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Heat coiled in my belly, tight and demanding. Slamming my purple starfish backward, he found his mark, pushing deep inside my vagina. I focused on him, on giving, on taking. Our rhythm built, fast, and frantic. He was close; I was, too, driven by a craving that was never quite sated.
"Oh God," he breathed out, his body slapping against the partition hard enough to shake it.
"Come for me," I urged, squeezing my walls and releasing as if I were kneading. Hard, soft, hard, soft.
And he did, with a shuddering release and a groan that echoed in the small space. I listened to his panting slow, and felt his cock shrink to the size of a small Vienna sausage. A flush of satisfaction swept over me tinged with the familiar ache of emptiness. It was always this way—the rush, the high, and then the quiet where whispers of what I truly wanted tiptoed around my consciousness.
"Thanks," he murmured, zipping up his pants.
"Anytime," I said, though we both knew there wouldn't be another time. Not with each other.
The clang of the other door signaled it closing, and I was left alone. I smoothed down my skirt, my hands steady now. The thrill was gone. I didn't get to come, but that's okay. The Weinermeister waited for me at home, stuck on my shower wall.
For now, I'd take the temporary fix, the semblance of intimacy. It was enough to get me through the night, enough until the next time I would return to this place of yeast-addled seats and cum stained walls.
I zipped up my jacket, the brisk air nipping at my cheeks as I left the dimly lit anonymity behind. At 29, I had perfected the art of secrecy. A phone sex worker. A purveyor of glory holes. A lonely dork.
Back home, I sank into the plush comfort of my couch. "Angel Sinclair," I muttered, rolling the persona around my tongue, tasting the success it brought me. But Agatha? She was still searching. Searching for something genuine amidst the performances, for someone who wanted to know the woman behind the voice.
My fingers traced the spines of my comic books lined neatly on the shelf. They didn't care about Agatha's stumbling words or awkward laughs. The men on the other end of the line, their scrotums heavy with desire for Angel, had no idea who I was or what I even looked like. Yet they paid me money so they could spray their chests with their baby batter. And that money fed my comic book obsession.
A girl can't complain when all her needs are met... could she?
