8

Alizeh

A few weeks later, I sit in the kitchen at the Lodge, happily eating a bowl of Chex topped with sliced pickles. My friend June comes sauntering in.

“Hungry?” she asks, her eyebrows lifting at my odd snack. “It’s 3 p.m.”

“I know,” I say, crunching blissfully into another spoonful of Chex. “But this is the best snack, I swear. You should try it sometime.”

She shoots me another curious look before opening the door to the freezer. Icy air blasts out, and she comes out with a rocket-shaped popsicle.

“You know,” she says, settling on the stool by me at the kitchen island. “I’d think you’re pregnant, eating a snack like that. Are you?”

I pause for a moment, shocked.

“No. I can’t be. I’ve been to all my doctor’s visits, and you know how they take care of us. I’m religiously taking the pill, so I don’t think so.”

“The pill fails sometimes,” says June, taking a lick of her popsicle. She’s a pretty girl. She’s curvy like me, but she has a goth air to her. Her hair is dyed jet black, and she’s got heavy eyeliner and rouged lips, along with a raggedy black crop top and a red plaid skirt. But it looks good. The entire look is that of a cyber-punk pixie fairy, and I’m sure her three men love it.

I shake my head.

“The pill is all chemicals. It can’t fail!”

June shakes her head.

“Everything has a failure rate,” she says darkly. “Have you been keeping a log of whom you’ve been with, and when?”

I nod. Usually, we keep a list of every trucker we’ve satisfied and enter the results in our shared mainframe. It’s not totally necessary, as the Lodge’s administration also tracks whom we’ve been with. But it’s a second layer of safety, as sometimes there are last minute changes.

The thing is that I haven’t been going on outcalls these past three weeks. After that sensuous night at the pool, Torrent and Trainor put in a request with administration so that I could get a temporary leave. Of course, when these requests go in, it’s usually for one purpose: because one of the truckers at the Lodge wants to get his fill of a young girl. Their request was readily granted, and I’ve been exclusive with Torrent and Trainor since.

It’s been wonderful. I practically live in their suite, rarely returning to my room. We eat meals together, and share stories about our past. At first, I thought things might be awkward, but the two men made me feel at ease.

“Excuse me?” I remarked the other day with a smile on my lips. “You like what on your bagels?”

“Lox,” says Torrent. “And tons of it.”

I scrunch my nose.

“Eeew, but don’t you think the sliced fish smells bad?”

Trainor shakes his head.

“No, not at all. Besides, we have you now, Alizeh. We’ll take one bite of lox, and then we’ll take one lick of this,” he says, putting a big hand on my pussy. “You’ll sweeten the lox for us.”

But that’s not exactly how it worked out. After breakfast, the two men took turns licking my pussy, and there was no lox involved whatsoever. Instead, I raised my knees, baring my sweet hole, and they pushed their tongues in, their big bodies within the vee of my legs. Of course, after getting their fill of my nectar, one ducked down and began to lick at my dark pucker. The thrill of having his mouth on me there made me come so hard that I lost consciousness for a moment. It was that good.

But that’s how life with the two men are. They mix pleasure with elements of mirth, and I find myself laughing so hard that tears come out of my eyes. But it’s more than just fun and games. We also talk about the sad things too. My dad, for example. They’ve assured me that no one remembers the story of Michael Marron and his heinous betrayal of the club. They assured me that it was probably just my imagination, and I’d worked myself into a tizzy. I hope they’re right.

But now, with June, what do I say? Unfortunately, my friend is very perceptive and she shoots me a sassy grin.

“Oh my god, you’re seeing someone, aren’t you? Out with it,” she demands.

I giggle.

“I am,” I acknowledge. “I haven’t been on a call in weeks now.”

She nods slowly.

“How do you feel? I know you used to enjoy outcalls.”

I think about it for a moment.

“I did enjoy outcalls,” I say. “But they were always so bland. Not that the truckers were puny or selfish or anything. It’s just that things were so vanilla all the time. We did missionary and doggie, and that was it. I felt like my experiences could never compare to yours.”

June lets out a peal of laughter while biting off the top part of her popsicle.

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