Booths

Hello. I'm going to be out of town for a while, so this place will be unattended for about ten days. Behave yourselves. I'll be back.



Drunk and stumbling home one night, the language around me fading from the one I’ve studied and felt that I have come to own, back to the bellowing and feminine gibberish that it was when I first arrived here, I heard the words “Come inside, sir,” in English, by an affable-looking barker in front of a blacked-out door. I went inside, in a hypnotic state brought on by the essential trustworthiness of one’s own language, the heft of the door unable to dissuade me. There was, of course, a short price list and a long list of don’ts, in several languages, the second of which was well-translated English.

Watch: €60
Participate: €100
Not Negotiable.

I glanced over the list of don’ts, which made me more comfortable, though I was hardly uncomfortable before, and handed over my credit card, an erection warming and tightening my pants.

They’d gone with a fin de siecle look, all red velvet and yellow mood lighting. Vinyl overstuffed chairs with well-hidden drains where buttons would have been. The few higher-tech items were cloaked as nickelodeon machines and large iron switches, needlessly solid buttons and time-machine ornate. It put one in mind of a cocktail, but I was there for the sex. I showed my receipt to a slyly good-looking man in a tailored white shirt and black pants. He nodded, letting his hair slide forward, and showed me to my curtain.

“You may watch until there is a vacancy, sir,” he said, in only the slightest accent. I almost teared up at the welcome, and entered the curtain humbled and flattered, grinning like I’d just gotten a love letter. He closed the curtain behind and left me in the beveled and etched confines of a two-way mirror and a vinyl chair.

Immediately, the vinyl still squeaking and settling under my ass, I felt that I’d wasted my money on the participation portion. I’d just simply never make it. I stood up again and resettled, the chair reclining, with my knees out, the better to manage the erection. In front of me, almost uncomfortably close, a man knelt, his pants loose and belt half out. Knees shook on either side of him, the pants that had once covered them in an accordion pile on the floor. The kneeling man bent over between them and bobbed, hugging one leg to his torso. The other arm occupied itself in front of him. The rest of the prostrate man was hidden behind a screen where muscular dryads and satyrs frolicked and fucked.

I got over the initial shock of the sight in a few seconds and glanced above me. Two monitors, both designed to look like portholes, showed the scene in front of me from different angles. The one on the left showed the man doing the work, the other the man enjoying its benefits. Each porthole had two buttons within easy reach. They were labeled in arching, serif script, “Above” and “Side.” I played with them absently, dazzling my eyes with the views provided, one man, hollow-cheeked and sweating, filling his mouth with the cock of the other and sliding it out, the other’s face distorted, fingers toying with his nipples, mouth open to thank whatever gods brought this down to him.

“Fuck,” I heard myself say, and white-knuckled the curtain behind me to keep my hands busy.

The man behind the screen, the view abandoned in “Side,” arched his back and began to writhe. He was about to come. The other man slowed his efforts and pulled the orgasm out of him sweetly, eyes watering with exertion. A light came on in the booth and flashed a yellow, low-tech announcement, “Position Available.” I ignored it. The man came in huge waves, his back snapping against his bench. The light pulsed more rapidly. A voice outside said, “Sir, there is a position available now.”

I inhaled deeply and said, “Okay.”

I was lead to a booth at the end of a hallway of the same length as the curtains outside. I would not be in the same booth as the one I watched. I was told to stand near the mirror. The screen was shut in front of me and I waited a few moments until a pair of legs and a medium-sized cock was presented to me, uncut, as the Europeans prefer. I spread his knees, knelt, took off my shirt and bent over it.

I felt a need to blow him away, to service him with skill and tenaciousness, to make him make sounds I’d never heard, loud enough to penetrate the other booths, so that they could be envious. I teased him for more time than was really necessary, sucked his balls with tickle and force, pushed him deep into my throat and held there until he’d just about given up. I wondered what he looked like, whether his face was as twisted as the one I’d seen just a few minutes before, if he was fighting to stay in it as long as possible. I wondered if we had a watcher, if he was passing time like me, or whether he was jerking off now, getting off on watching me. I trailed my tongue below my lips a few times just in case.

