My popcorn tastes like shit. Probably my foot’s fault, tapping all that buttery goodness to the bottom. Won’t be able to eat the last few inches, I know it already.
She’s late. Highly unprofessional.
I laugh, but under my breath. The cinema isn’t packed, but there are people in front and behind me. Don’t want them thinking I’m mental.
Don’t want to draw attention to myself neither.
You know… technically, this is illegal.
I try a piece of popcorn.
Yup, tastes like ass.
God, why the fuck am I so nervous? I sip my soda — which was switched out with carbonated water if my tongue’s any judge.
Heels clack. A woman struts down my aisle. She stops, consults her movie ticket.
“I think you’re in my seat.”
I look up, popcorn frozen mid flight. It’s her. Fuck. I didn’t expect her to be so hot.
Ha, who’m I kidding? I didn’t get a Bachelors in Prostitution. Maybe they’re all fine pieces of ass. Almost-models who hadn’t made the final cut.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Sorry about that.”
I move a seat over, watching as the woman sits down. She gives me a long, considering look before facing forward.
Shit, what now?
I’ve already forgotten the fucking script, like a dumbass. I open my mouth, knowing I was going to fuck this up, but the blare of some horrendous advertisement interrupts me.
Thank God… Time to get my mind straight.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye; strong nose balanced by a wide mouth and a slim, swan-like neck. She’s a brunette — just like I’d ordered — and wearing a loose-fitting t-shirt dress. That shoulder-length hair is mussed up, either on purpose or because she hadn’t bothered to drag a comb through it.
Which makes her look like she threw on her boyfriend’s shirt after a night of drunken fucking.
I shift, stifling a wince. Believe it or not, that thought just gave me a fucking hard-on.
Well, anyone desperate enough to order a prostitute was badly in need of a fuck, right? Guess I ain’t any different.
When a cute attempt to get everyone to turn off their cellphones replaces the ad, I draw a breath and lean across. She smells spicy-sweet — like cinnamon and roses.
“Daytona said you’d be wearing red,” I whisper.
The woman frowns at me. “Red?” she whispers back.
She’s not wearing makeup.
Alarm bells sound in the far recesses of my head. Shit, have I just—
“You got a problem with what I’m wearing?” she asks.
“No, you look—” I cut off before belting out ‘hot’ like a sophomore with a boner. I try a smile. This is well received — she gives me a curious smile in return.
“I’ll be honest.” I lean in closer, “I don’t usually… I mean, I’m not the type—”
She blinks at me. Her lips part as she takes her soda from the console beside her.
“What’s your name, babe?”
“Lori.” She sticks out a loose-wristed hand. I shake it. It’s cool and smooth. “Nice to meet you, Rick.”
My smile hikes up to a grin.
“So…” I glance around, making sure no one’s watching me instead of the commercials. “How does this work?”
The straw slides between her puckered lips. She watches me silently as she takes a long toke. Her eyes are dark — they haven’t turned off the lights yet, but it isn’t exactly Blade Runner’s L.A. in here, either.
She sets her soda down behind her, gives me another bemused smile, and shrugs.
“Up to you, Rick.”
You know, when I woke up this afternoon with a hangover, I knew this day was gonna be a real winner. One of those where you feel like a zombie; head pulsing with pain, thoughts as foggy as a marsh at dawn, and the world shimmering like a reflection on a wind-rippled lake.
Which is why I’m not surprised that this guy — Rick, was it? — has just mistaken me for a hooker.
I probably look like one. Heels with a t-shirt dress? What the fuck was I thinking? And the late night show at a cinema… alone?
I was asking for trouble.
What’s a girl to do with all these lemons?
Rick’s grin is impressive. Look, he’s cute in a scruffy, doesn’t-have-a-woman-in-his-life kind of way. And with those baby blues and that shock of dark hair… but he’s not my type. I like tall. Black, usually. And definitely not anyone who resorts to hiring prostitutes to get his fix of warm and fuzzies.
