Cum oozed out of my just-filled snatch, the warm creamy mixture of semen and sperm drifting slowly down both sides of the crack of my ass to drip onto the sheet below. I wondered how many millions of other dying sperm had soaked into the fibers of that cheap sheet in that cheap room in that cheap motel in that cheap neighborhood that the cheap son-of-a-bitch had chosen for our first – and possibly last – fuck.
I've been fucking for fun since I was fourteen and fucking for money since I was twenty. Many people might call me a whore but the police cannot arrest me for it.
Whoa, back up, you say. You want to know who am I and what the fuck this story is all about, don't you?
I'm Tara, which is a nice name to have for someone with red hair. My last name is Quick, which accounts for the fact that my business is named Tara Quick Home Sales. I originally toyed with the idea of leaving out my first name and calling the firm Quick Home Sales. The problem was that that name gives the impression of a operation handling small, low-cost inexpensive fixer-upper homes.
To the contrary, I personally am high maintenance and my firm handles only high priced homes, McMansions or real mansions. Sure, the market really stinks nowadays, stinks like dead fish, like a skanky streetwalker's cunt. But the rich are still rich, and they can buy homes that cost a lot of money. And the higher the selling price, the higher the commission.
Do you know how real estate brokers make money? The commission is split, half for listing and half for sales. The broker whose office signs up a seller, who gets the listing to put into the Multiple system for all of our 'cooperating competitors' (a classic oxymoron) to sell gets about half and the broker whose office actually makes the sale to the buyer gets the other half. (And then each broker splits her share with the salesperson who actually brought in the listing or made the sale.) It's possible and legal for a broker to both get the listing and make the sale, thus earning the full commission for herself.
How do I do it? Re-read the first two paragraphs.
You'll notice that I keep referring to the brokers by using a female pronoun. Though the profession is technically gender neutral, there seems to be a preponderance of women selling homes. It's like nursing or teaching; there's no rule requiring women, it's just the way the numbers work out. (No, this is neither the time nor the place for a discussion of the 'glass ceiling').
Why do women join the field of real estate sales? Some are good salespeople and just like the public interaction. Some are single mothers with children, just getting by – or maybe not even – on alimony and child support, and they need additional income. Some are still married, stay-at-homes whose children have left the nest and they want to keep busy and make some extra money. Some are school teachers willing to work nights and weekends. Lots of other legitimate reasons too.
And some simply see it as a way to meet lots of men, to earn orgasms and money without fear of arrest. Hello, my name is Tara.
I came to real estate honestly. My Mom sold real estate to support my brother and me. I never knew my father; for all I know, she might have been artificially inseminated. She did like men though. Many mornings I would wake up to find a new 'uncle' had stayed over. I knew that they weren't uncles and that the reason Mom let them stay over was so that she could get laid. In retrospect, I can't really blame her.
It was to one of those so-called uncles that I gave my virginity. Notice that I didn't say cherry; I had long since lost that to a hairbrush. And it only hurt the first time. 'Uncle George', the latest in her string, was sitting at the kitchen table when I woke up one morning. Mom had gone off to an early appointment and my brother was already away at college. I was wearing a chaste nightgown, opaque to the eye, dull cotton.
"My, aren't you a pretty little thing?"
Fuck no; I wasn't pretty by a long shot. I was little (I'm barely five foot now); I still had braces on my teeth. My tits at fourteen were the same as they are now, the same as those of a fourteen year old boy. My strong points were my eyes and my smile. But I could be pleased by a compliment.
"Thank you," I answered, my face blushing. I knew without a word being said that this guy, wearing a wife beater shirt and needing a shave, wanted to fuck me. And I, who had back then never even had a single date, wanted to know what it would be like for a boy (or man) to touch me. In truth, I was jealous of Mom for all the various uncles she brought home with her, for a night or a week, sometimes more. What had started as a name, uncle, for things I was too young to comprehend, had morphed into an unspoken joke as television and school friends made me aware that the word sex meant more than what kind of plumbing the person used in order to pee.
