Page 10 of Marked By Feral Monsters
Finally, it's over. My pants are wet and uncomfortable. The guys are quiet. Everything smells of sticky, musky cum and sweet apple pie.
And, if I'm not mistaken, wet, delectable pussy.
Our mate is turned on.
Lily
The lower deck manager gave me a thorough tour of the surprisingly spacious little rooms beneath the tables, so I'm as prepared as can be. I mean, hell, I've spent the last two weeks poring over the monster pamphlet, just in case I had a request when I worked the main floor. I'm ready.
Or I should be.
But I gladly accepted Keely and Braden's pep talk because, without it, I might have chickened out. As it was, I had to force myself into the elevator, step by step, ignoring how the air chilled the deeper into The Monster Playhouse I descended.
I'm so nervous. Excited, but nervous. What if I'm not good at this? What if the client complains? "Who the fuck would complain about a blow job?" Braden pointed out earlier when I voiced my concerns.
"True," I'd muttered, but didn't feel overly confident.
Once I got my table assignment, I waited outside the door below their table, pacing. I checked the pamphlet again, then went online. I was told a group of werewolves would be my only clients tonight so I could take my time.
But I wanted to do a good job.
The lower deck is probably the eeriest of all the places I'd been inside the pleasure house. Where the main floor is bright and full of activity, and the staff rooms are cozy and lively, down here, everything is quiet. Each table has its own platform closed off in a private room. When you open the door, all you see are small boxes, called cages, each seat's own personal cubby, or, if the customer chooses, the cage door opens, and you see waiting legs.
I ended up with five male werewolves on my first assignment.
After twenty minutes of stalling, I acknowledge that I've pep-talked myself as much as possible, and it's time. The digital screen outside the private room reads, of the five seated, only two have requested services so far.
I was told that would most definitely change, and one customer could request multiple services. We got paid per person, per act, so even though only two were green-lit, I may end up doing as many as seven acts with a group this size, which is why I have all night and only them to please.
They came to the pleasure house for a reason, and I was determined to do a good job.
I type in the key code, unlock the door, and step inside. As if everything about my job wasn't strange enough, walking into a little room of lower bodies, thick jean-clad thighs, is a surrealexperience. Each person's seat has its own private cubby. Three are open, two closed, though I suspect the third will press the button and request pleasure by the time I'm through with his friends.
There's a small table in the corner with water, snacks and supplies. I can take as many breaks as I need, but I plan to just get through it and not let my nerves take over, so I step up to the first waiting male, as ready as I'll ever be.
My nerves are firing, hands are shaking, and I feel faintly nauseous, but I hold it down, and grit my teeth.
A small kneeling bench sits at the perfect height, one for each seat. There are stirrups, like a metal straddle, for the client's feet. Some already have their feet in place, but the one I approach first has his legs dangling. Braden's words come back to me: if I need to move their legs or adjust them in any way, my comfort is priority. So I wrap my hand around the jean-clad leg and guide the foot to the stirrup, to spread his knees wide.
His pants are already unbuckled, and I chuckle to myself. He's the only one who's done that. Eager thing, I muse. Laughing at the absurdity of it all helps calm my nerves.
With feigned confidence, I take a deep breath, then, with sure hands, I kneel on the stepstool in front of him and grip his boxers, shift them and pull out his cock, hoping he doesn't notice how my hands shake.
It springs up, nearly slapping the bottom edge of the partition. His hips jerk, pushing the jutting appendage toward me, and I clear my throat, trying to remain professional. This is the job, I remind myself.
It's just a job.
I repeat this in my head, even though I can feel myself getting wet. Because there is a beautiful golden cock in my face, the tip already glistening, and it's hard not to imagine that it's spilling just for me.
This is why the lower deck is perfect for me. I can't handle any more failures. Anonymity is what I need to take this next step, to prove to myself that I can do this. I mean, look at me! I'm so far out of my comfort zone, six-weeks-ago-Lily wouldn't even recognize me. Who even am I?
Holding this beautiful cock in my hand, a complete stranger, who has enough pre-cum to make me think he's already—wow, he's really turned on. The engorged tip turns purple, and it's shaking and strained.
He can't move, he's completely at my mercy, and his cock is begging for it. It's long and thick, with a strange knot, a bulbous shape at the base of his shaft. I've researched and researched, but there's nothing like seeing it in person.
A werewolf's knot swells inside their lover as they come. They like it squeezed nice and tight. I imagine what that must feel like inside me, swelling while I rock against him. Fuck, I need to concentrate.
I'm determined to be the best fucking lower-deck sex-worker this place has ever seen, so I slip back into professionalism, ignoring the slipperiness building between my legs, and pump a small amount of lube into my hand, wrap my hand around his cock, then tug. My heart is hammering, and I wonder if he can feel the pulse in my fingertips.
