Currency - Ch. 06

"I'm sexy and I know it," droned twelve unconvincing voices belonging to people in wheelchairs.

Becky, the forty-ish but still far too perky leader of the State Hospital Rehabilitation Medical Center's (or SHROOM, as we called it) monthly support group, wasn't having it.

"Come on, let me hear you!" she cheered.

"I'm sexy and I know it!" yelled Lizzie, the twenty-five-year-old cute paraplegic girl sitting next to me, as eleven other apathetic voices grumbled.

I turned my head toward Lizzie and raised an eyebrow.

"I had to stop her somehow," Lizzie whispered back.

Lizzie was probably the only woman I could honestly say that I loved without having ulterior motives, and she was the only reason I bothered coming to these ridiculous support group meetings. She and I had been newly injured inpatients at the SHROOM six years ago. I was four years her senior in age and one week ahead of her in having a spinal cord injury. We were assigned to be roommates during the three weeks that our hospital stays overlapped.

We hit it off right away. Lizzie was nineteen, loud, sarcastic, seemingly unfiltered, and completely unafraid to tell the nursing staff to "fuck off." She demanded that her wheelchair be hot pink with sparkles and refused to eat anything the cafeteria served other than chicken nuggets and Cheerios. She wasn't thrilled about having a male roommate at first, but she quickly accepted the inevitable: that loss of dignity is the second casualty to loss of function and sensation.

While she posed a rough exterior during the day, our real bond formed well after lights-out. The night-shift nurses only interrupted our supposed sleep every few hours, leaving us alone with our thoughts. It was during those dark hours that I got to know the scared little girl beneath her bravado.

On her first night, I awoke to the sound of her crying. After telling me a few times to "mind my own damned business," she finally opened up about her fears. Could she ever go back to college? Could she live on her own? Meet a boy? Get married? Make it through life without shitting her pants on a regular basis?

Her fears were no different from my own, which I freely admitted in return. A side effect of losing your dignity is losing your shield. The truth of the matter was that we were just two scared kids, uncertain about our futures, fighting a losing battle with our bodies, and unable to trust anyone who wasn't in a similar situation. We spent nearly every waking and sleeping hour together, celebrating our minor triumphs and cursing our misfortunes. Eventually, late-night crying sessions turned into storytelling hours where we learned every detail of each other's lives.

While we shared a unique bond, Lizzie was also blessed with an extraordinarily cool family. Her parents and sister visited often, and I--and by extension, Jean--became surrogate family members to them. Her parents, wanting their daughters to forge their own distinct identities, took the novel approach of giving each the exact same name: Elizabeth. Legally, they were Elizabeth the First and Elizabeth the Second. Colloquially, they went by Beth, who was my age, and Lizzie. Between each other, the sisters often referred to each other simply as "One" and "Two."

When I was discharged, I vowed to keep in touch with Lizzie. At first, we talked on the phone weekly. Then it became monthly. Now, we used the SHROOM support group as an excuse to stay connected. We always dedicated an hour after the meeting's official end to roll over to the SHROOM's café and sip decaf while catching up.

Lizzie's sex life was similar to mine and dominated most of our discussions. She had discovered a love for giving head when she turned twenty, and with zero shame, she had sucked off nearly every guy she met. I was envious; pussy was so much harder for a guy in a chair to come by than a hard cock was for a young woman. We laughed and teased each other like two horny young fools who had nothing left to hide.

After Becky's sex talk--which imparted zero new information to the faithful--Lizzie and I met at our usual table in the café. We had already dissected my disastrous arrangement with Carrie, and I told her about my confusion over Daphne's emotional breakdown. She enjoyed the story, but offered no insight as to what might have triggered Daphne's reaction.

"Women," she sighed. "Men don't understand us, and neither do we."

"So how many hearts have you broken since last month?" I asked.

"Just my own, as usual. Eight blowjobs spread between three guys. Not a single date that didn't take place on my living room sofa."

"Impressive resume, though."

"Why do we do this to ourselves, Phil? Are we just trying to prove what Becky says? That we're sexy and we know it?"

"I think I just like pussy," I confessed.

"Want to eat mine?"

It wasn't her first offer, and it wasn't even a real request. She was making a point.

"You know I don't, and you know I would."

"Come on, I want the full thing." This was well-rehearsed territory for us.

"One, you're too good a friend. Two, you wouldn't feel it anyway. And no, I don't want you to suck my dick."

