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Geek's Revenge

By: Creamer



I was cruising the slums, looking for pussy-for-hire, when I had to slam on my brakes. I almost got rear-ended by a guy in a Suburban that was obviously looking for the same sort of thing I was. I waved him around, and he sped off with a mouthed insult about my driving.

I couldn't help it. I saw someone I knew. Carla Dawes. From high school. 

She had been a cheerleader, just seven years ago, a hot brunette with lovely tits and an ass that approached divine. She had always been on the arm of some jock, strutting around with her nose and perky tits in the air, not willing to give a geek like me the time of day. I would have begged her for a date, had she not been so clearly out of my league. Many a night her face and perfect body had figured prominently in my onanism. She had been a year ahead of me, a perfect princess, a prom queen runner-up, destined for glory.

She didn't look that glorious now. 

She was wearing a too-tight halter-top that displayed her primary assets admirably. She wore Daisy Duke cut-offs and high heels and carried a leopard skin handbag. Her once-gorgeous hair looked a little greasy and needed trimming. But it was her once-angelic face that drew my eye. It was worn and tired, carried too much makeup. I knew that look, the half-lidded eyes and the slack-jaw expression. I didn't need to see the marks in her arm to know that she was a drugged-out whore.

Carla Dawes. Crack whore. I almost laughed at the irony.

I couldn't help myself. I pulled up to the curb opposite the abandoned building she was working, and rolled down the window. She was at the window of the Jag before I came to a full and complete stop.

"Hey, gorgeous, wanna date?" she asked, a sly grin on her face. It was supposed to be sexy. It was a little pathetic.

"How much is a date going to cost me?"

"That depends on what you like, Sugar," she said, eyeing the car and figuring out how much she could soak me for. She still hadn't recognized me, which was golden.

"You ever take French in High School?"

"As a matter of fact, I was an A student! And I give lessons. Fifty bucks."

"Twenty."

"Now, Sugar, you know French is a hard language. My time is expensive."

"And you know that you aren't the only teacher in town. Twenty. Thirty if you're good."

"I don't have anything else going on, Sugar, so I guess I can give you a discount."

"Hop in," I said, unlocking the door. With a spring in her step that reminded me of her cheerleading career, she opened the door and slid into the passenger side. I didn't wait for her to buckle up. A wave of cheap knock-off perfume, the stuff they sell in the 'hood that is supposed to smell like expensive stuff, rolled over me and almost made me gag. "Where to?"

"Behind that old Food Lion," she said, pointing to an abandoned grocery store a block ahead. Then she sat back and drank in the leather-clad luxury of a $60,000.00 automobile. Probably remembering better days.

"What's your name?" I asked, nonchalantly. 

"You can call me Peaches," she said. I nodded. Peaches, it was. 

I pulled in behind the store and found a private place next to a dumpster. Putting the car into park, I locked the doors and slid back my seat. Carla gave me a thoroughly fake whore's smile and reached for my zipper. 

I'm not poorly endowed, but I'm not a giant. She made the standard noises of appreciation for my size, though, while she worked my dick with her hand. I was already erect, but I appreciated the stroking. I relaxed as she leaned forward into my lap, and in seconds I was fulfilling my High School fantasy. Carla Dawes was sucking my dick.

She was very good, even for a pro. No doubt her reputation for fellatio in High School had not been exaggerated. She used plenty of lips and tongue, and even made little appreciative moaning noises. She was jacking me a little hard, though, trying to get me off in a hurry. 

"No hands," I commanded. She grunted in agreement and began toying with my balls. For twenty glorious minutes her well-used lips caressed my cock, showing me all that I had missed in school. I guided her bobbing head occasionally, drawing out the experience as long as possible. 

But all great fantasies must come to an end, and this was no different. I felt my orgasm approach, and despite my valiant attempts at staving it off, I was all too soon shooting my spunk deep into her warm, wet mouth. 

I even said something corny, "Peaches, here's your cream!" as I came. She swallowed without a thought, making agreeable little noises as she did so. Carla even went so far as to lick and suck my dick clean before she zipped me up and resumed her upright position.

"How was that, Sugar?" she asked, wiping her lips.

"Carla, that was an outstanding blow job. Well worth thirty dollars. You're a credit to the Northern High School Cheer Squad." I dropped a brand new twenty and a wrinkled ten in her lap.

She was still fishing for them when the impact of my words hit her.

"You . . . you know who I am?"

"Carla Dawes, class of '94. 'Go Vikings!'" I added with a snort.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Brendan Fucking Cooper, you whore."

"Brendan Coop—You're Steve Cooper's little brother!"

Steve is my older brother, three years older, actually, and just the type of jock that Carla dated. They never did, to my knowledge, but they traveled in the same social circles way back when. 

"Yep, Steve Cooper's little brother. Who you just sucked off."

"Ohmygod! She said, hiding her mouth with her hand. "Ohmygod, I'm so embarrassed!"

"You shouldn't be. That was truly excellent work."

"Shit! Shit! I just sucked off Steve Cooper's little brother!"

"For money," I reminded her.

"Sonofabitch! Well, how are you doing?"

It seemed like such an inane question, under the circumstances. She was obviously embarrassed that her whore persona had been breached, and by someone who had known her in better days. But she lapsed into the polite social niceties that we all cling to in uncomfortable circumstances. 

"Oh, I'm doing well, Carla. I went to school, got a geeky degree in geeky Computer Science, got vested three years later, and last year I retired."

"Retired? You're fucking kidding me! You're just a kid!"

"A kid with seven million dollars in the bank."

"A millionaire? Ohmygod! What's Steve doing?"

"Construction, mostly. He hurt his back last year, though, and he's on disability. He married Bethany Davis, you know. They have two kids."

"Wow! Wow! What a fucking blast from the fucking past!"

"So, how have things been with you?" I asked conversationally.

"Oh, pretty good," she said automatically. She had forgotten for just a moment that she had been slurping my hog just five minutes before. "I mean," she said, stumbling when she realized how stupid that must sound. "I mean, well, I went to State out of High School, made their squad, you know. Then I got expelled for trying to sleep with one of my instructors. How was I to know he was gay? Anyway, I waitressed a little after that, and got a few modeling jobs. Then I, uh, got mixed up with a rough crowd. I started using a few years later. I'm doing this just until I can find a real job and get back on my feet."

Yeah, right. She was looking for a fix, was what she was looking for. Her lame lie hung between us, unacknowledged. I stared at her for a moment, letting it hang there until she was about to squirm in her seat.

"Well, I guess I had better get you back to work," I said, finally. "I'm headed up to DC for the weekend. Some kind of conference. I still do a little consulting on the side. But it was great seeing you again," I said, grinning. Great fucking her mouth, I meant. 

"Yeah," she said, humiliated, realizing just how easily I had dismissed her. But she was an enterprising whore. "Look, if you ever want, you know, a little company, I'm available most days. Here, here's my cell number. Just call. I'll meet you anywhere in the city. And I'm really, uh, well, anyway . . ." I let her pathetic sales pitch taper off while I slammed the car into reverse and drove her back to her corner. 

"It really was great seeing you, Brenan," she said. She may have even meant it. Of course, she got my name wrong.

"Yeah, well, maybe we can do lunch or something sometime . . ." I let it hang there dismissively, clearly letting her know I was done with her. She said, "Yeah, just call," with a bit of desperate emphasis, and she got out of the car. She even waved when I drove off. I didn't wave back. 

But I wasn't done with miss Carla Cuntmouth Dawes. Not by a long shot.

Geek's Revenge Ch. 02



Carla Anne Dawes.

Her pretty, teenaged face stared up at me, the black-and-white photo in her yearbook showing eyes filled with promise and flirtation, the black cashmere sweater she wore filled with hope – the hope of every male junior in high school to bury his face there someday. It was the picture of someone who had the world – especially the masculine portion of it – by the balls. Carla Dawes was a teenaged vixen, a cheerleader whose ability to shake her ass and wave her tits at anything with a penis and make things happen had inspired lust and jealousy for three golden years. 

Seven years later she was a drugged out whore. So much for the promises of youth.

She had been a real cunt in school, the epitome of the stuck-up socialite in the Byzantine politics of High School. She had used and discarded everyone in her path, for gain, for advantage, for amusement. She had been particularly cruel, I remembered, to a small group of “plain Janes”, female science geeks and drama nerds, that had staked a claim to the largest table in the school Library. Using her popularity as a weapon she had picked on them unmercifully her entire scholastic career. Rumor, insult, innuendo, all were weapons in her arsenal. On more than one occasion I recall her reducing some of the geek squad to tears. 

I had felt compelled to renew my high school acquaintance with her after encountering her on one of the city’s less-than-wholesome streetcorners. A quick fee negotiation later she had sucked me off behind an abandoned grocery store. She only charged me $20, but I tipped her $10 – we had gone to school together, after all. For $30 I got a blowjob from a cheerleader, only a few years past her prime.

But whatever nostalgic thought had driven me to open the yearbook hadn’t prepared me for the flood of memory that came with it. High school was three long years of struggling sexuality, testosterone poisoning and desperation. Most of it vanished in college, where my geekiness was an asset – even cool, at times. Most of it. But there was a residual stain of anger and resentment that lingered. The feeling of power and fulfillment that I had gotten from getting sucked by a cheerleader-cum-junkie was potent. It was revenge, pure and simple. 

But it wasn’t quite enough.

Carla, or “Peaches”, her street name, had pressed her number into my hand before I returned her to her street corner. Apparently my ostentatious display of wealth had been as much of a draw for her as her tits had been for me in High School. I can’t help being wealthy – I was just lucky enough and smart enough to major in the right subjects at the dawn of the Internet Age, and wise enough when to know when to cash in my vestments. I was Twenty Five years old and had seven million dollars in the bank. I was still a geek, of course, but no where near the geek I was in High School. Or was I? 

Here I was with an opportunity for vindictiveness like I had dreamed about for years. My adult conscience told me how petty it was to harbor such grudges – that was ages ago, after all. Carla deserved my pity, not my revenge. The adult thing to do would be to walk away, or, if I was feeling particularly altruistic, try to get her some help.

The mean-spirited, adolescent thing to do would be to take advantage of the situation, to vent my spleen and get my revenge on a selfish, self-important cunt like Carla. 

Hmmmm. Decisions, decisions.

I considered dialing her number, then decided against it. I would return to the scene of the crime instead, getting her in her natural urban environment. I took the Mercedes this time, just to show here exactly how fucking wealthy I was. That was the hook for her, of course. The money.

I found her not far from our encounter the other day. She had apparently just gotten her fix for the day, her eyes half-lidded and dopey making me think of heroin more than cocaine. She stumbled along the street in faded bell-bottoms and a deep green T-shirt, the same tired leopard skin bag on her shoulder. She wore a leather cowboy hat and clogs. Much more of a hippy chick than cheerleader. I pulled up behind her and honked, causing her to look up suddenly and trip over an imaginary crack in the sidewalk.

It took her a few moments to recognize me in her state. When she did, she smiled.

“Hey, it’s the kid from the other day, David’s little brother. Howya doin’, man?”

I was a little disgusted that she didn’t remember my name. I ignored it. 

“I’m horny as shit. Wanna suck some dick for cash?”

“I got a few minutes before my next appointment. You wanna go the same place?”

“Sure. Get in.”

She got in, and I almost regretted it. Carla Cuntmouth had apparently had a busy night, and one without sufficient bathing facilities. Still, the cheap perfume soon numbed my nostrils to the point where I didn’t care.

“Wow, did you get a new car?”

“Nah, just felt like driving the Caddy, today.”

“You have a Jag and a Caddy?”

“And a Lexus, but I’m thinking about selling it. I feel like I’m driving my grandmother’s car when I drive it.”

“Well this one is sexy as hell, Stud.” From Sugar to Stud. She was starting to get bold.

“Glad you like it, Carla.”

“Hey, where are we going?”

“The whole ‘behind the supermarket’ thing makes me nervous. I know a place.” She looked skeptical, but I think the prospect of riding in the Caddy was enough to keep her quiet. 

“You know best,” she said with a sloppy grin. I smiled back and nodded.

“So, you keep up with Beth Anderson, or Kelly, or any of the other girls on the squad?”

She swallowed and answered slowly. “I did for a couple of years, and then we kind of drifted apart. You know how it is.” Meaning that ‘whore’ hadn’t been an acceptable social profession among her old crew. 

“Yeah, I lost touch with a lot of people, too.”

“So what do you do now?” she asked, trying to turn the conversation away from her social plummet.

“Oh, mostly I sit around and watch my investments. I took a bit of a hit in the crash, but not too bad. I had a pretty well stacked hedge fund, and put plenty in munies, so I think I only lost about a quarter mil or so. Still, if you don’t watch it, things can sneak up on you.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, not understanding a thing I said. “Where do you live?”

“I’ve got an apartment downtown. Not the best neighborhood, but it’s coming back.”

“Still, rent must be expensive,” she probed.

“Rent?” I snorted. “People pay me rent. I own the damn thing.”

“You own a building?”

“A few.”

That startled her into silence, which she maintained until I pulled into the parking deck of an office building I used to work at. On Saturdays it was pretty deserted, and the top floor was entirely empty. I parked near the edge and got out. While she was reluctant to leave the fine Corinthian leather seats, she followed. I stood at the rail and looked out over the city. She did too, but not too close to the edge, I noticed.

“I love this spot. You can see forever up here.”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” she commented. 

“How about you take your shirt off?”

“What? Outside?”

“Yeah, do it. No one can see us. This place is deserted, and we’d hear a car long before it got up here. Go ahead, I want to see those fabulous jugs I used to jerk off to so often.”

She obediently started to slide her T-shirt off, revealing a nice Victoria’s Secret bra in black that had seen better days. “You used to whack off and think about me?”

“All the time,” I agreed. “I had a huge crush on you. I wanted to fuck you in the worst way. All of us geeks did.”

“Huh,” she grunted, slipping her bra over her shoulders. “Do they live up to your expectations?”

I considered. They were pretty nice, and I told her so. But they had seen better days, too. They were more pendulous than perky these days, but still very well formed. I didn’t mention the faint bite mark on the left one – that would have been tacky. Without asking her permission I reached out and felt the titties of my dreams. Her nipples hardened and she hummed in tactile pleasure as I hefted one, then the other, in my quivering palm.

Finally I decided I had to get down to business. “Well, let’s do this,” I said, unzipping my fly. She nodded and took off her cowboy hat, then knelt on the curb in front of me. In moments my steel-hard dick was out and in her hand. She stroked it absently, then shakily leaned forward and engulfed me.

While I appreciate a good, firm, active blowjob, I also was digging what Carla was doing now. I’m sure her drugged up state had something to do with it. Her motions were slow, wet, and sloppy, but still practiced. She wasn’t focused. She was barely conscious. But she methodically and slowly took me into her throat, and her lips and tongue provided enough native pressure to make the trip worthwhile. As the wind whipped her long dark brown hair across her face, her bare chest, and my bare thighs I luxuriated in the feeling of a warm wet hummer.

As we progressed, Carla began relying more and more on me for direction and guidance. She was content to be a passive receptacle for my pleasure, and I was more than happy to lead. After five minutes or so of this constant suction I finally took her by the back of her head and encouraged her to take me deeper. She endured this without protest, making a professional effort to deep throat me to my satisfaction. While I went deep, I kept things slow, making the most of my rental. I doubt she noticed – I think her concept of space and time was slightly off kilter. 

As saliva poured down her face I pulled her head further and further along my prick. I couldn’t resist reaching down and pawing her boobs while she blew me. She moaned a few times, which added greatly to the experience and make me stroke into her welcoming mouth a little more intensely. 

Suddenly I was back in high school, in the school cafeteria, and Carla was transformed into the vixen I remembered. When I closed my eyes she was wearing her maroon and gold cheerleading skirt, and her polyester vest with our school letters was cast aside on an abandoned lunch table. I was once again the geek of yore, and I was getting my rocks off in the mouth of one of the most beautiful girls in the school. 

My actions became more violent, as I pulled her head into my groin faster and faster. I’d like to say that Carla choked on my massive penis, but the truth is she took it like a trooper, letting her neck and shoulders relax. I fucked her face thoroughly, feeling my aggression arise. I remembered all the times she had cunted out on my friends, on my fellow geeks. I remembered how she tortured the girls and manipulated the boys. And I remembered how she used to tease Mr. Farland, our homeroom teacher, to distraction during lectures by wearing micro skirts and magnificent sweaters.

As I drifted in my reverie I became aware of the sound of her lips on my dick a kind of rhythmic “glug, glug, glug”. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Bitch or not, this cheerleading whore had the mouth of a goddess. I erupted unexpectedly, and she swallowed it down without complaint. I think I surprised her that I was done, but she didn’t seem to mind. She wiped her mouth while she rubbed my dick, then sealed it away again behind my fly. 

“Damn,” I breathed. “That was pretty fuckin’ good.”

“Glad you liked it,” she said dreamily.

“Worth every penny,” I said, taking a huge bankroll out of my pocket and peeling off two twenties. “The extra twenty is for the boobs. I told you, I always liked them.”

“Cool. Mind if I put my shirt back on?”

“Be my guest.” She slipped both bra and shirt on in moments, then took a cigarette out of her bag and lit up. Leaning against the rail of the parking deck she stared out at the city in a daze. “So, Carla, how did you end up doing this?”

“Stupid boyfriend in college,” she said, sighing. “Guy named Rick. Jock, of course. Never had any luck with jocks. Wrestling team. As soon as the season ended, he started doing coke. He shared with me, of course. But he started doing it every night for a while, and he ended up owing some people some money. They came to our apartment one night and beat the shit out of them. Then they got a piece of ass off of me to pay for the interest.”

I swallowed as I listened to her dispassionately recount her transformation from slut to whore. I couldn’t help getting another boner.

“The next day I was pissed, but Rick blew it off. He got me drunk that night, and after he fucked me he invited the dealer and his boys back in to take care of the principal. Things kinda went down hill after that.”

“Damn,” I repeated. “What was your major?”

She laughed, heavily flavored with irony. “Human sexuality.”

I laughed too. I couldn’t help it. 

“For another sixty, you can fuck me,” she said, finally, catching my eye for the first time. 

“I have a rule about fucking,” I said, slowly. “I need to see proof of a recent AIDS test or proof that you’re a virgin.”

“Well, I ain’t no virgin. I’ll get one, though. I’m about due. My . . . boyfriend has me get one every three months.”

She meant pimp. “You use rubbers, don’t you?”

“Yeah, with most of the scumbags I fuck. I’ve got a few clients that I don’t bother with. Pathetic nerds who still live with their mamas, family men, that sort of thing. If I think they’re clean, and they don’t mind paying extra, I’ll ride bareback.”

“Wow. Tell you what. I’ve got no plans for this Tuesday night. Bring me a fresh AIDS test and get cleaned up a little and we’ll have some real fun.”

“Whatever you say, stud.”

“Great. I—” I was interrupted by her cell phone, one of the brand new ones that plays four part harmony when it rings. Hers played “Lola” by the Kinks. Figures. She dug it out of her bag and barked into it: 

“Yeah? What the fuck? . . . I’m with a client, you asshole. No, I didn’t get lost. Yes, I’ve got it. Will you chill the fuck out, please? Yes, I remember, nine o’clock. I’ll fucking be there, so get off of my fucking back! Asshole,” she finished, snapping the phone shut. “My . . . boyfriend, Bill. He wants me back home. Can you give me a ride back?”

“Sure,” I said, then waited for her to stub out her cigarette. She poured herself back into the car and we drove back to her corner in silence.

“It was nice, Carla,” I said with as much sincerity in my voice as I could muster. “Remember, Tuesday. I’ll call you that afternoon to make sure we’re still on. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

“Deal,” she said simply as she got out. She didn’t even smile at me as I drove away.

Has simply everyone in America lost the customer service ethic? I thought as I drove back to my apartment. Tuesday. Assuming the cunt wasn’t rabid, I could enjoy her the way I wanted to, the way I dreamt of since I started noticing tits more than Star Trek. I was going to indulge myself, treat myself to some fantasy fulfillment the likes of which few geeks have known. 

I had plans for Carla, plans that would make today’s face-fuck look like a friendly handshake. I was going to strike a blow for every geek who had ever gotten turned down by pussies such as her. I smiled, and started whistling the overture to “Battlestar Galactica” while I plotted.

This was going to be good.



Geek's Revenge Ch. 03



The first time I ever utilized the services of a prostitute I was in Amsterdam for a UNIX conference, back in the mid 90s. The megacorp I was contracted with had budget dollars to burn, and I couldn't resist the lure of legal weed and really good beer. I'd started smoking a little in college and was briefly a fan, but gave it up periodically when I changed firms. I eagerly anticipated the legendary "coffeeshops" in Amsterdam – not really realizing that prostitution was legal there.

After skipping the first afternoon and smoking way too much hash with a Brit named Rob, he grabbed my shoulder and steered me over to the Red Light district. While he was three years younger than me, and kind of annoying, he was an old hand at this. We stumbled along until I realized that we were walking past large open windows filled with beautiful young women.

"Are they underwear models?" I asked stupidly. I was really high.

"No, you stupid Yank, they're whores."

