Relator II
FM Virgin Blow Job & Pegging
The steering wheel is still warm from my grip when I park outside the glass tower in Barangaroo. My phone shows 2:47 PM, and there's a text from David and Emma—a photo of champagne flutes, the caption reading
"Offer submitted."
I don't smile. I file it away like a receipt, something to be cashed later. My hands have stopped shaking, but the tremor has moved deeper, settling in my chest where it beats like a second heart.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. The silk blouse clings where David's palm pressed against my back. I smooth it flat, adjust the collar, and find my mother's smile waiting behind my teeth.
It fits better now. Less borrowed. More mine.
The tech nerd's name is Oliver Chen. Twenty-seven years old. Software engineer at a fintech startup that just secured Series B funding. His buyer's application specifies "single bedroom, minimalist aesthetic, good natural light for plant care." I found him through a referral algorithm I maintain in a spreadsheet—young professionals, first-time in the market, emotionally underdeveloped, financially overcompensated.
He's waiting in the lobby when I arrive, ten minutes early. Navy hoodie, wire-rimmed glasses, backpack with a laptop sleeve that bulges with the shape of a mechanical keyboard. His hands flutter around his phone, then his pockets, then back to his phone. I know this choreography. I've watched it in a hundred open houses.
"Beth Jones," I say, extending my hand.
His palm is damp, fingers thin. "You found the place alright?"
"The ferry was actually running on time for once," he says, and laughs at his own observation, cutting it short when I don't join him. "Sorry. That was—I mean, thanks for meeting me on short notice. My lease ends in three weeks, and I'm kind of—"
He gestures vaguely at himself, at the space between his body and the building's polished marble. "Panicking."
I lead him toward the elevator bank, letting my heels announce each step. The sound echoes in the cavernous lobby, sharp as punctuation.
"Three weeks is plenty of time," I say, though we both know it isn't, not in this market. "But let's find you something that doesn't feel rushed."
The first apartment is exactly what he asked for. Single bedroom, north-facing windows, built-in robes with LED lighting. I watch him measure the space with his eyes, calculating desk placement, monitor angles, the ergonomic reach of his chair. He's performing competence, the way men his age do when they're afraid of being found insufficient.
"What do you think?" I ask, leaning against the kitchen island. The stone is cold through my skirt.
"It's... good." He says it like he's checking a box. "The light is good. For the plants."
"For the plants," I repeat. I let the silence stretch until he looks at me, until his eyes catch on my collarbone where the blouse dips.
"What else do you want, Oliver?"
He blinks behind his glasses.
"I don't—I mean, this is what I can afford. What I should want."
I push off the island and move toward the bedroom. The carpet muffles my steps now, and he follows like I'm pulling a string tied to his sternum. The room is small, functional, aggressively neutral.
I stand at the window and look down at the harbour, at the ferries cutting white lines through blue water.
"Your application mentioned you moved here from Melbourne eighteen months ago," I say. "For the job."
"Yeah. The salary bump was—" He stops. Clears his throat. "It was significant."
"But you haven't made friends."
It's not a question. He doesn't treat it like one. His shoulders curve inward, the posture of someone who's spent years making himself compact.
"Work keeps me busy. And I'm not really—"
He touches his glasses, adjusting frames that haven't moved. "I don't know how to talk to people here. It feels different. Faster. Like everyone already has their people and I'm late to something I didn't know was starting."
I turn from the window. The afternoon light catches the dust motes between us, turns them into something almost visible.
"There's a penthouse in this building," I say. "Three bedrooms. Harbour Bridge views. It's been sitting because the owners want too much, but they're getting desperate."
"I can't afford—"
"You can." I name a figure that's thirty per cent above his stated budget, then watch him do the math in real-time—the stock options, the signing bonus, the lifestyle inflation he's been resisting because no one told him he was allowed to want things.
"The third bedroom could be an office. Proper setup. Multiple monitors. Soundproofing if you stream."
"I don't stream."
"But you think about it."
I see it in the way his fingers twitch, the unconscious reach toward an audience that doesn't exist yet.
"You think about a lot of things you don't let yourself have."
His throat works. The window behind me throws my shadow across his body, larger than I am, more certain.
"Why are you doing this? The hard sell, I mean. You don't even know me."
I step closer. Close enough to smell his shampoo, something eco-botanical and aggressively clean, chosen from a shelf of identical bottles.
