From The Vault of Goddess Karen

My Lovelies, in the spirit of my trip to Amsterdam plus my experience in the industry, I offer you a bit of fiction I wish had been borne of my own journals…however, it does take Life in my twisted mind…which is often just as salacious….

*****

I sit bored. The curtain has yet to go up on my peep show booth, I have yet to feast on my next bit o' flesh via glass, and my corset is making me sweat. I sit up straighter, trying to adjust the boning.

I am different than most–hell, all—of my coworkers. In essence a peep show is a labia splitting, titty showing, ass raising experience. I went into this line of work with a different purpose in mind. The linoleum cell the size of a queen-sized bed is MY domain. Instead of a futon mattress, I sit on a stool. There is no erotic reclining for me. No, no. My gear consists not of rubber implements and vibrating toys. I have delightful scores of my own tidbits. I demand more than the man-sluts' tips. I demand obeisance.

Forgive me, but I am not in the business of compromise.

I am an impressive five foot ten without heels, with which I am a more impressive six-foot- four. My tangled rambly red hair brushes the ceiling of my rented cell when I stand but I manage. I have a job to do. More than a job. A compulsion.

My legs are the master of my height. I have the longest femurs of anyone I know aside from drag queens. My ass does ride high, but not as impressive a sight as my hips. I have a 1950′s pin-up aura about me, undoubtedly why they hired me. When I let the manager lay eyes on me, I was wearing a waist cincher, fishnet tights, fuck-me boots and a leatherette bra. He can't say I didn't give him a clue.

The clientele who sees me either knows my proclivities or is educated. No liquid temptress am I. No feather boas or snap-crotch teddies. I never entered that realm & I never will. Some men, many men, need to be enlightened. I am their instructor.

From the other side of the glass I hear the fussy sound of the door being closed. Taking one slug from the pint of Southern Comfort I have tucked away, I am ready when his dollar token drops through the slot, thus raising my curtain. When he first lays eyes on me, I am cooling myself with a lace fan and laying my critical blue eyes upon him.

He's a repeat. Deposits tokens in the slot while he undresses, as is appropriately called for. Goddess forbid he makes me wait for his cash while he drops his drawers. Yes, this guy knows the routine. He stands tip-toe on the provided paper towels and gets totally naked, an act that makes me vomit in my mouth a little, but he's an easy enough guy and understanding of a mistress' needs.

Eagerly he meets my eyes. He reminds me of a dolphin or some other pale, hairless and ineffective sea creature. His mouth is an anemone. His cock, well, there is no adequate comparison. It just exists. I scootch my stool under me and shift up my titties. Dolphin Man's a breast guy. I torture him endlessly.

"So nice," he breathes through the speaker on the customer's side.

"I am well aware," I reply, caressing my barely concealed breasts over my corset. They sit atop the cups like two vanilla puddings. No sweet strawberry nips. Not unless he begs like a bitch and tips me well.

"They're real," he sighs, assuring himself as well as telling me nothing I don't already know. He goes to work on his dolphin-penis and stands tip toe as I rise above him.

"How do you come to your Highness today?"

"Oh, so full. So in need."

"Do I look like a cum rag? Did you mistake me for a porn poster?"

"God no."

"What?" I bark.

"Goddess…no." He slides a folded bill through my tip slot. I pick it up and spit on it. "Do better," I say to him with all the hostility of a SWAT cop. He obligingly stuffs my tip slot with all he grapples from his wallet, dolphin-penis swinging. I consider letting him see my strawberry nips. He must've just gotten paid.

I turn around, sweeping my fan across my alabaster ass visible outside my thong. I brace one long leg against the wall, peeking over my shoulder at my breast fetishist. He's flushed and in high gear.

"Please. Oh Goddess, I need you…" he begs.

I bend sideways, allowing access to my profile alone. My vanilla puddings bulge almost to spillage out of my corset top, and arching my back does more to send him into a frenzy. Denial. The ultimate motivator.

"If you please…" he gasps.

My side of the window is not greased as many girls have, a plate against which to smash their titties and rub them around like jelly-bags. Carefully I maneuver myself to his eye level and press gently against the glass separating us. He licks the quarter inch between us. I see his pink dolphin tongue flatten, aching for more. His hand, below my eyesight, works faster. He pants. I sigh, wishing for another swallow of Southern Comfort.

Gathering my puddings as twins, I squeeze them together and jiggle them teasingly. I fake passion as I run my hands over my neck, my shoulders, my waist. He is transfixed by the slideshow movement of my tits.

The inevitable happens. He continues to feed the slot with tokens as he dresses, only proper form. I hoist myself back onto my stool and light a cigarette. Dolphin Man blows me a kiss as he departs. As he does, I let slip one strawberry nip to keep him coming back.

It's only 2:38 AM, and I'm once again bored.

Filed under: Goddess Karen Tagged: Erotica, Flash Fiction, Free Read, Goddess Karen, Peep Show, Sex Scene, Sexy, Tease