Kirsty Poole: The Cost of a Cumshot

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Naughty USAKirsty descended the steps of her office building, passing the stone gargoyles on guard at the front, then around the corner to the old lamppost beside the bus stop.

The lamppost was ancient beneath the billboard, blinking between two ads. The first displayed a 20-something — ridiculously pleased with his touchscreen cell phone. The next showed a woman in black stilettos and crimson lingerie, the single word Tonight, beneath her full, red lips, hovering above a bottle of expensive looking scotch.

Kirsty leaned against the lamppost, back to the billboard, waiting for her boyfriend, Damon.

It had been a long day. Fridays usually ended at 4:00, per her contract. That meant she was usually seeping in hot water and bubbles by 6:00, while Damon stood guard at the front door waiting on the pizza. She waited all week for Fridays — Inferno Falls’ best pizza from The Tomato Shack, a bottle of red from Coppola and a fuckfest from Damon.

Always once and often twice.

At least it used to be.

Problem was, Friday’s shine had dulled. Damon was working way too much, and had been for three months. At least that’s the lie she kept believing. Kirsty didn’t exactly smell another woman, but a guy who had shot his thick load in, on or around her nearly every day of their first two years together didn’t stop without a reason.

Maybe it was work, but maybe it was something else.

Seemed like the space between them was quickly filling with things neither wanted to say. They had a plan to thin some distance tonight, but Kirsty got a last minute call to burn oil into the weekend, preparing for Gerald, the new guy starting Monday.

Gerald would be taking over the McKinley and Ackerman accounts, and required a full briefing first thing Monday morning.

Kirsty glanced at her watch — 8:47. Where the hell is he? Damon promised he’d pick her up at 8:30 sharp, swore that despite her having to work late, this Friday would be like the old ones.

But the street was black and empty, punctuated every minute or so by the occasional blurring red light from a passing car and the live band in the bar a block away.

Kirsty pulled her phone from her purse and checked her messages. Fourteen emails, one voicemail, two texts, but nothing from Damon.

Asshole. 

He had five minutes, not one minute more. After that, Kirsty was calling a car. And the firm could pay for it. She could order a pizza from the town car, and it would be there by the time the tub was full. If Damon wasn’t home, fine. She’d have pizza and wine with herself. She could fuck herself, too. That’s what the bottom drawer was for.

Kirsty felt a twitch between her legs and a softening against the satin of her pink panties; a sudden surge of horny energy as she imagined a mostly empty glass of Pinot Noir on her nightstand, her right hand massaging her breasts, left nipple kneaded between her thumb and forefinger, while her left hand pet the pink of her blooming pussy, priming it for her favorite glass toy.

Kirsty shuddered, then felt a sudden flare of anger at Damon.

Most of her knew he was cheating; had to be. And she hated him for it. But she couldn’t find a way to initiate a dialogue. Truth was, Kirsty would forgive him. Sex was sex, no big deal. Damon clearly loved her. If they could get their schedules to blend, everything else would be okay. She’d never met a guy like Damon. Sex was never better than it was with him, not even in her post college year, when she’d pulled free from her studies, unleashed her libido into the wild, and finally started taking some of her best friend Celeste’s advice.

Kirsty knew it as fact: Few women could suck a cock like she could, especially after Celeste’s training, and no woman’s mouth had ever come close to doing what hers had done to Damon.

The blush between her legs deepened, but Kirsty ignored it. She pulled the phone from her purse, hit the Contacts button, scrolled to the car company the firm always called, then hit Dial.

“Yes, this is Kirsty Poole. I’m at Miller & Hodge, outside beside the lamppost. I need a car, as soon as possible, please.” Five or six seconds of silence, then: “Yes, that would be great. Thanks.”

Kirsty dropped the phone in her purse and waited, still leaning against the lamppost. Five minutes felt like 10, waiting for the town car to meet the curb. Kirsty tapped her feet to the catchy rock, rolling in a wave from the bar a block away. After another five minutes passed, which felt like 15, a black Escalade finally pulled to the curb. Kirsty figured they must have had to send the SUV because of her short notice, then wondered if they’d bill the firm extra for the luxury.