"Because you answered my questionnaire," I say. "The one I send to all my clients. You wrote three paragraphs about optimal desk height and one sentence about your social life. You used the word 'adequate.' No one who says 'adequate' has ever had what they actually wanted."
His breath catches. I can see the pulse in his neck, the frantic flutter beneath skin that has never been touched with intention.
"There's someone," he says, the confession escaping like air from a punctured tyre. "At work. Sarah. We're friends. We get lunch sometimes. She's—she's dating someone now. A lawyer. She told me last week, and I said I was happy for her, and I am, but I keep thinking if I'd just—"
He stops. His hands have found each other, fingers interlacing until the knuckles whiten. "I don't know how to be someone she'd want. I don't know how to be someone anyone would want."
I reach up and remove his glasses. The action surprises us both. Without them, his eyes look younger, more exposed, the skin around them soft from screen glow and insufficient sleep. I fold the frames carefully and tuck them into his hoodie pocket.
"You're going to learn," I say.
The penthouse is empty except for a single bar stool left by the staging company. I sit on it and cross my legs, letting my skirt ride high enough to show the lace edge of my stockings. Oliver stands in the centre of the main room, turning slowly, taking in the view that costs more per month than his current rent.
"The master bedroom has an ensuite with a soaking tub," I say. "The second bedroom faces east. Good for guests. Or eventually—"
I let the implication hang, the future he hasn't let himself imagine.
He stops turning. "Why are you really here? What do you get from this?"
I uncross and recross my legs, the movement deliberate, mechanical. "I get the commission when you sign. That's what I get." I lean forward, elbows on knees, and look up at him from beneath my lashes. "But that's not what you asked."
He doesn't move. The harbour light turns his skin gold, then silver, then gold again as a ferry passes. "I asked," he says, and his voice has changed, dropped into a register he doesn't use, deeper and more uncertain. "I asked what you want from me."
I stand. The stool scrapes against concrete, the sound raw and unplanned. I move toward him until I can feel the heat coming off his body, until I can see the individual pores on his chin where he missed a spot shaving.
"I want you to stop being adequate," I say. "I want you to take up space. I want you to want things so badly you can't breathe around them."
My hand finds his belt buckle. His whole body jerks, a startle reflex he suppresses but can't hide.
" Ms Beth—"
"Have you ever had someone's mouth on you?" I ask, working the leather through the loop. "Not your hand in the dark, not a screen, not fantasy. Actual wet heat, actual pressure, actual someone choosing to taste you?"
He shakes his head, minutely, the movement barely visible. His hands hang at his sides, fingers opening and closing on nothing.
"Good," I say. "Then you'll remember this."
I drop to my knees. The tiled concrete is cold even through my stockings, a shock that grounds me in my body as I work his jeans open.
He's already hard, straining against cotton briefs that look new, possibly purchased for this appointment, possibly for some other hope that never materialised.
I pull them down, and his cock springs free, curved slightly left, the head flushed dark pink, a vein running along the underside that pulses visibly when I breathe on him.
He makes a sound—not words, just air forced through a closed throat. I look up at him, at his face gone slack with disbelief, and I take him into my mouth.
The first second: my lips seal around the shaft just below the head, my tongue finding the ridge where foreskin would be, the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes his hips twitch forward involuntarily.
Second two: I pull back slowly, letting my teeth graze lightly, just enough pressure to register, not enough to hurt. His hands find my hair, tentative, hovering without gripping.
Three: I sink deeper, feeling him slide along my tongue, tasting the salt-sweet of pre-cum already beading at his slit. My eyes water slightly, the reflex automatic, and I blink to clear them.
Four through ten: I establish rhythm, hand wrapping around the base where my mouth can't reach, twisting on the upstroke, pressing my tongue flat against the underside on the down. His breathing fragments into pieces—inhale, hold, shaky exhale, repeat.
Eleven: I pull back completely, letting the cool air hit his wet skin, watching him shudder.
"Look at me," I say, and wait until his eyes focus, until I can see myself reflected in his dilated pupils.
"Don't close your eyes. I want you to know who's doing this."
Twelve through twenty: I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, feeling the moment of resistance before the muscles yield. His length isn't exceptional, but it's enough to trigger my gag reflex if I'm careless, so I'm careful, angling my head, breathing through my nose.
My hand moves to his balls, heavy and tight against his body, the skin velvety and slightly damp with sweat. I roll them gently, feeling the weight, the fragile architecture of cords and vessels. Rolling his nuts through agile fingertips.