My own cock was branding my pants, working its way to my pockets, a seething, needy, whimpering thing, begging to be released and relieved. I sadistically made it wait, made it settle for whatever friction it could find in my underwear. It continued to bash my thoughts, but it didn’t know that things would only get better.

Then I heard him moan, the man behind the screen. I heard him growl and felt him kick. He got louder, and I glowed in it. I wanted them all to know I was the best. Everyone in the whole place. I wanted whoever was on the other side of that mirror to know it. He mumbled in the local tongue, my mind clear enough to hear it as if it were my own again, “That’s fucking good, fucking good, don’t stop.” His legs twitched and he settled into a guttural gush. My mouth froze and I gently licked his orgasm out of him, swishing along the tip. “Jesus!” he said. “Oh, Jesus!” And he locked under me, though I held him in place by the legs, my face riding him like a toboggan down an icy hill, my mouth filling with salty bitter.

When he stopped shaking, stopped tensing and shoving and his legs went limp in my arms, I let him slide out of my mouth and stood up, wiping my face and huffing. The legs slid away and I turned around, lifting my shirt to the mirror, so that the watcher could see what I had resisted.

I heard the door open and shut and soonafter the screen was pulled back, the dryads and satyrs fucking more thin before they disappeared, and the man who’d looked at my receipt appeared behind it. “Go through this door and wait until I open it, please,” he said. How this man survived this job without getting tackled and fucked by the clientele twice a day was beyond my understanding. He was suddenly aggressively good looking, and I was sorely tempted to grab his face and push it down as I walked past him, but I reminded myself that I was about to be relieved as it was.

Beyond the door was a room only large enough for a comfortable chair, and side table with a lamp and an ashtray. I sat in it and covered my face, wondering how long it would be, the ashtray, though I don’t smoke, tempting me to start.

It wasn’t long before the door was opened again and the beautiful employee lead me back into the room and exited. The screen had been replaced. I lay down on a vinyl but comfortable bench, slid my knees forward, and felt eager fingers on my cock through my pants. The erection returned full-force and I cried out the minute that it was freed, touched, and swallowed into a warm mouth. When he’d settled into a rhythm, the see-sawing disembodied pair of lips on the other end of the bench, I found the strength to open my eyes and found yet another pair of portholes on the ceiling, one of the man on the other side of the screen, another of the curtained booth, the luxury cocoon of the watcher. Two buttons again for each were within my reach on the walls, “Above,” “Side.” While I was distracted by these, the man changed rhythm, and I found the next level of pleasure rush into me. I jolted. The watcher, a decent-looking man in his forties, squinted and exhaled. His hand grasped his cock tightly and he paused before stroking again, his cheeks filled with air.

“Mmm, aw shit, that’s good,” I said in English, the only language I use in ecstasy. The man on the other side of the screen looked up in the side-view portal, smiled a bit and redoubled his work. I watched my cock slide in and out of his mouth, its anonymous exhibitionism blush-worthy, shocking that it was connected to me at all. It made the heat emanating from it that much more foreign and tantalizing. I fucked his mouth for a while, amazed by the circuit, my order to move my hips ending in this video above me, my hips moving, my cock, shiny wet, forcing its way in and out of a stranger’s mouth. My eyes closed against my will and I went passive again, focusing on the feeling, this bliss I had no control over, rising in my body.

I looked again and saw the watcher, his eyes smoky and glazed, his neck tense, watching me in the porthole, his hand pounding away. I turned and saw the worker, bent painfully over me, struggling against me, his own eyes turning lazy dark, as needy as I was, on this side and that one. He too controlled his speed and licked, sweetly burned his energy away, plugging for all his might at me. I became overwhelmed, cars crashing in my head, and fell into pure stinging joy, an oxygen-sucking fire rising in my belly, swallowing my balls and headed out.

“Goddammitttttt!” I wailed and flailed on the bench, its soft support handling it fine, my hands grasping at the air and came so hard I could feel it in my gums, the natural disaster of my body in chaos, beautiful fucking chaos. When I opened my eyes, the watcher bit his lip and shot out silently, his face contorted and his soul open to the world. The worker held and waited until I’d stopped shivering before he released me. I coughed, my head still full of magic soup, and leaned forward for my pants.