The passenger window opened with a purr. The driver didn’t look a thing like the usual silver haired chauffeurs the transport company hired. He was young, maybe 35. A full head of charcoal hair, mopped over dark, confident eyes. A strong jaw cast his light stubble in a handsome shadow.

He smiled.

Kirsty smiled back, gave the driver a slight nod, then opened the passenger side and stepped inside the Escalade, closing the heavy door behind her. The driver smiled again, then put the car in gear and pulled into the street.

“So where should we go?” he asked.

Kirstie opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the driver said, “Never mind. I know a place. It’s right up ahead.”

What? 

Kirsty swallowed. This doesn’t make any sense. She wanted to protest, say something, anything, but confusion kept her voice captive. The Escalade made a sharp right, then an immediate left, heading toward the small park behind the library.

Kirsty suddenly realized where she was going, and exactly what was happening.

HolyFUCKINGShit, how is this happening? This guy thinks I’m a hooker!

Kirsty’s mouth was already half open, about to object, when the driver put his hand on her knee and ran his finger up and along the inside of her thigh. A sharp tingle shot from the base of her neck down to her tailbone.

“I’m not…” Kirsty stuttered, “I’m not a…”

The stranger swung into the empty park and killed the engine, his right hand now at the top of Kirsty’s inner thigh, his thumb just beneath the laced elastic edge of her pink panties.

Kirsty pussy started to pulse. Speech was impossible.

The stranger was breathing faster, Kirsty could see the thick chord bulging in his pants. He lowered his zipper, freeing his thick flesh with his left hand. His right stayed on her thigh, threatening to breach her panty’s perimeter.

She opened her mouth but his words were faster. “I need you to suck me off NOW. How much will that cost?”

shutterstock_124598461His words were labored behind heavy breath. His cock was throbbing.

Kirsty found her voice. “$200.”

What the FUCK? 

What am I thinking?

What in the hell am I DOING?  

Her pussy started to pound.

Kirsty had always been fascinated by the thought of getting paid for sex. Celeste had been her best friend for more than a decade, ever since they were roommates in college. Back then, Celeste had worked for a fancy escort service. She came close to talking Kirsty into taking jobs a couple of times, but Kirsty had always backed out. Always with a good excuse, but it was really only because she never had the guts.

Even now, Kirsty thought about it plenty.

She loved giving head, and getting fucked six ways to Sunday. And what was so wrong with getting paid to do what you loved? It was a helluva lot better than working for the firm, or staying late on Friday to prepare for the new guy.

The thought of taking a stranger’s throbbing cock into her hot, wet mouth had flashed through her mind more than once when her own fingers were busy gliding inside her. The reality now looking her in the eyes was enough to drive her wild.

“Seems high for a hummer,” the stranger said as he slipped three fingers inside her without permission. “But it feels like you’re gonna give it your all, so I’m sure it will be worth it.

But, she thought, the customer was always right.Kirsty loved sucking cock. Loved the throb, the pulse, the control. Loved the happy ending — in her mouth, on her face, anywhere. But the bottomless throb between her legs made her hate the stranger for a second. She was suddenly hungry to face the window, slap her hands against the glass, and order the stranger to fuck her from behind as hard and as fast as he could.

Not believing what she was about to do, Kirsty wordlessly bent forward, kissed the head of the stranger’s dick, then let her lips linger along the length of his shaft. She could tell he wanted her to go faster, but shuddered and rolled his head against the leather seat the second he saw the craven look in her eye.

Kirsty wrapped her fingers around his dick and flicked at its tip with her tongue, then let her wet flesh fall completely from her mouth as she slowly painted his shaft from the bottom, then back to the top. She gave the stranger another glance, then turned her full attention to his cock.

She parted her lips, closed them tightly around the tip, then slowly slid to the base, taking his entire length in her mouth.

Her mouth was warm and wet. His cock felt amazing, throbbing inside it. She drew in her breath and vented a whimper, traveling three years earlier in her mind, imagining Damon’s eight inches in her mouth for the first time.

