an approximation of straight.
She tapped the thin, red, plastic and steel shaft against the temple of her glasses as she permitted herself another look at the clock: three-forty-five. She sighed. She put the ruined paperclip down on her desk. Her hands were shaking.
She looked at the clock: still three-forty-five.
Marta walked into the room holding her coffee with both hands and sipping at it gingerly through the steam. Claire marveled at how Marta could drink coffee so late in the afternoon. She liked to imagine that Marta needed the caffeine to keep alert during the day because each night she sank into a secret world of exhausting vice: a drinking problem, a heroin addiction, a fight club. It would have pleased Claire to no end to discover her boss had a dark side.
“Did you get those signatures on that thingy for Abe?” asked Marta.
“Yes. It’s out with the courier.”
“Good.”
“Hey, I’m leaving at four today…” she glanced at the clock, it was now three-forty-eight. “But I was thinking of just cutting out now.”
Marta shrugged, “I guess ten unproductive minutes won’t kill us. What’re your big plans again?”
Claire stalled, what was the lie she’d used? “I’m watching my sister’s kids,” she said, remembering her excuse.
“Oh,” said Marta, looking a little suspicious. “The way you seemed about ready to fidget out of your chair all day I thought you might have a hot date.”
Claire could feel herself blush. “No, Dave and I are done. For good this time,” she said truthfully. She had thoroughly burned her bridges.
“There are other guys besides Dave, Claire.”
Claire screwed up her face and shrugged. She hated dating: the phoniness, the awkwardness, the boredom.
“How old are you: twenty-six?” asked Marta.
“Seven.”
“You should be having wild flings at your age; making drunken mistakes with musicians…”
“That’s not really my…”
“Let me tell you a secret,” said Marta as she leaned on the desk conspiratorially. Claire couldn’t help but look straight down her boss’ cleavage. She wished she had breasts like that. “Do you know how I met Chuck?”
Claire shook her head and leaned forward. She was eager to hear how Marta snagged a tall, handsome — albeit, sadly, balding – dermatologist for a husband.
“I was about your age; a little younger. We met at a party and just sorta clicked. We found a walk-in closet and we just did it. I had to ask him his name afterwards.” Marta laughed giddily and a far off look settled in behind her eyes.
Claire didn’t say anything. She looked at the clock. It was nearly four. “I’m sorry Marta, I really need to go,” she said.
It was Marta’s turn to blush. “Listen to me, reliving my wild glory days. Well, remember what I said. Someday when you’re old you’re going to think back on all the mistakes you didn’t make. You’ll regret it.”
“Jeez, Marta,” laughed Claire as she waited for her computer to power down. “My parents would fucking kill you if they heard you giving me advice like that.”
Marta looked surprised. “You know, Claire, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word ‘fuck’ before.”
She was right, of course. Claire didn’t swear. She didn’t curse or smoke or drink at lunch or wear tight, revealing clothes or sleep around with her colleagues. She barely even spoke to her coworkers except when addressed directly and few bothered anymore. She knew they called her “The Cat Lady” behind her back, not because she had a cat – she didn’t – but because she embodied the frumpy, socially maladroit stereotype to the point where feline companions were naturally assumed into her life.
“Not that I’m offended. It just sounds weird coming out of you,” said Marta.
“It’s been a long week” said Claire as she picked up her purse and her big shopping bag with the large, gift-wrapped package. She needed to get out of the office before she did something else stupid.
“Have a good weekend,” she stammered awkwardly as she pushed through the door and fumbled a bit with the big purse and shopping bag.
“Try to have some fun,” said Marta as the door shut.
The door to the elevator opened and the three smarmy looking executives quickly stopped talking as Claire stepped in. As the doors closed she turned to face the front and inspect her watery reflection in the polished steel. It looked like a caricature of herself: thin and tall with short mousy-brown hair and thick-framed, black glasses. The men behind her weren’t checking her out. Claire knew she wasn’t even on the radar of guys like that.
Floor after floor, the elevator kept stopping to let more people on; a steady flow of folks slipping out early for the weekend. At each delay, Claire buzzed with impatience. When they finally hit the ground floor she skittered across the lobby on her sensible shoes; out through the revolving doors and barely making the bus.