Then again… my horoscope went something along the lines of:
It takes two to tango, Aries. Remember, there’s always a little give and take in life. It’s time to give it your all or nothing.
And then there was that shampoo ad. The one I stared at for fifteen minutes while I was stuck at an intersection inhaling exhaust fumes. That one had been much less vague:
You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
In essence, the universe already told me this was coming.
So I here I am, Rick: Lori Sylvester, AKA The Prostitute, at your service.
“I’m… not—” I cut off the useless sentence by taking another sip of my soda. The lights dim, and Lori becomes a silhouette. Somehow, that makes this easier. Having those dark eyes of her on me, challenging me, it was making it fucking impossible to think.
“Do you do—” I drop my voice “—blowjobs?”
Lori makes a noise — something between a laugh and a choke — and grabs my shoulder.
“For you, babe? Sure.” Her voice flickers with laughter. Because this is funny, why? I guess she sees a ton of losers—
Her other hand lands on my thigh. I jerk. Her silhouette disappears, and I shift uneasily.
“Keep it down,” she whispers.
Easy for her to say — she doesn’t have a boner the size of Washington’s obelisk.
Fuck, I didn’t know it was going to happen here. Right fucking here. What about the motel? Her hand brushes the front of my jeans. She makes a surprised sound in the back of her throat.
Yeah, Lori — that’s a hard on. Thought you’d know how to recognize one by now. Or maybe she’s just surprised that I have one before she even touched me; like it’s my fucking fault she rocks up wearing such a racy dress.
My hand sinks down, touching the middle of her back. She’s gone and draped herself over the console, her head a few inches beneath mine.
Her fingers trail up my jeans and tug at the button. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t wear a belt today, huh?
I shift again, throwing a nervous glance over my shoulder. The faces behind are transfixed on the screen, eyes wide and hands shoveling popcorn into gaping mouths like snack-guzzling cyborgs. Lori’s hand slides inside my jeans, grabs my dick, and manoeuvres it out with only minimal amounts of struggling.
Warm breath washes over me. I wince, reach down, and tug the rest of my cock out of my jeans before I get fabric burn, or zipper chafe, or anything else that can befall an engorged cock in confined spaces.
Lori wraps her hand around my shaft. I shudder, my eyes closing for a second at that warm touch. God, it feels good. She pumps me once, hard, and then her lips fold over the tip of my cock.
I straighten in my seat, not expecting the chill of her mouth on me so soon. I have to stifle a groan as she swirls the tip of her tongue over my crown before releasing my dick with a ‘pop’ I’m sure the fucking usher upstairs heard.
Blood rushes into my face. I squirm again, itching to turn around and make sure the people behind me aren’t about to rush out and call for management… or the cops. Or put us on Youtube.
Then Lori’s mouth swallows me down again, rendering me immobile.
I grab that messy hair of hers in my fist and urge her head down. Her lips slide down my shaft, saliva dribbling down into my pubes. That ferocious tongue of hers wriggles against my cock, drawing an involuntary groan from me. I hurriedly press my lips closed, but that just turns the sound into a low rumble.
Lori reciprocates with a moan of her own. The vibrations alone almost have me cumming. Did I mention it’s been a while? I tighten the fist in her hair, and slide my hand around the base of my cock, feeding it to her. Trying to cut off circulation so I don’t cum ten seconds from now.
It doesn’t help, of course.
Her lips are soft against my fingers, her mouth warming against my flesh as she begins sliding her head up and down. Lori sucks at me, creating a vacuum that draws me hard into her mouth. More saliva oozes over my fingers, and I work it into my cock, pumping my shaft for her as she moves to my crown to give it some much-needed attention.
Seconds later, like I knew it would, my cock shudders in warning. Lori moans as I shove her head down, forcing my dick as deep into her mouth and throat as I can. Her hand pushes mine away, her fingers cupping my balls and lightly massaging them as I every muscle in my body tightens.
