Author’s note:  This is the epilogue for a new series, which may never make it to this site as it is rather different than my normal subject matter. This epilogue, however, hits the mark rather well.

“You’re not serious.”My Park Bench by Vince Alongi

Herman nodded with lips forming into a toothy smile. His balding head caught the shine of sunlight that camouflaged the light fringe of blonde hair he still had. “All the fetishes at once. Well, except the snow as we’d have to wait eight months. You agreed to this, Amber.” He halted at an iron bench with a dark wood seat. Pulling a towel out of his murse, he laid it on the bricks at his feet before sitting down to the squeaking complaint of the dark wood. The tiny iPod and speakers were set on the bench beside him.

“I’d have to charge more for snow.” This morning she had chosen the name Amber upon waking. It was a name she has used often enough. Funny thing about Cleopatra using her given name as a porn-stage name was that no one believed her. For the last ten years she picked a daily name for the inevitable question from the john as to what her real name was. It turned into a mental exercise of knowing the right time to respond to almost any name. For some consistency, she usually stuck to Amber, Amanda or Angel. Once, however, just to fuck with a john that had a particularly strong lisp she went with Cassiopeia. “This song isn’t about giving head at all.”

“I know what it’s about, but still want it during this tune.” His large belly covered in a drop-cloth of white t-shirt, lifted from the chuckle that escaped his gargantuan mouth.

Cleopatra was rather pleased this dude was not into kissing. He would likely swallow her whole. Her eyes glanced around the park.

For April, it was surprisingly green and warm. The bushes fringing it provided plenty of camouflage from the few passing motorists. At dawn, however, there were very few motorists and, luckily, no one in the park. One lonely tree stood just behind her, trying to hold on to its leaves in the breeze as it watched over her.

Last tree standing, Cleopatra thought. No idea what species it was, but it was a magnificent growth. Turning back to Herman, she considered complaining that good as the Barenaked Ladies were, Chicago’s “Saturday In the Park” seemed more appropriate. But this was Toronto and she was thankful she wasn’t going to be sucking him off to a Rush tune. Regardless, she wasn’t going too be falling in love with Herman by the end of the song. “Alright, clock is ticking.”

Lowering to her knees on the towel Herman had graciously laid out, she began searching for his red striped boarder-shorts zipper. To her dismay, there was none. Sitting back on her ankles, she watched as Herman stood and pulled his shorts down to half mast.

No underwear. “I really loved the blowjob you gave in Maniac Michelle.”

She wasn’t surprised at either point. At least Herman paid well. Not like he had a choice. Years back, her boyfriend had landed her an interview with a porn producer. Considering the money offered, her two-year career as a kindergarten teacher screamed to a halt. Within eighteen months she was one of the most sought-after faces in porn. This lasted a couple of years before her fans considered her vintage, rather than fresh. After five years and more than 300 porn videos under her garter belt, she went into semi-retirement. Now, seventeen years since the interview and sixteen since she booted out that boyfriend, she still was in fantastic shape and did one or two shoots a year. The real money, however, was the thousand dollars a pop she received turning tricks for her fans like this one. Two and three of these per week for ten years and she had  put aside a nice little nest egg and had planned retirement in three years for her forty-fifth birthday.

The shorts fell to ankles before he say back down. His white t-shirt, showing yellow strains forming under the arms, fluffed in the cool morning breeze revealing a belly button one could insert an entire fist into.

The breeze was enough to give Cleopatra, in her black miniskirt and red blouse, goosebumps on her exposed thighs and calves. There were certain times she wished she had stayed with the teaching, and that usually came when she felt cold. It then occurred to her what day it was and her smile grew. “The football draft is tonight, isn’t it?”

Herman’s brown eyes widened as this was obviously not a question he expected. After a moment of silence he responded, “Yeah, why?”

“No reason.” With a sigh, her eyes finally settled into the task at hand.

Not a bad sized cock. Average length, but impressive girth.

Lowering her head towards Herman’s erection she considered one advantage to this outdoor play. At least she wasn’t nauseated by his smell. As with most of her johns, mind wandered to pick from a variety of celebs to fantasize of while working. Some days it was Connery, other days Agassi, Clooney, Brosnan or even an occasional fantasy of “Weird Al” Yankovic or Brian May…she had an odd fetish for long dark curls. Today, however, she closed her eyes and imagined the cock belonged to Johnny Depp.

With image firmly planted in head, she opened her mouth and went to work.

Wicked Wednesday

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