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  Denise and I are relaxing on one of the couches, nibbling fruit, when Toussaint enters the brightly lit break room. Naked whores come wet from the waist-high showers, load plates at the buffet, and sit around us on other couches or in the makeup chairs. The wardrobe ladies freshen our outfits, stitching rips and wiping off stains.

  Amid all this undressed flesh it is the two of us, entirely bare except for our face paint, upon whom Toussaint’s gaze lingers.

  “Ladies,” he says to us, “nice, extremely nice. No one has scored more hits on the pay per view. You set a record.”

  Denise high-fives me. She’ll have all the cash she needs to stock next season’s apparel line at à la Seattle.

  “Staying for the second shift?” Toussaint asks Denise.

  She says, “Why not? We’ll do the same shit.”

  I ask Toussaint, “Who was our hotshot?”

  He says, “You know better than to ask.”

  I say, “He was here night before last.”

  He asks, “And why should this concern you, Raven?”

  I say, “A guy coming around too often can be a problem.”

  Toussaint says, “We’ll see you are not bothered. You do not need to know who he is.”

  But I do. I still feel sliced in half from the parting look he gave me. It’s the first time a guy has gotten in my head since Stephan dumped me.

  I say, “I look out for myself.”

  Toussaint says, “I hardly—”

  Denise says, “If you want us together for the second shift, answer the question.”

  He flashes his smile, showing us the gold and diamond decorations on his teeth. “For information,” he says, “I appreciate favors.”

  Denise pats the couch. Toussaint sits between us. One of his hands goes down the inside of her leg. The other goes down the inside of mine. I take his warm hand and settle it over my cunt, and I press his middle finger inside.

  This is the wildness of Seattle Young. I love it. The license to do anything with your body answers needs most people hide under the edges of their fantasies.

  Toussaint watches his second knuckle disappear. He says, “The gentleman is from Los Angeles. I believe I heard him tell one of the other clients he is the film business.”

  Denise says, “You know more.”

  He circles her labia with his fingernail and curls his finger in her. “He paid a great deal of money for the privilege of returning tonight.”

  Denise asks, “For a second crack at Raven?”

  Toussaint says nothing. Both his middle fingers are busy. He’s skilled. I’m using up juice I should be saving for the second shift.

  I look at Denise. The flutter off her eyelids tells me Toussaint’s digging has the same effect on her. She’s watching his hand, and doesn’t return my glance. Below her left eye, her skin is marred by a bruise.

  She didn’t have it yesterday when I met with her and Walter at à la Seattle. The face paint covers most of it, but the dressing room lights leave no room for mistake. Someone has hit her.

  Toussaint’s phone buzzes. He takes his finger out of me, reads the text, keys a number, and says, “Send three.”

  I can’t help watching the movements of his hand. I want his middle finger back.

  Denise says, “Calling girls up from the sports lounge? Business is good tonight.”

  Toussaint goes back to fingering me. He says, “Three lady clients entered the lounge. Fortunately this gives us time while the extra help is made ready.”

  The back door to the changing room opens. A hunky bartender ushers in the women who’ve been promoted to the glass rooms for this shift. They’re bare except for platform heels, short skimpy athletic shorts, and their face paint.

  They look around, too obviously trying not to seem awed to find themselves in the upscale side of the operation. Working a shift in the sports bar makes a whore thousands. A shift in the glass rooms makes tens or hundreds of thousands, depending on how well you perform.

  Wardrobe ladies fuss over them. Makeup artists add embellishments to their paint.

  I lift Toussaint’s hand off my cunt. “If you have no more to tell me?”

  He gives me another shot of his diamond teeth. He says, “Oh, I was just getting started, Raven. But I cannot share such secrets with both of you.”

  Denise lifts his hand from her crotch and stands. She says, “Raven, you ought to quit asking questions.”

  I straddle Toussaint’s lap. My back is to him. His hands bump my ass while he unzips. His cock slips in me. It feels better than his finger. I’d forgotten how long he is. He’s fucked me once before, on the day I auditioned for this job. His knob hits places inside me few hotshots ever reach.

  I say, “Talk.” For his pleasure, I make my voice sound strained.

