Trevor parks the car at the far end of the large car park so we're not seen arriving together. That's very important. We play by my boyfriend's rules. I have no choice in the matter.
"Come on you little slut," he says, killing the headlights and switching off the ignition. He doesn't smile, only puts his hand up my dress and feels my crotch. "Jesus!" he says. You can't wait, can you?"
I'm already hard with anticipation, but this doesn't stop a tear coming to my eye. I have an odd mixture of feelings. On the one hand I feel a naughty kind of excitement, and on the other a feeling of hurt and helplessness to be used this way.
"Come on, then... Let's see if you can pull for us tonight," he says.
My heartbeat is thundering in my ears and there's that familiar fluttering in my tummy. It's always the same.
"Yes, Master," I reply, and he takes my chin in two fingers.
"You'd just better not forget it," he says with a cruel smile. The tear that's been threatening slips down my cheek.
Trevor has me dressed in a silver-white dress, shiny and slinky, it accentuates the feminine curves I've been blessed with; or do I mean cursed?
We had met six months earlier in a pub near Covent Garden. I was doing a Sunday lunchtime stint in The Volunteer, just got to the point in my routine where I sing (lip-sinc) Last Dance by Donna Summer. I send the punters fucking mad with that one.
I knew he liked me from the off. He was right at the front giving me the old eyeball, well, more a cold hard stare, really. I was a bit frightened to be honest. He didn't smile, he just leered. But I just knew I was toasting his nuts with that Donna Summer song. It's amazing how many supposedly straight guys get their heads turned by a drag queen. It happens all the time. We get used to it. But Trevor was something special.
He frightened me, yeah, but he was so fucking sexy, I knew I just wanted to be with him from then on and I left him without any doubt about that fact by laying it on thick. Oh, lovey, I tell you, I gave him some kind of hard-on.
He kisses me lightly, without emotion. He slips his hand inside my panties and fingers me. I shift about on the seat as he teases me, playing with my cock and balls, the leather upholstery squeaking and sticking to the bare expanse of flesh between stocking tops and underwear.
"You're crying," he says. "Why do you cry?"
I just shake my head, and he takes his hand out from under my dress and smells his fingers.
"Oh, baby. You're just so hot and dirty, aren't you?"
I've lost count of the times we've engaged in this scenario. It's a revenge thing for him partly. For the time I was unfaithful. A weekend away with the girls (a hen bash) and he somehow got to hear about my indiscretion with an Italian waiter at the hotel and he's made me pay ever since. But I still love the bastard. Well, I suppose I must do to allow myself to be put through this.
The funny thing is, despite the tears (they don't always happen, depends how emotional I'm feeling) I get a kick out of our sordid scenarios too. In fact I think I enjoy it more than he does sometimes, though I wouldn't let on. It would only piss him off even more. I know he gets a buzz out of me going with another bloke, availing my two orifices to a guy's whims and fancies. It turns Trevor on something rotten. But it's not as much a punishment as he thinks it is, making me go with someone of his choosing.
The tears and emotion that come with it are a kind of paradox. I guess it's because I know that I'm a willing slave to it anyway, and I hate myself for it. Sometimes I really wish it felt like a punishment and I would be relieved of the guilt for sharing that waiter's bed.
The keen autumn air nips at my bared flesh when my dress rises up my thigh as I step out of the car. I wrap the stole around my shoulders. Trevor lets me go on ahead while he hangs back. My three-inch heels crunch the gravel drive, my breath steams ahead of me like a billowing cloud.
A man opens the bar door to leave, releasing the indoor acoustic of a blaring jukebox. He shoves past without bothering to hold the door for me.
"Hey, mister..!" I say. He looks me up and down, moves on. It's that kind of place.
I get a drink from the bar and head for a table at the rear, laying it on thick with the walk. A good drag queen knows how to handle herself, how to use her tits, wiggle her bum. It's really something getting looks from both men and women.
Trevor enters a few moments after my first sip. We don't acknowledge each other. He chooses a table against the wall from which we can see each other as well as everyone else who enters the bar. He'll choose a man for me and give me the nod. We haven't been to this particular venue before, but the clientele seems okay.
A few cheap-looking working girls (real gals) loll at the bar. Blue smoke curls up from their cigarettes, around the bags under their eyes and up into their frizzy hair-dos. They all look the same. They cadge drinks and vie for the cleaner looking punters. Most of the other patrons are well-paid contractors, construction workers with cash to flash and, if they happen to be particularly lucky, a little romance for which they won't have to pay anyway.
