Stable Employment Pt. 01

Liking someone, though? In a way, "like" is the new L-bomb. You can't just be dropping that shit everywhere. I don't know this girl. She doesn't know me.

"Sorry," I say. "Sort of proves my point, though. Can't control myself. Imagine what it's like when I'm in a bad mood."

"It's okay," she says. I almost believe her. She sounds a little more sober all of a sudden, and that's not a great sign. "Things slip out, and that's hardly the worst one, right? Let's play the game."

"Sure," I say.

The silence hangs in the air for a beat. She tweaks one of my nipples. "You said you liked me. That means you have to go first."

That's not really a rule, but it makes sense in context. I sigh, and try to think about the one 'real thing' about myself I'm going to tell Gwyn, whose name probably isn't even Gwyn. That's the game. It's a way to break the tension when sex partners start confusing 'love' with 'like,' or are just worried they might be going down that road. Because humans are fucked up, it's also the game they play when they think that 'like' is a real possibility. I don't think that's what's happening here, though. Gwyn's too good. Does that make sense? She's too perfect. She's on her best sex behavior. Breast behavior. Best fuck forward. Something something spanking first impressions. Eh, fuck it.

"I want to be funny," I tell her. It hurts. That's how you know it's real. "I want to be able to tell a joke or make a wisecrack whenever I want, anywhere I want, and have people laugh. Bars. Offices. Random gatherings on the street. House parties. Facades break. Tension breaks. They can't help themselves. They have to smile. They have to laugh."

Gwyn moves in for a real hug -- or as close as we can get to one on the kitchen floor. It's a clear signal that my completely nonsexual contribution was up to snuff. Reality and logistics being what they are, I gather her up, rather than the other way around. I hug her like a pillow and breathe her in. She's still got a hint of girly freshness to her, even after the bar, our first round of sex, and her weird pussy-juice ritual. Modern soaps and shampoos are something else. Now that I'm thinking about it, I detect a hint of the stuff that Jack and I have at the kitchen sink. That makes sense.

"Thank you for that," Gwyn murmurs into my chest. "That was real. You're so much better than you think you are."

My eyes sting with tears I'm too stubborn to let fall. I don't push her to reciprocate right away. I don't really want the hug to end.

"I want to be important," she finally says -- still right into my chest, and maybe her face gets a little bit hotter.

"Are you sure you don't just want to be taller?"

She laughs in spite of herself. That's it. That's the perverse peak of this terrible, tragically relatable story -- the highest height to remember, after the fall. She buries herself in me, turning whatever real shame she's feeling into just another performance. I brace myself for some kind of retaliation, but it never comes -- no little smacks with those soft hands of hers, or nibbles, or raspberries. Instead, she looks up at me and grants me the gift of her involuntary grin.

"The thought has occurred to me once or twice," she says dryly. Then she gets serious. "No, I want to be important."

I raise my eyebrows and just wait. She looks away and bites her lip -- quizzically, though it's still adorable. When she's put something together, she finds my eyes again. "I want people to care what I think about important things. I want... I don't know. Sometimes, I imagine being a boss. The boss. That's not quite right, though. That sounds like a lot of boring work. I want... every time something important happens, I want somebody to say, 'Oh! You know what? We should do an interview with her. Everybody will want to know what she thinks.' What is that called?"

"Hmm. Not really sure. 'Public intellectual,' maybe? 'Social philosopher?' 'Celebrity wonk?'"

She laughs again. I know right away I didn't earn it. "'Wonk,'" she repeats in a funny voice. "'Wonk, wonk.' Yeah, I wanna be a 'wonk wonk.'" She bats at me playfully and puts on a childish pout. "Take me seriously!"

It'd be the easiest thing in the world to lean into the humor. She's giving me permission, because I actually was taking her seriously before, and we both know it. I could make more jokes about the fact that she's short. I could lift her up and carry her around the apartment. I could treat her like a helpless runt and even start getting frisky again, finally asserting the privileges of being taller, stronger, and endowed with a healthily above-average cock.

Instead, like a fucking idiot, I take the game too seriously. I cup her face with my hands and guide her to my gaze. When our eyes meet, it's real, which means it's uncomfortable as anything. I show her that I heard her. I listened. I care. There's also a hint of sympathy, because she's almost certainly never going to get what she wants. I have a better chance of finally putting together that first hour of standup material. If you'd ever seen me at an open mic night, you'd appreciate the comparison more. It's brutal.

