A dangling conversation

I walk out of Jefferson Hall into the sunshine and decide to sit down on a bench for a little bit. I have an appointment scheduled at the sorority house in half an hour and the house is only a few minutes’ walk from here, while the dorm is in the opposite direction. It isn’t all that far, but it’s far enough not to make sense to walk there and back.

No sooner do I sit down than I realize two girls are sitting on another bench close behind me having a conversation; they’re loud enough I can hear every word. Oh, great, I think, and decide to stand up and move on. Before I can do that, though, one of them says, “He’s just very macho, you know? He’s very good to me, I love him, and I definitely love his cock, but he thinks going down on me is beneath his male dignity. I gotta blow him—well, I like blowing him, but he expects I’m supposed to ’cause I’m a woman and that’s what a woman does for her man. Why he thinks I’m supposed to like that and he’s not supposed to like eating me out, I dunno, but I do and he doesn’t and he thinks that’s fine. And it’s not like I want to trade him in, but I want a guy’s mouth on my pussy sometimes. Well, I want his, but you know what I’m saying.”

Her immediate answer is a deep sigh. After a moment, her companion says, “Other than that, though, he’s a good fuck. I’ve heard you brag about him—nice thick cock, loves your tits, loves to fuck you in every position imaginable, right?”

“Yeah,” replies the first voice, sounding much happier.

“Man, my boyfriend’s boring. He’ll paw my tits a little, then he wants me to suck his dick. I don’t deepthroat and I don’t like the taste of him—he eats way too much garlic—”

“What’s the matter with garlic?” the first voice demands.

“My BFF told me if a guy eats a lot of garlic, he ends up with a lot of sulfur in his cum. Which, yeah, that fits,” voice #2 gripes.

“Ohh, ick,” says voice #1. “My man doesn’t like garlic too much. He eats a lot of fruit. Good thing he exercises so much.”

“That’s probably why his cum tastes so sweet,” says voice #2. “My guy, though, no. But anyway, sometimes he wants me to finish him on my tits; mostly he just wants me to lie down and spread my legs. Sometimes I cum, sometimes I don’t. If I don’t, I’ve learned I’d better fake it, ’cause he doesn’t know what to do about it. I’ve tried asking him to eat my pussy, but he thinks it’s gross. The one time I tried asking him after he fucked me, he looked at me like he thought I was nuts. He told me if I wouldn’t taste his cum, he had no idea why he should have to. So I fake it, and I go off and frig myself later.”

OK, this is just too perfect, I think; I have to try something. I get up and walk around to the other bench. “Excuse me, ladies,” I say. They look up at me, annoyed. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation just now.” Now they look seriously alarmed. “I think I might be able to do something for you.” Confusion competes with the alarm on their faces, with a flicker of hopeful interest. I hand them each my card, and then another card with just my phone number on it. Their eyes get wide as they read my card; they look up at me with their mouths open and a mixture of hope and suspicion on their faces.

Before I can say anything else, my business line rings. I’ve taken it off “vibrate,” and apparently both girls recognize the opening to “Let’s Get It On,” because they shoot each other a glance and start looking very interested indeed. It’s my next client, calling to tell me she’ll have to reschedule—one of her profs grabbed her for a project. She doesn’t have time now, so she’ll call later to set a new time.

I hang up, and voice #1—the shorter of the two girls, a sultry-looking Latina—asks, “Was that a girl whose pussy you’re gonna eat?”

“Yes,” I respond with a sigh, “that’s one of my clients. I was supposed to meet her over at ΕΛΤ in twenty minutes or so, but she has to reschedule. Prof grabbed her. Anyway, yes, this is what I do for spending money: I eat pussy. So far, I have a 100% satisfaction rate, and almost every client is cumming back for more.”

“Are you really that good?” demands the taller girl, who has long black hair flowing down over what looks like a nice set of tits.

“I’ve had girls screaming my name at the top of their lungs who’d never seen my face the hour before,” I tell her. “Would you like to be the next?”

Both their eyes blaze with lust at that, and both flush, though it’s not as evident on their coppery complexions as it would be on paler girls. “How much do you charge?” the Latina asks eagerly.

I tell them, and give them the terms; her face falls. She starts to say something, but her friend whispers urgently in her ear, then turns to me. “Would you excuse us for a minute?” the taller girl asks.

“Certainly. I’ll be sitting over there,” I say, pointing as I return to the bench where I had been sitting.

They talk for a while—but much more quietly this time. My mind wanders, until I come to myself with a start to find them standing in front of me. “You’re available right now, right?” one of them asks.