"They can't be!" I said, scandalized. I'd seen a prostitute getting busted once during my senior class trip to New York City. Before that I thought they were mythical. "They're, they're . . . young!"

"If you want to bag an old hag, that's two streets over," Rob said knowledgably. "Me, I like them young. And blonde," he added as we passed a golden-haired goddess that was preening in her window, looking more bored than alluring. 

"So, let me get this straight," I said, looking around to see if anyone could overhear. "I can have sex with, say, that Valkyrie over there. And she will, no questions asked."

"If you have the brass," he said, nodding. I assumed he meant money.

"And she won't call the police?"

"No bloody way!"

I was speechless.

I had had six relationships of a sexual nature during my college year – four one-night stands and two reasonably long relationships. Being a geek wasn't the handicap it had been in high school. But I was still shy, unskilled, and no doubt a pretty lousy lay. I looked at that blonde girl in the window, noticed her name was Helga (She sure as hell didn't look like a Helga!) and that her price was . . . well, not as much as I'd just dropped on a ball of hash in a coffeehouse. I could fuck this super-model quality woman without cheesy lines, without getting her drunk, without worrying about what she might say in the morning, just a simple business transaction and back to the hotel . . . 

It was like I was six years old and had awakened in Disneyland.

My recent trysts with Carla "Cuntmouth" Dawes, former high-school cheerleader and present junkie whore, had not only fired up my erotic imagination, but they had taken enough of the edge off of my personal id that I felt more relaxed and confident in other realms. Specifically, my social life improved a bit. The same evening Carla gave her rooftop performance I went to a rarity, these days: a website launch party.

Back in the 90s there was one of these every few days, caviar and champagne affairs that were designed to show off How Big We Are Going To Get to the press, the industry, and, most importantly, to potential investors. It was a glamorous, extravagant waste of venture capital, but you'd be shocked how often it paid off come IPO time. That was then.

Now these things are done with far less money, but with a bit more style. This one was in a rented hotel suite in the Downtown area, and while there was, technically, champagne, it was cheap and used mostly for Mimosas. I'd been invited not only because I still had money I might want to invest, but because several of the team members were fellow geeks I'd met on previous jobs. My presence lent a bit of gravitas, I knew, as I still enjoyed a very minor rep in the industry-watchers' circles for being one of the smart ones who got out of the bubble before it burst. I had also worked on the West Coast, Back In The Day, for some legendary firms, and that made me a minor celebrity among the hometown's homegrown techies. 

I sipped my drink and mingled, looking at displays and charts with an absent eye while I scoped the crowd. The usual suspects – only a little older, a little pudgier, and a lot poorer than a few years ago. But not unhopeful. These were smart people, most of them, and while delivering pizzas at night while you hack code for free in hopes a real job someday seems a little desperate to an outsider, these guys were smart enough to know that the tech sector is continuously evolving, and the next boom would happen . . . eventually. 

My eye lit upon one figure almost immediately, and I began to work my way through the crowd towards her. The coincidence, the irony, was just too great to pass up. Beverly Li was a youngish looking Asian woman who had started her professional life hacking Unix code, and was smart enough to know that while tech was hot, the real money makers were the suits, not the programmers. She worked the educational fund angle, taking free classes from whatever corporation she was working for at the time. She ended up with a degree in business, and would have been fabulously wealthy had she not gotten involved in some tricky litigation with several of her partners and a large multinational firm. 

Bev always landed on top, though. I think it was from sheer force of will. Asian women are stereotypically demure and submissive, but apparently Bev never read the manual. She was an imposing woman, one of those who get called "bitch" behind her back at every job she'd ever been at. She worked out hard, turning her once-chubby body into a block of concrete. She was almost completely tactless in social situations, due, she claimed, to coming from a mixed Korean/Taiwanese background, which, she insisted, made her a natural social pariah in Asian society, so why the fuck bother with tact with stupid white people? At 25 she had already been married and divorced twice, and been in at least three lesbian relationships that I was aware of. While her manner kind of scared me she was really funny in a biting, acidic sort of way, and she seemed to like me. 

She also had gone to my High School. We didn't get to be friends until years after, but she was one of the flat-chested little nerd girls who hung out in the library and got harassed by the Bitch Squad, as Carla's group had been unaffectionately known. If there was one woman on Earth who would appreciate hearing about Carla the Crack Whore, it was Bev.

I hadn't seen her in almost a year, and after the requisite drunken hug and slobbery cheek-kiss, we grabbed a couch and caught up on old times. 

"Cooper! Coop! God, it's been ages! You still retired?"

"Yep. What are you doing these days?"

"I'm a consultant," she said with a wry grin. That usually means your unemployment has run out. 

"What kind of consultant?" 

"What kind do you need?"

We laughed harder than we should have. "Actually, I'm doing pretty decent right now – two new clients this week. Including these guys. So I might just get paid someday." She filled me in on her legal and sexual escapades, both of which were entertaining. I, in turn, talked about my real estate purchases and passed along a stock tip I was putting a little something on myself. Then I casually steered the conversation back to High School, setting up before dropping the bomb.

"Oh," I started casually, "I ran into someone from the Good Ole Days a few weeks ago. Perhaps you remember her: Carla Dawes?"

The shift in Bev's face was subtle, but delicious. The amount of built up anger, pain and resentment in her eyes told me that she still held feelings for Carla – none of them good. 

"Oh, really?" she said, equally as casual. She sipped her drink for a moment and I swear I could hear her brain burning with resentment. "What is she up to these days? Wifey-mommy, real-estate bimbo or bridal boutique owner?"

"Crack whore, actually," I said, sipping my own drink.

"Guffaw. No, really, what's the bitch up to?"

"I'm serious, she's a crack whore. I saw here in the ghetto a few weeks back."

"Please God tell me you are serious."

"I'm serious. Bitch is a drugged out cocksucker-for-hire. Streetwalker. Ho. Fallen Woman. Prosititute. Professional Temporary Girlfriend. Lady of the--"

"Yeah, I'm impressed with your vocabulary. Damn! For real? Wow, that's . . . I'm stunned."

"I thought you'd be interested."

"A fo' real, doh, ho? Out-fucking-standing. That's delicious irony with a side of ranch, now, isn't it? I thought the bitch would be married with brats by now, working on her second husband. Did you talk to her?"

"I paid her to suck my dick."

Bev's mouth was on the floor, the most reactive I'd ever seen her. "You are shitting me."

"Nope. Twenty bucks, in the front of my car, and she swallowed."

"Damn, Coop, didn't think you had it in you."

"How could I pass up an opportunity like that, I ask you? Former cheerleader princess, sucking my dick for rock in my $85,000.00 car? That's got to be one of my all-time life experiences."

"I hear you. Damn, I wish I could see that. I may have to cruise over there some time, see if she likes tacos. What I wouldn't give to have that bitch's foul tongue on my clit."

"Well, let's begin negotiations."

"What do you—oh, damn, you're serious? You can make it happen?"

"If the price is right."

"Coop, you intrigue me. Ok, it can't be money that you want, so what? My ass?"

"That would do for a start. I think I'd want a blow-job, too."

"You have got to be kidding." She was speaking from that place of insecurity that every American woman has, the idea that a man could not find them attractive if they didn't look like a supermodel. "Coop, I hate to say it, but you could write your own ticket in this room. Just because of who you are. If nerd babes or bimbos are what get you going, I know of five here right now that would suck you off in the lobby restroom within the hour."

"Random pussy I can find on my own, thank you – although I admit I'm intrigued. But, no, I want a piece of Asian ass and a little head, too. Yours, specifically. Just between friends, a little casual business sex, no baggage."

"Shit, why me? I'm such a bitch. You're always so nice to everyone."

"Let's just say I'll be fulfilling one of my fantasies while helping you with one of yours. I've always had a thing for nerdy girls, and Asian girls, and I've always wanted to dominate a complete bitch. With you, I get all three at once. But this deal ends soon. So what do you say?"

"Make it happen. I'll give you four hours to do with me what you will, no holds barred. Sound fair?"

"One condition: I get to watch."

"I'd never guess you were this kinky in a billion years. Done. When can you give up the body?"

"Probably within the hour. Let me call her cell. You make your apologies to our hosts, and we'll get a hotel room."

"No problem. And they are my clients, not my host. How much can I say you are interested in investing?"

"Tell 'em I could go as high as fifty grand, with some encouragement. And give them plenty of ideas about how you plan on encouraging me. In fact, I'll do seventy five, but it's always good to appear to exceed expectations when you are a consultant."

"I love you and want to bear your children. The target on this round is a quarter mill, so this would be big for me. I hope so, anyway – I've given up my commission in return for stock options and maybe a job." 

"Good call. 'Cause I think I know a company that will be happy to acquire this technology in about nine months, and will pay well for it. Get all the stock you can."

"Let me get my purse."

***

Carla answered her phone on the third ring, and was very pleased to hear from me so soon. I was becoming a regular, something every whore wants in her life. I asked her to meet me at a mid-range hotel Downtown in an hour, said I had a friend who wanted in, too. She gave me a quote of $150.00 for an hour with the two of us, or $500.00 for a whole night, and we pay for the room. I advised her that my friend was a little kinky, and she didn't hesitate – she just upped the price two hundred dollars and advised me that her pimp would come after us if she was damaged. I told her I understood, and we were off.

Bev was nervous as hell, and she insisted on stopping at the lobby bar and getting two double shots of bourbon before we checked in (as husband and wife – I got a kick out of that and even called her "dear" at the desk). By the time we were in the room she had chilled a bit, but she was still anxiously anticipating Carla's arrival. I used the time to probe her a little about her past. I found out that she had become sexually active in High School, the usual teen-aged fumbling, but with boys and girls. She had never really made up her mind, though, and continued her bi-sexuality in college, through two marriages, and well into her work life. She casually admitted to sleeping with clients to seal a deal, taking pride in her business acumen. She was a callous bitch, I'll give her that.

We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and as we arranged Bev went into the bathroom to "prepare". I welcomed Carla at the door, and noted that she was freshly showered (her hair was still wet) and recently cranked up. Her eyes had that cocaine-sodden "anything goes" look to them, and it was clear she was ready to make some money. She was dressed in slightly clubby casual clothes, not whorish in the traditional sense but with the knowledge of what she did for a living it made her look in my mind like a complete slut.

"Where is he?" she asked after she accepted a drink from the honor bar and saw the cash on the table. "And just how long will you be needing me?"

"Tell your pimp all night. $700.00, plus tip, if it's worthy."

"Fine, let me call him. You can get undressed, if you want."

"I'll just watch for a while."

Bev came out just as she snapped her phone shut. Carla did a double-take. "A chick? You didn't tell—hey, no problem. I'm full service. And she's very cute. Your girlfriend?"

"Someone from work. She'll be directing tonight's festivities. Go ahead, Bev."

"Great, great, glad to be here. What's your name?"

"Uh, Cooper knows me as Carla. But I can be whoever you want me to be." She licked her lips and leaned forward, shaking her tits a little. 

"Fine, then, Darla. Let's begin. Why don't you do a nice slow strip tease? I'm sure I can find some appropriate music."

She did, too. She pulled out her Palm, plugged in an attachment from her oversized purse, and tuned it in on the room's stereo. It was a song from my junior year in high school, very raunchy, with a mean power cords and swinging falsetto voices. Carla seemed to get into it, and before long she was doing a seductive, if a little unsteady, strip next to the bed. Bev looked on with unabashed hunger, a gleam in her eye that made me almost pity Carla. She sat there with her drink in the uncomfortable hotel chair and leered evilly as Carla's clothes were seductively removed. She was wearing a daring red bra-and-panties set—thong, of course – and I have to admit, she knew how to move like a stripper. 

But watching Bev was almost as much fun as watching Carla. Bev's knees hung wider and wider apart as Carla exposed more flesh, and her eyes got a dreamy look. At various points she would stop the whore and direct her a little. Her knee would vibrate up and down like a dog humping empty air. This girl was primed. 

When Carla's panties hit the floor, Bev nearly leapt on the woman, pushing her back on the bed and straddling her head with her thighs, lifting herlittle black leather miniskirt only slightly to clear her forehead. She shifted her ass a little as she settled her pussy over Carla's mouth, and sighed electrically.

I enjoyed watching the queening of the whore by the bitch. For nearly forty-five minutes we didn't do anything but that – Carla licked, Bev came, and I watched. At one point, between orgasms, Bev asked me to light her a cigarette. She didn't stop Carla, just wanted a smoke. We even talked a little business while she was coming her brains out. Carla may not have been a lesbian, but it was obvious that her tongue was no stranger to cunt. Bev must have came twenty times.

Finally, she decided on a break and reluctantly dismounted Carla's face. Carla had a kind of dazed look in her eyes, and her face was soaked with Bev's secretions. I know a photo-op when I see one, so I snatched up Bev's PDA (A really sharp Zire 72) and took a photo of the whore with her face and makeup smeared.

"That," Bev said, trying to catch her breath, "was for my Freshman year."

"What?" Carla asked, confused. 

"Nothing, honey. Look, I've got raging wood here. Be a pet and suck me off while Bev recovers." Shrugging, Carla crawled seductively (if a bit shakily) over to my chair and released my dick. In moments it was in her mouth – which was different from the last two times. I guess munching muff for nearly an hour will cause some swelling. It was soft, and her lips were already tired, but Carla was a pro, and in moments her nose was pressed against my pubes. I could smell Bev's juice on her face, and I thought briefly about my deal with the Asian bitch. I couldn't wait to sample her myself.

I let Carla blow me for about twenty minutes before I finally came in her mouth. Bev took a couple of snaps with her Zire while she did it, specializing in close ups. It was very pleasant.

"Now, I'm gonna make the bitch cum," she said after finishing her drink.

"How do you want me?" Cara asked, clueless.

"Doggie style, facing the window. Ass in the air. Move!" Bev barked.

Carla complied, and in moments Bev had pulled an eight inch vibrator out of her handbag. I raised my eyebrow at her, and she caught my eye.

"It comes in handy," she explained. "You'd be surprised. Try living my life for a week, and you wouldn't leave your doorstep without one."

It was my turn to shrug.

Bev spent the next half hour using the toy with a master conductor's skill with a baton. Carla was a whore, and no doubt could fake an orgasm better than she could read a map, but Bev was not going to let her fake it. She made her cum, and cum, and cum, to the point where she was shaking. Her clit had taken a beating, and she was getting friction burns on her nipples from writhing on the bedspread. Bev was in heaven, using her former tormentor's pussy like a company rental car. I snapped a few more photos for posterity. 

Finally, Cuntmouth Carla could take no more, and asked for quarter. "Stop, please, it's going to fall off!"

"Hardly. That was nothing compared to the after party at your senior prom." Bev flipped her over on her back and re-mounted the throne. There was a tone in her voice that spoke of madness, and Carla didn't argue – she just started licking. "That was my Sophomore year," she confided in me.

I took over the toy at that point, and spent some leisure time working over Carla's cunt and biting her nipples – hard. That made her thrash, which Bev appreciated. She liked it so much, it seems, that she altered her angle slightly and presented her pink Asian asshole to her whore for worship. She also turned around so that she could watch me work.

While I was already sporting another erection – who wouldn't, with that going on? – I didn't want to run and gun just now. Instead, while I was tormenting Carla's engorged clit, I started looking for stray hairs, and ruthlessly plucking them. It made her jump, which made Bev gasp. I didn't stop when I got to her sensitive bikini area – if anything, I was more diligent. 

Finally, Carla forced Bev off of her face. "That's it! No more, look. I need a break. Just a minute or two, but I need a drink and I need to pee. So unless you are into that . . ."

"Go pee," I ordered. "You have five minutes."

"Thanks," she said, sullenly, and left.

While she was in the bathroom, Bev poured yet another drink and smiled broadly. "I've come more tonight than in the last year. Thanks."




Geek's Revenge Ch. 03



"Oh, you will earn it, I promise. But I'm enjoying it too. What's next on the agenda?"

"Humiliations, galore!"

"Oh, good, the hardcore lesbian sex was starting to get boring. Mind if I get her to suck me off again?"

"I'm counting on it. Let's see how she if she works well in a group."

When Carla came out it was clear she had freshened up her buzz and splashed water on her face. She held up her purse – "two minutes for a smoke?"

"Take four," Bev said. "I'm feeling generous."

"Great, thanks." While she dug them out of her pack, I decided to stoke the fire in Bev's eyes a little.

"So, Carla, I was telling Bev here about how we went to the same school and all. Weird, huh?"

"Yeah, a little. I never expected to see you all rich and shit. You were always just whazhisname's Cooper's little brother. A little nerd boy. Hah! Go figure you had a computer for a brain. Dotcoms and stuff, you said? A million dollars? And a decent sized dick. Wow. Blows my mind."

"Yeah, actually, more than a million. But that's beside the point. I was curious, you were a bit of a bitch back in high school. Were you as evil to the girls as to the boys?"

"Oh, you guys just got rejected. We went after the girls, kept them in line. Bunch of whiney little bitches, always trying to be like us, dress like us and be our friends. What a bunch of whining cunts! 'Carla, be my friend,' 'Carla, will you come to my party?' God, you thought that just because I borrowed a tampon from some of them that I should name my first child after them or something. They were good for homework, though. I used to get that little blonde cunt, Leslie, you remember? The chick with the really fat thighs and the flannel fetish? Yeah, I used to copy off of her papers in Spanish. She didn't really want me to, but I sat with her at lunch one day and she wanted to be my best friend after that." With that she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. "Okay, what do you want to do next?"

"More suckage, I think, while Bev here plays with you again." Carla groaned. But she dropped to her knees like a good whore and opened her lips, which were now swollen to the point of being distended.

So I relaxed into another languid blowjob, while Bev brought out her vibe again and went to work on Carla. She jumped at first contact – her vagina was probably more sensitive than her swollen lips – but it felt good on my dick when she jumped.

Bev and I had an intense but silent moment over Carla's back, a moment when we locked eyes and grinned at each other. Then she started to work her little hand into Carla's twat, which caused her to groan pleasantly around my cock. Once Bev was fisting her in a nice rhythm, she whispered to me, "hold her head!"

I nodded and started stroking Carla's hair, encouraging her to move with my hand. Nothing forceful, just gentle guidance . . . 

. . . until Bev suddenly shoved her entire eight inch toy up Carla's asshole in one smooth motion. Carla screamed around my dick as she was sodomized. She tried to jerk back, but my gentle grip was now iron hard, holding her where she was. 

It's interesting having someone scream while you are balls-deep in her mouth. The sensation was pleasant, right up to the point where she bit me a little in her struggles. I felt a twinge of guilt – just a twinge, mind – that poor Carla was suffering. And then I remembered Leslie. 

Leslie Howard was the geek'd geek. She didn't shave her legs or wear skirts or any of the typical girl shit. She didn't play in any of the horrible high school politics. She was killing time until college, and she had few real friends. But she was a nice girl, pleasant, not particularly attractive. And she loved the outdoors – to the point where she spent her summers at Biology camps, learning natural history and stuff. She knew more about chlorophyll when she was sixteen than most people know in a lifetime. 

And the Bitch squad hated her. Oh, I remember Carla's lunch with her. The two sat together, "studying", in one corner of the lunch room. When the rest of the Bitch Squad saw that, they took umbrage – a word they couldn't spell between them – and verbally attacked Leslie on the spot. They reduced her to tears, made her run out of the cafeteria and skip school the rest of the day. I don't know what exactly was said, but all the geeky girls were pissed about it. And Leslie was never as pleasant again after that.

So I grabbed Carla's hair and fucked her face like it was the last time. I worked out some serious aggression. So did Bev, who started biting her asscheeks while simultaneously fisting and butt-fucking her. It wasn't long before I spilled another torrent down her throat.

We did a number on Carla that night, and Bev worked out her frustrations through Senior year, and maybe the first few weeks of college. The high point had to be the fourth time she was riding Carla's lips, when she looked down and with scorn revealed who she was and why she was being so harsh. Carla's eyes lit up with memory, and she even tried to stop her oral duties, but Bev would have none of it. She grabbed my belt and started lashing lightly at her thighs until Carla got back to work.

When she left at about 4 a.m., I tucked ten hundred dollar bills in her hand. She left without a word. Her face was so puffy from Bev's thighs that it was almost unrecognizable as the same woman who came to our hotel room. Her lips were so raw that she couldn't quite speak right. I don't even want to think about how she felt below the belt. 

Bev, on the other hand was positively glowing. As she treated me to breakfast at a local waffle shop about dawn, she stretched and cackled. The fulfillment of a childhood dream had been as rewarding to her as it had to me.

"I'm in your debt, Coop, over and above our agreement. That was simply the most fucking fun I've had in five years. It was probably worth two solid years of therapy, alone. Thanks."

"No problem. You don't have a problem paying for it?" 

"I'd pay twice as much for it, honestly. Besides, you tipped her?"

"Three hundred, yeah, why?"

"Well, the little whore earned it. But I wasn't quite done with the abuse. So I called her pimp while you were in the bathroom, thanked him, assured him of our future business, and mentioned that Carla was so good we tipped her five hundred."

"But that means . . ."

"That means that when she got back and he demanded a cut, she was short. With no way to make it up. And he's not going to like that."