I'm not really sure if the eyes are the windows to the soul. I'm not sure the soul exists, or what it might be, exactly. What I do know is that the world and its people are all tints, smudges, shadows, and stray bits of light that always seem to blind and distract rather than illuminate and clarify. If you're going to see anything real at all, you can't just glance. Even staring won't do. You have to smoosh your face right up against it, hands above the brow. You have to work. You have to try -- and when you do, you end up leaving a mark.

It gets to be too much for both of us. I think, though, that right before that, it was good. I'm probably wrong.

With a nod -- forehead touching forehead -- Gwyn lets me know the game is over. As far as I'm concerned, we both played it honestly. Winning? Well, there's optimism, and then there's delusion.

She sinks back down into me. We start fondling each other; the intermission is coming to a close. Soon, it'll be back to sex -- easy, comfortable, acutely temporary sex.

"So you're Jack's bitch," she says.

"More or less."

"That's so hot. She makes you wear panties?"

"Yeah."

"Collar? Leash? Cage? Dress-up?"

I laugh in reaction to the bombardment. "Geez, now I'm worried I'm going to disappoint you."

"Never," she says. That, I don't believe, but it was nice of her to say.

"Jack's big on letting dickgirls fly free no matter what," I tell her. "Unless they're into that stuff, of course. She's very punk. She has her outfits that she wears, but she insists that it's all bullshit and shouldn't matter."

"Spankings?"

"Well, yeah," I admit. "Sometimes I get really bitchy. I'm trying, though, honest."

"Mmm," she says. "Spankings can be so many things. They can be very intimate. They can be about submission without being a punishment. They're tricky for me, though. I think I want to get spanked, but I never end up wanting anyone to spank me. I like being in charge sometimes, but I never feel like spanking anyone."

"Quite the pickle."

"It is," she says. "So: favorite position -- hers, of course."

I chuckle. "Variety is the spice of life, but... she definitely likes coming up behind me and making me assume the position: strip search against a wall, gripping a counter, bent over and splayed on a table, shower sex. She likes making me go weak in the knees. What she really loves is fucking me so good that I shoot off, hands free."

Gwyn gasps in delight. "She can make you do that?"

"Oh yeah," I say, leaning into her kink. "She cock-punches my cum button like a detonator -- and eventually, well, it does what detonators do."

Gwyn's buttons have definitely been pushed. Our cuddling is halfway to humping -- well, she's humping me, at least. Our hands are wandering, too, and I'm getting intimately acquainted with her glorious tits.

"Where is she tonight?" she asks.

"Punk show, probably. Dickgirl orgy, more like -- just a lot of loud noise before they get started."

"Oh." There's a noticeable dip in the mood. "She's not into... regular girls?"

"Oh, she's 'into' regular girls all the time." With that simple reassurance, everything is back on. Crazy, but true: we all get a little bummed sometimes that somebody we've never seen and never met might not want to fuck us. I don't hold it against Gwyn. How could I? It's a key personal failing of mine, too.

"She just has a tribe," I tell her. "I'm being bitchy about the music; they do seem to actually give a shit about it. Once, twice a week they do their thing. It's good for us to have some time apart. Don't want to get too codependent."

"Mmmm," she says, peppering my neck with kisses and nibbles. "Well, maybe one day when you're both free, I can come back."

"Oh?" I reply coyly. "And what does that look like?"

I feel the smile against my skin. "Me on my back, getting bred. Your big, juicy cock trapped in my pussy. My legs wrapped around you, just to make extra sure. Jack, above us both, fucking your cum into me. I'm sweet to you. I tell you what a good little bull you are. She and I share a look, though. You're our fuck toy -- hers, and mine, at the same time. That's why you don't use your words -- not like you will tonight. You can't tell me I'm your good little bitch, because you know you're Jack's -- Jack's bitch, my obedient little bull."

"Fuck," I groan out. My cock swells. Gwyn giggles, and one of her hands starts back up with the I'm-not-touching-you game. For some reason, pride dictates that I try to one-up her, even though I'm not sure it's possible.

"And what if Jack wants a piece of you?" I ask. "What if we both do?"

She smiles again and shrugs. "Two horny dickgirls... two bulls. Things happen. Sometimes us regular girls get caught in a bad situation and can't get away. We have to just accept we've lost control, and take whatever cums." She didn't overplay it, but it's clear she was going for the pun.

Fantasies flash. Images spark. I dare to hope. That's always a part of this story. The girl always makes you hope.

