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Quickly achieving full erection, thrusting rhythmically and deeply, he spoke.
“Yeah, you are good.
“Here’s the deal. Every day you arrive, you strip, you enter a booth. When the bright lights turn on that means one or possibly up to four customers are watching you. They’re going to have requests. The more requests, the more money they pay. You won’t be able to see them; they look through holes in the booth. We’ve had other lactating girls. A couple of regulars will want to see some flow. Doesn’t have to be a lot. Give the nipples a little squeeze. They’ll love it. Mostly you’ll just masturbate for them. That’s probably the most common thing. That and some nice spread shots, front and back. Some of the girls keep their backs
ides lubed up. The shining oil gets ‘em thinking, you know.
“You’ll keep yourself shaved. Everywhere. It’s an attraction. You’ll find that even normal looking guys have proclivities that are different. We want them to come here for that. So do what they demand no matter how different.
“No hair. Got it. And do what you can to keep that milk going.”
Ernie stopped talking and began fornicating my face in earnest. He pulled roughly and exploded quite strongly. He seemed impressed when I didn’t gag.
“Yeah, you been around. If you need some extra dough, I can get you some bachelor party action. We know who we can trust. It’s best that you keep that backside opened. Know what I mean?
“And we’ll talk every now and then. You know, I like to make sure my girls are happy and the girls feel the same about me.”
So, in addition to my duties in the booth, return visits to his grimy office on all fours and with tongue and lips ready would be mandatory.
Ernie was zipping himself when he was called away.
“Start tomorrow. 11:00 a.m. You’ll be surprised with the number of ‘gentlemen’ who stop in during their lunch hour.”
He firmly pinched my left nipple causing a small geyser of milk to arch across the room. He snickered as he walked out. I dressed and returned to my hotel.
Mr. Fatipton sleeps soundly. He is satiated by my nourishing milk and the firm sucking of tongue and lips on his once proud manhood.
I slowly arise, being careful not to disturb the slumbering Master. I twice push the button on his bedside table. It is the signal for Ms. Powers. Within a minute she opens the bedroom door without knocking. She has been waiting nearby.
The tall handsome woman walks with purpose, not in a masculine way, but far from effeminate. A woman in her mid thirties, her physical condition is superb. Lengthy workouts in the mansion’s gymnasium are in evidence. She wears a black pants suit so tight that it appears to be a leotard.
“Do you think we can get any tonight?” she asks softly.
I nod. It is an interesting phenomenon of the male anatomy that with age tumescence often manifests itself most firmly during somnolence. As I resume straddling the Master’s calves I look down to see his penis remains comparatively stiff. I bend and take it in my mouth. My sleeping Master stirs in his sleep, my efforts bringing a peaceful look of pleasure.
Ms. Powers strolls to the bathroom. A cabinet opens and closes. She returns with a modified breast pump.
“I never would have thought of such a device, Alexi. You have such a devious mind.”
Yes. It was my idea to merely change the shape of the suction cup to one that would fit closely over the tip of Mr. Fatipton’s somewhat emaciated penis. Then with the proper coaxing, sperm could be extracted. Slowly and methodically Ms. Powers and I can suck male essence from the Master’s loins. We have been doing so for months. The collection, kept in a basement refrigerator, has been growing. Randy may soon have a half brother!
I suck. Ms. Powers reaches down and massages the perineum. If Mr. Fatipton could only know how much he is enjoying himself.
I feel the organs begin to boil. I have felt the male climax so often, I can time it precisely. Holding the pump in my right hand, I pull away my mouth and instantaneously substitute the pump’s suction cup for my lips. Sure enough as Ms. Powers continues her massage and I squeeze the bulb, sperm slowly flows into the collection vessel. We smile.
My next child will be mine to keep and will be born a billionaire. There is fairness in life after all, I think to myself.
We remain silent. It is paramount that we not wake our sperm donor, thus I let my mind wander and memories of my brief employment at the peep show return.
Yes I humbly squatted in the booth. It was better than the stall aboard Dr. Helga’s ship. I was free to move my limbs. But keeping my knees apart to afford the best ‘sample’ to a potential customer was tiring. A small video camera in each booth projected the images of all the girls onto a collection of television screens. A customer could thus chose which booth he wished to observe based on the grainy TV images. To attract the most customers, the girls were encouraged to squat as obsequiously as possible and in the most sordid of poses, indicating a willingness to comply with the most decadent of requests.
I made sure my shaven and oiled vulva shined directly at the camera. On my first day I received much attention, my wet lips seeming to invite busy masturbating fingers. Ernie was correct; I was commanded over and over again to play with myself before the various pairs of peep holes. After the years of forced abstinence, it felt strangely good.
Performing for the groups was simple, mainly college boys collectively gathering their courage to sit and satisfy some masturbatory male fantasy.
It was the more mature, single voices I quickly learned to dread. These were the true perverts, demanding poses and acts no wife or girl friend would ever consider, should they even have the nerve to ask.
Yes, spread shots were common. Masturbation, as written. But for one customer, Ernie slid a bowl into the booth. I found myself squatting over it and emptying my bladder before a pair of dark evil eyes peering through holes not more than a foot away.