I stared at her for a moment. "God, you're a bitch."

"And fiercely proud of it. Pass the syrup?"



Geek's Revenge Ch. 04



I was so preoccupied with a real estate deal over the weekend that I had totally forgotten about Carla. Well, not totally -- the weekend threesome with a vindictive Bev had been burned pleasantly into my memory and would likely feature prominently in my fantasy life until I left the nursing home for Pleasant Green cemetery. So I was caught a little off-guard when my cell phone rang Tuesday night.

"Cooper, here," I answered automatically, expecting the broker -- again. I swear, real estate is fun, but the constant back-and-forth negotiations can be wearisome. 

"Hey, it's Pe—It's Carla," came a soft voice on the other end. "It's Tuesday," she reminded me. "You still interested?"

The instantly throbbing boner in my pants sure was. But I HAD to put this thing to rest soon, or it would fall in the crapper and I'd lose my $10k option. I had plans for Carla, to be sure, but money before sex. Because if you have money, you can get sex.

"Gee, Carla, I'm . . . I'm kinda in the middle of—"

"I've got my new test back yesterday," she interrupted. "Clean. I'll bring the last three, if you want." She sounded a little hesitant.

"You do?" I asked, surprised. "Well . . . look, I'm kinda putting together a deal right now. But I guess as long as my phone is on . . . you know where I live?"

"Nope."

"322 Rockwood. The old Kress building. Ring the bell for the top floor and I'll let you in. Um . . . what do you have time for?" I asked, considering the matter carefully. Oh, I could always use a good BJ -- who can't? But if she was going to the trouble of bringing her test in, she wanted more than that. Hell, so did I. I'd dreamt about that pussy every day for years, way back when. 

"I'm free -- Tuesdays are slow," she sighed. "And . . . I really need the money right now. My . . . boyfriend, Bill, he wasn't . . . it doesn't matter. But if you're up to it, I'm open for business any way you want me. For three hundred you get me all night."

"I thought it was seven?" I asked, surprised. 

"Well . . . that was the weekend rate with . . . that girl involved. On a school night, I usually make it more reasonable. And . . . I mean, we went to High School together, right? I'll give you a discount."

Heck, that was a better deal than I had planned. "All right, stop by in about two hours."

"Wear anything special?" she asked. "I can do dress up, some, if it's not too outrageous."

"Nah, I want to see you naked. We can get freaky later, if necessary."

I straightened the place up a bit, because I'm a hell of a slob when I live by myself, and even though she was a whore she was still someone I knew. I even ordered a pizza, since I didn't feel like cooking. And exactly two hours later, my bell rang. I buzzed her in, and she was soon at my door, a big purse hanging over one shoulder, wearing a print-patterned lightly shabby blue dress that was just a cunt-hair too slutty for a cocktail party.

"Coop!" she said, beaming. "Good to see you again!"

"Um, you too," I admitted. "I hope that the other night wasn't . . . too much. I didn't realize Bev would get that intense."

She laughed. "Compared to pulling an ass-train for six black guys who just got out of prison, well, it wasn't that bad." Ouch! Carla had been busy. It made my butt-hole sting just imagining it. "I even enjoyed parts of it. Your friend, she's kinda cute, when she isn't being a bitch."

"Yeah, well, that's most of the time," I said, ushering her in.

"So . . . you own this whole damn building?" she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

"The whole deteriorating, decrepit pile," I agreed. "Got a good deal on it, though. When they put that new downtown mall in, this will be prime real estate. Top five floors are apartments, though I expect to take them condo when everything is said and done. Two commercial spaces on the ground floor, and three floors of offices. All zoned mix-use."

"Wow," she said, genuinely impressed. "I never knew someone who owned a building before."

"This is my second. Remember that old gas station on Broad? I bought it first, right after my first IPO. Ten grand in improvements and I sold it for double. Now it's—"

"The ice cream place, yeah," she said, grinning. "I blow guys back there, some time! I guess I should pay you rent or something!" 

"Well, I did sell it, so that's someone else's problem. I didn't know you worked over there, too."

"The college crowd," she agreed. "Lousy tippers, but easy to please. I once blew ten guys from a frat and only spent an hour there. Hair-triggers," she explained disdainfully. She tossed her bag on the couch and went to stare out my big bay window across the city. "This is amazing, though! Pretty! And you own it. Damn. Damn!"

"The rewards of my nerdom," I agreed. "Um, you had your test results?"

"Oh! Yeah, here," she said, digging three pink papers from the Public Health Department out of her bag. I glanced at them, verified her name and the dates, and inspected them carefully. No AIDS, thank God, but also no herpes, crabs, clap or other hazards of her profession.

"Great, great, I think we can do business, here. One thing, I may have to stop for a call. Goddamn broker is having a hard time with the seller -- the old Victory Warehouse. Keeps changing the price on me, backing out, all sorts of bullshit."

"Hell, you don't have to stop just for a phone call," she said, sitting on the couch and daintily crossing her legs at the ankles. "Not for me."

"Good to know," I said, watching her legs, mesmerized. Despite a few years on her, she had very shapely ones, tanned, and her gaudy high-heels made her calves look exquisite. "You want to, uh, maybe do a little tease? You were pretty good at that the other night."

"No tease," she said, seductively, pulling her skirt up slowly. "No, I promise, I deliver. Always."

"Even back in High School?" I asked.

"Yeah . . . usually," she admitted. "Every now and then I'd cut out early. Not with anyone important, of course, but there were some guys that just didn't . . . make the cut."

"Like me," I said, staring. "I wouldn't have made the cut."

"No, probably not," she admitted, a little troubled. "I was a different person back then," she said. If she was implying some sort of spiritual growth, I wasn't buying it. 

"Yeah, you fucked for social status and power, not money," I said a little acidly.

"That's right," she said firmly, her hem finally over her panties -- tiny, tiny white silk and lace. "I fucked for power. And I had it, too. How many times did you jack off to me, huh? How many loads did you spill thinking about this body, Coop?"

"Many," I said, swallowing hard.

"That's right. And if I had asked you to . . . wash my car, would you have done it?"

"Probably not," I said, a little defensively.

"If I told you I'd show you my tits?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. "Or let you cop a feel?"

"Uh . . . yeah, I would have," I said, disappointed in myself for admitting it.

"And it wouldn't have cost me a thing. You have money, now. You can buy what you need. Including this pussy, right now. Back then, I had my body and my rep, and I used it. Just like you use your money."

"Yeah, but you hurt a lot of people's feelings along the way, Carla," I said, staring at her hand as it disappeared into her band-aid-sized panties and started working. "Bev, for one. Leslie. And about a million others. You pissed on a lot of us nerdlings."

"And now you get to fuck me," she said, as if that made it all better.

Well, didn't it?

I mean, she might have been dumb as a box of hammers, but she had a point. Money, sex, it all came back to the accumulation and exercise of power. In High School everyone was carrying around an intoxicating level of testosterone -- we would have fucked a goat, if no one was looking too closely. There her body was at a premium. She had used it, just like any asset. Me, I had my brain, which ironically didn't mean shit, power-wise, in High School. 

But now . . . well, I owned the building. I had a few millions tucked away. I could -- and did -- get all the pussy I cared for, and I'd be lying if I said it was because I was a great guy with an engaging personality. Now my brain was at a premium, and as for Carla, well, a new crop of fresh pussy graduated every year. I would always get smarted. She'd never be what she was at sixteen, never again. Despite a gallant attempt to maintain her edge, she was competing with younger women and was destined to lose that competition on an increasing basis. My brain would only get better -- her tits would eventually sag down to her kneecaps.

"Yes, I do," I breathed. "Go ahead, masturbate. I want to watch you." She smiled sexily and pushed aside the crotch and started to work her clit a little more. "I also want to know more about you."

"Why?" she asked, confused. "I'm here to fuck, remember?"

"You can talk while you fuck," I corrected her. "Consider it geek foreplay. I'm curious. You studied human sexuality," I said, laughing at the idea in my head even as I spoke. "You must understand the human need to explore sexual limits."

She shrugged. "Sure. What do you want to know?"

"Why keep doing it?" 

She considered. "Well, I love the sex. I really do. But . . . well, to be perfectly honest, I need the money. My . . . call it a contract . . . my contract still has over ten thousand to go on it. And it's hard to keep paying it down when I have so many accessories to buy."

"Accessories?"

"Coke, mostly. Oh, a little X every now and then, and weed, of course. But mostly cocaine. And clothes, but mostly cocaine. My boyfriend sells it to me cheap, just over cost, but . . . still have to pay that bill. After that, it's hard to pay down my contract. I can't even think about a straight job until that's paid off. By then, I probably won't have the looks for the good gigs any more anyway."

"Wow," I sighed in amazement. She was still working her clit pretty well, small, tight circles. It seemed to beckon me across the room, nearly hairless, just a 'landing strip' at the top, but wide open and glistening wet. It could have just been lube, of course, but I treasured my illusions. "And you think of this as a career plan?"

She shrugged. "Hey I get to fuck for money. No clock to punch, no hours to fill, and every john is an adventure. It's got some bad parts, but what job doesn't?"

"I guess I see your point," I said, doubtfully. "But . . . well, what would you do if you could do anything in the world?"

"Maybe go back to school," she said, a little wistfully. "But that doesn't matter. I like most of the parts of what I do. If I hadn't . . . gotten in trouble that first time, I'd be some fat middle-class housewife with three kids and a fat husband who only fucked me on the weekends. What kind of life is that?"

I had no ready response to that, outside of the raging erection that had formed as Carla lewdly ran two fingers into her twat. It made little squishy noises that I found alluring. "You want me to cum first?" she asked, with an air of professional detachment mixed with honest excitement.

"Yeah, sure, I'd like that," I said, relishing the idea. I love to watch a woman have a big fat orgasm. It's such a compelling, beautiful agony, and reveals some of her innermost thoughts. Sure, I'd seen Carla cum, back in the hotel, but I had been pretty distracted at the time. This time it was just her, making herself hot and happy. She nodded with a small smile, then leaned her head back and began working her clit more seriously.

It didn't take as long as I'd thought it would -- either that or she was a really good faker, hard to tell. But within five minutes she was thrusting her hips and moaning, fingers flying as she polished her little bud. She backed off and collapsed back against the couch. "That was nice," she said as she exhaled.

"It surely was," I agreed. "How about some head?"

"Thought you'd never ask," she said with fake enthusiasm. She did a great slut-crawl across the carpet and took a position between my knees, where she deftly unzipped my fly and released my cock. "Mmmmm," she moaned, her tongue flicking out and licking the tip. "I bet you jacked this thing a lot, thinking of me, haven't you?"

"You have no idea," I said, earnestly. "I wanted to get into your pants in the worst way. But you cheerleader bitches didn't have time for us geek boys. You didn't even know we existed." "Now, don't be silly," she chided. "We knew. Hell, we went out of our way to torture you. It made me wet to think of you little spazzes beating your meat thinking about me every night."

"Oh, well, glad I could help out," I said, annoyed. I pulled her mouth to my cock and pushed it inside. "All those nights thinking about the unobtainable Carla the Cocktease. I guess Carla peaked a little early. Me, I'm a late bloomer," I said as she went to work with determination. I'll give Carla this: she wasn't a lazy cocksucker. 

There was silence as she pumped her lips up and down my shaft, stopping after every seventh or eighth stroke to lavish some tongue attention on the head. Her hand was busy with a constant scrotum massage. She made little moany noises in the back of her throat as she worked, and when she took me particularly deep I could feel it. Damn, but I could feel it. Cheerleader or whore, Carla knew her way around a dick. Just to make sure, I put my hands on the back of her head and urged her down until her nose was pressed into my pubic hair. She took it like a champ.

I indulged myself in the pure bliss of getting one's cock sucked for twenty, maybe thirty minutes before Carla brought me to a happy, creamy conclusion, one she swallowed down matter-of-factly. 

"Nice," I breathed, when I could speak again. "Very nice. I—" and my phone rang.

"Just in time," she said with a seductive giggle.

"That asshole," I growled, snapping it open. "Cooper!"

I won't get into detail about the deal -- the details are inconsequential. What became clear was that the seller, a bitter old guy across town, was changing the terms of his offer out of pure spite at this point in order to draw out the process. That way he could pocket my option. Fucker. I argued with my broker for a while, and then called the seller directly, Carla all but forgotten.

Forgotten, that is, until she started sucking my cock again. I ignored it at first as was focused on the deal, but you can't ignore an experienced whore's lips on your meat for very long. I got the tiniest bit distracted, something the seller tried to use to his advantage by talking fast, putting me on the defensive. I hate being on the defensive. I'm an offensive kind of guy.

Wait. That didn't come out quite right.

There came a point, about the time Carla started working me back into her throat, where my testosterone levels got high enough for me to get mad. I finally broke.

"Look, Foster, your fucking building has been sitting vacant for years! You pay how much in property taxes? Don't answer, I know already. You want to dance around this thing forever, fine -- we can do this the nice way or the hard way."

"I don't like a strong sell, Cooper!" he spat back at me. "I just want what's fair!"

"No, you want the fucking world for that crappy little space. The Victory has been an eyesore and a . . . a haven for prostitutes and drug dealers! Here I am, trying to improve the property to our mutual benefit, and you want to fuck around over a few grand? Well, Foster, we can play nice, or I can be not so nice. I'd rather spend my time convincing the city it would make a good parking lot or public space than watching you wave your little dick around like anyone still gave a damn! Call me when you're ready to deal, or I'll see you at the next city council meeting!" I snarled, and snapped my phone shut. Carla's lips never left my dick, but her eyes were on me, wide.

"Wow," she said, pulling off for a moment. "That was pretty intense. How much do you stand to lose?"

"Just ten grand," I said, with a sigh. "But at this point, it's the principal of the thing. I've driven by that warehouse every day for years and wanted to do something with it. And now this old geezer is trying to fuck with my plans."

"How did you know it was a crack house?" she asked.

"I didn't," I shrugged. "I can tell that it's not a fashionable boutique. And I've picked up a whore there from time to time. Is it a crack house?"

"Yeah, that's where Midnight has his office," she said. "Mid-level guy, has about six houses. It's around back, only open at night, but on the weekends it can be hopping."

"Can it, now?" I asked. "Interesting . . ."

"You ready to fuck?" she asked, nonchalantly. You have to admire her dedication to her art. She was fondling one boob seductively through her dress (okay, it came across as a little slutty -- but that's what I was paying for) and had her other hand between her legs. 

"Uh-huh," I said, dumbly. For a split second I was fifteen years old and anxiously awaiting enough mustache to justify shaving -- then the reality of the situation kicked in. "Doggie style. Bend over and raise your skirt," I commanded.

"Yessir!" she said with a practiced smile. She whipped around on her hands and knees, leaned against my coffee table, and pulled her hem up over her ass seductively. She looked back over one shoulder -- tossing her hair flirtatiously in the process -- and cocked her head. "Wrap that rascal and fuck me stupid!" 

I wasted no time rolling a rubber on -- sure, she was clean, but I'm not one to take a risk when I don't have to -- and lining up in proper form while she rested her hands and head on the coffee table. I glanced down to savor the moment, and then slid my cock slowly but surely into her pussy from behind, thus fulfilling another adolescent dream.

I won't lie -- she wasn't the tightest woman in the world, but I had expected that. You can't abuse a vagina like she had and not show the wear. That being said, she was wet and very, very hot -- I could feel her heat even through the rubber -- and her pussy contracted around my cock enchantingly. I moaned, and she added a little girlish moan of her own, while looking over her shoulder invitingly.

It was a sweet, savage fuck, the kind where the goal is nothing more -- or less -- than your own selfish pleasure. I ran my hands around the perimeter of her ass cheeks as I thrust, remembering the days when I watched it hypnotically wiggle down the hall to class. I palmed each cheek and did my best to push my cock all the way through her cervix. I didn't succeed, of course -- that was a pretty well-traveled path -- but it felt fucking great!

"That's it, Coop, give it to me, give me every inch!" she moaned. "Fuck that pussy! Fuck that pussy that teased you so bad! Fuck it hard, Coop, fuck it hard!" she screamed, encouragingly.

I hammered it, easily one of the most intense fucks I've ever had. She cooperated nicely, pushing her wet slit back to meet me, moaning non-stop, thrashing her hair around prettily, and possibly even having one good orgasm that she didn't have to fake. I fucked her doggie for fifteen solid minutes before my knees started to get tired, then flipped her over to bang her face-to-face.

"You're pretty good at this, for a nerd," she sighed, catching her breath. I pushed the top of her dress down around her waist to reveal her beautiful jugs. 

"I've practiced a lot," I quipped, rolling my hips forward as far as I could. I was gratified to hear her yelp in surprise. "I've thought about fucking you forever."

"Well, you don't have forever, but we have the rest of the evening," she assured. "You can fuck this hot pussy as many times as you can. All yours."

"And at a bargain basement price, too," I agreed. Her eyes looked a little pained, but the fake plastic whore's smile never wavered from her lips. "Don't worry, I'm going to get my money's worth." And I did. I banged her missionary for another half-an-hour, and actually made her cum for real at least once, before I unloaded into the condom. Then I rolled over and stared at my ceiling while I caught my breath and enjoyed the orgasmic cascade of endorphins across my synapses.




Geek's Revenge Ch. 04



"Nice," she breathed. "That was nice. You -- don't take this the wrong way -- you fuck pretty good for a white boy."

"I take it your pimp is black," I mentioned.

"My boyfriend is," she said, the p-word stinging a little.

"If he was just your boyfriend, you wouldn't have to call him after every john," I pointed out. "Call it what it is. He's your pimp."

"Fine," she said, "Whatever. Yes, my pimp is black. You got a problem with that?"

"Not at all," I shrugged. "Interracial dating has enjoyed a long and distinguished history in the South. I bet he's hung like a horse, too. Which means that my 'white boy' dick probably barely touches both sides."

"You aren't that bad, actually," she admitted. "I mean, a girl likes to know when there's a dick in her pussy, but there's also something to be said for not having your cervix bruised every time you want a piece. I like big dicks, but a medium sized one is actually more fun, most of the time."

"I bet you say that to all your little-dicked white johns," I accused, playfully.

"Well, duh, yeah," she said, rolling her eyes. "You know how many four-inch long white frat boy dicks I've sucked?"

"Today? Or aggregate?"

"Um . . . a lot," she said, confused by the term. "If you don't make them feel like they're swinging ten inches of pipe, they don't call you back."

"Riight," I said, nodding. "Good business practices."

"Yep. You ready to go again?"

We did it another two hours, on and off. I worked her through several different positions, and she performed very well. Not as well as she would have in High School, at her peak, but good enough. She was good pussy, and knew how to fuck. I got my money's worth.

And before I was done, I'd thought about my situation and had developed a business proposition for her. While she was in the bathroom getting cleaned up, I had opened my hidden safe and pulled five hundred dollars out. She came back out a few minutes later, wiping her nose, her eyes gleaming. She didn't look like a well-fucked whore, but maybe a cocktail bar haunting slut who'd given a parking lot BJ. Much more respectable.

"Here," I said, handing her our agreed-upon fee. "And I've got a . . . I want to hire you again tonight."

"You want another go?" she asked, cocking her head. "My meter's still running. We can—"

"No! Four orgasms in one night is my limit," I said, holding my hand up in protest. "No, I wanted to hire you to go suck off that bastard that's holding me up. I've got his home address right here. It occurred to me that the fucker probably hasn't had his oil changed since the turn of the century, so I want you to go over there, tell him 'This is Mr. Cooper playing nice,' and suck him dry. That's it."

"You want me to go suck off some old guy?" she asked, wrinkling up her nose in distaste.

"Exactly. With my compliments. Afterwards, tell him if the papers are not signed in twenty-four hours, that word on the street is that there will be a very public drug bust and arson at the old Victory Warehouse, followed by a public outcry to have the site condemned and bulldozed as a matter of public safety."

She studied me warily. "You don't play fair," she decided, finally.

"What, you think I'm being too harsh?"

"No, not at all. It's a smart plan. You always were a smart guy, Coop. Yeah, I'll do it. I hate sucking old geezer dick, but if you're buying, I guess I can do it as a favor."

"Keep the rest as tip and cab fare," I said, pushing the rest of the money at her. Her eyes lit up at that. It was a pretty substantial tip for a school night. "If this works, you just saved me ten grand, and got a two million dollar project started."

"Wow," she said, amused, the cocaine really starting to hit her system now. "I always wanted to work in real estate."

I shrugged. "You do this well, I might have more work for you. Very lucrative," I assured.

"I don't care if it's lucrative or not, as long as it pays well," she said, which made me giggle.

"Say, you ever do parties?" I asked, having another good idea. A great idea, actually. "For this weekend? Friday night, probably."

She smiled and wiggled her braless boobs at me. "What do you think? Seven hundred for parties up to six, with an additional bill for each guy thereafter."

"It's only five of us," I said. "But it might run a little outside of your normal job. You mind getting kinky?"

"For you Coop? I'll wear a bunny suit. Um, no hardcore, okay? And no real pain. I don't mind a little spanking one-on-one, but in a group shit can get out of hand, quick. And . . . you don't . . . actually want me to wear a bunny suit, do you?"