  He tells me, “This man has a special connection with Madame Renee. What it may be, I do not know. He’s gotten favors from her before.”

  His hips rock me. His deep poking wakes strange sensations. The fuck I’m giving Toussaint means I’ll need to shower and douche again before the second shift. I’ll need to hurry. The extra girls are getting dressed, and everyone else is ready.

  I ask, “His name?”

  Toussaint says, “A mystery.” He kneads my breasts and works his cock in me.

  I say, “But you could find out if you wanted.”

  He says, “Possibly.” He lifts me off his cock. His knob presses the bud of my ass.

  I say, “Oh please, no.” I’m not entirely acting. Toussaint brings more cock than I’ve ever taken up the rear entrance.

  He says, “If you want me to find the name….”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You are sure?”

  I say, “Oh, please.”

  Chapter Seven Please, No.

  One of the late-arriving ladies wins the bid for Denise and me. She wears a long black blouse cut to expose her heavy cleavage and disguise the thickness of her lower body, over denims braided with rhinestones and glittery shoes. She carries a mammoth purse.

  Her sex thoughts shadow my mind like a black cloud. Oh-oh.

  In the better light of the glass rooms, I see she wears no makeup. Her hair is cut to mask its thinness and streaked with gray. She runs her hands under our dresses while we take off her clothes, not looking at our faces or the other rooms. Her bra is studded with silver spikes.

  Her eyes stay on our bodies. Her lips press as if she’s full of anger. We hug, kiss, and caress her while she tugs off our clothes. When we’re naked, she says, “On the bed.”

  She opens her big purse and takes out a relatively comfortable-looking dildo. We squirm, smile, and reach for her. She doesn’t smile.

  Each minute in her hour of owning us brings a harder challenge, with her producing one toy after another from her damned purse.

  We’re performing our ride-the-donkey trick for her. What she’s done to me has made my nipples, cunt, and ass sore. Her movements are jerky and hurried.

  Denise is on all fours. I’m astride her hips, giving my hotshot a face full of tit. She puts a clamp on one of my nipples and chews the other. She’s working Denise hard with a two-pointed dildo, one for each entrance. The screeches Denise buries in her pillow sound real.

  The tit clamp hurts, and the chewing doesn’t feel good either. The hotshot digs in her lethal purse and extracts yet another dildo. Others are scattered on the bed and the floor, each with its own species of cruelty. This one is a nasty, short, curved beast.

  Too much of my wetness went to Toussaint when I fucked him in the break room. The hard plastic hurts going in my under-lubricated cunt, and causes a serious ache when she works it in place and wriggles it around.

  I sail with the pain, back arched, tits high, hips rocking, legs spread, hands running through the hotshot’s stringy hair. In the mirrored ceiling my wide smile and narrowed eyes look frantic.

  Men in the other glass rooms watch our act while they do their own fucking. The whores watch us, too, with concern. This
is good. If I have the entire glass room crowd fixed on my performance, I’ll draw zillions of hits on the pay per view.

  The hour is winding down, and the hotshot is starting to look tired. A few more minutes, and Denise and I will be laughing while we stretch our legs in a hot whirlpool.

  The hotshot gives me a disappointed glance. I shouldn’t let my mind wander. I pucker and bend. Before I can slip my tongue between her lips, she pulls away and delves in her purse.

  Not another tit clamp. Worse. She hefts the biggest, knobbiest dildo I’ve ever seen. It’s a rubbery, flesh-colored monster the size of my forearm. The handle is long enough for two-handed operation. She pushes a button. The knob of the oversized rubber cock twirls. The shaft flexes up and down, back and forth.

  The rule of the glass rooms is the hotshot can use any toy they can carry in by themselves. We see some strange stuff. This is the most menacing sex device I’ve encountered. The fucking in the other glass rooms stops. Hotshots and whores pause their tangled entwining to stare at the dildo.

  The hotshot relieves me of the nasty little apparatus she put in my cunt, and withdraws the one she was using on Denise. I think she’s going to take off my tit clamp, but all she does is tweak it and watch it wobble.

  She says, “On your backs.”