There are a few city gents too. Perhaps they're slumming it for a bit of rough, though I don't put myself in that category. Things are gradually changing in this neighbourhood, it's on the up, hence the construction guys and latest building developments.
A cheap-looking, revolving multi-mirrored globe in the centre of the ceiling is just enough to make the appalling lighting dance on my shiny dress. I pull by shoulders back, accentuating my bust. I'm so proud of my tits, full with pointy nips, all achieved with hormones and the tiniest of implants. That's why they appear so natural.
One of the nicer-dressed men notices me. He smiles and lifts his drink in acknowledgement. He's a good-looking guy. I glance at Trevor. He doesn't give anything away just yet.
I return the man's smile. Perhaps he'll be the one I'll get to go to bed with tonight. He carries his drink to my table and asks if he can join me. I nod yes. He sits across from me. He's in his mid-thirties, expensively dressed, his hair nicely styled, teeth white and straight. He looks like a lawyer or accountant. He asks my name.
"Coleen."
A white lie - it's Colin really.
He says his is Dave, probably also a white one. People don't come to places like this to meet people they ever want to see again.
Dave asks what I'm drinking and offers to buy me a refill. I accept. I need a few drinks to calm my nerves and make myself ready. We make small talk. He seems nice, not the type to hurt a woman, but looks can be deceptive. Some of the nicer looking ones have been the meanest in my experience.
We talk for about twenty minutes. I feel comfortable with him. I hope Trevor will give the thumbs up. He nods approval, but doesn't give me the full `gold-seal'. That means we won't be taking this particular one home with us. More's the Pity.
I slip my stole off and drape it over the back of the chair. Dave watches me, ogling my breasts. Several other men notice, too. I tingle inside. I love being on display for strangers. Dave approves of what he sees. I can see it in his eyes. His gaze tracks across my breasts and the moistening valley in between. He's already planning how to get me out of here and into his bed.
We talk the small stuff for a few minutes. I glance at Trevor. He licks his lips and walks to the men's room. That's my cue. Dave is in for a little treat, but he won't be the one going home with me. Perhaps Trevor thinks he's too genteel or well mannered. He never explains why he chooses or rejects men.
Trevor doesn't come back. That means the men's room is empty. I touch the back of Dave's hand while I toy with my necklace, imitation diamond, but it sparkles like fuck and looks the business. I tell Dave there's something I want to show him. He follows me to the toilets and is puzzled when I enter the men's room. He hesitates before following me in.
He looks around suspiciously. I know what he's wondering. Is it a trap? Am I in cahoots with someone who aims to mug him? Is it some kind of sex-sting operation?
One cubicle has an "out of order" sign on the closed door -- Trevor's normal trick. It isn't locked. I know he's in the cubicle next to this one. I open the door and Dave follows me in and bolts it. Now it's my turn to get edgy.
If this guy was so inclined, he'd have time to hurt me before Trevor could intervene. A few men have hurt me. One burned me with a cigarette, thinking it would somehow turn me on. I have a small button scar on the inside of my thigh to remind me. Normally it's okay. Most guys are okay.
Dave pulls me to him and kisses me. He fumbles under my blouse and squeezes my breast. He smells of fresh shampoo and expensive cologne. I return his kiss. I wonder how he wants to play it. What will be the thing or things that throw his switches?
Dave's tongue probes my mouth while his hand slides away from my breast to lift my dress. He finds what he's looking for and slips his hand inside my panties. He toys with my pubic hair then he cups my balls. "I love tight sacs," he whispers in my ear. "And yours is supreme."
I smile inwardly at the strange compliment.
I move on his hand and pant into his mouth. I want him to soil me and I know that's what my boyfriend wants too. He wants me to act like a slut, to prostrate myself at the feet of strangers, to take their cocks out and suck them until they cum in my mouth, and then swill and swirl the stuff around my tongue, opening my mouth to show it them before I swallow.
I know that's what Trevor would want. He loves to watch me shudder and gag as I try and swallow his copious emissions and I guess he gets a voyeuristic thrill from thinking of or seeing me doing the same to another man, particularly a casual bar "pick-up".
I'm here to satisfy - firstly my boyfriend's lust, and secondly, this other man's.
But what about my own?
I touch Dave through his trousers. He's nice and firm. I fumble with his zipper. His large cock springs into my hand like a small rubber cosh. Dave's fingers encircle my prick. He's very gentle, sexy, knows what a ladyboy likes. His hand begins to massage me and I move my hips to ride it.