"No," I chuckled. "But the reality might be even more bizarre."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," she said, doubtfully.

"No pain, no hardcore, no serious injury. Just a simple train with some dress up. I'll have the costume ready. Good money. Maybe even a steady gig."

"I could use the work. Call me by Thursday, I'll put it on my schedule. Now off to blow an old fart."

"You run out on me, I'll be irritated," I promised.

"Take it up with my . . . pimp. You paid, you get to play. That's the rules."

Oh no, Carla, I thought to myself as I walked her out. Your rules might be about to change.



Geek's Revenge Ch. 05



The next morning, about ten, a cross-town courier showed up with the papers on the Victory Warehouse complex, just as I wanted them. There was a hand-written note from the geezer thanking me "for my patience". A two hundred dollar blowjob had saved me ten grand, and had gotten a two million dollar renovation project going. If that isn't great "risk management", I don't know what is. I filed away the tactic for future use and called my partners with the good news.

I was so wrapped up in the details I had almost forgotten about Friday night, when Carla called. 

You see, every second Friday of the month there's a meeting of a monthly sci-fi book club. Not a true Star Wars vs. Star Trek geekfest, but a more serious, intellectual study of the real literature of science fiction, from Mary Shelley onwards (Okay, there have been pointed ears, on occasion, and the rare prop lightsaber, but only in the interest of examining the genre's impact on greater popular culture. No Tribbles or Ewoks were harmed in the creation of the group. Honest.). There were five of us, and each picked a book in turn, read it, and then discussed it in detail and ad nauseum. It was a thick and heady intellectual atmosphere, dealing with high concepts and deep questions, a kind of Oprah Book Club for hard-case nerds. This month was my month to host.

Randy Corbett was the founder of the group, a rotund ("Big Boned") systems analyst with one of the universities who had no girlfriend, no wife, and way too much free time on his hands. Scott Coleman was a bench chemist doing QA at a drug company, was tall, gawky, and had the thickest glasses you've ever seen, and a set of rabbit-like teeth that would scare away any woman who wasn't a lust-crazed orthodontist. Nolan Palmer was a kind of geek's geek; like me, he had invested his dot com profits wisely, and now was a lead programmer and major shareholder in a company that makes MMORP games infrastructure. He also builds and fights robots for fun. Since he looks like he builds and fights robots for fun, he was as dateless as the Pope. And lastly there was Perry Howell, a brilliant mind in an unfortunate body. He could discuss the intricacies of ringworlds and wormholes, dark matter and nanotechnology, galactic disc formation and the mathematical certainty of a cataclysmic meteor strike. But he was socially retarded. I'd known him since college, and I had never seen him even speak to a woman, much less date.

I must confess, while part of me loves the intellectual stimulation of the group, another part of me knows with a certain amount of guilt that, next to these giants of geekitude I looked like fucking George Clooney. I had probably bagged more tail in the last month than all of them put together. In their lives. To my knowledge, poor Perry was a virgin, at thirty six. 

I had taken it upon myself to rectify that. 

Carla called me Thursday evening to confirm our date. That left me scrambling to put together the requested costume in a hurry on Friday, and otherwise make preparations. Carla came by around seven, already pleasantly coked up, her long brown hair slightly askew – as if it had been somehow clasped between a pair of hands, I noted. I let her in with a secret smile and offered her a drink while she changed.

"Good job the other night with old man Foster," I told her when I handed her a scotch. "He gigged. I got the paperwork done, and we're ready to roll. He give you any trouble?"

"Just this nasty taste of old-man cum," she said, making a face. "He was easy. In, out in ten minutes, two hundred bucks. Easy money. What the--?" she asked, confused, when she saw the get-up on the bathroom counter. "Am I getting married?"

"Not tonight, sweetheart – although you could do worse than one of these guys. Issues of hygiene aside, they all have money, jobs, and absolutely no prospects of cheating on you." I pulled out a picture and shoved it towards her. "Now go in the bathroom and get changed and make yourself up the best you can to look like this."

She took the picture and her eyes widened in horror. "You are shitting me!" she accused.

"Nope," I said, smugly. "That's what I want."

She looked at the picture, then at me, and back again. "This is some sick-ass shit, Coop," she said, shaking her head. "I mean, I know sick-ass shit, and this . . . dude, are you sure you don't want the 'naughty nanny'? Or the 'naughty nurse'?"

"No challenge," I dismissed. "C'mon, Carla, cash money. You might think it's beneath your dignity, but so was sucking dick behind convenience stores, once upon a time."

"You are one crazy fucker," she said, slightly irate. But she took the picture and the outfit and went into the bathroom with her drink. 

"The boots are in a box on the chair! And don't forget to learn your lines!" I called after her. "They're on the back of the picture!" Carla swore even more, but I just grinned.

This was going to be an eventful evening.

***

"Gentlemen," I said, an air of formality about me. The pizza had long arrived, and we had each grabbed a beer. "I would like to propose that we postpone our discussion about Roger Zelazny's incredible Lord of Light, and subsequent inevitable discussion about whether Stephen Brust is purely derivative or merely plying variations on Zelazny's theme and style. I know you are all disappointed, but I think I have an alternate proposal that may well interest you."

"Good," grumbled Randy. "I didn't finish the book."

"Well, I did," Nolan said. "And if we weren't going to discuss the book, I wish someone would have informed me before I drove all the way across town," he whined. 

"Dude, you live like ten minutes away," Scott said, confused. "Get over it."

"I'll defer to your judgment," Perry said, doubtfully. "But this had better be good. I love Zelazny."

"Who doesn't?" I agreed. "But I have a very . . . special opportunity for you, tonight."

"Is this why we can't use the bathroom?" Nolan complained. 

"Yes. Now shut up, I'm trying to build a mood here. Gentlemen, I feel that I know all of you pretty well – we've been meeting like this for a few years, now. And I also think that I can say without fear of argument that none of you has had the opportunity to really enjoy the comfort of a woman in . . . a while."

"Shit, is this about porn?" demanded Nolan. "I can get porn at home, Cooper! I came here for—"

"Shut . . . the fuck . . . up," the usually mild-mannered Scott said, annoyed. The truth was that Nolan was about the most annoying man alive. In this county, anyway. Even Scott had his limits, and the mention of women had dropped his considerably.

"Thank you," I acknowledged. "Tonight, gentlemen, I have prepared a special treat. The fulfillment of a fantasy that every boy of our generation has carried close to his heart and gonads since the dark years of our common adolescence."

"A stripper?" Randy asked, excitedly. "You got a stripper? Cool!"

"Not just a stripper," I continued. "Oh, she'll strip, if you want, but I have a feeling you'll want her to keep her clothes on for this—"

"You got a fat stripper?" Nolan complained. "Jesus, Coop! First no Zelazny, and now you—"

"SHUT UP!" his three companions said in unison. That was the first point of agreement they'd had since their unanimous approval of Snow Crash as the best sci-fi novel of the 1990s. The significance was not lost on Nolan. He shut the fuck up.

"Now, before I loose my mood any more, I present to you, gentleman, a lady who will cater to your every sexual need this evening—"

"What?" Perry asked, mystified. "You got . . ." he whispered it, "a hooker?"

"Anyone who is uncomfortable with that sort of thing is free to leave," I promised, "and none of us will judge him a lesser man for doing it."

"Bullshit," Nolan swore, "if there's a hooker and you don't fuck her, that's gay," he said with the certainty of someone who thinks he's studied the matter.

"I . . . I'm intrigued," Perry stammered. 

"Hot shit," Scott said with a big toothy – and I mean TOOTHY – grin. "A hooker, huh?"

"Pussy?" Randy asked, his head cocked and his eyes wide with excitement.

"Indeed," I said, nodding gravely. "A lady well-versed in the dark arts of sensuality. She'll suck. She'll fuck. She'll do damn-near anything you want. But . . ." I added, holding up a cautionary finger as their normally cerebral minds were shifting to pure animalistic rutting mode, "that's not all. THIS particular lady . . . will do everything she is asked . . . under my direction. She has another name, normally, but tonight – and only for tonight – you may call her . . ."

Okay, I'm a sucker for suspense, and I had these four drooling fanboys literally at the edge of their seats – which in Randy's case put him in danger of collapse. I hit the play button on the remote I carried, and a familiar fanfare of trumpets filled my loft in a way only a $3000 sound system can manage.

" . . . Her Highness, Princess Leia Organa, the Senator from Alderaan and leader of the Rebel Alliance!"

Jaws dropped – the first time I had actually seen that familiar expression in real life. On cue Carla appeared from the bathroom, her hair in the iconic ear-muff braids, the long flowing pristine gown (covering tasteful white riding boots) creating a majestic mantle behind her. For all of her misgivings about the project, I had to hand it to her: she looked an awful lot like the object of every young horny boy's masturbatory fantasy. Okay, her boobs were a little big, and I'm sure she was taller than Carrie Fisher, but she looked pretty fucking hot to me.

While she didn't strip, she did dance. I watched as she gyrated her ass madly but sensually to the orchestral strains of William's inspired work, and I watched the geeks in front of me go quietly out of their minds. Carla had a lot of dance and gymnastics training and it showed. She had what some call "kinesthetic intelligence", that ability to move your body perfectly, like having perfect pitch or a photographic memory. I suppose that came in handy when you're a cheerleader. Or a whore.

While the guys were getting pretty worked up, Carla's plastic smile only wavered when she turned her ass towards them, her face towards me, and rolled her eyes in hopeless frustration. "Nerds!" she whispered disdainfully.

"Princess, these are professional nerds," I corrected. "Do it right." And she did.

"I want YOU!" she screamed lustfully, pointing at Scott, " . . . to join the Rebel Alliance!" She proceeded to push her boobs in his face and wiggle. Then she turned to Nolan, whose eyes were as big as dinner plates, and kicked up her leg until her booted heel was resting on the arm of the sofa, and her bare thigh was next to his ear.

"Feel the Force," she urged him, seductively, running her hand from knee to crotch while the orchestra thundered. "Feel it!" she demanded, taking his hand on her leg. Just as he was about to get up under her robe, she turned towards Perry, who looked like he was about to wet himself. She stalked over, swinging her hips with restrained enthusiasm, never taking her eyes off of him. He looked like a wamp rat in the headlights.

"Do you want my . . . light side?" she asked, provocatively, lifting the hem of the robe to reveal bright white lace panties. Then she spun, and put her ass directly in Perry's sweating face. ". . . or my dark side?", and she added a little wiggle. Perry didn't quite faint, but it was a very near thing. Then suddenly he found an ounce of courage and buried his nose between the cheeks of her pantied ass and inhaled deeply. 

"Is that a lightsaber in your pocket?" she asked Randy in a sultry voice, "or are you just happy to see me?" And then she fell to her knees and slut-crawled across the floor, looking up at the big man beseechingly. When she arrived at his lap, she wasted no time before unzipping his fly. She instructed them as she pulled out his cock – a surprisingly large one.

"Here's how it's going to work, my young apprentices," she said as she fished around in Randy's shorts. "I'm going to blow all of you, to take the edge off. Then each of you gets twenty minutes alone in the bedroom to do what every you want. You can go in the regular docking bay, check out the black hole in the rear, or put it between my royal lips again," she assured. "Whatever you want. Tonight you are my Han Solo. And if you want to eat my Wookie, well, whatever it takes for the Rebel cause, right?"

I won't tell you that she nailed the lines perfectly, but when your audience half-hypnotized by the aroma of fresh pussy, well, their critical faculties are pretty much shot. Randy had a dreamy expression on his face as Carla dove down his thick, fairly long cock while the rest of the guys acted goofy or ashamed, or excited or nerdy combinations of all three. 

"Damn, she sucks good!" Randy declared.

"Oh, what a fucking slut, what a whore, what a fucking cocksucker," Nolan chanted as he brazenly rubbed his cock through his jeans. 

"I love you man!" Scott announced to me, his eyes positively glowing behind his coke-bottle glasses. His long leg was vibrating erratically as he anxiously awaited his turn. Carla was doing a number on Randy, of course. I knew from personal experience just how well she sucked, and I empathized as his eyes rolled back in his head. It only took him about eight minutes to blow his wad in her mouth (as per our arrangement, Carla sucked it down) and then she was kneeling at Nolan's lap.

Nolan, predictably, had a five-inch boner, but what it lacked in length it made up for in sheer hardness. And apparently in sensitivity, because Carla had only been sucking for three minutes when he made a noise like a dying stormtrooper and shot his load. She made a face as she moved over to Perry.

"Hey, you mind if we get the rest of the party started?" Scott asked excitedly. "Seems to me that she's got that fine ass just sitting there, taunting us . . ."

I shrugged. "Go ahead, boys, we got her all night."

He laughed heartily and slid off his pants and pulled his shirt and sweater-vest over his head. I expected Scott to be large – the dude is six foot six, easily – but when that huge wang came into view, I thought Nolan and his miniscule dick were about to run and hide. Carla didn't see it, of course – she had ever millimeter of Perry's peter stuffed in her mouth when Scott pulled up her robe, pulled down her panties, and buried that massive tool deep into her twat.

She jumped and made a startled noise at the same time, but Scott didn't seem to notice. His glasses were steamed up as he began sawing that log between his legs deep into Carla's pussy. She pulled off Perry's cock for a moment to voice her concerns when the middle-aged nerd's hands frantically pulled her earmuffed head back to his dick. She struggled to focus with Scott's battering ram punishing her cervix, but I paid, I play, right? I just hoped for her sake that the big geek didn't try to push it up her ass.

Scott was pumping away like an amateurish madman, while Perry squirmed and moaned in muted joy as she sucked him. The other two were already regaining their erections, a maniacal gleam in their eyes. It was going to be a looooong night.

I chuckled at the sight of this former stuck-up bitch of a cheerleader-cum-coke whore getting her pussy vigorously plowed while she performed fellatio on the cream of the nerdery – dressed as Princess Leia, no less. Priceless. I chuckled, and then, despite myself, I leaned down and whispered in her ear.

"You're sucking off the captain of the Chess club, you know, while the First Chair Oboe player is fucking your cunt," I said with relish. "And after that, you get to go face to face with the biggest comic book geek in town and the guy who dresses up as a Klingon every Christmas. Oh, what the cheerleading squad would say if they could see you now!" She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, a pleading look on her face as it was pushed further down Perry's cock by his chubby hands on the back of her neck. "Oh," I said with false surprise. "You know what would make this celebration even better?" She looked scared. "The proper music." I straightened up and motioned the other two guys over, so that Carla could play with them while she was otherwise occupied. Then I picked up my remote and started scrolling through songs until I found the right one. 

With an evil grin on my face I pointed at the receiver and pushed 'play'. Then I stared down kindly at Carla while the song began.

"Yub nub!" the high, squeaky voices of the Ewok celebration began over a primal bongo beat, "Eee chop yub nub! Toe meet toe pee chee keene, g'noop dok fling oh ah! Yah wah ee chop yah wah, toe meet toe pee chee keene, g'noop dok fling oh ah! Coat ee chah tu –" 

"YUB NUB!" ever nerd in the room shouted in unison. I could hear Carla moan in humiliated despair around Perry's cock. The guys were looking around at each other like they had just become blood brothers, initiated into some bizarre sexual cult of Jedi. I started clapping in rhythm with the howling extraterrestrial primates, and as an afterthought put the song on 'loop'. It was a good song. Pity George cut it from his final take.

"You guys gonna be ready for a second round soon?" I asked Nolan and Randy. They nodded with unrestrained enthusiasm, and chimed in at the brilliant chorale refrain.

"Allay loot a nuv!" they sang. I could feel the X-Wings launching fireworks overhead. 

It was a glorious moment in my life.

***

"That," Carla said as the door closed behind her, Nolan safely out of easy lechery range, "was the single most fucked up sexual experience I've ever been a part of!" One of her earmuffs was undone, leaving a long brown braid hanging over her left shoulder, and she had long ago ditched the white robe, but the white equestrian boots were still on. I don't think she could get them off without help. "And I've been to some pretty fucked up parties!" she said, accusingly.

"Aw, Carla," I said, soothing her and mocking her at the same time, "those guys were desperate. Just some harmless fun. Hell, you probably took Perry's virginity, tonight, unless you believe him about that 'chick from Canada.'"

"No fucking way he ever got pussy, American or Canadian," agreed the whore with a sigh. "And GOD! Who ever said nerds all had little dicks never met that . . . that . . . wookie-dicked guy, what was his name?"

"Scott," I supplied. 

"Yeah, him. Boy's built like a brotha. I'm gonna be walkin' funny, tomorrow. Between him and that squirrelly-looking guy who kept putting it up my ass."

"Just be glad it was Nolan and not Scott who had the anal fetish," I reminded her. Her eyes opened and she nodded, seeing my point.

"You nerds always party like that?"

"Oh, hell, no. Sometimes it gets exciting."

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" she said accusingly. "'Cause I was a cheerleader, right? And those are like your . . . geek buddies or something?"

"Oh, of course," I agreed. "That was choice. Really choice."

She paused, looking at me searchingly. "So how come you didn't jump in on the geek train?"

"I've had my time," I shrugged. "I figured it was more important to them to have a go at you. Of course, now that they're gone, why don't you put yourself back together and give me a hummer for the road."

She considered. "Can I finish my drink?" she asked, wearily.

"Of course," I said, taking a seat. "I've got all night."

She sighed thankfully and collapsed on the couch. "Wow. That was pretty fucking intense. Sorry I had to . . . powder my nose like that in the middle of it all."

I shrugged again. "You gotta do what you gotta do," I said. "Does it really help that much?"

She looked at me like I was from Tatooine. "I just got gang-banged by half a fucking Star Trek convention. Wouldn't you want to be fucked up for that?" She looked at me more closely. "What, you haven't tried coke?"




Geek's Revenge Ch. 05



"Never had it, never will," I said, just a trifle smugly. "I like money too much."

She shook her head. "You don't know what you're missing. Coke is the ultimate sex drug."

"It also scars your heart and addicts you. It's an ever-growing hole in your wallet, and I work too hard for my money to throw it away on cheap thrills."

"Cheap, my ass. It's expensive. And worth every penny. And it lets you stay up fucking all night long."

"Not my thing. Oh, I'll smoke weed, but nothing up my nose or in my arm. Those are my rules."

"Your loss," she shrugged. "You don't consider coke to be worthy, but you'll pay for sex? What was that about cheap thrills?"

"I was already addicted to sex before I got money," I admitted. "Besides, as much as I spend on pussy, wives and girlfriends are more expensive in the long run. Honestly, about how much do you spend a week on cocaine, Carla?"

"Two . . . maybe four hundred dollars. Sometimes more, if there's any really good stuff around." She was hesitant enough about her answer to make me guess that the real answer was twice that amount. Which made sense.

"So . . . you need to suck how many dicks to get that?" I asked, casually. She looked at me to see if I was joking, and then turned away. "Um . . . I get twenty to thirty for head. Gotta split that with my manager. So . . . I'd have to suck off at least . . . forty guys? For a week? But I get fifty to a hundred for fucking, more for specials. That's where I make my money."

"With guys like me," I supplied. She looked at me, a mixture of fear and gratitude in her eyes. 

"Well, yeah. You're my single biggest client, right now," she admitted. "I've been able to actually pay off some of my debt. Tonight will catch me up some, too. And if I get that frat gig again, I might even come out ahead," she said, with false optimism.

"You think?" I asked. "Or are you just going to go out and get some more of the 'good stuff', and be back in hock with your pimp?"

"Look, I'm paying off my contract," she said defensively. "Another year, I'll be a free agent! After that I can be a stripper and go back to school."

"Or be dead," I pointed out.

"Yeah, well what the hell do you care?" she asked, irritated. "That's my private fucking business." Well, I reflected, she was right. What did I care? This cunt tortured my entire high school. She was one of the original Mean Girls. She had teased and slutted her way through life, and she was now facing the terminal consequences of her actions. Who was I to stand in the way of Karma?

I studied Carla while she leaned back, eyes closed, clearly descending from her buzz. She was prematurely aged by her life, but she was still young enough to definitely be a hottie. She wasn't completely stupid, and had managed to survive in what was obviously a brutal world. The fact that I remembered a much younger and more innocent Carla had little bearing on what she was doing with her life. I had no doubt she would be dead long before her "contract" was paid off. And that thought struck a melancholy tone in my heart that I didn't think was there.

I mean, if I hadn't known Carla in High School, if she was just another faceless crackwhore, then I probably wouldn't have cared. But I discovered that because I did remember her, as far back as Junior High, I did, for some reason. I wasn't sure how much, but I know I didn't really want to see her dead.

The problem was I knew that she wouldn't change her path, not voluntarily. She was too sold on it and she didn't see any other options. And any "good Samaritan" intervention crap wouldn't stick with her any more than algebra had. Besides, my mom had broken me of the habit of picking up strays before adolescence. No future in it, as she would say. 

"So, am I gonna suck your dick or what?"

I considered. She was already paid for. Though the serious talk had dropped my erection, I had every faith that it would rise again in short order. "Yeah, at your convenience."

"Let's do it," she agreed, taking position on the floor between my knees as I pulled out my neglected cock. "You want anything special? Should I say the lines again?"