"So you care about feelings, huh? Physical sensations and emotional feelings?"

"You know I do."

"So friends can't be lovers?"

"Not if they can't get each other off."

"So if you could get me off, you'd date me?" I knew she was just fucking with me.

"In a heartbeat."

"Wow, that's a change. What happened to you?"

"I think I realized that I prefer women I can actually talk to."

"And can get off?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds like a great personal ad."

"Ha, ha. So what has all your cock-sucking gotten you, other than hurt?"

"Cheap thrills and unrealized hope."

"In another universe, we would be scorching lovers."

"Tell me about it."

We sat in silence, looking at each other, thinking about every possibility that could and couldn't exist in the metaverse.

"Two!"

It was Beth--Elizabeth the First--arriving to drive Lizzie home.

"One," Lizzie responded automatically.

"Hey, Beth, how's life?" I asked.

"Better than it is for you two sad sacks." The Elizabeths shared more than just a name.

"Who are you calling sad?" I quipped.

"Phil, you know I'm an estate liquidator. I spend every day digging through people's rummage. I can spot a sad sack a mile away."

"Touché."

"Ready to get out of here, Two?"

"Yeah, go get the car ready. I'll be there in a minute." Lizzie looked back at me as Beth walked toward the exit. "Hey, just don't wait until next month, okay? I miss talking to you. And we're both way too self-destructive to go that long alone."

"I'll call you when I hit rock bottom. Shouldn't be long."

Lizzie gave her knowing smile and rolled away. I finished my decaf and waited for my ride from Dude.

The next morning, my phone buzzed before Dude even had me ready for work.

"Phil. It's Monica. Planning something and could use your help. Call."

Monica, the attorney? Had she forgotten a piece of my dignity and wanted an excuse to crush whatever little remained? Planning something she needed my help with? I was curious, but certainly not eager. She could wait until after work.

Work was uneventful--no climate storms on anyone significant's horizon. Had I not been obsessed with Monica's text, I might have had a peaceful day. What did she want? A quadriplegic's opinion on some personal injury suit? Or did she want my tongue back between her legs?

That wasn't happening.

I got home at 5:45 and called her back.

"It's Monica."

"Phil. What's up?" I tried to sound thoroughly disinterested.

"Alright, let me cut to the chase," she said, her voice brisk with the faint sound of paper shuffling in the background. "I'm organizing a high-end bachelorette party for a high-profile client. Private penthouse suite. We're looking for discreet, elite entertainment, and I remembered your specific skill set. Interested?"

"You want me to go down on a bridal party?"

"That's the gist. I'm booking a luxury suite at the Hyatt. I've found a wide massage table equipped with leather restraints. Blindfolds and sensory deprivation. You go down on each of them in rapid succession and rock their worlds. After all three are finished, the blindfolds come off. I'll pay you five thousand dollars cash."

Five thousand dollars to eat out three horny, blindfolded, and restrained women? Holy fuck.

My lofty conversation with Lizzie about "finding women I could actually talk to" evaporated like mist in a hurricane.

"Any pertinent information you're leaving out?" I asked, keeping my guard up. "No sneaky lawyer tricks?"

"None. I've pre-vetted the group. They're all attractive, late twenties to early thirties. The bride is Black, but I don't peg you as a racist."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Next Saturday. 6:00 p. m. at the Hyatt," Monica instructed. "Better yet, come at 10:00 a. m. so I can walk you through the space and we can make any physical adjustments for your chair."

"Are you being 'serviced' as well?"

"No. I'm directing traffic. Getting them on and off the table, enforcing the rules, serving drinks, and enjoying the show."

Fuck. I was a helpless slave to my own desires. It was an offer my ego couldn't refuse.

"Alright. I'm in."

"Great. See you Saturday morning. I'll Venmo you a deposit, and the remainder upon completion."

The line went dead.

I set my phone down, staring at the wall. Five grand, three blindfolded women, and total anonymity. I was officially stepping into the deep end.

I set out to keep this arrangement to myself. It was difficult enough to justify to myself, much less to others. The five grand provided some cover, but it came with its own existential questions. Was I a sex worker now? I was at least glad the language had evolved--calling myself a prostitute or a gigolo might have been too much for my ego to handle.

A few days later, $1,000 showed up in my Venmo balance with the discreet memo: Consulting Retainer. With eight days left, the arrangement was now contractual. My role had been reversed. No longer was my tongue the currency used to buy pussy; I was the appliance being purchased with actual dollars.

