Author: fischji

[MF] Serving you under the table at my blowjob bar [Cum play] [Humil] [Prostitution]

I serve.

I serve here, under this table where you sit. Can I serve you too? Can I kneel here, at your feet? Silent. Obedient. Waiting?

I wait for your sign, your permission to begin. The sign can be so many things. It can be the tap on the head. It can be lowering of the zipper or the hike of the skirt. It can even be the slight spread of the legs. But I always know when it is time to serve. I always wonder how they decide when they are ready for service. How did you?

You. You sat there, with a cold beer, and pretended not to know I could serve you. So I knelt at your feet, here under the table and waited. And in time you too were ready to be served.

You spread your legs and crooked a finger at me, already more direction than I really needed. After all, my purpose is to serve.

I ran one hand up your leg, over your dirty jeans, and rested the other on your thigh. I placed one hand on the half-hard lump at your groin and felt it stirring under my touch. Read more »

The Baker’s Apprentice. How I First Learned to Please a Man

My sister called yesterday from Boise. She wanted to know why, in a new apartment, 700 miles from just about everyone I know, I’m spending my pandemic baking bagels and twisting babkas. Curating croissants.

“Who’s gonna to eat all that stuff, Kat?” she wanted to know.

And it’s a reasonable question. If I ate a tenth of what I bake, I wouldn’t fit out the door. Most of it goes to the shelter. A bit goes to the cute grad student downstairs. But that’s a different story.

For me, baking isn’t about production or consumption. I mean, sure, I enjoy a baguette as much as anyone. But for me, it’s a way to remember.

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In ‘98, I’d taken a gap semester and moved to London. I still can’t believe my mom let me move there, she’d always been so protective. I was sharing a tiny flat with a girl I’d known in school, and worked at the Waterstones by Covent Garden underground. London was a lot – scary big. Our family wasn’t rural, but we were pretty suburban. And in this strange city I generally stuck close to home. Directly across from the tube station, just down from the book store, is a café. Aroma now, I think. But back then it was called Matisse. Read more »