"No, not now. Just give me something long and slow," I said, scooting my pants off. "Use your judgment. I want to just relax and enjoy this." She nodded, and took the head of my dick in her mouth, her tongue already in motion. I reached for the remote and cued up the Title Theme for Star Wars again. I wanted to see if I could make it through the whole CD before I blew my load. I was shooting for the final track, where Han and Luke get their medals, but even if I didn't make it, I didn't mind. I had Princess Leia slavishly sucking me off, her earmuff braids bobbing methodically in my lap.

Life is good!



Geek's Revenge Ch. 06



I'd made another dick-sucking date for the following Tuesday with Carla before she left. I had plenty to do that weekend, and Monday was spent with my partners in our attorney's office, going over paperwork. By Tuesday night, I was ready for some stress relief.

But no Carla. 

I waited all night -- well, I hung out and played video games the whole night, my second favorite method of stress relief. I'm a beta tester for a few companies, and blowing up aliens or orcs after dealing with hard-assed sellers or obsequious attorneys all week can be amazingly therapeutic. When I looked up and it was just nigh 3 am -- officially "long past midnight" -- I figured she'd be a wash, and went to bed. I didn't even think about it again until the next night, when I paged her. I got a call back from a deep-voiced black man.

"You were looking for Peaches?" he asked, gruffly.

"Um, Carla, yeah," I admitted. "We had a date for last night, and she didn't show. I was just concerned."

"You that rich white boy she's been seeing, correct?"

"I'd rather not go into my details over an un-secure connection. I'm sure you understand."

"Right, right. Well, you see Carla, you tell her to hustle her little ass back here. I haven't seen her since Sunday, when she bought . . . well, un-secure connection. You see her, you tell her to come talk to Bill. We straight?"

"Got it." I snapped my phone shut and shrugged. I knew she would get herself into trouble. I was a little worried, but only so much -- she was a big girl. Any trouble she got into, well, it wasn't like she didn't know about it up front. I felt a little sad but went back to my day.

I was almost shocked when there was a buzz at my door about seven pm the next day. 

"It's Pea—It's Carla," came a tired voice from the speaker. "Can I come up?"

"Um, sure," I agreed. "You remember the way?" She did. While she was making the trip in the ancient elevator, I quickly stashed my portable valuables in my safe. She was an old high-school chum, sure, but she was also a crack head. I'm not stupid.

When I opened the door, she looked like hell. Her hair was dirty and stringy, hanging in limp clumps around a face that hadn't seemed to get the benefit of sleep for days. She was wearing a skirt and buttoned top that was just barely decent enough not to get you escorted out of a shopping mall by security, and her shoes were battered and dirty, like she had been walking a long way. She carried her shoulder bag like it weighed a ton, and her eyes . . . they were like two distant pits in her head. Not her most attractive moment.

"Hey, Coop," she said, feigning a smile. "Mind if I come in?"

"Uh, sure," I said, opening the door. "Missed you on Tuesday," I mentioned -- what the hell else was I supposed to say?

"Yeah, sorry about that," she said with a tired sigh. "I . . . I got caught up in . . . something else. Sorry. Won't happen again. In fact, that's why I'm here."

"Somebody named Bill was awful anxious to see you," I added.

"Yeah, well, he's the other reason I'm here," she admitted. "I'm . . . trying to make up for it. Bill wasn't happy that I missed a date -- poor customer service, and Bill is all about the customer. His employees, not so much. But he sent me over to you. Complimentary." She bit her lip and looked away. "I'm yours until tomorrow morning. Anything goes. Even pain. As a matter of fact, he said he didn't care if you . . . if you . . . if . . . you turned my ass to hamburger, if you wanted to do something like that." She sounded humiliated and beaten, and her voice had a strange wavering tone to it. "Oh, and if today isn't convenient, the offer is good for a raincheck. I just . . . I need to make amends."

"Really, it isn't necessary—"

"Oh, yes it is," she assured me fervently. "Bill was pretty clear about that. I need to do this. To make it up to you. It was inexcusable."

"Damn, it was just a date . . . no big deal, really."

"Coop," she said, fixing me with a desperate stare. "Yes it is. One night free, and . . . well, if you're happy, I'll . . . I'll . . ." she sagged. "Just say you'll do it. Please. I don't want to—"

"What did he say he'd do to you?" I asked, evenly.

"You don't want to know. Bill's got one main punishment for his employees. Let's just say . . . my asshole would appreciate it if you'd let me fuck you silly tonight. Or some night soon," she added, hopefully. "If you're happy, then I won't get gang-raped in my asshole by his entire fucking crew. That's pretty standard. If Bill is very unhappy, then he . . . well, we won't go into that. So please be happy with me. Please," she begged, her lip red where she was biting it.

"You bought a big bag of coke, didn't you?" I asked. "With the money from last time?"

"Yes, dammit, I bought some coke," she confessed bitterly. "I've been up for days. Since Sunday night. And you weren't the only appointment I missed. So if you will please just skip the 'just say no' lecture and let me . . . do whatever you want me to do, I'd appreciate it."

I couldn't help it. She wasn't crying, but she should have been, and the fact that she wasn't was telling. "Carla . . . Carla. Why . . .?"

"If you haven't tried it, there's no use explaining. Just trust me, it's a bad drug to get involved with. And once you're addicted . . ."

I thought about it, and finally sighed. "Look, I've got to run out in about an hour. How about . . . let's say you give me head as a down payment, then come back tomorrow night when you've gotten yourself cleaned up, fed, and rested. I promise, you'll get a good review."

"Promise?" she asked, suddenly sounding like a little girl. There was even a trace of whimper in her voice.

"I do," I said, solemnly. "You did me a favor blowing old Foster the other night. Least I can do is help you out, too."

She looked relieved. "Oh, Coop, thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou!" she gushed. "You won't regret it, I promise! You just saved my ass, for real though, and . . ." she let her bag fall to the floor, and then her knees hit right beside it, "I wanna make it real good for you!"

She began unbuttoning her shirt and I started to get hard despite myself. I mean, it wasn't as if she was bowling me over with her feminine charms -- she looked like shit. But she was acting so fucking grateful. And she looked so fucking helpless and pitiful. I had no doubt that the erection suddenly tenting out my pants was due in no small part on the protective feelings she had managed to evoke in me. Shit, I didn't want her to get brutalized. She was a crack whore and a cunt, after all, but she was still a human being. You shouldn't get ass-raped just because you called in sick to work.

I started to rethink the blowjob -- it would be clearly taking advantage of her situation --then stopped. If she wanted to suck my dick, real quick, well, it was a freebie. Turning her down might be considered rude, I reasoned. It may have been noble, by some fucked-up romantic standard, but I gave up any pretensions of nobility the day I got my first stock options. 

"Oh, all right," I groaned, as her nimble and shaky fingers opened my fly. My dick was already enthusiastic about the prospect, and in seconds was receiving an inspired tonguing. She laved the length with her lips, then pulled back with an excessive amount of suction. 

"I'll make this good, but quick -- I know you're a busy man," Peaches cooed. "You just need to get all that stress out. It's poison. Let me suck the poison out," she said, in a whore's voice. She plunged back down until the head of my cock was wedged into the back of her throat. I groaned involuntarily, and my hands moved to her head of their own accord. 

She still led the oral dance, but I guided her pistoning lips the way I wanted them. This wasn't a time to linger, to sensually draw out the pleasure of a well-experienced mouth. No, this was a time to pump her throat silly and bust a nut. I became a little more aggressive and was soon fucking her face manfully. 

She took it like she was born to it, holding her face steady and her mouth open, her lips curled to protect me from her teeth. I stared down at her and noticed her eyes were closed, like she was praying. Then she abruptly opened them and stared back at me. They looked tired, but her gratitude and thankfulness beamed back at me. Here was Carla Dawes, sucking my cock . . . and thanking me for the privilege. 

You just gotta love Fate's sense of irony.

I powered through the finish, keeping up the brisk pace until I unloaded across her busy tongue. She sucked it down and swallowed it eagerly -- what can I say? Carla likes to suck cock. She uttered an almost-dainty cum-belch, and then got to her feet.  

"All right, that was yummy, Coop, so we're on for tomorrow? Give me a call if your plans change."

"Hey, uh . . . you wanna grab a shower real quick? Looks like you could stand to freshen up. Probably a long walk back to your place."

"I don't really have a, um, a place. I usually crash at Bill's. But . . . well, it wouldn't suck not to show up looking like a ho-bag. Thanks." She grabbed a few things out of her bag and disappeared inside. 

I waited until I heard water running, and then the unmistakable sounds of her splashing within, before I opened up her bag. It was a violation of trust, yadda yadda yadda, but I had questions I was curious about. 

You can tell a lot about a woman by her handbag. This was a well-built leather tote with a big shoulder strap. I wasn't surprised by the cell phone, key chain, "feminine hygiene" kit, or the make-up bag -- pretty standard issue. I also found a roll of twenties, a vial of coke, a ragged address book, a couple of pairs of panties, a tube of lube, and about a dozen condoms. But then I found a small, purse-sized teddy bear that had been around forever, and somehow that tugged at my heart-strings. It looked like the crack-whore had a sensitive side. There was also one of those small photo albums, mostly featuring pictures of her parents and family, a couple of girls from school. I had everything back in place before she came out, naked in a towel, and grabbed the make-up bag.

"Thanks, Coop, you're a really nice guy," she said, genuinely. "I . . . well, it's been a while since someone was nice to me. Even a little bit."

I chuckled wryly. "Not a problem. But I've got to hustle -- hey, do you have cab fare?"

"Got it," she agreed. "There's a cabby that rides me for free. If I ride for free about once a month. And I've got a little cash," she admitted. She looked me up and down. "You got a date?" 

"Kind of," I admitted. "A little business, a little pleasure. Your friend Bev, actually."

"The mean nerdy chink dyke?"

"Well, that's not exactly how I would have described her—"

"Yeah, well it wasn't your asshole she shoved a fucking dildo into. Shit! She could have warned me," she said, sullenly.

"Yeah, Bev's kinda mean that way," I admitted. "She had a bad High School experience. But we're going to discuss some business."

"Well let me know if I can help," she said absently, combing her hair.

I thought about it. "Well, maybe you can. That thing with Foster the other night—"

"The old geezer I blew?"

"Yeah, that. That helped out a lot. You interested in more work like that?"

"Work is work," she shrugged. "That was a hundred dollar BJ, and you picked up cab fare. Easy money. Shit, yeah, you got more stuff like that, call me!"

"Hmmm. I'll keep it in mind. You'll be back here tomorrow?"

"Anything you want, Coop. Just give me a good review, and I'm fucking yours."

We left it at that. I escorted her out, called a cab and paid for it, and then drove to the restaurant where I was meeting Bev.

The Piedmont is one of those trendy chef-owner restaurants that prides itself on its tastefully sublime, elegantly serene atmosphere . . . which is restaurant short-hand for "we didn't have enough money for real furnishings, so we're going to go minimalist and call it trendy." It was over in the warehouse district, not too far from the Victory Warehouse I had just bought. The staff was young and pretty, the industrial atmosphere was hip, the food was fresh and inspired, and the price -- well, you pay for trendy. Hell, at least they had a good wine selection.

Bev was already there, looking ravishing in a cocktail dress. Despite her Dragon Lady personae, when she wants to turn on the charm she can look the part of the inscrutable and beautiful Asian sexpot. Go figure. In High School she looked like the Asian fat chick. Cute, in its way, but not in the way that High School girls want to be. She smiled when she saw me and gave me a peck before I held her seat for her. 

"Fucking place won't let me smoke," she complained bitterly. "I had to sneak out back and have one with the help."

"I hope that didn't sully your good reputation in doing so," I said, sarcastically.

"Hell, no. Two of the waitresses I used to work with over at Primagen BioSci. Got a good stock tip, if I ever had the capital to use it. Speaking of capital . . . your check cleared," she said, excitedly. "That makes me horny, just so you know."

"I'm shocked," I said, smiling. "I keep my end of the deal. Always. You going to keep yours?"

"You still want to fuck me in the ass?" she said deliberately, and just loudly enough to be overheard at the other tables. She was trying to shock me. She didn't know me very well.

"You bet! But I'll wait until after dinner."

"Are you buying?"

"Of course. I'm old-fashioned that way about girls I know I'm going to fuck in the ass," I said deliberately, and just loudly enough to be overheard. She blushed ever-so-slightly. Point!

"Great! I've lost six pounds in the last month, and I'll go ahead and claim I'm on a diet and that I'm not living in poverty. But tonight I could eat a horse."

"Unfortunately, we're not at a Korean restaurant," I said. She looked properly offended.

"Hey! My people have an ancient and distinguished civilization that was reaching the highest points of culture while your people were still fucking goats in mud huts!"

"Your ancient and distinguished civilization also eats horse meat. At least that side. The Chinese side, I believe, prefers dog meat?"

"My people were northerners, not Cantonese," she shot back, making a face. "You aren't going to defend the goat-fucking?"

I shrugged. "Hell, it's probably true. Never tried it, myself. Unless you count Dora Roberts," I said, alluding to the chick I took to the junior Prom. Dora was an icy and aloof nerdling who towered over me by nearly six inches. Not an attractive girl -- her face was too long and her hair did resemble a goat's. And I didn't ever actually fuck her, but she did let my hand slip under her panties for six glorious minutes after the prom, and she consented to playing with my dick as long as it stayed in my pants. We lost touch after that . . . 

"So, all the racial slurs aside, how is our girl Carla?"

"She's . . . well, let me tell you about our last sci-fi book club . . ." I said, and launched into the tale -- only stopping to order a bottle of wine from our amazingly cute red-headed waitress. I've always had a thing for red-heads. By the time I got to the Ewok song, Bev was having a hard time staying in her seat, she was laughing so hard.

"She . . . she . . . oh my god, you are an evil fucking genius, you know?" she accused. "Jesus, Coop, you've got a talent for this sort of thing!"

Then I told her how she helped me out with old man Foster, and lightbulbs started going off.

"Holy shit," she whispered. "That's . . . that's great. I mean, I've been known to drop to my knees to make a deal happen, but that's so . . ."

"Demeaning?" I supplied.

"Time-consuming," she finished. "I mean, you've got to flirt with the guy -- or girl -- and you've got to do the whole 'does he like me, is he gay, will he freak out, is he gonna want to have my babies afterwards' thing. I should have thought about getting a real live whore. Much simpler. Not that I mind working on my technique . . ."

"Which brings me to the tax-deductible portion of our evening," I said, only to be interrupted by the cute redhead (Her name-tag said "Namaste", so she was either a very happy yoga enthusiast or her parents were hippies -- I'm going for the latter). We ordered quickly. I took the lamb steak, and encouraged Bev to go for the lobster. If you're going to fuck a woman in the ass, it's only polite to make sure she feels worth the effort. When Namaste left, I continued. "I've gone in for fifty gees, now. How solid is this company? I mean, I should probably know."

"Rock solid," she said. "No bullshit. They're running lean, but they've got a killer app—"

"Bev, no one says 'killer app' anymore," I chided.

"Shut up, I'm retro. They've got a top product. Scalable, useful, reliable -- and a competitor to something Microsoft just bought. So our chances of either a Big Daddy Gates buy-out is strong. Or a Google buy-out. Or someone. Hell, we might just make it on our own. But it's a solid team, and your generous investment has enabled two more code monkeys to come on board. As a matter of fact, they're busting at the seams in their current space. Next move is to find a bigger office."

"And I might have some thoughts in that direction. I just bought the Victory, remember."

"That run down piece of shit?" she asked, skeptically. "Coop, it's a dump!"

"It's a cheap dump, and not all of it is a mess. Sure, about three quarters of it leaks and has a dirt floor. But if you recall the north eastern quarter, the one that faces where the park is going in, that's real old-style brick tobacco warehouse. Solid. Dusty and decrepit, but solid. A couple of grand for renovations . . ."

"Shit. I had forgotten about that part. Didn't that used to be a tire place?"

"And before that they did sheet metal fabrication. My point is that its about six thousand square feet of space, and your shop is currently working out of . . . how much?"

"About two thousand," she admitted. "But we'd need power, and—"

"I know what you need," I assured her. "Been there, remember? But I think we can work something out, here. Say, fifty-percent off the going rate of rent in exchange for a seat on the board and ten percent stake?"

"That's quite a lot for cheap rent," she said, hesitantly.

"Not as much as you might think. I'll throw in free parking. Plus, y'all can be my new anchor tenants while we're developing the rest of the space. That will make it look viable and lived in, which will make my partners happy, and give us an income, however paltry, which will make my partners happy, and you won't have any landlord issues. Two year lease up front, option to renew." I shrugged. "Hell, first two months, rent free. I'm a sucker, I guess."

"I . . . I'll consider it," she admitted. She wasn't prepared to respond to a bold offer like that, but Bev thinks fast on her feet. "I'll even make it happen if . . . say, I get a percentage ownership in the property. Small piece. Me, personally, not the company."

"I'll have to talk to my partners, but I think we can make that happen."

Business concluded, we went on to have a delightful meal chocked full of sexual innuendo. And Bev was outstanding at sexual innuendo. By the time we had gotten to the dessert course, she had abandoned all subtlety and was aggressively maneuvering in an attempt to shock me. She didn't know me very well.

"So," she said, picking at her chocolate monstrosity delicately with her fork, "You want to fuck my tight little Chinese ass."

"And how," I nodded, enjoying the rich apple pie and ice cream I had chosen. "I'm having a hard time constraining myself, right now. If this dessert was one bit less tasty, you'd get bent over the table, your panties around your knees, with my cock invading your asshole making you scream in pain and ecstasy until everyone in the joint was watching."




Geek's Revenge Ch. 06



"No you wouldn't," she demurred. "I'm not wearing any panties."

See? I like Bev.

"So you're no stranger to riding the dirt road? I thought you lezzies preferred your fun clitoral."

"I'm only half lez," she said. "The top half. I like eating pussy. But I'm sick of women. Lesbians can't stand the fact I like cock, too. And they want to move in after a third date -- GOD, I hate that. No, men are easier to manipulate and they don't whine like bitches. And they buy me things. I like that in a man."

"You are the most misogynistic lesbian I've ever met," I observed, truthfully.

"No one knows how to hate women more than a woman," she agreed. "Oh, we're OK, I guess. But after my last girlfriend I'm ready for a steady diet of sausage for a while. If I have to talk about my feelings one more goddamn time, I'm going to fucking scream. So, yeah, a little hard-core sodomy might be just a thing to help me break my tuna taco habit."

"You want lube?"

"I took care of that already," she offered. "I'm all greased up and slick."

"You're a regular Girl Scout, aren't you?"

"Hey, you didn't say anything about costumes!"

"You ready to ditch this joint and get anally invaded?"

"Eagerly," she agreed, rising. She made a point of dropping her purse and bending down to retrieve it -- giving me and every other heterosexual man in the place a raging erection from the sight of her delicious ass straining at the fabric of her dress.

We went to her place. The front room was pristine, almost sterile: a couch, a chair, a poster of Marilyn Manson in a tasteful frame, an entertainment center. Bev didn't get much past the couch when she dropped to her knees and started fumbling with my fly.

"I don't recall fellatio as being part of the deal," I reminded her.

"Shut up," she said, savagely. "I wanna suck your dick. Humor me."

"Uh, okay," I agreed as she popped it into her mouth. Hey, I like head. Especially from tarty bisexual Asian chicks with a smart head for business. Bev was good, too, and attacked the shaft with the dedication only a real consultant can muster. My dick was already rock-hard in anticipation of the main event -- the few blissful moments it spent in her soft, alluring mouth made it hard as bedrock. I moaned involuntarily as she went for broke, swallowing the whole thing down her throat. Yes, she's a damn good consultant.

When she pulled away and looked at me with those sweetly sexy eyes, I couldn't resist pulling her up and kissing her -- I love the feel of blowjob-fresh lips when I kiss. She was surprised and started to pull away, then started to enjoy it and melted into my arms. I kissed her thoroughly before I hoisted her with a yelp to the back of the couch and pushed her short dress up over her thighs.

Yep. No panties. 

I buried my face in her delicately-trimmed bush, finding her clitoris and abandoning all pretense of lovemaking. I ate her like a starving dog eats steak. She squealed and moaned and grabbed my head and called upon the Name of the Lord and all manner of exciting things. I took her just to the brink of orgasm, then stopped.

"You BASTARD . . .!" she hissed, her eyes narrowed. "I was so CLOSE!"

"Yeah, this ain't about you, mei-mei," I said, roughly turning her over and bending her over the back of the couch. "It's time to utilize this weapon of ass destruction!"

"That's the single corniest thing a man who is about to sodomize me has ever—eeep! Said," she concluded, as the head of my cock nuzzled its way between her cheeks and pressed up against her sphincter.

"Any last words?"

"Uh . . . engage!"

I like Bev. She's my kind of nerd. I pushed forward, slowly but surely, and enjoyed the low groan she let out as I sheathed about half of my dick up her tight, slick little rectum. I noted with delight just how damn hot her clasping little ass was around my dick, and I grasped her hips gently. "That's about half of it," I added. "Ready for more?"