"It's been a minute," I say to her, kissing the top of her head. "Do you want me to warm you back up? Return the favor?"

"Oh, I do," she says, "but I think there's something else you want, too."

I'll admit it's a little embarrassing that I don't make the connection when my hands are literally groping her tits.

"Let's go to bed," she says. "Get comfy. You want to suckle, right?"

"Fuck," I groan again.

"Okay," she says, and the word is suffused with smiling satisfaction. I'm still her bull, and she knows it. "First things first: let's make sure you don't trip over yourself."

My ruined purple panties are still around my ankles. I let her take them off; she's in the better position to do it.

"You can keep them if you want," I offer. It only seems fair. She's letting me keep hers.

She bites her lip and smiles. "Jack won't mind?"

"Jack will think it's hilarious."

"Well then," she says, "I happily accept. Now let's get you up, beanpole. The night is young."

She separates herself from me, stands up, and offers me a hand. I'm not too proud to take it. I am relieved that I can feel both my legs and my pelvis again. The former seem okay to hold me up. My cock is already at half mast, pointing almost directly at her belly button; now that we're both standing, I feel the height difference. It's weird, because a moment ago, I didn't. I think she gets that. That's why I was 'beanpole' just then.

She makes note of my recovering rod with a glance, expertly and effortlessly massaging my ego. In a split second, I see the satisfaction of an owner, the happy reminiscence of a cum-drunk slut, and the growing lust of a girl who hasn't gotten hers yet, but knows she will. Honestly, her self-discipline is astounding. I wonder if she can cum from just her tits. I can hardly believe she'd put off getting her pussy eaten otherwise.

We both grab one more glass of cold water before we switch venues.

"Hey," I say between sips. "Uh, you want a snack or something?"

She smiles. "I'm still a little full, babe."

Fuck, that's hot. My cock twitches. She eyes it again, equally amused and bemused by its show of pride.

"Anyway, I snack after I cum -- and I will, so I hope you're stocked."

Of course we are. Dickgirls have healthy appetites; a lot cums out, so a lot has to go in. Any dickgirl with half a brain cell loitering in her ballsack also knows that well-fed girls are happy girls, horny girls, and grateful girls. Some want dinner first. Some want dessert later. No matter what, you never let them go hungry.

Gwyn follows me to the bedroom; I wish it were the other way around, but her hand all over my ass feels great. She gives my little hidey-hole a few of the usual compliments -- no, my room. That little hidey-hole. It's fine. I keep it clean, at least.

"Sex drawer?" she asks, still stroking my bum.

I cock my head. "Next to the bed, down, big one."

"Within reach for us little folks, huh? How generous."

It's not much of a joke, but I reward it with a laugh anyway. She gives me one more loving stroke, then nudges me to crawl onto the bed. "Present for me. Need to put a teaser in. I like big loads, and as many as I can get."

"Okay," I reply dumbly. For the moment, I'm a tamed animal. I take my position -- face down, ass up. It's like a yoga pose. It feels pretty good.

"Do you have a favorite?" she asks while rummaging around.

"Not really. They're all good."

"Oh-ho!" comes her voice from down below. "So you are a good girl." That means she found the lube. What can I say? 'Good Girl' lube is the standard worldwide. Their 'Bad Girl' line is too intense for the likes of me. You're familiar, I take it? Yeah. Seriously -- how is 'Fucking Torture' not even the most intense one?

"Jack uses 'Power Girl' on me sometimes," I tell her.

"Fuck yeah," she mutters. I knew she'd like that. She's imagining Jack powering through the extra resistance, right into my asshole.

She closes the drawer and gets up on the bed behind me. Feeling just a little rebellious, I ask the obvious question. "So, what about you? Are you a good girl, or a bad girl?"

She pats my exposed bum a few times. "Just another good girl," she says. "It's the most popular for a reason. Closest to raw you can get without the downsides. God, I know I said it already, but your ass is so hot. I don't even need to move your cheeks. When you arch your back, they spread perfectly."

I feel a flush on my face, neck, and chest. "Well, I'm glad you like it," I say, trying to play it off.

"How do you like it?" she asks. "I really can go slow -- no lie. I want it to be good for you."

"I can take it," I reply gruffly. I know that's what she wants. By happy coincidence, it's also the truth.

