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4
Marcy
* * *
I scroll mindlessly through my phone as I ride the subway, headed to my other part-time job as a babysitter. It’s crazy right? By day, I work at a make-up counter peddling cosmetics to rich ladies. Then on some nights, I work as a hostess at a gentlemen’s club, literally getting paid to pleasure men. But on other nights, I make money by caring for children, who theoretically, could be the children of the men I just pleasured. Seriously though, my three separate lives better not intersect, otherwise I’ll be in deep doo-doo.
But it’s kind of nice because the three jobs balance each other out. They’re so different that I’m able to assume different personas, just like how Petunia and I were saying we’re super-heroes with secret identities. But are there any super-heroes with three identities? Not that I know of, at least. The max seems to be two.
I sigh. Well, tonight’s identity is babysitter extraordinaire. I have a new client on the Upper East Side, and it should be fine. I like kids, so babysitting is something I enjoy and generally look forward to. But then, the train jolts at a station, and I wince. Ugh. I squirm uncomfortably, my butt digging into the hard plastic seat as I try to shift my weight. But it’s actually my pussy that’s tender because of the incredible night I had last night. The man I met was so huge that now, I’m sore in my sweetest spot, and every bump and rattle is a reminder of him.
Except that you didn’t even get his name, I think, snorting out loud at the thought. A snoozing old woman next to me grunts, probably angry that I’ve disturbed her sleep, and then jolts upright to glare at me. But I pretend that nothing’s wrong and the old lady closes her eyes once more as I return to my absentminded daydreaming.
Nice going, Marce, the voice in my head sarcastically. Talk about engaging in anonymous sex. I frown, but then sigh because it’s not that unusual at Sanctum to engage anonymously. It’s just the way things go sometimes. At masked parties, or even the club’s Summer Bacchanal, sometimes people just want to get down to business without having to exchange names. Hell, even the names we do learn might not be a client’s real one. It’s their prerogative of course, and for all they know, I might not be Marcy. My real name could be Angelina Jolie, and I’m just going by Marcy for kicks.
Still, that guy was hot, I think dreamily. I wiggle at the memory of his full cock deep inside of me, my soft womanhood aching. But even with the discomfort, I want more of him, over and over again until I can hardly walk because what we did was unreal. I’ve heard of belly-dancing before, but to be honest, it never really worked for me. Different guys and I have tried it, but there was never really any result. Instead, they’d move their shafts in and out as we both stared at my tummy, but other than a few shadows dancing around, nada.
But with my client last night, it was different. He was huge. Absolutely ginormous, and sure enough, when he started sliding his shaft in and out, my belly bulged and we could see the tip moving along my abdomen from the inside. Now I’m not a small girl, so there’s definitely some padding down there, but you could absolutely see because he was just so enormous when it comes to sheer size.
Still, I can’t believe that the belly dancing actually happened. I mean, yeah, the club advertised the event, but I just didn’t expect that any man would be big enough to actually do it. But sure enough, I saw the handsome stranger’s full staff moving inside of me, and wow did it feel good.
Now, I want more. It’s greedy, but it’s the truth.
Maybe he’ll come back and ask to take me to one of the private suites?
The moment that the thought enters my mind, I shake my head at my own idiocy. A man that gorgeous probably prefers to have a host of women on call, so he’s more than likely done with me. While it may have been the best sex of my life, it’s unlikely that he felt the same. I mean, he could crook his finger and all the women of Sanctum would come running, so where does that leave me? Nowhere, and that’s the truth.
I sigh and look down at the dating app that I have open on my phone. As usual, my matches are duds and I don’t even want to look through profiles anymore. It’s just tedious and boring, especially when compared to the man last night.
But still, I should get on my romantic life because at the moment, I have nothing. Even worse, I haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, and if I’m being honest, I feel like high school really shouldn’t count toward my romantic record because everyone’s just so young during that life stage. We were like puppies frolicking while going out on group dates and giggling about this boy or that. It was just practice for the real thing.