"Just . . . a moment . . . ugh . . . wait . . . okay, slowly forward," she said, breathing hard. I felt her hand snake back to her clit and start a rhythmic movement as I pressed forward. She added more and louder grunts as I slid in and out, going deeper into that tight little hole with every stroke. And she was rapidly recovering the ground she lost when I stopped eating her out. Indeed, she came twice, hard, before I dumped my seed into her bowels ten minutes later.

"Your debt is paid," I intoned as I zipped up. "Let me know if I can be of further service."

"You just raped my asshole," she panted, still slumped over the couch.

"Why yes, yes I did," I agreed. "Did it hurt?"

"Like fire. Biggest dick I've ever had up there. I . . . I think I need to go lay down. Maybe in the shower. And masturbate. Yeah, I definitely need to take care of a few on my own. Wow. Thanks Coop. Call me?"

"You betcha," I said, as I left. 

Dinner and an assfuck. I liked Bev.



Geek's Revenge Ch. 07



I awoke the next morning in the kind of glorious haze you only get after fucking an Asian lesbian in the ass. You really must try it sometime. I didn't even bother to get out of bed until my over-full bladder insisted, and even then I didn't get dressed. In fact, apart from a few phone calls to my partners about Bev's proposal, I didn't do jack that day.

Retirement before you're 30: also highly recommended.

It wasn't until the late afternoon, when my stomach started complaining about the lack of attention, that I remembered Carla and our date. She had looked like she could use a good meal, so I dialed her. It took about nine rings before she answered.

"Hey, Mr. Cooper!" she said with poorly-feigned enthusiasm. "Is this about this evening?"

"Why yes, it is," I agreed. "I was wondering if you were free for dinner. Nothing fancy, but I thought I'd check out that new Italian joint over on Broad."

"Don't waste your money," she said. "Gino's sucks. Mafia run. And any Jersey guy who has to move to this town to make it, well, you gotta wonder. How about Michelina's, instead?" she proposed.

I considered. A little dive-y, perhaps, but I'd eaten there before. Good, basic Italian food, and probably cheaper than Gino's anyway. "Sure. Meet you there? Or shall I pick you up?"

"Um . . . that might be difficult, now," she said, nervously. "I'll see you there. Seven. Get a table in the back."

A few more hours of puttering around later, I found myself at Michelina's getting led to a back table by an enormous middle-aged woman who managed to mix the high points of both Italian and Southern accents, to humorous effect.. I ordered a bottle of the house red and munched on bread sticks and waited.

And waited. And waited.

It was quarter to eight before the prodigal whore appeared. She looked better than yesterday, but still very tired. You could park a car in the circles under her eyes. She was wearing a slightly flirty casual dress and way-too-high heels, and from the neck down looked supremely humpable. But her eyes gave her away. Her manager had apparently had her doing customer service calls all day, and it showed.

"Heya, Coop," she said as she plopped down. "Hope you weren't waiting long."

"Well, a while," I admitted. "I'm starved. And I'm ready to order." I poured her a glass of the red and waited while she scanned the menu. She ended up ordering the special before draining her glass in one long pull.

"That's the stuff," she said, approvingly, refilling the glass. "Cheap, red, and sweet."

"Busy day?"

"All day," she agreed. "I had a lot of catching up to do. Remind me never to pull that kinda shit again. I'm getting too old for this."

"Would you listen if I did?"

"Nope," she admitted. "I'm kinda stubborn. Taurus."

"So how many dicks have you sucked today?" I asked, conversationally. She looked at me through narrowed eyes. 

"You kinda get off on hearing shit like that, don't you?" she accused.

"Well, yeah," I admitted. "That a problem?"

"I've had guys want me to stick baseball bats up their asses," she sighed, chuckling. "A little casual voyeurism isn't going to shock me. For your information, I've sucked five dicks, fucked three, and took it up the ass. And all for free, my little punishment for going AWOL. I knock you out, I'm back in with Bill."

"Is that terribly important to you?"

"At the moment, yes," she agreed, biting her lip. "Believe me, there are worse pimps in the neighborhood. Bill's a hard worker, doesn't abuse his girls, and he splits pretty fairly. I could do a lot worse. And he pulls some great clients, too. Gets them from that business school."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, Bill's getting his MBA." A pimp with a Master's degree. In business. Wow.

"That's . . . impressive."

"His Daddy runs most of the business around Central University, but he's mostly retired now. Bill's the oldest of his kids and is expected to inherit most of the business. But all of his siblings, legitimate and illegitimate, have gone on to college." She sipped her wine. "All seventeen of them."

"Now that's really impressive," I admitted. "You seem pretty knowledgeable about it." Carla shrugged, and rolled her eyes. "Look, just because I was a stupid cunt in High School and ended up a whore doesn't mean I'm an idiot," she said. "It's not a terribly complicated business, and I keep my eyes open and my mouth shut."

"When you aren't sucking someone off," I added.

"Actually, that's when I listen the most. It doesn't matter how smart or rich a man is, he's the most vulnerable when he's getting his oil changed. So yeah, I know about the business end of things. I didn't want to end up like . . . most entry-level girls. You cross the wrong person out of ignorance and you don't end up well. It's a survival skill."

"So now you're a seasoned professional. I can respect that. And I have to admit, you have the skills for it. And the looks." Even whores are subject to flattery. She favored me with a genuine smile. 

"Are you sure that's not some left-over teenaged fantasy talking?" she chuckled.

"I won't deny it's coloring my perceptions," I agreed. "But I've spoken more to you in the last few days than I ever did in school."

"Which tells me that your either a cast-iron pervert or you're having delusions about 'saving' me," she said, suspiciously. "That actually happens a lot. 'What's a nice girl like you doing working the streets'? Usually they throw some God shit in there, and the really bad ones want to pray with me or read the Bible. Tell me to call my parents or some bullshit like that. But when the time comes for me to be swigging Scope, the most they do is leave a healthy tip. Every now and then someone gets obsessed and I have to have Bill have a talk with them. But they never really want to 'save' me, they just want to feel better about fucking a whore by pretending it's part of some goddamn sacred mission. Hypocritical bastards."

"Then chalk me down as a cast-iron pervert," I told her. "I get my jollies fucking the hell out of the nasty bitch cheerleader I knew from High School, and am working out my teenage revenge of the nerd fantasies. Not to mention feeling smugly superior for my achievements while you've taken an obvious left-turn on your journey through life."

Carla considered. "I can respect that," she decided. "I mean, I wouldn't mind being 'saved', as long as it's a multi-millionaire playboy and not a balding Jesus freak, but the small number of millionaires in town just aren't beating down my door. To save me," she added. "They don't mind if I fuck them."

"Well, in all fairness, you aren't the best candidate for matrimony," I pointed out. "Oh, you've got the bedroom skills, but the drug addiction thing is kind of a buzz-kill in a long term relationship. Not to mention your pimp."

"Hey, I pay him off, I'm a free agent," she said, defiantly. "It could happen," she added, when I gave her a look. "In five years I could so be a suburban house-mommy, if I applied myself."

Our food came about then, and we actually had a good, cheap date. When she wasn't on guard Carla was actually pretty friendly, funny, and gave me a good non-sexual time. Not quite as good as my date with Bev, I noted, but then Bev was a special case. Carla got decently tipsy and encouraged me to get a second bottle to go with dessert and coffee (and for the record, the espresso was atrocious -- whoever said Italians knew their way around coffee was on crack). She disappeared into the bathroom while I paid the check, and after a lengthy wait she returned, her eyes aglow. Nothing like an after-dinner line of coke to put you in the mood, I suppose.

"So," she asked, lighting a cigarette as we left, "what did you have in mind for the evening? It's your call: whips, chains, anything but animals and small children. Or," she added, slyly, "I could give you the GFE, good and hard."

" 'GFE'?" I asked, curious. I thought I was up on all the latest kinky lingo. I knew I shouldn't have let my Maxim subscription lapse.

"The 'Girlfriend Experience'," she explained. "A lot of guys who I date actually want someone to act like their love-struck girlfriend. PDAs, publicly laughing at your stupid jokes, the works. Or you could just fuck me in the ass. Or all of it together. You've hit Free Parking."

"The Girlfriend Experience . . ." I chuckled. "Yeah, I can see how that would be popular. Like with my sci-fi group. Most of those boneheads need love and affection more than they need a good hummer. Sure, let's start with that. I always wanted a sycophantic sexpot on my arm, staring up at me adoringly."

She stopped and looked at me. "Sycophantic? That's not . . . that doesn't have anything to do with diapers, does it? Because I—"

"No, Peaches," I laughed. "Should have stayed awake in Senior English."

"Sorry, I was trying to fuck your brother instead," she said, sticking her tongue out at me childishly. "As long as there's no . . . icky stuff. For that I need a lot more coke."

"Nah, I just want you to cling to me like a barnacle. Hell, I wish there was someplace we could go. Just so I could get the full effect."

"No geek night clubs open on a school night?" she asked. "I'd think they'd be rockin' about now."

"No . . . but now that you mention it . . ." I said, reaching for my Crackberry. That's the whole point of carrying them, isn't it? I recalled seeing something for tonight, something of unparalleled geekiness that combined social experience with unabashed nerdery. "Aha!" I finally said when it floated up on my calendar. "I had almost forgotten . . ."

She looked at me, eyes wide, startled. "I was just joking about the clubs," she said, worried. 

"Yeah, but even geeks have a social life of sorts," I pointed out. "And since you're pretending to be a girlfriend on a date, and we've had dinner, I guess it's time for the 'movie' portion of the evening," I said, chuckling to myself wickedly as I closed the device. 

"I'm not sure I like that tone," she said, glancing around nervously.

"That hardly sounds like the devoted girlfriend I hired for the evening."

Carla nodded and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she had dropped into character perfectly. 

"Sure, Coop, wherever you wanna go would be great!" she said with well-feigned exuberance. "Is there a Star Trek convention in town?"

"That's in two weeks. No, I just remembered that there is, indeed, a social occasion we can make. It's a midnight movie."

"O-kay," she said, cautiously. "No pointed ears? No princess costume?"

"Nah, not yet. But if you behave yourself, maybe next time."

She shrugged. "Lead on, darling!"

On the way across town she slid over to me and leaned her head on my shoulder, affectionately. Then she unzipped my pants and toyed with the boy for the remainder of the trip, kissing my neck and ear and whispering outrageously filthy things into my ear. Needless to say, when we arrived my cock could have cut steel. I paid for the tickets while she stared at the natives.

"Why are those people all wearing the same dorky knitted cap?"

"It's complicated."

"And why is that woman dressed up like a . . . coffee filter? A pink coffee filter?"

"She's just showing off. Come on, the show's about to start."

The place was a small strip-mall dinner theater that catered to small niche markets. The Indian Film Festival had been here a few weeks back, and every Friday night they still ran Rocky Horror Picture Show. But tonight there was a special charity screening of Serenity. 

Carla was politely quiet during the introduction to the movie, the raffle, the door prizes, and the costume contest. The announcement was made about the upcoming Browncoat Christmas Ball, everyone sang a round of the theme song, followed by the Ballad of Jayne Cobb, and then the movie started. My temporary girlfriend looked at me as the lights went low. "This is some kind of cult, isn't it?"

"They're 'Browncoats'," I tried to explain. "And yes, it's a little cultish. But you'll like this -- one of the characters is a whore."

She raised her eyebrows skeptically, but didn't say anything.

"She's a really nice whore," I added, then gave up explaining to her.

Carla settled back, ready to be bored -- but then that breathless opening sequence began and by the time the Operative has dramatically slain the villainous Dr. Mathias with a sword and a nerve pinch, she was on the edge of her seat. Carla seemed genuinely interested in the plot for a while, until it turned to exposition. Then she remembered she was working. She snuggled up to me cozily and started playing with my dick through my pants. But then the bank robbery scene started, and she got caught up in the action and almost forgot about the action supposed to be happening in my pants.

Damn you and your compelling storylines, Joss Wheadon!

Actually, despite my simmering frustration it was strangely delightful to watch the former snob queen head cheerleader, responsible for so many feminine tears and male masturbatory fantasies over the years, become enthralled in the geekiest of sci-fi movies, surrounded by a sea of nerds. I watched Carla closely as she mindlessly ate popcorn, her eyes glued to the screen. Firefly is its own very special corner of geekdom, attracting nerds who had no idea they knew they were nerds until they're wearing long brown coats and singing "The Hero Of Canton" -- and by then it's too late. Firefly is insidious that way. And Serenity captures all the adventure and angst of the television show in movie form. In its way, it's arguably better written and produced than even the iconic Star Wars.

And Carla sat through every damn minute of it, my dick long ignored after the return to Haven, and she even grabbed my hand at a few of the scarier parts in the thrilling climax. 

Afterwards, she was in a bit of a daze. "Wow," she said, thoughtfully. "That was a hell of a lot more fun than I thought it would be . . ."

"It's not all polyhedral dice and pocket protectors, you know," I assured her. "We are a rich and culturally diverse people."

"Sorry I . . . kinda forgot what I was doing," she said, sheepishly. "But DAMN! That was a good movie. And that's the first time that I've actually gone to a movie on a date in . . . a long time. Thanks, Coop. Most of the movies I see these days in my line of work have 'Booty' in the title. Now, tell me about this Inara chick . . ."

I tried to explain Inarra Serra's complicated and mysterious background as a freelance Registered Companion, which led me to explaining what the Companion's Guild was, which opened a discussion on the philosophical nature of whoring. Her perspective was intriguing, to say the least.

"Would I have chosen to be a prostitute?" she asked me, at one point. "Hell, no. But it wasn't exactly one of the items on the Guidance Counselor's form, was it? Now, 'high class call girl', maybe. If I had the option to become a . . . 'companion', maybe I wouldn't have gotten so fucked up along the way."

"You think you'd fuck for money if you didn't have to?"

She shrugged. "You know, when you take away some of the bad stuff, it isn't a bad way to make a living. Most women fuck for money -- or security, or to get something, same thing -- and pretend it's love or some lame shit like that. At least I'm honest about it. Most of the time I have a pretty good time, and getting paid at the end of the night is always cool. If I didn't have bills to pay . . . well, if I only had to pay normal-people bills and not pay off my pimp, I'd be making a pretty good living. Shit, it's better than being in the Mommy Zone, watching your brats suck up all your money and only getting fucked twice a month."

"Don't tell me you enjoy being a crackwhore . . ."

She stared at me. "No, not like that. But I wouldn't mind being a straight-up independent. I like what you've told me about Inara . . . it would be cool to have a company standing behind you, instead of a pimp."

"A lot of guys in the nerd community are pretty pro-prostitution," I offered. "Myself included. We need more high-class whores and less low-class celebrities."

"Amen, brother!" she sang. Her hand found my zipper again. "Here I am babbling about whoring when I should be taking care of my boyfriend! Come here, you . . ."

The Carla I took upstairs was a hell of a lot more relaxed and energetic than the Carla who showed up at the restaurant. She stopped the elevator for ten minutes between floors and sucked me sweetly, taking me just to the brink of climax before stopping and continuing towards my loft. Once there, she made me sit on the couch and insisted on performing what she called the "girlfriend tease" (different than the 'stripper tease' and the 'slut tease', based on some technical issues) with a barstool. It was effective and attractive, too -- the girl knew how to move her body. 

The entire time the fake-but-sincere girlfriend smile was plastered on her face, the same adorable look I had been enchanted with in High School. As I watched her coquettishly slip out of her bra straps and peel her panties down from under her skirt, it suddenly didn't matter that she had done the same thing to a thousand other guys. The fact that she was doing it for me was suddenly very, very important. She might be faking the looks for my benefit, but it was working. I wanted her to be my girlfriend, for a wonderful five minutes.

When she got to the slut-crawl over to me, I was already hard as granite. She begged permission to see my cock, then touch it, then asked to take it into her mouth. Her nimble lips delighted the head and upper shaft, while her fingers traced every spot on my balls and lower shaft with sensual deliberation. I had let her know earlier that I wanted a long, slow, savory blowjob, and that's just what she gave to me. By the time my back arched and I exploded in her welcoming mouth, I was as close to bliss as I'd ever been. I glanced at the clock -- a little over an hour and a quarter.

"Damn," I whispered, reverently. "You really should get paid for this."

She started a girlish giggle that turned into a sly chuckle before my eyes. "Yeah, I'm good at sucking cock. All the cheerleaders were. I just don't usually have the leisure to do it right." She stretched, her position on the floor no doubt getting old. "I'm going to pee," she announced. "Why don't you get nekkid and I'll slowly suck you back to life, so we can fuck."

"I think I can manage that," I agreed, in a soft warm glow. Carla giggled again and got up. 

Ten mintues later she was nursing on my dick again, while I was sprawled naked in my king-sized bed. Most of my loft looks like a fraternity house, but I splurged on the bed: it cost me close to $5000, and it's worth every penny. Carla curled up between my legs and continued fellating me until I was rock-hard and ready to go again, and then she mounted me, cowgirl.

I indulged in more boob-play than I had in a long time -- she had the rack for it, too. Big, pendulous breasts that were bordering on too-big, hanging down over me like ripe, juicy fruit, swaying with the rhythmic thrusts of her hips, nipples watching me intently. Most importantly, these were the tits of my adolescent dreams, always so elusive, always so divine. I indulged in every wanton caress, bold squeeze, and delicate nipple tracery I'd ever considered, while she patiently -- and enthusiastically -- rode my cock.

"Having fun?" she asked in a sing-song voice. I nodded happily. "Good!" she sighed. "I'm actually enjoying it quite a bit," she admitted. "It's almost like a real date."

"I guess some of the allure of just fucking wears off when you . . . careful . . . when you add in the profit motive."

"In some ways," she agreed. "But once you start whoring, there are whole new thrills involved. I am kinda wild," she confessed. "I get off on some of the sick shit."




Geek's Revenge Ch. 07



"Like the Star Wars Gangbang?" I offered. She grimaced, then laughed. 

"Well, that was the strangest shit ever," she said. "But it was kind of kinky. I guess when you're a cocksucking cheerleader in high school, the only way to top it is to push the envelope, sexually." Her hips were undulating spectacularly, her pussy gripping my cock in its velvety clutch. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't like a lot of what I do. Beats the hell out of working. I tried to quit, once, before . . . before I got a real manager. Did three weeks in a grocery store for minimum wage. I started sleeping with the bag boys out of boredom, though, and as soon as I ran out of money for rock I'd end up behind the store, sucking more cock for a fix."

"Yeah, sounds like a party," I said, rolling my eyes. She giggled again.

"I've accepted the fact that I'm a whore," she continued, staring into my eyes. "I like to fuck -- I LOVE to fuck -- and all of that shit. I'm just . . . getting a little old to . . . party . . .OH!" she gasped, and I watched an authentic orgasm wash over her. It was pretty, and started her grinding her hips at a much faster pace as she raced into an even bigger climax. That one had her putting both hands on my chest, arching her back like a cat -- which thrust those magnificent mamms even more in my face -- and howled.

"Wow," she said, when she collapsed on my chest. "That was fucking nice!"

"Thanks," I said, feeling lazy. "I really put my heart into it."

She tweaked both of my nipples and the pulled her wet pussy off of my straining cock. Next thing I know, Carla is busily licking her own juices off of it, sucking it a little more, and generally making me call on the name of the Lord while she worked.

"Ready for Act Three?" she asked, seductively.

"Hell, yeah!" I said. "What's Act Three?"

"I can't believe my big strong boyfriend doesn't want to drill my tight little asshole with his big, bad cock," she said in a quasi-babytalk voice. "You do want to fuck my ass, don't you Coop?" she begged. "Please? Please fuck my tight little ass?"

It was my turn to giggle. "How long did you have to practice to get that right?"

"The voice? It's actually pretty easy. The whole GFE is pretty easy.I just keep a little thought inside my head while I'm in character."

"And what thought would that be?" I asked, as she got up and went to her purse for some lube.

"Y'know that old Archies song? 'Sugar, sugar'?"

"Yeah . . ." I said, skeptically. She poured a dollop of lube in her palm and started stroking me. 

"Well, at the end of it, there's this part where the chick sings 'I'm gonna make your life so sweet!' in a low, husky voice. Then a black chick repeats it."

"Yeah?" I asked as she finished lubricating my cock.

"I try to keep that voice in my head. That soft, sultry tone, the attitude, everything. That's the sound a girlfriend makes." She finished with a flourish, then got on her hands and knees, her ass wagging high in the air. I jumped up and got into position, taking just a moment to visually absorb the scene. I was about to fuck Carla Dawse in the ass. After she begged me to. Yeah, it was bullshit, but it was the kind of bullshit that dreams are made of. She looked over her shoulder, a smoldering -- and completely fictitious -- look in her eye, then put her head into my mattress and spread her big cheeks wide. Her tiny brown asshole winked at me, hovering just over her well-fucked pussy.

"Do girlfriends get fucked in the ass?" I asked, rhetorically. "Mine were never fans."

"They do if they want to keep their men. 'I'm gonna make your life so sweet' covers a lot of territory. Even anal."

I shrugged and lined up the glistening head of my cock with her brown bullseye. "Ready?" I asked.

"Always," she agreed. "I've already had one dick up my butt today, and -- no offense -- you aren't nearly as big as that brotha. Go ahead. Do me in the dirt road. You can be rough about it, even. After this morning . . . well, you ain't gonna hurt me none."