  We scramble to obey. We’re side by side on the bed, with our legs spread. Denise, who’s been on her hands and knees, gets her first look at the twirling, writhing, horse-sized dildo. Her eyes widen.

  The hotshot fishes in her purse for three more tit clamps. They’re hard yellow plastic, with the clamp ends padded enough to not leave a mark. Damage is forbidden in the glass rooms. Pain is permitted.

  Denise winces as the clamps claim her nipples. I try to keep my smile when the last one bites me. The threatening dildo lords over us. My cunt, ass, and lips ache from the night’s paid work and the sex bribe I gave Toussaint. The dildo looks too big and alive for any part of me to handle.

  I can’t help squirming. The hotshot lays the dildo between my pinched tits. It curls and wriggles as if it wants to drag me to its lair and devour me. The creepy feeling makes me struggle to keep from rolling away. She sees my agony. Joy fills her eyes.

  The rubber skin is covered with stubby knobs and looks dry and grainy. I say, “Please, can I use lube?”

  The hotshot draws the twirling point of the dildo slowly down my belly. I can’t keep from shuddering. Her grin grows tighter and wider.

  I beg, “Please?”

  It’s what she wanted. I can tell by the glint in her eyes. She pauses. I wrap my legs around her ass and whisper, “Please, mistress?”

  She nods. I reach for the tube on the bedside table. My hands shake. I spread the gel on the cold, snaking rubber rod. It isn’t an act. I’m terrified of this monster. I gel my cunt. I’m starting to squeeze a second helping when the hotshot takes the tube from me and tosses it aside.

  She bends over me and presses a kiss in my mouth. My tongue answers. The dildo is next to my head, curling and spinning. I can hear the growl of the motor. This beast is going inside me? Maybe if I kiss long and well enough, the hour will end before…

  The hotshot draws away. She raises the dildo over her head with both her hands for all the glass room crowd to see. She lowers it between my thighs. I spread my legs wider. My arms move to protect my cunt. I force them up. My hands grab the straps fixed to the headboard of the bed.

  The penetration is repulsive. A monster slithers into me, going ever deeper. I’m not big enough to hold this. I can’t stretch any more. Still it probes. My eyes refuse to stay open. In the dark I see writhing red and green streaks.

  The snaking motion feels hideously alien. My insides are being hollowed into a nest for this invader. Despite my rising panic and the consuming pain, the twirling knob lights up my clit.

  I force my eyes to open. The hotshot isn’t looking at my face. When she watches the replay, she’ll go back to her favorite parts, slowing the motion, speeding it up, stopping a frame to savor a captured image of my agony.

  She’s concentrating on the dildo, using both hands to shove the last inches in me. My legs rise. My feet kick the air. My neck bends my head backward. My hands twist in the straps. My ears fill with my long, wet scream. The relentlessly twirling knob grinds through my terror and prods my assaulted cunt until I come like a tsunami.

  The hotshot draws the dildo out of me with excruciating slowness. It never tires. She sneers as the last heaving inches slide from my body. I try to give her a show of gratitude. My lips tremble. Tears streak my makeup.

  The hotshot moves between Denise’s legs. Denise is shaking all over. I’ve never seen her look afraid. The constant dare in her eyes is her most erotic aspect. Now those bright eyes freeze.

  She doesn’t try to escape. She’s holding the tube of lubricant, ready to grease the dildo. The hotshot takes the tube from her and drops it on the floor. The big, flexing tool isn’t entirely dry, but it’s not slick.

  Denise begs, “Please, no.”

  The hotshot’s eyebrows arch with delight. She says, “Did you tell me no?”

  Denise shakes her head. She’s crying. She says, “I didn’t. I didn’t mean to. Go…go ahead.”

  The hotshot lowers the dildo toward the target. Denise’s body loses its discipline. Her legs thrash and try to scoot her crotch away from the twirling knob. Her back slides up the wall.

  The dildo chases her. The hotshot grins like a crazy woman. At the last moment, Denise manages to surrender. Her knees tuck against her clamped breasts. Her arms spread her legs and hold them still. With her back hunched to the wall and her face contorted in paralyzed anticipation, she watches the slow approach of the tormenting machine.