Sure enough, the slick toy hits my pink pucker and doesn't stop to knock or wipe its feet. She pushes it in like pro, then wiggles it around and gauges my reactions. I make it better for her by pretending to be overwhelmed for a second, then give her the real feedback. She gets it perfectly situated almost as fast as I could on my own. She really is that good.

"Squeeze a few times," she says. "I wanna see."

I do, and my 'cum button' zaps my brain. As a bonus, my asshole shudders as its muscles grip the narrower part of the toy.

"So hot," she says. "So much milk for me."

She crawls past me on the bed and makes herself at home, nesting with all the pillows and dictating my next position. She wants to cradle me, which means she'll have full access to my cock, balls, and plugged asshole while I nurse. I couldn't be happier.

It only gets better, because it turns out that Gwyn's not a talker. There's a time and a place for it, you know? When I suckle, I like to slip away. I give her my eyes first, because it's only polite. Like most girls, she rides the emotional high of nourishing another human being. We make that connection, and, just like sex, it's easy, comfortable, and temporary. That doesn't mean it's any less good.

She's not completely silent; she shushes me, sighs, coos, and lets her breath scrape against her throat and sinuses. It's not quite a snore, but it lets me know she's found a mellow, happy place of her own. I can feel her heartbeat; I can sense that her breasts are swelling a bit. Her nipples don't get hard, but they get... well, more receptive, for lack of a better word. She's really into it. She's perfect.

She's also too far gone to play the I'm-not-touching-you game with my junk. Instead, she strokes it lovingly. Like a good bull, I do my Kegels, and it's not long before my swollen cock is leaking again. Gwyn let it slime her fingers over and over. Sometimes she lubes my shaft and balls with it. Other times, she takes a taste. I don't even know that I'm seeing all of that. I think I'm halfway dreaming it -- like when you close your eyes in a familiar room, and your sleepy brain convinces you that they're still open, because you can still see everything perfectly well. Maybe it's your soul, seeing without eyes, but too comfortable to fully leave your body and go exploring. I get that. I think I've got one of those souls that's happy to stay in bed.

I slip into a timeless equilibrium where my prostate, cock, and balls are all fine with being teased; I could fuck, or be fucked, but I could also just be. Time does pass, though, because it must. Eventually, Gwyn's ready for something more substantial. She runs her fingers through my hair, coaxing me from the dream. "Good girl," she says needlessly, but I still love it. "I'll take over the milking. You go taste the honey."

She slides down the pillows; I slide down her. She spreads her legs; I loop my arms around her soft thighs. I barely open my eyes -- just enough to appreciate the beautiful cream puff up close. Her cheeks are soft and round just below. They form another slit, hiding everything, and I will my curiosity away. I breathe deeply through my nose. It's much better for honey-coated pastries to be the only thing in and on my mind.

"Kiss, then lick, then eat, then suck." She almost sings it like a nursery rhyme. It's hardly a command; it's a magical creature offering guidance through the land of dreams. I kiss the softest, wettest lips. I swear they kiss me back. When Gwyn starts to undulate, I start to lick. My hands find a rhythm of both movement and pressure. They creep inwards, looking for that special spot on the abdomen, just above the clit.

Pussy juice isn't like cum, but I still think it's a drug. It's just subtler. Cum is cum. Its effect on girls is obvious and nigh-immediate. It's a blunt instrument, just like the cock that delivers it. Girl nectar does what girls do. It blurs all the lines between sex, love, lust, taste, smell, and the desire to make your lover happy in any way that you can. Even its flavor is deceptive. You get your first taste, and you think to yourself, Huh, okay, that's not so bad. I can do this. Before you know it, you've downed a gallon, and all you want to do is keep it flowing forever.

It isn't long before Gwyn's pussy reveals itself as a ripe, juicy peach; the cream puff was just the appetizer. My tongue has found inner folds and delightful bumps that my eyes never saw. Subtle noises let me know when it's time to press down and start eating in earnest. After that, there's no subtlety at all. My mellow marshmallow finally breaks down and cries out her need, there at the end. "Suck my clitty! Suck it! Unnnngh!" I do what the girl tells me. I'm drunk on her nectar -- on the need to be her everything.

She crushes my head and twists my neck. She's not the only pro, though, so I'm ready to go with that antithesis of flow. By the time she cries uncle and begs me to release her overloaded button, I've been turned more than ninety degrees on the bed. My head is resting on one thigh while the other covers me up. It's a little bit suffocating, but I don't care. Well past the peak, when everything could go sour at any moment, I've tasted sweet victory. I made her cum. I'm a sex champ.