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“Take this over to Ernie at our west side operation. 42nd street near 10th Avenue. You may have to audition a little, if you know what I mean. But he needs good girls who have their scruples under control.
“I think he’ll like the look,” he added, brushing his hand across my baldhead.
My heart sunk when I heard the address. This could not be a swanky men’s club. There was nothing even close to being swanky at that location, one of the seediest areas of Manhattan.
“Don’t look so sad. You can come back and apply again anytime.”
He laughed at his own cruel joke. Reflectively, I asked myself if at any point he ever gave me serious consideration for the dancer’s job. This time he did not even offer the waitressing position.
He got up and left. I dressed. When I stepped out of his office into the larger room filled with filing cabinets and papers, a middle aged woman, evidently a bookkeeper or clerk, was tittering.
“You want me to schedule another appointment for next week?”
With her sarcastic question she broke into an outrageous laugh. I sullenly continued toward the stairs. As I reached the top and stepped into the empty main dance room I heard her call out from below.
“If it makes you feel better, he said you were one of the best,” her laugh got even louder. I exited the club into the cold of the New York autumn. I headed west toward 10th Avenue.
Mr. Fatipton’s fingers are warmed by my hot vagina. The exploration of my most intimate passage seems to spur his suckling. It also increases my flow. I know this from two years of having Dr. Helga collect my precious fluid like a dairy farmer. The lactation process is both explicitly and inexplicably linked to arousal. Thus I let him work me, enjoying the sensation of having my neglected genitalia fingered, even if by the aged and gnarled digits of an eighty-year-old man.
After ten more minutes he pushes away the left nipple. He is well nourished, yet I have more to offer. I know that within minutes my remaining juices will cause that breast to throb and I will humbly beg Ms. Powers for assistance. But meanwhile, my duties continue. He slides out his fingers. I can always hear the slight plopping sound as my extremely wet vaginal opening seeks to hold in the manipulating appendages.
Though frustrated in being half masturbated, I shuffle lower, straddling his calves.
“May I suck your penis, sir?”
Ms. Powers’ instructions have been very specific... that at each feeding I humbly beseech the Master of the house with the utmost of courtesy and respect. I use as subservient a tone of voice as possible. For me, it is a privilege to be of oral service.
He nods with a distant look of joy. It is apparent that the warm, moist and lively tongue of the obsequious young female brings pleasant memories.
I pull down the bed covers. His only garment is a nightgown, which I gently push up to his waist exposing what at one time was a magnificent organ. Without pause, I submissively lower my head and take into my mouth the withered phallus of the supine billionaire. His left hand pats my baldhead, as if rewarding the behavior of a beloved puppy whose training is at last found to be acceptable. Meanwhile I can hear Mr. Fatipton sniffing the fingers of his right hand, fragrantly coated with my juices.
The ‘hunt’ is still in the dog.
By rote, my tongue dances... licking, rotating, gyrating. I feel my Master’s member twitch.
I will suck him until he falls asleep. There will be no respite for me until he does so. Ms. Powers insists and she awaits my signal.
My mind returns to that befuddled walk along 42nd street, clutching what I believed to be my last hope for employment, the scribbled note to ‘Ernie’ from the fat, the bald and the perverted.
Chapter Twenty-three
The ‘west side operation’ was not as seedy as I expected. It was worse.
Garish neon signs flashed, indicating the availability of ‘girls’... ‘naked and moving’ suggested another. In faded red, the words ‘non-stop action’ were painted on a board hastily nailed over an old, more permanent sign. I felt dirty just standing and reading all the suggestive advertising.
It was a peep show.
The ‘interview’ with Ernie went as expected. He was amused when I stripped without request as he read the note from the fat, the bald and the perverted. He likewise squeezed a nipple but did so while standing to my side. He did not appear surprised by the resulting stream of breast milk, which shot across the room. The fat, the bald, and the perverted had evidently called ahead to apprize him of my condition.
Before I could demonstrate my zipper trick, he had his penis out and was pushing me downwards.
“All fours. I like to talk without being interrupted so I give my girls something to keep their tongues busy while they listen.”
Ernie had an interesting methodology for attaining oral gratification. It was best described as fornicating my face, aggressively and with no regard for my comfort.
He began by intentionally stepping on my hands. Not painfully, but firmly enough so that I could not lift or move my arms. Then he grasped my ears and directed my mouth toward his stiffening penis.
It was gruff and bold. Had I not been an accomplished fellatrix, I would be gagging uncontrollably as he rocked his hips and tugged on my ears and head, thrusting his sizable stiff phallus in and out.