For that kind of money, I figured I had better do my homework. As a scientist, I read up on the relevant literature. How did sensory deprivation affect arousal? How would three women in the same room influence one another? What dynamics existed within a bridal party? And what did I know about going down on a Black woman? The honest answer was: nothing. I'd never been with one. It was an odd realization. I thought of myself as pretty open-minded, but being a minority myself hadn't magically made me curious about everyone else's experience. Apparently, I could still carry assumptions I had never bothered to examine.

As the workweek dragged on, I looked for signs from the universe in climate patterns. It was uncharacteristically uneventful, save for a few minor storms far out in the South Pacific. If a storm hits an isolated island and nobody is there to record it, does it cause destruction? Perhaps only to the scientist modeling it. I could barely eat lunch without my mind wandering back to pussy, and God help me if anyone at the office made a passing reference to weddings, bridesmaids, or bachelorette parties.

Dude eyed me with increasing suspicion during our morning routines, offering me far more than his usual share of weed, but I remained steadfast. The captain might go down with his ship, but he wasn't dragging his crew down with him. I deflected, stayed quiet, and flatly denied that anything was on my mind. I even threw "inconceivable" at him when he too explicitly asked if I was hiding something.

"You keep using that word," Dude muttered, blowing a thick haze of smoke past my face as he lowered the lift. "I do not think it means what you think it means."

Nonetheless, Saturday morning arrived with all the nervous adrenaline, tension, and promise I had anticipated. I took the accessible city bus to the Hyatt for my 10:00 a. m. logistical assessment with Monica.

Monica sat in the lobby sipping a coffee, typing away on her laptop. The sight of her made me cringe slightly. I remembered the distinct flavors and folds of her femininity, but I also remembered her systematic dismantling of my arrangement with Carrie--and of my own sense of self. If the universe truly guided my life's journey, it had a sick sense of humor.

"Phil," she said, barely looking up from her screen. "Punctual as always."

"You get what you pay for." I could play it cold, too.

"Your fee is coming directly from me. I was given a budget to work with, and I believe you can provide the party with the entertainment they crave."

"They won't be disappointed. Just as you weren't."

"Surely you're not still angry about how our rendezvous ended?"

"I've moved on." We exchanged a brief glance that conveyed the absolute fact that I had not.

"Right. Well, follow me. I'll show you the setup and explain the evening's protocol." She walked toward the elevator, with me rolling along behind her tight, tailored pants.

The elevator opened directly into a luxury suite--a quiet reminder of how far out of my league I was. It featured a sprawling open room with plush sofas, chic artwork, and carefully positioned end tables. Off to the side was an adjoining kitchen with a fully stocked bar and upside-down wine glasses hanging from an overhead rack. Down a short hallway at the far end sat bedrooms and a master bath.

"This is where we'll start," Monica explained, gesturing around the main room. "After a spa day, I'll lead the party here where we'll relax and sip champagne. Then the entertainment begins. I'll instruct them to disrobe, slip into matching silk robes, and put on their blindfolds. I'll explain the concept of sensory deprivation, then lead the bride into the lounge. The other two will follow in a line behind her, hands resting on the shoulders of the woman ahead."

Monica led me into the lounge area. It was another large, high-end room, partially secluded from the main suite by a heavy door. Inside sat a plush sofa against each side wall, a table stocked with towels and a pitcher of water near the back, and, dead center, a full massage table much like my own--only far more luxurious, with padded frame bars along the sides.

Attached to those bars were padded leather straps clearly designed to function as restraints. The table, the side rails, and the cradled headrest were all fully adjustable. I was a bit envious; my own carefully crafted setup paled in comparison to what Monica had put together for a single night's work.

"Is this something you can work with?" Monica asked.

"It's impressive. Care to model it?"

She gave me a distrustful look, but effortlessly hopped onto the table. She demonstrated how their wrists would be secured to the side rails, then bent her knees, spread her legs, and showed how the ankle cuffs functioned.

"The table is a little low," I noted. "Can it be raised?"

She hopped down, adjusted the hydraulic lift, and got back into position. I stared at her crotch, framed by her tight black slacks. I rolled forward into position and leaned in.

"Let's keep the legs spread, but extend them a bit straighter," I instructed, feeling like an engineer fine-tuning high-end machinery.

Monica made the adjustment and settled into the pose. I moved into position again, leaned forward, and pressed my closed mouth firmly against the fabric over her crotch.