Their third date. She’d wanted to suck him off so bad, she had pulled him into an alley and dropped to her knees right there. He’d tried to get Kirsty to do the public thing again, several times in the three years since, but she never would. Not once. It was too intimidating removed from the moment’s heat.

shutterstock_126849137But this was the heat of the moment.

The stranger was moaning; deep, guttural growls escaped his throat as Kirsty worshipped his cock. Up, down, around; loud, sloppy, sucking, exaggerated sounds inside the otherwise silent cabin.

The stranger let out a cry, then pushed himself deeper into Kirsty’s mouth. She gagged, but the stranger pushed her head down anyway. She pulled away, and his cock fell from her mouth.

They locked eyes and the stranger whimpered, then nodded, giving Kirsty full, silent permission to do it her way. She lowered her head, swallowed him whole, and tried to ignore the river raging at her clit.

Fingers in every hole, this is FUCKING HOT.

Up, down, hard, soft. Kirsty loved the stranger’s cock as though it was Damon’s; worshipped it like every man she’d ever had. She felt his balls tighten and body tense, and her instinct pulled her body back.

No, he can’t cum in my mouth. He’s a complete stranger. Damon will know!

A deep moan of runaway pleasure escaped his lips, pushing Kirsty past coherent thought. She tightened her lips and lowered her mouth as far as it would go, tickling the back of her throat with the stranger’s throbbing. She had a half second to register the sharp, sudden pain of her hair being pulled at the root as his first burst of hot, sticky cum hit the back of her throat.

She vented a low moan and kept sucking, her pussy a bucket.

Her tongue danced the length of his shaft and he pulled out, painting her face in a splatter. Ignoring her plastered cheeks, Kirsty leaned into his lap and licked every drop of the warm cum from the stranger’s still throbbing cock.

“That was the best…fucking blowjob of my life,” he breathed. “Worth every goddamn cent.” He handed her a box of Kleenex.

Kirsty wiped herself down, smiling, then said, “I aim to please.”

The stranger handed Kirsty two neatly folded $100 bills. She said, “Good evening,” then stepped from the car and into the shadows.

Damon had better fucking be home. If he wasn’t, every toy in her drawer wouldn’t be enough. Kirsty had no idea when she’d last been so goddamn horny, but at the moment, she’d have gladly let the stranger fuck her blue in every hole she had.

Seriously, fuck Damon. If he couldn’t pick her up on time, she would find satisfaction elsewhere, and maybe make a small fortune on the side.

Fortunately for him, he was home, asleep on the couch where he’d fallen a few hours earlier. He was barely awake five minutes before Kirsty had him plowing her from behind, the first of three times he fucked her that night. They had sex another four times throughout the weekend, not counting Damon’s impromptu hummer, Kirsty gave him in the bathroom of Ichiban’s Saturday during dinner with the Anderson’s.

shutterstock_167392475On Monday morning, as Kirsty ascended the stairs to her office, she felt the familiar tingle along with a softening in her pink panties. She wondered if what had happened on Friday could ever happen again.

She imagined the stranger’s eyes, his hair, his light stubble. Heard his moan echoing in her ears, and pictured herself climbing in the Escalade again, her slick clit living a snail trail on the seat.

Kirsty shook off her smile. She couldn’t exactly stroll into the office imagining being some random John’s cum slut when she had to hand over the McKinley and Ackerman accounts to the new guy Gerald in just a few minutes.

“Morning, Abby,” Kirsty said, greeting her secretary as she opened the door.

That’s when she saw Gerald, the stranger, sitting in a chair by her desk, his mouth a round O of perfect shock.

“This is Gerald,” Abby said. “He’s been waiting to meet you.”

Kirsty’s face bled a gallon of crimson. “I believe we’ve met,” she said.

This is Episode One of Forty-Eight From Lexi Maxxwell’s Naughty USA — the world’s smuttiest soap. Visit LexiMaxxwell.Com for more Naughty USA each week, or purchase the full year (at Amazon) by clicking the link below.

Click Here to Buy Naughty USA: Year One (The World’s Smuttiest Soap). 150,000 Words For JUST 5.99!

 

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