"As the lady says," I said, and pushed against her pucker with a sigh. Sure enough, a good third of my pecker sunk into her sphincter with little or no resistance. She didn't even jerk. Me, I jerked. Despite her earlier client, her butt was still delightfully tight. Not nearly as tight as Bev's, but she's tiny, Asian, and mostly gay. And not an anal whore. 

"Oh, you feel so BIG!" Carla cooed. "I love it in my ass! Fuck my ass, Coop! Fuck my sweet, tight little asshole! Make me your bitch!"

Inspired, I plunged forward with gay abandon, and soon was pistoning back and forth into her bowels with the same rhythm I'd lend a doggie-style screw -- much harder than I would have ordinarily tried with anal. But her ass could take it. That many big black cocks over the years had stretched her out enough to enjoy my throbbing pole of ivory manhood with no problem. I pounded her ass with a fury I didn't think I had in me -- and she seemed to love it. Carla spouted a long stream of dirty talk that was a credit to her profession, pushing her butt back against my cock and begging for more. When I got down to the long strokes, however, she quieted down and just took my thrusts. It was intense. Just the kind of wild, passionate assfucking that Mal might have given Inara, perhaps in some slash fiction story. A Browncoat nailing a brown eye. That was somehow appropriate.

All of a sudden, without me even thinking about it, I began to sing Firefly's theme song as I fucked her butt, timing my thrusts with the beat.

"Take my love,  Take my land,  Take me to where I cannot stand,  I don't care, I'm still free,  You can't take the Sky from me!"

"Goin' out, into the Black!  Tell 'em I ain't commin' back!  Burn the land and boil the sea!  You can't take the Sky from me!

There's no place that I can be,  Since I found Serenity . . . You can't take the Sky from me!"

I grabbed her hips and powered through the last, friction-filled part of my run and erupted in a glorious geyser of geeky spooge, deep in her ass.

I fell over onto the bed, afterwards, nearly comatose with my efforts, while Carla curled up on my chest, panting with hers. I absently stroked her hair as I enjoyed the tingly sensations still racing through my body. She kissed my nipple, made a happy, low moan, and sighed. 

"So, tell me about this whole 'companion' thing on Serenity," she said, hesitantly. 

I chuckled to myself. Another newbie sucked into Wheadon's irresistible spell. "Well, you really should just watch the DVDs . . ."



Geek's Revenge Ch. 08



I spent the next several days tying up loose ends on my big warehouse deal and getting things straight with the lawyers, my time with Carla the Companion (or Peaches the Crackwhore, depending on your perspective) fading into a fuzzy and pleasant memory. I had to hand it to her – she made an excellent temporary girlfriend, and I didn't even have any of those pesky late night "oh God, am I ever going to meet someone real for a relationship?" moments in the middle of the night that single people are prone to. 

Carla must have been just as busy, and we lost touch for a week or so until I saw her coming out of Honey's, a popular 24 hour coffee shoppe, at about three in the morning. I needed a waffle. Yes, at 3 in the morning. No, that's not normal. If I was normal, I wouldn't be rich.

"Hey, Peaches," I called, as she almost walked by me. She had a girlfriend in tow, a pretty black chick about ten years her junior. 

"Coop!" she said, giving me a hug in greeting when she realized who I was. Her eyes were spacey – coke, and plenty of it. "Coop, this is my girlfriend Rialta," she said, introducing me, and I shook her hand. She was a working girl, too, I could tell (no other reason to wear a mini skirt and tube top at a coffee shop at three in the morning) and she was pretty cranked, too. "We just got off work," Carla explained, "and were waiting for a cab."

"Getting some waffles," I explained. "Playing HALO 3 all night. Well, you girls have fun, 'kay?" I said. Not that I wasn't interested – but the economic news and my recent deals had made me a little more cost-conscious about pussy. 

"You, uh, wanna . . ." Carla started to ask, softly. "You know . . .?"

"I gotta get home," Rialta complained. "My feet are killin' me, my asshole hurts, and I gotta get my kids up for school in the morning."

"I was just getting waffles," I told her. "I mean, of course I'm interested, but—"

"How about I trade you a blowjob for a place to crash, tonight?" she asked, beseechingly. "I hate to go back to my boyfriend's place . . . he's gonna be up all night with his fellas playing cards, and I'll never get to sleep."

It was an interesting proposal – I mean, if you're up for waffles at 3 a.m., how could you not be up for a blowjob? Sure, she looked shifty and nervous, but I figured that was the coke talking. But the prospect of inviting a known junkie back to your apartment for the evening – rest of the night – is always a little dicey. I hemmed and hawed about it, and postponed the decision until after my waffle.

"Tell you what," I proposed, "keep me company while I eat, and then I'll either take you up on it or I'll drop you off and spare you a cab ride."

She shrugged, not particularly happy about it, but not put out, either. "That works," she agreed. "What's it been like in nerdville, lately?"

"Oh, you know, new Star Wars action figures, bitching about the latest comic adaptations, that sort of thing," I said, sarcastically. "Oh, and putting together multi-million dollar deals. How's the whoring?"

"Did a frat party," she yawned. "Two grand, but I had to do seven guys. And Rialta. She took five up the butt, though, and that always makes you tired. Split the tip even." I sat down in the smoking section and ordered, our steely-eyed waitress looking at Carla with distaste.

"I think I'll stick with action figures," I chuckled. 

"So, Coop," Carla said, hesitantly. "You got any more special work for me? Any more old guys that need blowing?"

"Not at the moment," I said, guardedly. "But maybe soon."

"Good – just between you and me, I need the money."

When doesn't a whore need the money? I knew she was in deep with her pimp over blow, but a couple of extra suck jobs, no matter how lucrative, weren't going to put a dent into her habit. "I could do a few referrals," I proposed, cautiously. 

"That would be grand," she sighed. "I like fucking nerds. They have less expectation than the homeboys."

"Here's to the geeks of the world," I said, toasting with my coffee cup. "Lowering expectations for American masculinity for almost a hundred years!"

"No, no, I mean . . . well, they're just nicer. And they don't like it rough, not like some of my other clientele."

"A couple of the guys from my nerd party a while back have asked," I pointed out. "I could make a few calls."

"That would be great. There's a whole new crop of competition rising, and I need to find a good niche. Me an' Rialta were discussing it tonight after the party. My boyfriend just found two new eighteen year old white pussies to put on the market, and some of my regulars have switched." She sounded depressed about it.

"Eighteen, you say?" I asked, intrigued.

"Oh, FUCK no!" she exclaimed, a little pissed off. "Not you, too? Yes, they're fresh, but they barely know which end of a cock to put in their mouths. But the brothas like it fresh, so . . ."

"So you have to find other stuff to do while they take the limelight," I finished.

"Yeah," she admitted, lighting a cigarette. "I don't mind the competition, really – okay, a little, maybe – but it's the . . . well, shit like this frat party. More work. And it's a rough economy. And my boss says if I don't start picking up the pace and paying off my debt . . ." she let it hang there a moment.

"Donkey shows in Tiajuana?" I supplied, helpfully.

"Or worse. And before you ask, don't ask."

"I see," I said, thoughtfully. I recalled the conversation that Bev and I had about the potential advantage of a full-time whore on the payroll of our new enterprise – beyond the "employee morale" aspects – and let that part of my brain churn while I ate. Carla told me a couple of amusing whore stories until it was time to go, then looked at me expectantly.

"So, what about tonight?" she asked, finally.

"Yeah, come on back to my place," I decided. "I don't mind if you crash."

"I'll pay the rent first, promise," she said, happily.

And she did. As soon as we got through the door, she had me in my favorite recliner, slurping on my cock with her well-used mouth. I don't know how many frat boys she sucked off that night, but there was a definite looseness in her mouth that I found pleasant and strange at the same time. Still, she did a professional job, and I unloaded in less than ten minutes, my hand pushing her head down on my dick as far as it would go. We fell asleep in my bed, curled up like boyfriend and girlfriend. Just before I dropped off I reminded myself to ditch the sheets – no telling where those frat boys had been.

I had planned on my usual noon rising time, but some asshole was banging on my door at six a.m sharp, and that makes me grumpy. And you don't want to make a nerd grumpy. I flicked on my computer screen and clicked on the icon that opened up the hallway webcam, and saw two well-dressed African American men with determined jaws just outside my door. They carried themselves with the kind of confidence that only a large caliber handgun or a lifetime of martial arts training can impart.

"Coop?" Carla asked, nervously, as she saw the screen. "Um, I think they're here for me."

"No shit," I commented. "I don't have any appointments this morning."

"I'll get my stuff," she sighed, desperately.

"Wait," I told her, pushing her back down on the bed. "No one fucks with my beauty rest. I'll deal with them."

"Coop, no," Carla objected. "These guys—"

"Yeah, yeah, thugs and gangsters and pimps," I said, disgustedly. "I don't care: this is my building, and I don't appreciate the enthusiastic way they're keeping me awake."

I slipped out of bed and put on a bathrobe over my Cookie Monster boxers, and stopped by the safe long enough to open it and grab my 9mm, which went into one of the oversized pockets. Carla's eyes got wide when she saw the piece. Then I answered the door, opening it just enough to let the chain catch it. Thug #1 pushed it to the limit of the chain.

"Open the fucking door!" he snarled.

"You wanna just calm the fuck down?" I asked. "I'm not opening the door for anyone but Santa right now, and you ain't him."

"You don't open this door, I bust it down," the thug responded evilly. He had apparently skipped the mouthwash this morning. "You got our boss' property in there!"

"Actually, gentlemen," I pointed out, "You are on my property, and trespassing to boot. This is my building, it's not open to the public on this floor. So either calm the fuck down and discuss this properly, or we can summon law enforcement and let them settle this."

"You really want everyone to know you consort with prostitutes?" the quieter man asked. "Could be bad for your business."

"My business is my business, and I don't care if anyone knows I fuck whores. Or guinea pigs, for that matter. So the 'embarrass the white boy' tactic ain't gonna work. Get out of my fucking building, and we'll settle this by the cool light of day – say, this afternoon. Not at six o'clock in the morning."

"Fuck you!" the first thug said, viciously. "Tell Peaches she better get her ass back home!" He pushed aside his suit coat and showed me a holstered automatic. "Or we come back."

Time for a direct intervention. He had his foot wedged into the bottom of the door, keeping me from shutting it. And yes, his pistol was intimidating. But this was my fucking building, and I quit being intimidated by people in lower tax brackets a long time ago. "Never attack a wizard in his castle" is a well known geeky maxim – and never threaten a well-armed nerd in his own goddamn building should be. Casting caution to the wind, and likely suffering from over-exposure to first-person shooters, I pulled out the 9mm and pointed it into the hallway. Not at anyone in particular, but it would only have taken a twitch of my finger to send a bullet into either of them.

"Yeah, that's sweet," I said, tiredly, as the thug's eyes bulged – he wasn't prepared to be looking back at a gun barrel. "I've got one too. And a shotgun I can put my hand on in five seconds. I don't appreciate intimidation, gentleman. It's uncalled for. It's rude. Tell your boss I'll be around tonight – with his property. But if he sends another couple of gay-looking corporate commandos to my door at an untoward hour, I might have to take exception. You think you can handle delivering that message?" I asked the nearest thug, sarcastically. "Or shall I repeat it using small words?" 

"We got it, Chief," the quieter thug agreed. "No worries. Tonight will be fine. But you make it, or there's going to be consequences and repercussions. Dig?"

"Dug," I agreed, putting away the pistol. "You have a pleasant morning, then," I finished, and shut the door after Thug #1 removed his foot.

"Jesus, Coop!" Carla said in a harsh whisper, eyes wide at my calm display. "Are you fucking insane?"

"Nope," I sighed, returning the pistol to the safe while I watched the two go down the elevator on my screen. Just to be safe I disabled the elevator's ability to stop at this floor for the moment. If the bastards wanted to come and get me now, they'd have to take the stairs. "I'm just pissed off at getting woken up."

"You've got a gun," she observed, as if just realizing it. "Oh my God, you have a gun? You don't seem the type."

"I live Downtown," I dismissed. "And if you haven't noticed by now, I'm not bulging with muscles," I said, collapsing back into my bed. "But I do have an appreciation for precision machinery. I've got a bit of collection, actually. I wasn't shitting them about the shotgun – a cheap Mossburg, but it gets the job done. Another five minutes of warning and I could have hosed them with either the AK47 or the MAC10. But they're . . . put away."

"God, I never would have taken you for a gun nut," she sighed, joining me, her hand on my chest.

" 'Gun nut' is an unnecessarily negative portrayal of someone who exercises their second amendment rights. I've got some guns. I live in a dangerous neighborhood."

"Plenty of guys with guns would have just let them have my ass," she said, softly. "You didn't. Why?"

"Because you're a guest in my home," I explained with a sigh, "and it pisses me off when someone tries to fuck with my guest. We might have a business relationship, but that doesn't mean we aren't otherwise acquainted. Besides, it's too early for a job performance review, even for a crack whore."

"I've never had someone just . . . stand up for me," she said, caressing my chest hairs. Yes, I have chest hairs. 

"Think of it as that damn geeky Dungeons & Dragons inspired chivalry, then," I said. "Now let me get some more sleep. If I have to stare down your pimp, then it might go poorly if I yawned in the middle of it."

"You can rest in a minute," she said, rising a bit. "Right now . . . well, I want to reward you." She slid over my lap and my cock was instantly hard. It didn't take her long to find the right spot, and in seconds she was sliding slowly down my shaft. "My hero," she whispered, blowing me a kiss.





I had Carla bring the car around from the garage while I got ready, about four in the afternoon. I packed a little bag, including the 9mm, and put on some particularly geeky clothes. Why? Because I enjoy intimidating people as much as Thug #1. Instead of relying on my bloodthirsty nature and propensity for violence (both of which are pretty understated, outside of Halo 3) though, I wore a threadbare MIT t-shirt under a CalTech varsity jacket. I hadn't attended either school, but that didn't matter. I also grabbed one of my portable computers – a netbook, not a notebook – and stuffed it in a gym bag with a few other items. 

When I got downstairs Carla was enjoying driving the Jag around the block, and asked permission to drive us there. I agreed – I'm not one of those guys who must drive, even if it was my car. It gave me time to send a couple of helpful emails.

It only took ten minutes for Carla to pull us up behind one of the more disreputable apartment complexes on the bad side of town. There were ten or twelve people just lounging around the parking lot, and the moment I pulled up the silver Jag drew curious onlookers like flies to shit. Carla and I got out and she looked around sternly.

"Don't fuck with the ride," she warned.

"Yo! Peaches! Movin on up?" came a call from an onlooker.

"Driving over your toes, if you touch this car, Toby," she called back. "I'm serious."

"Is it in any danger?" I asked, once we were walking in and out of earshot of the rest of the crowd.

"Shouldn't be," she shrugged. "A lot depends on who's alive at the end of this . . . "

"Negotiation," I supplied. 

"Negotiation?" she asked, surprised. "I thought you were just giving me a ride?"

"I told the man I'd deliver you, and that's what I'm doing," I assured her.

"I appreciate it, Coop," she sighed. "I'm in big trouble. This won't help much, but—"

"Don't sweat it. Let me do the talking. Got it?"

"I really wish you wouldn't put yourself—"

"Got it?" I repeated, pointedly, as a large shirtless negro with tons of prison tattoos smiled and opened a door for us. 

"Got it," she agreed, meekly. "Hey, Windex!" she called and waved to a . . . denizen. He gave her a crooked grin and waved back. 

"Hey Peaches," he said in a squeaky Mike Tyson voice. "Bill's been looking for you."

"Oh, I know," she agreed. "He sent Tyler and Giggles for me. I got the message."

"He's real pissed," Windex said, warningly.

"I know," Carla sighed. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry."

"Just watch your ass," he reminded. "You remember last time."

"You don't forget a thing like that," she agreed, grimly.

"What did he mean?" I asked, when we were out of earshot.

"Oh, Windex is on the thug squad that punishes the girls, if Bill isn't happy with them. He's got a cock as big as a Buick. Nice guy, but he really gets off on anal. Especially with white girls. Then he feels bad about it afterwards – but that doesn't stop him from lining up the next time around."

I nodded, trying hard not to visualize that while we were led in to see Bill – or Fireball, Jr., as he was professionally known. 

Fireball and his bodyguards were sitting in front of a massive plasma TV that cost more than the monthly rent on the apartment, and had that fresh, just-been-stolen look. So did the Wii they were playing with. Of course they didn't stop playing when I came in, so I stood their patiently for a while, while they let the aggregate accumulation of thuggishness try to intimidate me.

"You aren't breaking your wrist right," I finally said, when one of the massive dudes screwed up the game for the third time in a row. "Try bending it slightly to the left when it comes down, and then . . . flick," I said, pantomiming.

"Who let the white boy in here?" demanded the player I'd been critiquing.

"Hey, Peaches," one of the guys on the couch said. "Tyler and Giggles said they found you." 

"Yeah, Bill, they did," she conceded. So this was Bill the Pimp, aka Fireball Junior. Not quite what I expected. He was slightly built, but well-muscled, and he wasn't quite dressed like a thug. More like a slightly thuggy college student on an extended break. Decent looking guy, but his eyes were hard – criminal hard. And his thick jaw made him look just like his Daddy.

I actually knew about Fireball, Sr. – he did a lot of real estate, back in the day, buying houses from his addicted customers when their cash ran out and flipping them. I saw him pull up to a real estate closing one time in a decrepit old pick-up truck, dressed in a stained wifebeater and smoking the stub of a cigar. He had parked in a loading zone and he was carrying a bag full of cash – small unmarked bills, I assumed. I was intrigued, and my lawyer at the time filled me in on him. 

Responsible for gambling and prostitution and the all-important crack trade in and around the local predominantly-black college, he was a local fella who had an old-fashioned sense of organized crime's place in the community. He regularly contributed extravagant sums to inner-city churches, who were too desperate for resources to always look carefully at their benefactors. He had thirteen children by seven different women, and he had put every one of them through college, many into professional careers. When the violent Jamaican gangs invaded town in the late 80s, he and his organization worked with the police to bring them down (and eliminate a competitor). Since then he had handed off most of his criminal enterprises to several of his sons. His oldest, Fireball Junior, had inherited a sizeable chunk. Certainly a man to be cautious around. You don't get a criminal nickname like Fireball for your pitching style.

"They also said you weren't willing to come home with them," he added, after some thought.

"That isn't exactly true," I interjected. "Your guys came and banged on my door at six o'clock in the morning. "Peaches and I had just crashed out – she was exhausted after that frat party. She was willing to hop up and come along, but I was pissed off at being woken up – and then your guy had to go and get rude and flash a gun in my home. So I politely asked them to leave, and told them I would deliver Peaches back here this afternoon. Which I've done," I concluded.

"Was she workin'?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"No, she was sleeping. She wanted a place to crash where she could actually get some sleep."

"She got a bed," he grunted. "You that rich dude she's been hittin' so much, lately?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "I've become a regular."

"Well, hate to tell you, but even the cuddle cost money, Jack," he muttered. "Can't have my ladies formin' romantic attachments off the clock. That don't pay no bills."




Geek's Revenge Ch. 08



"Bullshit," I said, calmly. "She was sleeping, that's all." Not strictly true, but close enough. 

Fireball raised his eyebrows and looked at me sharply. "You got some balls, little white boy," he said. I had to admire the professionalism with which he was trying to intimidate me. 

"Just sayin'," I shrugged. "But the reason I dropped her off is I wanted to discuss some business with you."

"You heard about the fresh girls?" he chuckled. "Yeah, you might want to sample some o' that. Make Peaches' pussy look like a dried up apricot." His entourage all laughed wolfishly at that, and Carla didn't move a muscle.

"No, actually, that's not what I'm interested in."

"Then what?" he asked, involved back in his video game.

"I want to buy out Carla's contract."

"What?" he asked, the eyebrows raised again. 

"She says she owes you. I want to buy out her debt."

Carla gasped. She hadn't known I was planning this.

"You crazy, white boy?" Fireball asked, amused.

"My name's Coop. And no, I'm not crazy. How much?"

"Why you want a worn-out nasty ol' pussy like that?" he asked. "We got fresher pussy. Oh – wait. No, no, you ain't . . . you ain't in love with this bitch, are you?"

"Nope," I said, shaking my head. "I want to hire her. Own her contract. I got work for her. So how much?"

"Why you need a whore?" he asked, handing his controller off to one of his boys and standing. He wasn't a big guy at all, a little on the short side. But he oozed intimidation. "You tired of payin' retail? Shit, just find you a dumb bitch white girlfriend. You got cash . . ."

"If I wanted a girlfriend, we wouldn't be talking. I want to retain her, free and clear of other encumbrances. She's going to work with me on some business deals."

"Bitch can't type," he said, counting off on one hand, "bitch can't use a computer. Bitch can barely use a phone."

"The bitch knows how to use her mouth and her cunt," I countered. "That's the part I need."

He considered a moment while his replacement at the console completely fucked up the game. I told him to flick. Idiot.