Her breath hitched. "Watch it," she murmured, her voice tight. "I cannot be distracted."

Ha. Got her.

"I think it's going to work perfectly," I said, backing my chair up.

She stood up, looking slightly disheveled for a split second before quickly composing herself.

"A few final logistics," she said, smoothing down her blouse. "I want you here at 6:00 sharp. The bellboy will let you in through the service entrance. You'll come directly into this lounge and wait just inside the door, out of sight. I'll have the women back in the suite by 6:15. When they enter the lounge, you will remain completely silent. I'll seat them on the sofas, give them their instructions, and then we begin."

"Works for me. What should I know about the women themselves?"

She flipped her laptop open and folded it into tablet mode. "Yes, I was just getting to that." She glanced at her screen. "The bride goes first. Her name is Simone. She's thirty-one, wasn't raised with money but has plenty of it now, and is marrying into even more. She's a corporate PR director. Tall, Black, athletic, with strong, broad hips. Used to being the center of attention, but she'll secretly love being forced to surrender. Chloe is next. She's twenty-seven, white with auburn hair and cute freckles. A real wild child. She's the one who'll appeal most to your shallow tastes."

"Thanks."

"Then, third and last, is Val. Short for Valerie, the Maid of Honor. She's thirty-three, pale, with a blonde pixie cut, a sharp jawline, and long, lean legs. She'll probably think she's above this and view it as a cheap party trick. I'll enjoy watching her break."

"Sounds like someone I know."

"After Val gets off, I'll sit her with the others on the sofa. I'll tell them to remove their blindfolds, and they'll see you. You stay completely silent and let them process. You speak only if spoken to, and only with short, direct answers. Then you say goodbye and roll out. I'll Venmo you the remaining four thousand dollars. Any questions?"

"No. I'll make it worth every penny. See you at six."

The stage was set. There was no backing out now. Despite the internal voice trying to question my decision, my carnal desires were fully engaged. This had to be every man's dream--a bridal party, prime for the licking.

I could have gone home and sat alone with my thoughts, but it was a crisp, clear fall day. Instead, I dined alone at an outdoor café, took in a movie, and sat in the sun near a fountain until 5:45 p. m. when I returned to the Hyatt.

Let the games begin.

The bellboy led me to the suite and waited uncomfortably as I entered. Fuck, was I supposed to tip him? I didn't have a dime of cash on me.

"Sorry," I offered, tapping my armrest. "My partner will double up on you later."

He gave a tight nod and left. Thanks for the subtle reminder that I didn't belong in a four-thousand-dollar penthouse suite.

The main room was lavishly decorated--balloons, champagne chilling in silver ice buckets, delicate finger sandwiches, and the occasional phallic piece of novelty art. I navigated my chair into the secluded lounge as instructed, sitting in the quiet room as the air conditioning hummed.

A few minutes later, the elevator chimed, followed by the chatter of pampered women enjoying themselves. Monica popped a bottle of champagne, and I heard the soft applause as the party settled into the plush sectional in the main room.

Then Monica took the floor.

"Ladies," her voice carried crisp and commanding through the heavy door. "We have dined like royal courtesans and been pampered like queens. Now begins your real entertainment."

Nervous, excited giggles bubbled up.

"This evening, you will be treated to a most sensual experience--and to truly enhance it, you will be stripped of all distractions. In a moment, you will each disrobe completely. I will hand you a silk robe in exchange for your clothing. Then, you will be blindfolded with thick, high-grade mulberry silk. You will not remove it until I explicitly state that you may do so.

"Next, I will guide our bride into our secret chamber, and you will follow behind her, hands on the shoulders of the woman ahead. Once inside, I will seat you on the sofa. Then, one at a time--starting with our beautiful bride--I will guide you to the Queen's Throne. I will remove your robe, seat you, and secure your wrists and ankles with soft, padded leather restraints. Deprived of sight, movement, and control, you will be primed for a level of pleasure few women ever experience.

"You may make all the noise you want; this room is fully soundproof, and your screams of delight will only serve to arouse the rest of your party. When you have achieved ultimate satisfaction, I will unstrap you, help you to your feet, return your robe, and escort you to the resting sofa. Once you have all enjoyed the Throne, you will be permitted to remove your blindfolds. If there are no questions, finish your champagne and shed your clothes."

More nervous laughter drifted through the wall, accompanied by the soft rustle of silk as Monica distributed the robes.

"Take a final look at your surroundings--and each other--and then secure your blindfolds."