I was also jealous of those friends in school, the ones who had dates with boys, the ones who had tits that justified the purchase of sweaters. I was jealous of the ones who told about being felt up and insanely jealous of the girls who had gone 'all the way' with boyfriends or sometimes brothers and in one case, one mind-boggling case, with her father. Shit, if I had known my father, I would have gone all the way with him and jumped right to the top of the totem pole.
All these thoughts raced through my mind, the way your life supposedly flashes by when you're drowning, and I knew that all George had to do was to crook a finger and I'd be his until Mom got back from her appointment.
"Come sit by me," he said, patting the chair next to his at our rectangular six seat table with the shiny wood top, Mom's pride and joy. I sat.
"You have a really pretty smile," he said. I favored him with one in response.
His eyes dropped, staring at my non-tits. I was embarrassed.
"I have no tits," I explained unnecessarily.
"That doesn't matter," he said. "You're sexy anyway." He gently put his hand on my leg. The part that he touched was covered by my nightgown, but still, he touched it. My pussy gushed as if I were masturbating. I slid closer to him until my leg was touching his. He took that, quite rightly, as an invitation to proceed further. His hand slid down, under the hem of my nightgown, and then began to move upward on my bare leg.
My knees parted, to give him the opportunity to soon learn that I always slept naked under the gown. His hand touched the fuzzy growth of my pubic hair, and froze. He stopped breathing, as I already had done hours (moments actually) ago. Our eyes met. Mine were serene, offering him courage to continue. His were confused. He knew that he would soon accomplish something, but he wasn't sure just how far he would get.
He had to be wondering if he would get only a hand job, or at least a blow job. Or maybe with a lot of luck would he actually get laid? Had I ever sucked cock? Would my braces hurt his cock? Did I know what it meant to swallow? Was I a virgin? Where would we do whatever we were going to do? My bed, Mom's bed or in the kitchen? And then there were the more serious questions. When would Mom be back? What would happen if she caught us? How would he pee if she cut off his cock? Would I ever tell Mom what had happened? What were the chances of him going to prison? Would he be strong enough to fend off the rapists there?
The one thing that he was sure of was that if he didn't make some kind of move, the moment would be lost, perhaps forever. And it wasn't often that a fortyish man had a clean shot at a fourteen year old teen, even one with braces. Go for the gold, George, I messaged him silently.
He took my hand and began to walk me back toward Mom's room. I shook my hand free and used both of mine to pull my nightgown off over my head. It fell to the kitchen floor and I didn't bother to pick it up. George reflexively looked at the counter with the rack of Cutco knives. He knew how sharp they were, and I could see him imagining a quick but painful death – or worse if she chose to simply reduce his counting ability to twenty from twenty-one – in the event that she came home while that gown was still on the kitchen floor.
He slid his hand down to my naked ass as I walked into Mom's room. The bed was unmade, as per usual with her. There was a big wet spot in the middle of the sheet. I could only guess that it meant that Mom was a squirter, something one of the girls at school had mentioned. I knew from my own fingers that I was not.
It would have been easy for us to go back to my room but I chose not to bother. The only place for my ass was in the middle of that spot, and so be it. Actually, it felt very wicked for me to be spreading my legs in the very same area that my Mom had just done that very same thing, with the very same man, on the very same morning. Pardon that repetitive style. That's the second time I've used it in this story.
I think there's something in the Bible that forbids a man from fucking both a woman and her daughter, but I'm not very much into that book. It prohibits a lot of stuff that people, especially me, like to do.
As George dropped his slacks, his cock popped into view. I had never watched a porn film and didn't know what a penis was supposed to look like. My only frame of reference was my friend's dog's pecker, and George was a hell of a lot bigger than that. And a lot closer.
.... There is more of this story ...