As the bus made it tortuous way across town she grew more frazzled with anticipation. She would have liked to have taken a cab but her budget was too tight. She was now regretting her economy. The stops seemed interminable and traffic malevolent in its sluggishness. When she spotted the hotel she sighed with relief. She got off at the corner and walked the last half block at a trot.
It had been a long time since she had done this and had last been here: eight months, before Dave. In that lapse the Dolcett Hotel seemed to have gotten dirtier and the clientele sleazier. Claire clutched her package to her chest as she paid cash for a short stay at a room with a bath: only five bucks for a one hour stay, perfect for a girl on a temp’s budget.
The room was on the second floor. It was filthy, as always: peeling paint, a strong smell of decay and cigarette smoke, gritty linens and tattered rugs. She ignored it as she quickly stripped off her clothes and opened the gift-wrapped box she had tended all day. She scattered the packing wadded around the components of her alternate life as she first withdrew a douche, an enema and a small contact lens case. She went into the bathroom to begin her transformation, shutting the door behind her.
When she emerged again she was blotting her pussy and bottom with a hotel towel as she blinked uncomfortably from the contact lenses. Her gray eyes now dark brown. Still naked, she did seventy five squats, seventy five lunges and laid a couple of towels on the floor to do one hundred crunches. She looked at herself when she was done, her muscles were tight, her body firm and her skin rosy. She poured a dollop of lavender oil into her palm and began rubbing it onto herself, letting her flesh absorb a thin coating until it looked moist and lustrous.
She got the new bra next. It had been pricey; more than she could afford if she was ever going to move out of her parents’. It was black lace with satin straps and pushed her tits up to their most advantageous heft. She also picked up the matching garters and, of course, the pair of black, fish-net hose. A pair of panties had come with the ensemble too, but she wouldn’t need those tonight.
She pulled the tight, tiny black dress out the box and wriggled into it. She carefully touched up her make-up; making it a little heavier around the eyes and replacing the remains of her pale plum lipstick with a tart red. She dropped a pair of wickedly heeled black pumps to the floor and stepped into them. She was almost complete.
At last, she picked up the wig. It was a new one. She had thrown the last one – a sassy auburn bob – away when she last vowed to herself to never do this again. This new wig was the same shade of auburn but was long, wavy and beautiful. Her breath grew shallow holding it.
The funny thing was, it was the wig that had brought her back here, not the other way around. She had seen it in a display, bought it on impulse and trembled in anxiety all the way home, knowing exactly were it would lead her. Before long, she found she could think of nothing else but the wig and her disguise. She had gotten increasingly restless and irritable. She couldn’t sleep, could barely eat. She took her frustrations out on Dave with increasing intensity and irrationality. As he left for the last time he’d told her she had gone crazy.
As she carefully fit the wig to her head she wondered if maybe she was a little crazy. She decided she didn’t care. That probably meant she was crazy, she admitted. Not for the first time, she had the sensation of falling, falling, falling.
She inspected herself in the greasy mirror as she called the car service and gave them the address of the hotel. “Call me when you’re here,” she said. They called fifteen long minutes later.
Three rough looking black kids were hanging out in the hall, passing a joint back and forth, when she emerged from the room. She looked over at them but quickly looked away when she was confronted by six sets of eyes inspecting her hungrily. She didn’t look back as she walked quickly to the stairs. Were they following? What if they were right behind her? What if their hands were reaching out right now to grab her, pull her into a room, tie her to the bed and take her over and over and over, all night long; sometimes taking turns, sometimes going all at once?
Distracted, she stumbled a bit at the top of the stairs. “Careful, don’t break your pretty-white-lady neck,” said one, his voice came from down the hall. The others laughed. She ignored them.
She quickly descended to the lobby and out to the waiting car. “Good afternoon,” said the driver. His eyes scanned her attentively in the rearview.
She handed him a business card that only had an address on it. “Take me there,” she said.
She always took a car service to the club. It wasn’t too expensive and she liked to arrive in style. The short trip from the shithole Dolcett Hotel was one of her favorite parts of the ritual. It was now when her nervous anticipation was at its highest pitch and she gave herself over to its antsy pleasure.
They were very close now. She took out her phone and called a number.
“Yes?” said a male voice.