The laughter ceased. The ritual was beginning.

A moment later, the lounge door opened. Monica led the statuesque Simone into the room, followed by Chloe--a petite auburn-haired woman reaching up to touch Simone's shoulder--and Val, who looked cool and stoic at the tail end of the line. Monica seated Chloe and Val on the sofa to the left of the massage table, then closed and sealed the heavy door. Soft, atmospheric music began pulsing from hidden speakers.

"Simone, our bride-to-be," Monica instructed softly. "Rise and shed your robe."

Simone complied. Even in the dim ambient light, her body was stunning. She stood tall and regal, her micro-locs swept into an elegant updo, her full breasts high and firm. Long, toned legs led up to a neat triangle of dark pubic hair. She smelled faintly of rich cocoa butter and expensive spa oils.

Monica led her to the table, seating her on the padded edge before leaning her back onto the headrest.

"Monica, Monica... you really have gone all out," Simone murmured, her voice deep and rich.

Monica grabbed her wrists, pulling the padded leather straps tight over each.

"Am I under arrest?" Simone joked, a breathless laugh escaping her lips.

Monica moved to her legs, spreading them wide and securing her ankles in the pre-adjusted frame.

"The Queen has been captured," Simone announced to the room, trying to maintain her cocky composure. Silence followed, save for the soft music.

Monica looked over at me and gave a sharp, single nod.

The whir of my power chair caused all three women to tilt their heads toward the sound, blindfolded eyes searching the dark. I rolled smoothly between Simone's open legs, stopping right at the edge of the table. Click. My automatic brakes locked in.

Simone's vulva was gorgeous--full, warm, and swollen, her inner folds glistening slightly in the dim light. I leaned forward, breathing in her scent, and deliberately exhaled a warm puff of air right against her mound.

Her stomach tensed. "The Queen awaits," she said, her voice carrying a slight, nervous tremor now.

I extended my tongue to the bottom of her slit, pressed down firmly, and dragged a slow, heavy stroke north to the base of her clit.

"Oooh..." Her voice shattered.

I repeated the movement--firm, broad, and deliberate. A shaky moan echoed through the room. I slowly circled my tongue just inside her labia, tasting her natural arousal, memorizing her body's instant reactions. I pressed my face briefly into her soft pubic hair, taking a quiet moment to enjoy the velvet texture against my cheeks before sliding my mouth back down to lap loudly at her wetness--ensuring the sound carried straight across the room to Chloe and Val.

Simone bucked her hips, pulling hard against her wrist cuffs. From the corner of my eye, I saw Chloe gasp on the sofa, her knees pressing tightly together.

I gave Simone a few more rhythmic, warming circles to build the tension, then laid a long, broad stroke directly over her engorged clit.

"Oh fuck!" she cried out, her back arching completely off the table as she strained against the leather restraints.

I delivered a second firm stroke, and her composure vanished completely. I slowed the tempo, sliding my tongue back down her slit with light, teasing licks across her inner lips, giving her four delicate licks before striking her clit with a heavy, flat stroke on the fifth.

She grew louder with every second, crying out that her fiancé had better take lessons, until she bucked wildly against her ankle straps and screamed, "Oh Jesus Christ, don't stop!"

I didn't stop. I locked into a relentless, rhythmic rhythm that drove her howling over the edge. Her body shuddered, her inner muscles pulsing violently against my tongue as the climax ripped through her.

As her breathing slowed and her body went limp like gelatin, I pressed a gentle kiss to her sensitive folds, then laid a trail of soft kisses along her muscular inner thigh.

I backed my chair away slowly. On the sofa, Chloe was beet-red, one hand unconsciously pressed firm between her own legs.

Monica unbuckled Simone's restraints and helped her off the table.

"What... what was that?" Simone stammered, her voice breathless and thoroughly undone.

Monica pulled the silk robe over Simone's shoulders and guided her--still blindfolded and visibly trembling--to the sofa on the far side of the room.

Act One was an absolute triumph. Act Two was already waiting.

Monica knew how to play her role. Even the plush carpeting didn't keep Chloe from hearing Monica's exaggerated steps moving in her direction.

"The Queen is dead! Long live the Queen!" Monica announced.

Before Monica could even help her up, Chloe stood up from the sofa, shed her silk robe, and yelled, "Thank God! My turn for whatever that was all about!"