I touch my fingertip to that wet, warm seal around my dick and trace its circumference.
Lori’s tongue wriggles; a futile attempt, trapped as it is against the bulk of my shaft. Yet that tiny movement — like the flick of a finger jerking out a grenade’s pin — is all I need to shoot my load.
I cum, red-faced in an effort not to make a sound. Lori doesn’t seem to care: she moans, and that vibration whips my orgasm into something so intense that my hips buck from the seat. My cock hits the back of her throat, my load disappearing into that hot, dark wetness as readily as the soda she’d sucked up her straw.
My hips fall down, drawing most of my cock from her mouth. The loss of warmth is palpable, the cool cinema’s air sliding around my wet dick like the frozen sock of an ice-giant. But she sinks her head down, taking me back inside her mouth. And then she sucks at me, her lips quivering against my shaft as a last spasm wracks me.
The audience gasps.
For a moment, I think it’s because of my spectacular orgasm.
But then there’s a motherfucking big explosion on the screen.
I exhale roughly, shivering. Someone probably died.
I sit back, touching a finger against the side of my mouth where some of Rick’s cum had managed to escape. A sip of soda is all I need to wash the taste of him from my mouth… not that I mind it.
Look, I hadn’t expected the size of the thing that slithered out of his pants. Nor the hand that had grabbed my hair so greedily, guiding that leviathan between my lips.
The man has needs, right?
Rick’s staring ahead, face washed with orange and red from whatever massive apocalyptic event just happened on screen. He looks dumbstruck… but I guess that’s to be expected.
A few seconds later, his head rolls to the side. He grins at me, and then his face is in shadow again, the movie going dark in front of us.
“That was…” he trails away, letting out a long, satisfied sigh.
“I know.” I smile back at him, knowing he can’t see me. I lean closer, putting my lips to his ear. “I pride myself in a job well done.”
For a moment, my words play back to me. Did that seriously just happen? Did I actually just give a total stranger a blowjob in a movie theater. I mean, fuck, my horoscope said ‘tango’, not the fucking rumba. I smile again, facing forward. It was fun… but now I’m all tingly and shit down there. It’s not like I can hop on his lap and extinguish that flickering flame, either. I mean, I’m a pretend prostitute, not Lindsey fucking Lohan.
And to think, I came here looking for a little downtime, trying to get myself out of my own head. Then I ended up giving head… and sucking this random guy off like a hooker with a crack addiction. Which he thought I was.
I’d feel ashamed, except I stopped giving a fuck about twenty minutes ago.
What now? Do I pay her? I was expecting this to go down in a motel room. You know, handy dresser for the money, ample supply of toweling for the cleanup. Now I’m left with a mess in my pants and no idea what the fuck happens next.
I clear my throat — about to do the unthinkable by asking a hooker how payment works — when I hear the click of heels.
We both look to the side, watching as a slender silhouette picks its way towards us, tottering on suicidal stilettos. The movie blooms into light, illuminating the woman’s waist-length black wig and inch thick eyeliner.
She looks up, sees us, and pauses. Glancing askance at Lori, the woman leans over her to whisper to me.
“Hey… uh… you’re in my seat.”
I stiffen, staring up at the woman’s now shadowed face.
“Uh, excuse me?” I manage through a throat as constricted as Lori’s had surely been when she’d had my cock halfway down it.
The new arrival makes an irritated sound and shuffles past us, her stockinged legs bumping against mine and Lori’s. I turn to her, watching as the woman settles beside me with a faint scowl on her face. She would have been pretty, five years ago.
She gives her skin-tight red mini a tug, shrugs her shoulders, and turns to us.
“Sorry I’m late, hon.” Then, letting out a sigh, she says, “Daytona tell ya threesomes were extra?”
Hi, it’s Lacie. I hope you enjoyed this short, and if you did please leave a comment below! I love hearing from readers; even if it’s just a quick hello.