House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 1 Week
MARCUS’S HAND STOPS its forward progress, his cock instantly weakening, the surge of anger doing nothing to revive its flaccid length. Two chats with this bitch, and she had hung up on him in both of them. The first one, whatever. He had already come, had just been making polite conversation. But this time? This one? His half-there cock amped up in his hand? Her bitchy little “just drop it” comment? That was something you said to a subservient. Not your employer. Not when he is Marcus Fucking Renza. A sound collects in his throat, one low and empty, the growl of a caged animal, his hand shaking slightly as he reaches forward, moves the mouse, and clicks on the button to return to the home page.
The fury builds. The disrespect. The dismissive look on her face. He closes his eyes, pictures her sweet naked body, and how much he can remember about life before. Thinks about the feel of her skin and the gasp of her breath. What he would do if he were with her. She would submit. She would beg. She would surrender. She would respect. He lets out a controlled breath, attempts to regain his focus, his hand jerking the soft skin of his cock as his eyes skim the available chat rooms.
Another girl. There would be another option. One better than her.
He clicks on a brunette with a similar body. The room behind her gray as opposed to pink. He watches the girl smile, flip her hair. Lean forward and type into her keyboard with long, electric-blue fake nails. Ugh. At least Jess Reilly had been clean. Wholesome. As clean and wholesome as a girl who swallows a fake cock could be. He watches her type and wonders what she is doing. Then a line of text appears in the window, a line that quickly moves as a hundred responses follow it. Why isn’t she talking? He can hear music softly playing in her room, so her microphone is working. He clicks on the “Take to Private” button, and the other participants disappear.
No change. The girl looks into the camera for a minute, a bored expression on her face. Then she reaches forward. Clicks a couple of keys.
HotSexxxyGirl4You: hi
He drops his cock. Reaches forward in response.
freebird71: why aren’t you talking?
The girl stares at the screen. Blinks. Blinks again. Then her lips move, and broken English comes out. “I can talk. Not much.”
Her accent is thick, an ugly foreign paint over the English words, her voice rough, as if it hasn’t had much practice with the syllables. This is what he is paying seven bucks a minute for? With Jess Reilly, he’d felt the rate was a deal. Now, he feels like a poor man visiting a street hooker, an interaction guaranteed to end with an STD and a stolen wallet.
He types.
freebird71: don’t talk. What do you do?
Another long blink. Like she doesn’t understand the question.
HotSexxxyGirl4You: I do everything for you. You turn me on.
He sighs. Contemplates returning to free chat and finding another girl. Instead he returns his hand to his cock and decides to test out what “everything” means.
Fifty minutes later, the chat interrupted at one point with an automated request for more funds, he ends the chat, pulling a tissue from the box on his desk and wiping the length of his cock. “Everything” had been plenty. The girl had put in a ball gag. Spread her legs and fisted her pussy. Slapped herself across the face with the metal end of her handcuffs till her lip was busted and tears came. She got on all fours and barked like a dog when he told her to. Gagged on anal beads after having had them inside of her. Had brought herself to the point of tears by the time he had come. Seven dollars a minute had bought her self-respect and let him rip it to shreds.
He kept waiting for her hand to move, to push the button that Jess Reilly had wielded so easily. But she didn’t. She listened, she performed, she didn’t give him any lip. She was motherfucking boring, even when her lips were bleeding and her ass was being violated. He felt like he was at a donkey show, not the high-class pussy he was accustomed to. Jess Reilly, despite the stick up her ass, is quality. Is American, for God’s sake. Is what his cock, even now, post-orgasm, wants.
Shutting down his computer, he stands and heads to the shower to wash off the virtual feel of slut.