“I’m in a Lincoln. We are almost to the gate. The license is… Hey, what’s your plate number?’ she called to the driver. The driver shouted it out. “Did you get that?” she asked the man on the line. He had.
There were no signs. Claire had to point out the short driveway to a shallow ramp ending in a steel garage door. It opened as the driver eased towards it. Past the door the ramp descended steeply into a parking garage but Claire directed the driver to a turnout with heavy steel door and a serious looking security guard. She paid the driver and the guard helped her from the car and through the door. It clanked shut heavily behind her. Her heart was racing.
“Howdy hon,” said a cheery, middle-aged woman behind the reception desk.
“I haven’t been here in awhile,” said Claire, placing her fingertips on the scanner.
The woman checked her computer and whistled a long, low tone. “Nine months. Off having a kid or something?”
“Attempted monogamy,” Claire shrugged.
The woman frowned expressively. “Oh, I’m so sorry dear. Well, lets get you checked out so you can get busy, sweetie.”
The routine reminded her of donating blood: the personal questions, a basic medical exam, a quick vial of blood and then, “please wait until we call you.” She settled into a comfy chair in the waiting room and dug her finger-nails into her sweaty palms.
A group of young suits came in and clustered together in the corner. They seemed nervous as they checked her out from across the room. She wondered how much it had cost them to get in. The cover used to be two hundred for a single guy but only a hundred when part of a male-female couple. Women didn’t pay any cover charge. Sometimes Claire wished they weren’t so eager to get girls to come to the club. Maybe if it cost more she wouldn’t keep coming back. Maybe then she could kick this habit.
“OK miss,” said a hostess to Claire from a pass-through in the wall. “You’re clear.”
Claire’s heart thumped in her chest as she rose. The guys in the corner looked at her with envy and — yes – desire. She winked at them as she stepped into the locker room. They’d be out pretty soon and she intended to be ready for them.
In the locker room there were a few guys stripping off their work clothes and a man and woman fucking noisily in the showers. Claire pulled off her tiny black dress, shoved it in her purse with her work clothes and checked it at the cloakroom. She checked her reflection one last time. Magnificent in heels, stocking, garters and bra, she pushed through the door onto the floor.
She felt alive. With each step she felt like she was soaring as she moved through the club. The smell alone — sweat, sex, incense and disinfectant — made her go instantly wet with memories of prior visits. Right now it was still early; the Friday rush was just getting started. She knew the place would be packed in an hour.
Even with the prices skewed to lure women and deter men there were a lot more guys than girls out on the floor. Of course, it was just as Claire had expected. It was the ‘dad rush’ – the horde of family-men desperate to pop their nut in some anonymous slut before enduring two days of bland suburban domesticity – that made Fridays so sexually disproportionate. Consequently, Friday evenings attracted a special type of girl.
She scanned the room and several guys made eye contact hopefully. She pretended not to notice as she strutted deeper into the club. She passed a tight cluster of men gathered around a row of women on their hands and knees; suburban wives and mothers with pale, dimply asses and lingerie from Target. They faced alternating directions so each woman’s face was between the asses of her neighbors. The guys were chuckling like school boys as they moved up and down the line, fucking a mouth, fucking a pussy, a mouth, a pussy. The women groaned and sighed as they tasted each other on strange dicks while taking one cock after another from front and back.
Claire passed on by; too crowded. She preferred to be the center of attention when she played.
As she passed the bar she saw someone she’d first partied with several wigs ago. He nudged his buddy and nodded her way. From the corner of her eye she could see them rise to follow her. She pretended not to notice as she stepped up to the big dais that dominated the back of the club.
The platform was circular and carpeted in black shag with three black leather ottomans evenly spaced. On one, a middle aged man was fucking a young black girl missionary style, the others were unoccupied. Claire stepped up to the closest ottoman. Her back was to the club. Was anyone watching? Was everyone watching? Her heart pounded as she took the position.
She moved her feet apart so her legs were wide as she bent over. She bent deep, propping herself on the ottoman with her weight on her forearms, her face obscured by the auburn mass of her wig. Her skin felt electric with expectation as she held her position: her legs straight, her muscles taut, her ass up and pussy wet, open and ready…
Voices floated up from behind her.
“There she is. Shit, wouldja look at that…”
“That’s quality cunt.”
“And still fresh.”