"Walk with me, white boy," he said, heading out of the room. Windex opened the door for him like magic, and he led me down a flight of rough concrete steps to a fire door. Carla followed submissively behind us.

Behind the door was a surprisingly neat and well-organized office, complete with a powerful new desktop and a couple of high-end laptops. There were three or four workstations set up, and a pretty young black girl was counting a pile of money and entering date into a spreadsheet. 

The chair in the middle was an elaborate executive chair in black leather, about twelve hundred bucks of CEO-grade ass cushioning. Fireball took the chair and spun around to face us, motioning me to have a seat in one of the other chairs. Carla started to take another when he stopped her.

"The bitch will stand," he said, commandingly. Carla swallowed and nodded. "So, what the fuck do you want her for?" he said, honestly curious. Suddenly he didn't seem like Fireball Junior the Pimp, but had become some guy named Bill who ran his own business. "I know you've got some development deals going—"

"She helped me close a deal on the Liberty Warehouse property," I volunteered, setting down my bag. "And I think she can be useful in a similar capacity in the future."

"Old man Foster finally sold?" he asked, a little startled. "Shit! Dad was after that place for years. Not for the warehouse, but the out-parcel across the street was next to a dry cleaners for a while. Foster wouldn't sell to a negro," Bill said, laughing. "Old money white folks are like that. How did you get him to sell?"

"Sent Peaches over for a blow-and-go, and told him that was me playing nice. Then she mentioned what might happen if I wasn't so nice. Had the papers the next morning."

"A blowjob?" Fireball asked, incredulous. "That's all it took?"

"Old money white folks don't get nearly the dick sucking they need," I explained. "I took a chance that he'd appreciate a little on the down low. But I got the papers. We break ground this Spring, if everything goes according to plan."

"What are you planning to do with the out-parcel?" he asked, innocently.

Honestly, I didn't know. It was a tiny half-acre sliver of gravel and wild shrubs left over when the City put the street through, back in the 1960s. It had been used as a kind of free-for-all parking lot for the farmer's market for years, but when they moved the market down the street to its new home people quit parking there. 

"Why?" I asked, warily. 

"Because you might not realize," he said, knowingly, "that my father still owns the property it abuts to the south. He bought that dry cleaner out when he retired, and always wanted to do something with it, but there wasn't enough parking. Maybe put in a barbecue joint, he's got a fondness for pork. We use the place every now and then, but it's been empty for almost ten years, now. City's on our ass about it."

"Well," I said, cautiously, "I'd have to talk to my partners about selling it, but . . ."

"Nah, nah, man, don't sell it," he urged. "Donate it. I can get my Daddy to deed the property to a church. Rev. Rich over at Mt. Moriah's been lookin' for a place to set up a permanent home for the Rib Joint. You know about the Rib Joint?"

Everybody in town knows about the Rib Joint. For the last fifty years or so, when the local predominantly black college has a home football game, Mt. Moriah Baptist Church sets up a big tent on the front lawn – right on the way to the stadium – and a bunch of volunteers spend hours grilling ribs and chicken, while the woman's outreach make traditional Southern side dishes in that special way that only old Southern ladies can pull off. The place was packed from morning to night, and was possibly the single-biggest fundraiser of any church in the area. The pork ribs were perfectly grilled, the sauce was a well-kept secret, and you never went away feeling like you overpaid for your meal. I'd driven out of my way several times to make it over there for the succulent, mouth-watering ribs myself. The idea of a permanent home to that venerable institution – right across the street from my future offices – set my own mouth to watering.

It's a Southern thing, ribs. If you aren't from here . . . well, you won't understand.

"Yeah," I nodded, reverently. "You can get the Rib Joint?" 

"Not without adequate parking," Bill pointed out. "But if we both donated the land to the church, we can both take a write-off, plus qualify for a couple of different public-private tax incentives the City is offering for community development."

"What about zoning?" I asked, imagining a vital business across the street, instead of a vacant building. "That space is zoned commercial, not restaurant."

"Ain't no big thing," he shrugged, twisting his chair back and forth idly. "Religious organizations fall under a slightly different zoning category in general, which, if I recall correctly, includes a great deal of latitude about just what constitutes a church-run enterprise as opposed to a for-profit commercial enterprise – that way they can zone daycare and senior centers into existing church property without having to get a variance every time someone wants to open a soup kitchen in a church basement."

"Interesting," I nodded. "I'll bring it up with my partners. They were considering the space for future development, or overflow parking—"

"Which is why a land donation to the church would be a wise move," he interrupted. "Selling the parcel out-right would incur plenty of costs up-front, not to mention losing control of future development issues on the property. This way, you can lease back the parking rights during off-peak hours for a nominal fee, a low-cost alternative to maintaining the tax and insurance liability of the space. Take the deduction on the front end, pocket the City money, keep limited use of the space: win, win, win. Plus, it would be outstanding for community relations," he added.

"So what's in it for you?" I asked. Pimps and drug dealers rarely act out of a sense of community involvement. At least on television.

"Oh, we'd be unloading a property tax sink-hole," he admitted. "Rev. Rich is a big client of Daddy's, and he'd owe us big for that."

"That can't be all," I said, shaking my head.

"Let's just say that it would be best if no unfriendly parties had a hand in the restoration of the place," he said, carefully, after a moment's thought. "Plus the improvement in the property, in addition to the Liberty Warehouse development, would raise the median property value in the district by at least thirty points. We own or have interest about six parcels within two blocks of there, which would net us an increase in value of close to three hundred grand, should we choose to re-amortize or sell on a future open market."

I blinked. "You went to business school, didn't you?"

"Got an MBA," he said, proudly. "Graduated in the top ten percent."

My turn to raise an eyebrow. "Then why aren't you . . .?"

"Picking up a six figure corporate salary and driving a Beamer to work?" he chuckled. "I made more than four million, off-books, last year. That's personal, not family business. I got the cars. I got the women. I got the money. I got the house. And I just love the casual dress code," he said, picking at his t-shirt. "You can't buy that kind of security in corporate America. I figure I got five more years sellin' blow and rentin' ho's, then I can retire and work on my stock portfolio."

"That's an intriguing strategy," I conceded.

"Will you two quit the mutual jerk-off session and get back to the whole selling my ass part?" Carla finally burst out. We both looked at her sharply.

"Shut up, bitch," Fireball said, Bill momentarily absent from his features. "We're talking man-talk."

"About selling her ass," I sighed. "How much? The whole thing, too, not just . . . limited use of the space."

"Kiki?" he said to the young woman counting money. "How much Peaches owe?" The young woman looked up, then off into space a moment. 

"Ten thousand, nine hundred and eleven," she said, figuring it out in her head. 

"That's how much," Fireball agreed. "You pay the dough, the ho is free to go. But I don't think it's a wise investment. Carla, she flaky."

"She's a coke whore," I said, flatly. "I'm aware of that."

"You got the money?" he asked, shaking his head doubtfully. "Or I can do check or credit card. In good faith, understand."

"Cash," I agreed, pulling out my bag. I counted out ten thousand in one-hundred dollar bills, then glanced at Carla and counted out another five grand.

If Carla's eyes were as wide as dinner plates, Fireball seemed to take everything in stride – until I went past the agreed-upon price.

"I know I'm a good negotiator," he said, "but fifteen grand for a ten-grand whore is just takin' advantage of a white boy."

"The change is for a few things. A couple of eight-balls for Carla – I'll take those when I go. The rest is for insurance."

"Insurance?" he asked, curious. "Whore insurance?"

"Carla insurance," I corrected. "If she gets out of line, her contract temporarily reverts back to you for . . . corrective purposes. Consider it outsourcing my training program."

Fireball chuckled amiably. "I like your style, Coop. Very well – bitch gets out of line, we go get her and put her back into line – with a slightly enlarged and inflamed sphincter." Carla shuddered visibly. "Other than that, she's yours. Kiki? Gimme a double eight," he said, and within five seconds two small bags of cocaine were laid in front of him. "Kiki's my little sister. She runs my books."

"She has an MBA, too?"

"Nah, nah, just a CPA. But she keeps me straight with Daddy. Kiki, say hello to the white boy."

"Hey, Coop," she said, casually. "I know you, actually. I was two grades behind you in high school. I remember you. Smart," she said, with a nod of satisfaction. "I like smart white boys."

"I remember you, now!" I said, snapping my fingers. "Only it wasn't Kiki, it was—"

"Claudia!" Bill and Kiki groaned at the same time. "My momma and her stupid Latin names . . ."

We chatted back and forth a bit about high school, mutual acquaintances, etc. Carla was quiet throughout the whole thing – Claudia had been a bit of a nerd herself, back in the day, although you'd never know it by looking at her now. I'm sure Carla didn't want to remind us both she was a bitchy cheerleader, back then, so she kept her mouth shut.

"So!" Fireball clapped, after he had counted the money into a bank bag and Kiki had set up an "account" with the code word "Geeky White Boy" for me in their system. "I know you just bought a whore, but . . . feel like a blowjob on the house?" he asked, expectantly.

I was confused, and he saw it and clarified. "Not Peaches' tired old mouth – let me get those two new ho's down here and suck us off real quick. You game?"

I shrugged. Who doesn't want a free blowjob from a freshly broke-in whore? "Sure, why not? To seal the deal," I reasoned.

"Kiki, it gonna piss you off we get freaky in here?" Bill asked his sister respectfully. She didn't even look up from her monitor. 

"Nah, it's your office. I'm good, y'all go ahead." 

Bill nodded and then stuck his head outside the door and hollered upstairs. Carla just stared at me in shock. 

"Here they come!" Bill said, excitedly, as he ushered in two young girls, no more than a few months over eighteen. They looked artificially excited and had the glazed and hazed look in their eye that told me they'd just "powdered their nose."

"Dude, this is Babygirl," he said, introducing a slightly plump brunette with sexy dark eyes and medium sized boobs, "and this is Ellie Mae," he said, offering a buxom blonde whose hair was done up in long braids, and she wore a tight tank top and Daisy Dukes. She looked like a coked-up slutty version of the Clampett girl on TV. "So which one you wanna try?"

Decisions, decisions! "Let me take Babygirl," I decided, finally. "You know how to suck a cock, honey?"

"Since I was thirteen years old!" she agreed, automatically dropping to her knees while Fireball positioned Ellie Mae in front of his captain's chair. Both ladies dug our cocks out with a mixture of enthusiasm and giggles – I could see why they were so popular. By the time Babygirl's big soft lips and hot, wet mouth engulfed my cock head, I was happy to endorse their career path.

She began with an intense sucking on just the head, while her fingers toyed with my scrotum, all but ignoring my shaft. She included some welcoming moans and groans that felt magnificent, and her tongue danced slow, lazy circles around the glans until I was about squirming in my seat. She looked up lustily at me, re-adjusting her position so that she could get far more of me in her mouth. I looked up over her bobbing head at the sight of Fireball getting his wang eagerly sucked by Ellie Mae, his hands hanging on to her braids as he gave her instruction and verbal encouragement – this was as much a tutorial as a cum-break.

"Y'all crazy!" Kiki said, shaking her head amused. "You can't go five minutes without gettin' your dick sucked, Bill!"

"Perks!" he smiled, broadly. "Maybe if you got your cobwebs cleaned every now and then you—"

"Don't finish that sentence!" Kiki warned. "Y'all just go on and get your nut and let me work!" Despite her protests, however, I could see her stealing glances as me as Babygirl sucked me off so diligently. I was intrigued by that, even as I was spiraling closer and closer to exploding in Babygirl's mouth.

Carla didn't look very happy, despite her recent turn in fortune. I caught her eye and winked, and coaxed a blush from her while she watched, absently. 

"Oh, yeah!" Bill said lustily, as he forced Ellie Mae's head down on his cock faster and faster. "Oh, yeah! Suck it, bitch, suck it!"

"Nice!" I sighed, pulling Babygirl's lips down to the base of my dick by steering her bobbing head. "Very nice! Gonna blow – you'd better swallow, sweetie!" She made an affirmative-sounding noise in her throat, which was all the encouragement I needed. She grabbed the base of it with her fist and started a gentle rhythmic stroking that followed her lips closely. The extra pressure and friction was just too much – I grabbed her ears and pistoned her up and down, leaning back to lodge as much cock in her eighteen-year-old mouth as possible before I finally spewed a powerful load of sperm into it. Her mouth transformed to a tight vacuum as she swallowed down every droplet, her head not slowing much at all. When she sensed I was done she sat back on her heels and gave me a spermy smile, her hand still slowly stroking the last few drops out.

"Thank you!" she said with a satisfied sigh. "That was nice! You taste good!"

"Ah! Ah! Ah! AH!" Bill moaned, and cut loose with what was apparently a prodigious load across his new employee's tongue. She struggled a bit but swallowed it all, too, looking up self-consciously to see if she had pleased the boss adequately. Then she turned and gave Carla a bitchy little smile. I could see why she was sensitive about these new girls.

"Oh, man, thanks for that, Bill," I sighed as Babygirl put my cock away. "That hit the fucking spot! Before they go, though," I asked, as the girls rose, wiping their lips, "I'd like to hire one of them for a little job – on my account, if you don't mind."

"I'm in no mood to argue," he sighed, pleased with himself. "Whatcha want? Someone to lick your asshole?"

"Nah," I shook my head. "I want . . . Ellie Mae, I think. I want her to eat Carla out."

That took a moment to sink into the little blonde's head. Her face wrinkled into an unpleasant expression of disgust.

"No!" she protested. "I ain't no fuckin' dyke!"

"Bitch, you a dyke if I say you a dyke!" Bill asserted forcefully. "Man wants his bitch serviced – he's paid his money. Eat the bitch out!" he commanded.

"But . . . but . . ." Ellie Mae said, her lip quivering. "I'm not gay!" she said, miserably.

"What, you think all my clients got cocks?" Fireball asked, evilly. "Just wait until the students are back. You gonna get to know Dyke Park real well," he chuckled. "You gonna be ass deep in horny ol' cunt before you know it!"

"Yeah, just wait until the Berthas get you," Carla added with a snicker. "You're gonna fall to your knees and thank God for the next time some brotha wants to fuck you in the ass!"

"So get to lickin'!" Fireball repeated. "Now, bitch! Babygirl, you stay and watch. You'll find it . . . instructional."

Ellie Mae looked like she was about to burst into tears, but another stern look from Fireball and she slowly slid to her knees in front of Carla, who was silently gloating at the turn of events. She slid her skirt up her thighs slowly, until her panties were in clear view. Kiki had stopped even a pretense of working and turned around to watch.

Ellie Mae looked around for any kind of support, any reprieve at all – and found none. Bill glared at her. Kiki and I looked at her expectantly. Babygirl was fidgeting uncomfortably, but was quite unwilling to intervene. And Carla – Carla was eagerly anticipating the act. She tugged aside the crotch of her panties and hung her legs over the arms of the chair to give the prostitute protégé unrestricted access to her twat.

"Lick my pussy," she commanded with the same air of superiority she had used on countless nerdlings in High School. It was honestly the very first trace of the old Carla I'd seen since I first picked her up. "Lick it now, you stupid little bitch!"

With that she grabbed the back of Ellie Mae's blonde head and pulled it into her shaved snatch, while the younger girl squealed in protest. Carla was unrelenting, however, pushing the girl's head around until her mouth found just the right spot.




Geek's Revenge Ch. 08



"THERE you go," she sighed, lustfully. "Right there. Lick that clit, you stupid cunt, lick it, lick it until I fucking scream!" Ellie Mae squirmed uncomfortably, but Carla was relentless. The pretty teenager was forced to begin licking – grudgingly, at first, but she picked up the pace when Fireball swatted her protruding ass with his hand.

"Lick that bitch good!" he said, intently. "I wanna see her cum like she never came before!"

"But . . . she's nasty!" Ellie Mae protested, the first time she could break away. There were tears in her eyes. "She's a nasty old whore, and—"

That pushed Carla over the edge – she grabbed the teen's braids and yanked, hard, bringing her lips back into place. "Who are you calling 'old'?" she demanded. "Wait until some sixty-year-old lesbian decides to celebrate one night and you gotta eat every cunt in the room! Lick me – faster, damn it!"

"Maybe she'd be more attentive with a cock in her ass?" Kiki offered, helpfully. She was getting into this, I could tell. Ellie Mae squeaked loudly and redoubled her efforts. Carla was finally satisfied with the action, and sank down lower as the frightened teen sucked her pussy for the first time.

"That's better," she said, between gasps. "She needs practice, though, Bill – lots of practice. She might know dick, but she's . . . she's . . . she's lousy at pussy."

"Oh, we got ways to fix that," Fireball assured her. "But it's good to know. For quality assurance purposes."

"Am I gonna have to . . . do that too?" Babygirl whispered to no one in particular.

"Yep," Kiki agreed. "Lots. The old dykes, they good customers. You never ate pussy before?" she asked, surprised.

"Not . . . not seriously," Babygirl admitted, her dark eyes flitting to the floor and staying there.

"Well, hell! Bill, what kinda crappy ho's is these?" she demanded. "Didn't you break 'em in proper?"

"They new!" Bill defended, intent on Ellie Mae's performance. "Only been on the payroll a week! You know that!"

"Well, we can't send 'em out untrained!" Kiki protested. "We gonna fuck up our rep!"

"Well, make the bitch eat you, then!" he complained. "Shit! I gotta do all the thinking around here?"

"Yeah, let me know when that happens," Kiki said, rolling her eyes. Then she tugged on Babygirl's hand. "Honey, why don't you come down here and I'll show you the ropes?" she said, softly. "It won't be that bad . . ."

"Yeah, sure," Babygirl said, uncertainly, looking down to wear Ellie Mae struggled with Carla's insistent demands. The blonde was working furiously, tears rolling down her cheeks as she unwillingly buried her face into Carla's overworked pussy, her eyes shut tightly against the humiliation of the occasion. I had to admit, it was highly erotic, especially the way Ellie's big tits were pressed up against the chair and the way her denim-clad ass protruded. I could feel my hard-on stirring back to life already.

To make life worse for my dick, Kiki stood up and shucked off her jeans and panties and then sat back in her chair, legs spread lewdly. "I don't usually take advantage of these . . . perks," she admitted. "But damn, watching that ho suck your cock, it made me wet as hell!"

I nodded silently in gratitude, as babygirl took her place on the floor between Kiki's smooth brown thighs. Her bush was dark and neatly trimmed, and she was visibly aroused, I saw, before Babygirl's face eclipsed the sight. 

I raised my eyebrows again. "You have a very pretty pussy, if you don't mind me saying," I said, respectfully.

"Why, thank you, Coop!" she said, brightly. "Don't get to use it much. I got bad taste in men. That's it, little girl," she cooed, as Babygirl took a few tentative licks. "Oh, yeah, that's pretty good for a white girl . . . lick it up and down, just like . . . that . . . and then . . . yeah, that's the clit . . . hit that a while – I'll let you know when you can stop . . ."

Such gentle encouragement was very different from Carla, who was forcing poor Ellie Mae's face down from her twat with both hands. "Lick my asshole, you stupid blonde bitch! Lick it! I wanna feel your tongue so far up my shitter that you can taste the cum from last night! Lick it, bitch, lick it!" she demanded, as she contorted in orgasm. 

Kiki was putting Babygirl through her paces, correcting her moves and directing her to suck and lick her for maximum pleasure. I stooped near her head so I could get a good look at the plump whore's mouth buried in the dark bush. "Is she doing a good job?" I whispered to Kiki.

"Oh, she shows promise," Kiki managed to say, in between gasps. "Oh, she could get good at this – will get good at this," she corrected. "Hey, Coop?" she whispered, as Bill moved in to push Ellie Mae's face deeper into Carla's spasming twat, "can I get your email and cell phone? For the records," she explained.

"Aw, you know you just want my phone number," I teased.

Kiki looked up at me, big sexy brown eyes wide with pleasure as the white girl busily ate her. "Would that be a problem?" she inquired, lightly. "You consider dating a sista?"

"I thought you said you had bad taste in men?" I reminded her. "What does that say about me?"

"Black men," she corrected. "White boys know how to treat a lady."

"Hey!" Bill protested.

"Tell me I'm wrong?" Kiki demanded. "You and your crew aren't exactly the poster-children for stable long-term relationships! Faster – just there, faster, little white girl!" she sang, as she approached orgasm.

Bill considered for a moment, then sighed. "Nah, you right," he admitted. "White boys are better at relationships. Brothas are better at fucking."

"Hey!" I protested. "I take issue with that statement!"

"You can fuck as good as a brotha?" he asked, skeptically.

"He's got some game, Bill," Carla admitted. "Left! Oh! Left you stupid cunt! Your other left! There! Finally, do I hafta draw you a fucking roadmap? There! Oh, shit! I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna . . ."

"Me too!" mewed Kiki, as she pulled Babygirl's face deeper into her twat. "Me fuckin' . . . too! Waaaaaa. . . . waaa . . . unh . . . unh . . . yessssssssss!"

Bill looked up at me as his sister and his former whore reached climax about the same time, and he gave me the biggest shit-eating grin. "Yeah, it might not be a corner office and the executive washroom," he sighed, happily, "but this job has definitely got its up-side."

"You make a compelling argument," I agreed with a sigh, looking forward to fucking the shit out of Carla when I got home.