I'm not supposed to experience pleasure in these seedy acts, only degradation and humiliation. That's what turns Trevor on, the thought of me being humiliated at the expense of pleasure. Well, you're wrong, Trevor-boy!
Humiliation and pleasure go hand in hand in my book. Supposed to or not, I often have an amazing orgasm with the men you pick for me.
I push his hand gently aside and sink to my knees on the stone-tiled floor. Dave's cock bounces in front of my face. He's large and natural. I wrap my left arm around the backs of his thighs, take him in my right hand and work his tight foreskin back, exposing the scarlet head. The Italian waiter was the only other uncut man I've ever been with. Dave reminds me a little of him.
He's clean and pleasant, unlike most of the men with whom I have sex. I lick the head of his dick. The ridge behind is prominent. I imagine how nice it'd feel violating my arsehole, his balls slapping my arse. I lick the eye of his cock, penetrating it with the tip of my tongue. I can taste the sweet stuff (pre-cum) oozing up his shaft. He trembles with pleasure.
I guide him between my lips, watch my red lipstick smear his shaft. I continue to hold him while he's in my mouth to keep him from thrusting in too deeply and also to resist the temptation of touching myself should I let him go. I would only cum too quickly.
Dave holds my cheeks clumsily between his hands and fucks my mouth. The stone tiled floor grazes against my knees, fuck knows what it's doing to my nylons. I squeeze his cock and suck hard to bring him on quickly. Our time is limited in here.
I imagine Trevor masturbating steadily while in the cubicle next to us. He likes me to be noisy when I'm sucking somebody off. That's another thing that turns him on -- sounds. He's a real sound and vision man all right.
He and Dave will have their orgasms to enjoy and I'll have a mouth full of caustic cum to savour - saline and viscous. Whether I spit or swallow will depend on taste and mood. We all get our own little kick from this sordid scene.
Dave grunts and forces himself deeper into my mouth. I let go of his thick shaft. It's almost over. My nose touches the wiry hair at the base of his cock. He smells of musky, men's talc. He gushes hotly against the back of my throat and then pulls partway out so he can feel my tongue against the knob of his cock. I swirl it around while he fills my mouth with hot sperm. It must have been quite a while since he'd jerked off or fucked, which is surprising - good-looking man like him. He's very viscous and, my god, he's so very salty! He ejaculates in about half-a-dozen pulsing spasms, not the single explosion I was expecting.
I time it badly and some of his cum slips down my throat before I can do anything about it. Trevor likes me to keep some back to share with him when it's all over, so I have to be careful not to swallow it all at once. But there's loads of the stuff and I can hardly swallow fast enough to keep up with him. I gag and cough and the back of my throat burns to the ammonic rush.
He softens quickly and withdraws, zips up, straightens his clothes. He suddenly looks guilty and embarrassed. He asks, "How much?" I shake my head, and wave my hand flatly, tell him I'm not a professional tart. He looks puzzled. There is no goodbye kiss, no words of endearment. I no longer exist now that he's satisfied. He can't wait to get away, back to his wife I bet. Guys often feel disgusted after giving themselves up to a chick with a dick. The guilt I suppose. But it always passes and they come back for more. What is it about a cock in a frock that does it for a man?
He departs, coat collar up, looking sheepishly around him as he crosses the floor. The door swings close again.
He seemed like a nice bloke. I wish he'd been the one to take home with us.
Trevor enters the cubicle and leers at me, a curious mixture of disdain and admiration. He's still hard, his cock shiny wet with ejaculate in the bare white electric light. It twitches in time with his pulse.
"Are you hot?" he demands. "Do you like sucking off strangers in public toilets?" He inspects my nipples through my dress then slaps at my breasts because they're hard. But it's not the sex that has made them pointy. The room is cold. But he interprets it as a sign of insolence and smacks them again. He commands me to raise my dress. He touches my cock, squeezes my balls. I'm seeping and sticky. He forces my thighs apart and plunges two fingers into my arsehole.
"Oh, you are hot!" he says. "You don't care who fucks or fingers you as long as you get your little "cum", do you, you filthy bitch!"
He forces his thick dry fingers in and out of my bottom; with his other hand he masturbates me. Trevor watches my eyes. I try not to react but I can't help myself. I need the release of an orgasm desperately.