“Heh, heh, not for long.”
Claire felt hands touch her, grope her and run up the inside of her thighs to stroke her wet pussy. She squirmed at the stranger’s touch.
“She’s so ready for it!” several voices commented
The stranger’s lips and sandpapery, five-o’clock shadowed face nestled into her pussy. His tongue darted out to flick her clit and probe her hole. She sighed in frustration, she’d never come like this. Cunnilingus bored her.
“Just fuck me!” she heard her voice rasp.
There was laughter from all around, a lot of different voices. How many were there now? She felt a spike of fear but when she opened her mouth she gasped aloud in a surge of lust.
“Shit, this fuckin’ bitch is in heat!”
Fingers were parting her labia. A stiff cock slipped along up her glistening folds and was driven slowly into her body. She writhed with pleasure as she felt the first penetration of the evening fill her.
He pumped her slowly. “Oh shit she’s tight. Try this out dude.”
They switched. A new cock invaded her to pump her eagerly, then another and another as each took their turn inside her. One of them sat onto the cushion in front of her. He brushed her hair aside and she found his fat cock lay glistening before her, still tacky with her own dampness. She raised her face and opened her mouth for it.
Driven by two cocks, front and back, she was now on her hands and knees on the ottoman. A thumb prodded her anus, then two fingers generously charged with lube parted her ass wide. She moaned around the cock in her mouth.
She was being moved, positioned by many strong hands. She was guided over someone’s cock and she settled onto it balls deep. Another man got in close behind her. She groaned and thrashed as he slowly forced himself into her ass. Tears leaked from her eyes at the pain of being pried apart from within but, as always, arousal glowed through and quickly burned the pain away with intense, ecstatic pleasure. They began pumping her in unison. She came dramatically, violently. Then she came again, and again et cetera until she was struggling for breath around the two cocks now taking turns at her mouth.
She did her best. Before long, the two guys at her face were leaking a lot of precum. Taking both heads into her mouth at once, she flicked her tongue under the rim of their heads as they both rammed her mouth full. She felt them seize up simultaneously. They pumped a flood of sperm into her mouth that jetted out from around her lips and flowed down her body.
The man beneath her began to buck and shake as he jetted a torrent of hot cum into her womb. Her body trembled as she imagined his squirming seed invading her, trying to infect her, change her, ruin her. She was in the safe part of her cycle today, if only barely, but, as a good Catholic girl and adherent to the rhythm method, she knew every squirt was a giddy gamble with her life on the line.
“GOD YES! CUM IN MY CUNT,” she gasped as she climaxed again.
She pulled away and rolled over, face down with her ass in the air again. One after another, men stepped up to pump their loads into her, filling her with slime. She could feel thick strands of it flowing down her thighs and clotting in her now-shredded hose. She imagined her uterus submerged at the bottom of her upturned fuck-hole.
Again, she came.
At last, a lull. She raised her head; there were more couples now, fewer aggressive knots of men. How much time had passed? How many men had used her? She felt the come-down begin to seize her. Regret and disgust began to well up.
“Now that’s a messy cunt,” said a man’s voice behind her. “You want to clean her out?”
A woman’s voice cooed wordlessly in agreement. Then there were fingers touching her, lips and tongue caressing her sticky flesh and a smooth, feminine face moving into her raw, tender vulva. Her head pivoted as she slipped beneath Claire. She slurped noisily at Claire’s distended lips. Claire groaned.
Trying to grab a fistful of Claire’s hair to pull her head back, the man behind her accidentally yanked her wig off. She grabbed it and rose up on her knees to pull it back on. The woman sucking hungrily at her pussy sputtered as Claire felt the viscous slime within her flow out to fill the woman’s upturned mouth.
Claire Looked down and caught the woman’s eye. “Marta!?” she said as Marta’s surprised eyes looked up at her with recognition. She pivoted her head to see Marta’s husband Chuck behind her, moving in to fill her ass with his cock.
Claire felt her mind let go. The usual wave of regret and disgust evaporated away. Now that Marta and Chuck knew her secret, there was no going back. She spun quick fantasies of weekends, lunches and evenings as their willing sex toy.
But the future would wait. Right now Chuck’s cock was pushing at her ass and Marta’s tongue was circling her clit.
Once again she soared, alive.