  It breaches her labia. I see her fight to keep her lower body relaxed. The attack stiffens her shoulders and neck. She keeps her eyes on the penetration. Sweat breaks through the blue diamonds on her face.

  The dildo crawls deeper. I know how it feels, a giant coiling serpent in her gut. Her body overmasters her will and tries to retreat. The hotshot catches her hair and bends her neck backward.

  Denise’s legs drop to the bed and quiver helplessly. Her mouth hangs open. Her chest labors to breathe, the yellow clamps bobbing. Her hands grope down her belly.

  I take her wrists and lift her arms above her head.

  The hotshot tells me, “Kiss her.”

  I lower my lips onto Denise’s. It’s more like mouth to mouth resuscitation. The hotshot slaps my ass hard. I put my tongue down Denise’s throat. She presses her mouth to mine. The hotshot yanks her hair. The dildo wends through her.

  Through the unity in our mingling tongues, a new element comes into our friendship. Our bodies will never forget.

  The hotshot tells me, “Help push.”

  I kneel behind the hotshot and press my sore, clamp-bitten tits to her back. The woman spent the hour running her hands and tongue and mean devices over every inch of me.

  I make my body forget this and rub my skin on hers. I caress her saggy breasts, lick her wrinkled neck, and stick a finger in her cunt.

  She says, “I told you to help me push.”

  Since she’s still twisting Denise’s hair, she has one hand to control the dildo. She’s managed to work it three quarters of the way in. Denise’s hips jerk. Her legs twitch. The movements of the dildo cause her skin to roll and bulge. Her cunt can’t possibly stretch wider, yet the dildo thickens at the base.

  I force both my hands to cover the one the hotshot uses to hold the dildo. I press my hips against her ass. Together we drive the dildo the last inches.

  Denise howls, flops, and faints. The hotshot doesn’t stop twisting the dildo. I want to pull her away and shove the damned rubber horse cock down her throat. At last the lights flick. The hour is down to the final minutes.

  Around us a cheering rises. The men in the other glass rooms urge us on while they hunch atop splayed whores and thrust a last few strokes.

  The hotshot says, “Do what
I told you, or I’ll clamp your cunt.”

  I flattened my belly to her back, rub my hands over her fat, dangling tits, and nibble her shoulders. My rocking helps her give the dildo a last, terrible shove. Denise’s eyes flutter. Saliva dribbles from her mouth. She reaches down, puts her hands over ours, and helps us hold the dildo in place. Her back arches and her scream rises.

  No doubt she’s genuinely exploding in orgasm. She’s showing me who’s the real star of the glass rooms.

  Chapter Eight Champagne

  Denise and I recline up to our necks in swirling hot water. My insides are settling. My nipples begin to forget the bite of the clamps. And my cunt feels as if it might one day be ready to fuck again.

  Dickwad the hulking bartender sets a silver ice bucket with a bottle of the house’s best champagne on the ledge of the tub. He pops the bottle and fills two crystal flutes.

  One of the sports bar whores, naked except for platform heels and teeny, thin Seattle Mariners shorts, places a glass dish of caviar and two silver plates beside the champagne. Her hair is messy and her lipstick smudged from her night’s work. She smells of beer. Probably a hotshot poured a twenty dollar bottle on her tits and licked it off.

  I tell her, “Toussaint will tip you from my take.”

  Before she leaves she touches my shoulder. She says, “They played your highlights for us.”

  Dickwad is hanging around. I tell him, “Take your fucking eyes off us and scram.” He doesn’t argue.

  I fix a plate of caviar and hand it to Denise. Her eyes show she hasn’t dragged her mind free of the night’s performance. I say, “Drink up.” She sips from her flute, studies the plate she’s holding, and spreads some fish eggs on a cracker.

  The other glass room whores are coming naked from the shower, helping themselves to the buffet, and sitting still for the beauticians who wipe off their face paint. They give us space. The ones whose muscles are cramped or stretched enough to need a dip in whirlpool sit on the other side of the tub and murmur Way to go or I couldn’t have done it.

  Denise puts down her plate. Beneath the water, her hand finds mine and locks on. She drinks champagne. I refill our flutes. Her eyes relax.