He continues until the breath is hissing between my lips. I pat them with my hand, forcing some of Dave's "cum" to ooze out and run down my chin. I had been trying to save some for Trevor. It's one of the things he insists upon - that I share the other man's ejaculate with him whenever I can.
Trevor seizes on my soiled lips, his tongue driving through. I know he gets a buzz out of tasting another man's nectar so I let him have it. He spits it back and for a while we play around with it, passing it back and forth like a game of tennis, until finally, he swallows it. My hips take up the rhythm of his hand. Maybe he'll actually let me have a climax in this dirty, foul smelling little room. I squeeze his fingers with my sphincter. He pulls them out of me with a dryish sucking sound. My need aches and burns.
"I haven't given you permission to cum!" he snarls. "You don't deserve it."
But it happens anyway, and as always it almost jack-knives my body in half with the spasm.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and forces me down on my knees. I know what he wants. I raise my face and open my mouth. He peers in, then pushes two fingers inside to feel the last of Dave's white stuff. He withdraws his fingers, smears them on my cheeks and holds them in front of my face.
"Did you like having that man fuck your mouth, you little whore?" he demands.
He'll punish me whether I answer yes or no. If I say yes, I'll have admitted to taking pleasure without permission. If no, I'll insult him by indicating that following his commands is not pleasurable. I mentally flip a coin, hoping to give him the response he wants.
"Yes, Master," I reply. "Thank you for letting me suck that man's lovely big dick." He slaps my cheek so hard I see stars. Perhaps he would have done it even if I'd answered no. It doesn't matter.
"Is his as good as mine?" Another chance to be punished.
"No, Master."
There is no slap this time. I've given the right answer. He smiles and holds his fingers in front of my mouth. I lick them clean of Dave's remaining goo. Trevor shakes his cock at me, as if in anger.
"Now do it to me, bitch!" he hisses.
I start to take him between my lips. He slaps me again. "I want to cream your filthy throat!" he hisses. "Keep your head still, you dirty bitch, and let me fuck your face!"
After allowing him to drive his cock into my mouth until I'm almost retching, I take him in my hand and masturbate him the last couple of strokes. He squirts into my mouth several times, mixing his sweet, soapy cum with what's left of Dave's savoury fare. He softens. I wait for permission to swallow. He puts his cock back in his trousers and combs his hair before he grants it with a chin-nod. With great relief I let my second helping of cum slide down my throat. They say that stuff's good for the boobs. It certainly hasn't done mine any harm.
The drinks and excitement are having an effect on me. I ask permission to use the ladies room.
"If you're going to piss, do it here!" he says, pointing to the urinal bowl.
I push the filthy seat up with my foot while he blocks the doorway while he straightens his tie. I squat over the bowl. The urine-splashed, discoloured porcelain is cold against my legs. I have trouble starting. He leans toward me, slaps my face. "Go on, slut, piss in front of your Master."
Then there's a dribble of liquid from me followed by a sustained gush that would have done a horse proud. Trevor nods satisfaction. He watches, enjoying my humiliation. "Oh baby, some day I'm going to drink all your steaming piss!"
Afterwards, I wash my face in a disgusting, cracked sink, straighten my dress and tidy my dishevelled hair-piece in a graffiti decorated mirror.
I leave the room first and return to my table. Trevor waits a few seconds, and then walks back to his. If anyone has seen me come out of the men's room, they're not making an issue of it.
Trevor scans the crowd. A lot more customers have arrived. It must be shift change at the construction site. They work through the night here.
Dave's drink sits half-finished on the table. He got what he wanted; now he's gone. I finish mine, swirling it around in my mouth like a mouthwash. I finish his, too. The taste of the spermy cocktail gradually recedes.
In a while a large, heavyset black man in a worn leather jacket looks over at me from the bar. Trevor gives the signal. I smile seductively and move my shoulders back to lift my tits, shake the long dark tresses of my hair-piece. I'm good at this part.
I wonder why he couldn't have chosen Dave or one of the other clean cut ones. I pray silently that the man won't want anything to do with me. Maybe he'll think I'm out of his league. The trouble is, Trevor's got a thing about black men. He likes to see them fuck me in the arse and have a good wank while it's happening. The black guy buys another beer and caries it toward my table.
Game on again, I'm afraid, Coleen, my dear!
I notice Trevor smiling, licking his lips in anticipation of watching and videoing this man having sex with his loving cock-slave in our special little room back home. I have the feeling the three of us are in for a long night -- me especially!
The End