Chapter 33: Watching From the Glass

The week passed in a haze of anticipation and stretching.

Wednesday night I managed three fingers in my ass. The stretch burned, my eyes watering as I pushed past the resistance, but I held them there, breathing through the pain until it softened into something else. By Thursday, the soreness from the previous Friday had faded completely, replaced by a hunger that gnawed at my insides.

Friday arrived.

Dinner was chicken. My mother chattered about her garden. My father nodded along, his hand resting on hers. At 8:15 he pushed back from the table, kissed her forehead, and said, “Ready?”

She smiled. “Ready.”

The front door clicked shut at 8:23.

I grabbed my keys.

The gas station lot was half-empty. My father’s sedan sat dark and still across the street. I crossed the road with my heart hammering, but the rhythm was different tonight, not the urgent pulse of someone about to be used, but the quiet thrum of someone about to watch.

The bell jingled.

Carl looked up from his magazine. That slow grin spread across his weathered face, but something flickered in his eyes when he saw I wasn’t heading straight for the beaded curtain.

“Megan.” My fake name rolled off his tongue. “You’re back.”

“I want to watch tonight.” The words came out steadier than I expected. “Not participate. I want to watch a show.”

His grin widened. “The observation room?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone specific?”

“Who’s working?”

Carl’s eyes glittered. “Juanita’s doing a ten-man session tonight. Starts in twenty minutes. Thirty bucks for the observation room.”

I pulled out my wallet.

The observation room was smaller than I expected.

Carl led me through the beaded curtain, past the gloryhole booths, to a door I’d never noticed before. It was painted black, unmarked, blending into the wall. He pushed it open and gestured inside.

“One-way mirror. They can’t see you. You can see everything.”

The room was dim, lit only by the glow from the other side of the glass. A single chair sat in the center, worn leather, facing the mirror. I stepped inside and heard the door click shut behind me.

The glass was dark from this side. But on the other side, the lights were bright.

The room was larger than I expected, maybe twenty feet across, with a queen-sized bed in the center. The sheets were white, rumpled, stained. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in harsh clarity. A small table near the bed held bottles of lube and a stack of towels.

She was already there.

She was beautiful. She was small, barely five feet four, with long black hair that cascaded down her back and curves that seemed impossible for her frame. 32G. Her breasts were huge, perfectly round, spilling out of a black lace bra that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her waist was tiny, her hips flaring into a shape that made my mouth dry.

She moved with the confidence of someone who knew she was being watched. She was barefoot on the stained carpet, wearing nothing but that bra and a matching thong, her long black hair swaying as she adjusted the pillows on the bed.

I sat in the leather chair and felt my pulse quicken.

The door on the other side opened.

The first man walked in. Middle-aged, balding, with a potbelly that strained his button-down shirt. He was already hard, his cock jutting out from his unzipped pants. He crossed to the bed and stood there, waiting.