UNTITLED #18 ("K")
I missed a train in London whilst trying to meet a friend. Because I had a longer wait at the station ahead of me I decided to write a short, smutty story on my phone, because it would pass the time and because I like writing something within the 3,000-character limit that my ancient phone's Note function provides me with (this is where my scorning of the paragraphic period comes in handy). I ended up with this
K, the emu, was busy at the Trainstation, clad in tight, brightly coloured rubber, today with red and black stripes and flamboyant ruffles at the waist and extremities. The display suited them, and certainly attracted clients, gloved hands presently slick with the bodily fluids of the husband-and-wife team paying for K to sit between and masturbate them. Even husbands and wives needed to pay for a little service now and again, K reasoned, and if the emu had regretted providing it they would never have worked at the Trainstation
The Trainstation was named because its customers passed through on the way to somewhere else. Or because it was a euphemism for somewhere a dick could unload, even though plenty customers had pussies. K was strictly hands and mouths, fucking wasn't in their contract. That was reserved for personal life. Which was not to say they didn't find pleasure in the job, masturbating furiously between clients through whatever feathertight rubber they were in that day until it clung to their body with their own fluids. The strict "no fucking" rule helped, putting the emu as ultimate boss of the situation. Some people liked to fuck whilst K watched them do it, and they were happy to oblige. Dicks, both real and gaudy toys of all sizes, pumping arse, cunt and mouth whilst the emu observed and masturbated as much to reassure them they were being watched as to cum themselves. Really K liked to feel them cumming in their hand or into their beak if they could however. The giving of pleasure was most pleasurable when it was hands on
The husband and wife were both naked, not dressed for fetishistic kicks as K was. They thought it a shame; the emu always enjoyed the rare client who came prepared with their own costumes whether it was leather or rubber or another. But then they were always on the way to somewhere else. Very few clients came specifically to the Trainstation. K wondered idly where each customer was going to, what they did and what they had to wear whilst they did it. The emu doubted they enjoyed it as much as they enjoyed the expanse of slick latex they wore every day. The Trainstation's business was far better, they felt, than any factory or boardroom. Far more fulfilling
The wife came first, K's fingers diving expertly into her sex and toying with her clit until she cried out, arm around the emu's shoulder for support. The husband followed quick enough, huffing and panting and soaking his belly in sperm. K licked them both clean, both for their own amusement and touting for a little more business, a little head to see them off. Sadly not this time. They made their excuses and dressed and peeled off a wad of notes and left, no doubt going to or from some social engagement that had required the skilled hands of someone like K to offset its tedium. No problem. There would be more custom soon enough after all, more women and men to lick and suck and stroke with gloved latex hands. The emu's very busy day was only just beginning