slippery_fingers: "What do you do for fun, and could you spread your pussy open?"
Taffy: "Like this!"
slippery_fingers: "That's nice."
Taffy: "Happy it meets your approval."
I was whoring myself out on the webcam to help pay for my university tuition. I thought of myself as an exhibitionist and not a prostitute, because I wasn't being touched or drooled on, just ogled.
I had recently quit my job with an escort service, becoming disenchanted with the glamor of it all. My last customer, the concierge at a three-unit motel (trailer, carport, and tool shed), was into weird things.
His argyle sock appeared clean, so I sucked it as he masturbated. With his free hand, he strummed an out-of-tune ukulele and sang, “I'll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time."
There he was, butt naked, wearing a pair of galoshes, and screwing me from behind. Hanging on to the back of a chair, it felt as though his dick was plowing for potatoes as I hemmed and hawed for more.
His cock was playing my anus as if it had keys, as a rain came falling down, leaking through the roof. I backed into an inflated inner tube and heard a hiss of air, thinking it was a serpent from God. The vibration and agitation of my tits shaking was a bit too much for the trailer, as one of the cinder blocks supporting it cracked, making it fall to the ground.
So here I was, two weeks later, taking up residence in a two room apartment in an old clapboard house near campus. The two rooms were small but adequate, and my landlady, Mrs. Quagmire, seemed nice and pleasant, having the scent of cinnamon bread.
Her teeth were like polished ivory and her eyes shaded by long lashes of silk. She was a grandmotherly type and wore a dress that seemed to be outdated, but she had a grace in her flip-flop shoes as she hip-hopped at her door.
Like many old homes in a small town, there were tales that took on the lore of ghosts and things that banged in the night. I gave up on spooky things after watching The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, while smoking weed.
A little bit eccentric, I suppose, but she had an Evinrude motor bolted to a wheel barrow that was parked beneath her carport with the engine idling in neutral. I assumed she was a boat person, but what the hell do I know? I had never seen a yacht with handles on one wheel. Then she asked, "Have you seen and heard the Indian caterwauling and humming next to the carport? Been with that Indian for fifty-five years." I was thinking her a bit touched in her head. It turned out to be a motorcycle.
She had given me full use of the laundry in the basement, but as yet, I hadn't taken free advantage of it. It was a Tuesday evening and I was taking a break from studies, and I decided to see if I had any clients waiting. All my clients had to put their payments into an escrow account before the cam would blink. The agency allowed no refunds.
The text message moved across the bottom of the screen as my first client came into view. Then, I turned on the sound. His hair was uncombed and he had a three-day growth of whiskers. Leaning forward, naked in a kitchen chair, his belly fat hung down between his legs and he was having a difficult time attempting to put a cock ring on his penis. It kept slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor. He would momentarily vanish from sight, to retrieve it for his dangling particle.
As usual, his wife didn't understand his needs. "Blah-blah-blah."
2percentcream: "How are you tonight? I have been waiting for you, and wanted to know if you would come out and play?"
I propped my chin on my elbows as I stretched out across my bed with the wireless keyboard near me.
2percentcream: "Do you remember me from the other night?"
How could I forget? He wanted me to call him daddy, as if I were a preschooler. I wasn't about to coddle the old fool, as I could clearly see him belch his beer as he masturbated with one hand, and popped the top off a Coors Light can with the other. I was still in my clothes, but all he wanted was to show me his kangaroo tattoo on his tummy. Wiggling his fat, the roo seemed to leap across his belly.
Taffy: "Heck! My old boy friend could do that."
Then, came a knocking on my door from Mrs. Quagmire. "Are you decent, my dear? I have brought you some stewed prunes." I think that she was spamming her prunes, because this was the third time she had brought me some.
Having to give 2percentcream a rain check (it seldom rains in Arizona), I ate them as I heard the Indian crank over. Mrs. Quagmire delivered pizza for a local chain and also gave head from the cycle's side car. However, I think she was just fine tuning the motor.
Taffy: "Oh Mr. 2percentcream! Are you still there?"
Taffy: "I was about to show you my twat."
Taffy: "Twat, spelled t w a t."
I was beginning to think he was deaf and couldn't hear the text, until he typed. "You have reached a bot hotline."
What he was in need of, was a shrink. Perhaps he would still be cruising the web sites by the time I got my Psychology degree. Then his cam flashed back on.
2percentcream: "Would you wax your pussy for me?"
Taffy: "My landlady has a pet canary, and if you give me a few minutes, I will be back and you can watch me polish its little wings."
Once again, a knocking came at my door as the old broad said, "it's a parakeet, Taffy."
Taffy: "How about a parakeet, Mr. 2percentcream man?
2percentcream: "I'm not the least interested in looking at your feet."
The second client was polite and I proffered him a good performance by stripping and going down on a human size blow-up doll with an anatomically correct cock. At the same time, the prunes were gurgling in my stomach and I offered him a rain check, but it seldom rains in Arizona.
I quickly ran to the potty, tripping over undies of past performances. Unfortunately, I dragged the cord and webcam with me and they are now floating in Mrs. Quagmire's septic tank.
bonesour: "Is it me you're looking for?
Taffy: "I was hoping I wouldn't procrastinate."
bonesour: "Not much grass eating in the desert. It seldom rains in Arizona.
My fourth client wanted me to piss, as he pressed his eye against the screen. All I saw was his bloodshot eye and I assumed he was masturbating. Texting me to check his blood pressure, I went along with him and told him that he was doing fine. Then I saw him pass out. I assumed he got the vapors and fell from his chair. Behind his chair, he had his Harley parked in the kitchen, and Mrs. Quagmire was polishing his handle bars.
sling_back: "Are your titties real?"
Taffy: "They are three quarter's real and the other half bouncy."
sling_back: "You have full-size bimbo boobs."
Mrs. Quagmire cut in as she was shining. "There is a box of Rinso Blue in the laundry, Dear."
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