a new occupation-'restroom attendant'

You look over to see Marcia has pulled out a clear glass quart-size mason jar with 'TIPS' scrawled in marker on a swatch of masking tape stuck to one side. She says nothing further about the jar as she continues to hold it as she navigates you across the dance floor on your leash. On the other side, you approach a pair of doors, each black with the familiar neon flame paint scheme flaring up from the floor. One has 'HOTTIES' written across the fluorescent orange in black letters. The other has 'FIREMEN' similarly scripted. You are surprised when she pushes through the mens' door.

The restroom is surprisingly well kept, very clean and tasteful, with some ferns on what seems to be a valet table. But no attendant is in sight. Until now.

"You like to service the men. Here's your big chance," Marcia says, smiling wickedly. "Take care of their every need. Primp them, bathe their genitals, splash them with cologne. Do whatever is requested," she tells you, gesturing to the lavatory vanity stocked with a variety of colognes and haircare products. "Remember also," she says, after locking your leash to the handicapped rail with a padlock, "if you want to leave, you must have your tip jar filled with semen to the beginning of the lid's threads!" She points to the part of the jar where the rounded top meets the vertical edge of the jar top before she sets it on the floor beside you and leaves you kneeling in the middle of the nightclub's restroom.

As Marcia and company party on the dance floor, you dutifully work to fill her demands, not really liking the way the night has turned, just hoping to fulfill your quota and put this night behind you. Man after man is serviced in the restroom, helped with washing their hands, drying them, daubing cologne on their chests, and of course, finished off with either a handjob or a blowjob. Most times with their associates watching. Everybody at Masy's got a turn with you, from the salesmen to the stockboys to the janitorial staff. Every drop of cum was a very precious commodity to you.

You thought everybody had come to you. In steps Dylan, moving up to the urinal and doing his business. After shaking and flushing, he moves over to you, his half-swollen cock still sticking out of his fly.

"I hear you are quite the restroom attendant. Maybe I should submit your application to management." He smiles down at you with that dark, cool smile of his. His cockhead is practically poking your eye out.

"Give me a little spongebath, baby," he says. The bartender hefts his package towards you with one hand.

You dutifully wash his cock and balls with a steaming washcloth, then dry them with a fluffy handtowel.

"Use your fingernails on my balls while you give me head, baby," he directs.

You look down at your lengthened three inch talons and think you'd like to sink them to the fingertips in his balls, but you don't.

"I don't think Marcia would like that. I think your attention is why I'm here in the first place," you state sullenly.

"Don't think, just do it!" he yells, pushing your nose into his balls. "Marcia said she had to take care of something outside. She'd be back in a few. I won't tell her anything about us. Unless you don't. Then I'll make something up! Do you understand?" he asks, as you struggle for air, your nose and mouth pressed into the soft scrotum flesh.

He feels you nod.

"Very well. Do me, slut!" He lets your head go, and you swirl your five claws around the delicate flesh of his balls as you engulf his now fully-engorged member.

"Oh, that's the way, baby! ohh, ohh!" he coos as you bring him near climax.

Before he does, you bring the jar to his spurting cockhead, catching every viscous cumdrop. The bastard was worth it. You have reached the jar top.

"Would you please tell Marcia my tip jar is full?" you ask politely as he tucks his spent dick back into his black slacks.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, love," the man nods, looking wasted as he turns to leave.

Minutes go by, and Marcia doesn't show. Dylan probably wasn't the best choice to send to her.

And then, she enters, looking like she had a few since she had exited. "Very good, cumslut!" she lauds, examining the upheld jar of cum. "Your bag and keys are waiting onstage." She unlocks your lead and ushers you back out the door, much to the disappointment of the two men just entering.

'Onstage' you ponder, as you head toward the elevated area with the videowall backdrop. This doesn't sound good.