Chloe was, exactly as Monica had predicted, my type of woman. Curvy in all the right places, with perky breasts that rose and fell with each of her rapid breaths, and a full, neat bush of auburn hair. She didn't even have to spread her legs for me to witness her arousal--a glistening drop of clear fluid trailed down the inside of her soft thigh.

Monica helped her onto the massage table, still warm and slick from Simone, not that Chloe minded in the least. As soon as her hips hit the padding, she spread her legs wide, ready for the pleasure she knew awaited her.

"Patience," Monica said smoothly, gently taking her wrist and fastening it into the leather cuff. Chloe complied eagerly. Monica secured the other wrist as Chloe squirmed in anticipation, then locked each ankle into place.

Chloe bucked her hips upward against the frame, signaling her complete readiness.

"I don't know who this is or what he does, but he better have saved some of that magic for me!" Chloe called out to the room.

"Oh, you'll find out, dear girl," Simone offered from the resting sofa. "You're about to feel real, real good."

Chloe's anatomy was tight, plump, and fully primed. I rolled directly between her open knees, seeing her flinch slightly as my automatic brakes engaged with a sharp click.

I knew how badly she wanted her thrills, but I paused. I wanted the tension to build as she lay there, knowing I was inches away. To add to the mystery, I slid my forearms under her thighs and pressed my closed fists beneath her ass. Let her wonder what kind of creature held her with hands that remained tucked into fists.

The sensation jarred her. She wiggled her hips against my hands, practically begging for attention.

Then I broke the tension.

I went straight for her swollen clit, swiping it with two quick, firm strikes before wrapping my mouth around her hood and applying deep suction.

She shrieked. Her body jolted against the table as her back arched, her mouth gaping open. I made quick work of her, lapping and slurping her juices as she shook and cried out, flicking my tongue into every fold and crevice. I raised her hips slightly with my forearms, dipping my tongue lower to tease the sensitive skin near her rim, causing a violent spasm that made her yank hard against her wrist straps.

"Oh! Oh! Holy fuck!" she yelled as I slid my tongue back into her wet slit.

With another shriek and an even more violent spasm, I took her clit back into my mouth.

"Simone, I'm fucking coming! Oh my God!"

She was incredibly loud. Simone sat quietly under her blindfold, enjoying the invisible screams. Val tried her best to remain stoic on the far end, but I could see her long legs squeezing tightly together, her pale arms shivering.

I didn't stop after Chloe came. Overstimulation was her game. I stayed locked onto her clit, sucking and swiping relentlessly.

"It's too sensitive! It's too--oh, don't you ever fucking stop!" she screamed.

I gave her everything I had. My tongue danced over her center, and whenever she wasn't slamming her hips down into the pad, I dipped lower to remind her of my willingness to go even further down.

"Oh Jesus Christ! No one's ever done... Fuck!"

She tried to squeeze my head between her thighs, but the ankle restraints held her wide open. I swirled and circled across every sensitive inch. She didn't have a single favorite spot--she was hyper-sensitive everywhere, and she let the entire soundproof room know it.

I pressed my fists harder under her hips, wondering if she even cared about my lack of grip anymore. I drank in her fluids, letting everyone hear me swallow, then returned for a grand finale on her engorged center.

More wild bucking, shrieking, and breathless words I couldn't understand culminated in a massive, prolonged spasm that left her body so tense she couldn't catch her breath--before finally collapsing flat on her back. She cried, laughed, and babbled into the dark room until her breathing finally settled.

"I think... I think I just met God," she murmured in a normal voice. "And he has an incredible tongue."

I backed my chair away, noticing Chloe frown at the loss of contact. I wiped her juices from my mouth with the back of my hand while Monica unfastened the leather restraints. Chloe refused to put her silk robe back on, so Monica simply helped her to her feet and walked her over to sit beside Simone.

"Was that real?" Chloe whispered frantically to Simone.

"As real as real gets," Simone answered.

Act Two was complete. Valerie sat frozen on the opposite sofa, her hands gripping the edges of the cushions so tightly her knuckles were stark white. She was next--and she was terrified.

Monica poured Simone and Chloe each a fresh glass of water, then strode with purpose across the room toward Valerie.

"Your time has come," Monica said, extending a hand to help her up. "Think you can handle the pleasure?"

Valerie rose, following Monica's lead. "Please. It takes more than blindfolds, party games, and hippie music to get me off."

She unknotted her sash and let her midnight-blue robe drop to the floor. "Like what you see, mystery man?"

I certainly did. Long, lean legs, a crescent-moon tattoo near her hip bone, nearly flawless pale skin, and small, firm breasts. She was sleek and slender, as if sculpted by a Viking god, with a neat strip of light-gold pubic hair that matched her platinum pixie cut and sharp, angular face.

Monica guided her onto the massage table, but Val seemed to instinctively know her place even in the absence of sight. She offered her wrists to Monica, who strapped them down with a heavy click for each, then followed with her ankles. Val looked almost bored, save for the slightest tremble in her jaw.

I recalled Monica's desire to watch her break.

I rolled my chair between her spread legs and stopped with my usual metallic click. I saw a slight smirk on her lips and wondered if she thought she had me figured out. She smelled faintly of lavender, and her body was already betraying her stoic attitude with a glistening, reluctant dampness.

I leaned forward and inhaled deeply. I held my breath, then exhaled a long, warm stream of air directly over her mound.

"Monica, what the hell is this?" Val muttered.

I inhaled, held my breath, and exhaled over her again. She lay far too still for it to be convincing.

I pressed a soft kiss to her upper inner right thigh, then repeated the motion on her left. She remained motionless. Next, I dragged my tongue from her mid-thigh straight up toward her pelvis--and stopped cold.

A small, involuntary shiver ran through her frame. I repeated the exact line on her other thigh, followed by another warm exhale right over her clit.

She grimaced, her jaw tightening. "Playing games?"

I pressed my closed mouth directly against her center and simply held it there, feeling her heavy, rapid pulse beating against my lips. Then, I delivered an agonizingly slow tongue stroke from the bottom of her slit to just shy of her clit.

She shuddered. I started to repeat the stroke, but halfway up I faked her out, shifting course to press a firm kiss directly over the tattoo on her hip.

"Fuck..." she whispered.

I hovered a millimeter over her swollen clit, breathing warm air onto the exposed nerve endings, then slowly circled my tongue around her labia. So close, but zero relief. I brought my tongue back down her slit and slurped her juices loudly, making sure she--and everyone else in the room--knew I was tasting her mounting arousal. Another tantalizingly slow stroke followed, covering every sensitive inch except her clit.

"Oh, fuck... just do it," she muttered, squirming against her restraints.

"Just give in, Val," Simone called out from the far sofa. "It's going to be worth it."

"Shut up, Simone!"

I gave her the lightest, briefest touch of the tip of my tongue to her clit. She gasped, her stomach tensing. I slowly ran my tongue along the crease beneath her inner lips, then brushed her clit again with a fraction more pressure.

"Oh!"

I had her. We both knew it. But I wasn't going to fold yet. I kissed her wet slit, flicking my tongue lightly against her folds, then exhaled through my nose onto her center. Finally, I laid a single, long, gratifying, full-tongue stroke directly over her clit.

"Ahhh... oh, yes. Come on!"

I stopped. I waited for ten full seconds. The combination of total sensory deprivation and deliberate denial was driving her completely out of her mind.

After ten agonizing seconds of silence, I gave her another full, slow, heavy stroke. She gritted her teeth, her entire body rigid. I waited five seconds and did it again. She was so tense I thought she might burst a vein.

Then, I dropped all pretense.

I pressed my face hard against her mound, opened my mouth wide, and swiped her clit repeatedly before tightening my lips around her center to pull her in with deep, heavy suction.

"Oh God! Oh God, yes! Right there!"

She sobbed and wailed as her stoic composure disintegrated into dust. I hammered her with the hard, relentless strokes she so desperately craved. Her hips jolted up and slammed down into the padded table over and over as my tongue kept up its merciless pace, making her bellow even louder than Chloe had.

"It's okay, girl! Let it out!" Simone cheered.

Val's body convulsed in violent, spastic waves as tears leaked out from beneath her silk blindfold. She rode out the peak of her climax with a guttural, thunderous cry worthy of a battle-tested Viking warrior.

At long last, my tongue slowed. Her rigid body loosened, sinking limp and exhausted into the table padding. Just to round out the session, I blew one final, warm exhale against her sensitive clit, then sat back up.

Valerie lay there panting, her chest heaving. "Holy... fucking... Christ," she breathed into the quiet room. "Okay. You win."

Satisfied, I clicked my power chair into gear and backed slowly away. Monica stepped in, unfastened the leather restraints, and helped her slip her midnight-blue robe back on before guiding her to the sofa next to Chloe and handing her a glass of water.

"Told you," Chloe whispered with a giddy smirk.

Valerie was completely speechless.

Act Three was officially complete. Now, only the big reveal remained.

The three women sat on the sofa, blindfolded, satisfied, and awaiting Monica's instructions.

"Well, ladies, that completes the sensory portion of our evening," Monica announced. "Dinner reservations are at 8:30, but first... would you like to meet our mystery guest?"

"Hell yeah," Chloe blurted out.

"Indeed," Simone agreed.

"I would," Val added, her voice still quiet.

I rolled directly in front of them, stopping with my now-familiar metallic click.

"You may remove your blindfolds," Monica instructed.

They untied the silk masks eagerly, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the warm lounge light. Sitting before them was a twenty-nine-year-old quadriplegic in a power chair, his face still glistening slightly, giving them a calm, quiet smile.

Chloe's jaw dropped. Simone smiled--a slow, knowing look of recognition that the only other minority in the room possessed some unscripted, unrealized talents.

Val spoke first. "I recognized the click," she murmured, her sharp eyes scanning my frame. "My cousin has a Permobil... Jesus. Can he do all that?"

They all let out a soft, breathless laugh, and my smile widened slightly.

"You... can't feel anything below your chest?" Chloe asked, her round eyes wide.

"So you became a specialist with your tongue," Simone solved the puzzle, leaning back against the sofa cushions.

I gave a silent nod.

"Does he speak?" Chloe asked, immediately getting nudged in the ribs by Simone.

"He will," Monica interjected smoothly. "He's allowed if you ask him a direct question."

Allowed? I caught the phrasing, but let it slide.

"Who in the hell are you?" Chloe asked, still floating in disbelief.

"I'm just Phil."

"Just Phil... do you do this kind of thing a lot?" Simone asked.

"If you mean satisfy women, yes," I replied. "If you mean getting paid to do it in a hotel suite... this is a first."

"Well, if you ever need a reference, put me down," Val offered, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at her lips.

"Or a date," Chloe added.

"Or a thank-you note," Simone finished.

I nodded and smiled.

We sat in silence for a moment longer, all processing what had just transpired. I was no longer their mystery man. I was... who was I? A real man with skills? A party favor? How did they see me? I wasn't even sure how I saw myself, and going on past experience, I probably wouldn't see myself clearly anyway.

"Alright, ladies, let's get dressed," Monica instructed, clapping her hands together crisply. "I imagine you've worked up quite an appetite."

The women filed out toward the master bath to refresh--Val giving my shoulder a gentle pat as she passed, Chloe leaning down to press a quick, warm peck to my cheek, and Simone offering a quiet, deeply respectful "Thank you."

Then the door shut, leaving me alone with Monica.

"Well, Phil. You did exceptionally well."

"Did I earn my keep?"

"Indeed. Plus a five-hundred-dollar tip from Simone." She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen a few times, and held it up briefly. "Four thousand five hundred just hit your account."

I tried to smile, to feel grateful. The money was massive. The experience had been an absolute ego high. But she had given me my answer: I was, in fact, a party favor. A very expensive one.

"I had the bellboy hold the service elevator for you," Monica added, picking up her clutch. "Your accessible Uber is waiting at the side entrance downstairs."

"Monica..."

"Yes, Phil?"

I looked at her tailored blouse, her clinical posture, her total lack of emotional clutter.

"Nothing."

I put my chair in gear and rolled into the service elevator alone. In another world, or another lifetime, that ninety minutes might have been my proudest achievement. In this world, I descended along with the floor numbers on the digital display.

The driver opened the door and extended the lift for me, and I rolled inside. He strapped my chair to the floor, and we pulled out into the busy street. I rode home staring out the window at the blurred city lights, my body exhausted, my jaw aching, smelling like three different women's expensive body oils and natural sweat.

What the fuck had I just done? I wasn't using transactional dynamics to guard my heart anymore. I was literally selling my mouth as a commercial appliance.

Back in my quiet apartment, I sat in the dark watching people eat live bugs for money on television. Even they got paid better for their dignity. My throat felt tight, my chest hollow. I needed something. Someone to talk to--someone who knew the old Phil, who could look past the $5,500 in my bank account and absolve me of what I was turning into.

No, not absolve me. What had I done wrong? I had no shame in the enjoyment of eating pussy. I had no real moral qualms about being paid for it. In fact, I had everything I thought I had ever wanted. So why did I feel so empty?

I picked up my phone and called Carrie.