Twenty-one: I pull back to breathe, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his cock, breaking as I turn my attention to his balls. I suck one into my mouth, feeling the oblong shape, the texture like a peeled grape stretched over something firmer, something essential.
The taste is musk and soap and something uniquely him, the chemical signature of his anxiety and arousal. I release it with a wet sound and move to the other, treating it with the same attention, the same reverence.
Twenty-two through thirty: I return to his shaft, taking him deeper now, past the point of comfort, until my nose presses against the sparse hair at his base. I hold there, counting seconds in my head, feeling my throat spasm around him, the automatic response that he mistakes for intention.
His hands have found my head again, gripping now, fingers tangled in my hair with desperate strength.
Thirty-one: I pull back, gasping, and he makes a sound like pain.
"Not yet," I say, my voice wrecked, my throat raw. "You don't get to finish yet."
Thirty-two through forty-five: I edge him. This is the technique my mother never taught me, the one I learned from a man in Melbourne who paid for my time and gave me skills in exchange.
I bring him to the brink with my mouth—sucking hard, tongue flickering, hand working the base in tight circles—and then I stop. I pull back and look at him, at the sweat on his forehead, the way his cock twitches in the air, seeking my heat.
I count to ten in my head, watching him breathe through it, watching the urgency subside to mere need. Then I start again.
Forty-six: He's trembling now, his legs barely holding him. I push him backward until he finds the bar stool, collapsing onto it with his jeans around his ankles, his cock standing rigid between us.
Forty-seven through sixty: I work him with my mouth and both hands, one stroking what I can't swallow, the other cupping his balls, rolling them, tugging gently to delay the inevitable. His thighs tense, release, tense again. I feel the moment approaching in the way his cock swells, the way his balls draw up tight against his body, the way his breathing stops entirely.
Sixty-one: I pull back.
"Not yet," I whisper, and his groan is almost a sob.
Sixty-two through seventy-five: I repeat the cycle. Bring him close, deny him, watch him unravel.
His glasses have fallen from his pocket, and he doesn't notice. His hoodie is soaked through at the collar. His hands have found the edge of the stool, and he's gripping it so hard his knuckles match the white marble behind him.
Seventy-six: I feel the change in him, the surrender. He's stopped fighting it, stopped trying to last, stopped performing competence.
He's just present now, desperate and grateful and completely in my control.
Seventy-seven through eighty-five: I take him deep one final time, relaxing my throat completely, letting him feel the constriction, the heat, the wet pressure of my tongue against his shaft. My hand works his balls, rolling them, feeling the moment when they tighten beyond return.
Eighty-six: The first pulse hits the back of my throat without warning, thick and hot and slightly bitter. I swallow automatically, feeling the texture, the weight of it.
Eighty-seven: The second spurt is stronger, filling my mouth before I can swallow, leaking from the corners of my lips, dripping onto my blouse. I don't stop. I keep sucking, keep working him with my hand, keep my eyes open and fixed on his face.
Eighty-eight through ninety: He keeps coming, more than I expected, his body emptying itself of everything he's been holding back—years of loneliness, of inadequacy, of wanting without naming. I take it all, swallowing when I can, letting the rest paint my chin, my throat, the silk of my blouse.
Ninety-one through one hundred: I pull back slowly, letting him slide from my mouth with a wet, sloppy, pucky, puck sound.
He's still twitching, still leaking, and I catch the last drops with my tongue, cleaning him with long, slow strokes that make him shudder and gasp.
I sit back on my heels and look up at him, at his face transformed by pleasure and confusion and something that might be worship.
"Now," I say, my voice rough from use, "we're going to talk about what you really want."
The strap-on is in my bag, wrapped in a silk scarf I bought at the same consignment shop as my blouse. I've carried it for three months, waiting for the right client, the right moment, the right combination of desperation and opportunity.
Oliver watches me buckle it into place, his eyes wide, his cock—still wet from my mouth—twitching feebly against his thigh.
"I've never—" he starts.
"I know." I squeeze lube onto my fingers, warming it before I touch him. "That's why I'm going to show you."
I have him bend over the kitchen island, his cheek pressed against the cold stone, his hands gripping the far edge. I start with one finger, working it past the tight ring of muscle, feeling him open gradually, reluctantly, then with something like relief. He moans into the countertop, the sound muffled, ashamed.
"Orrghh! Aahh!"
"More," I say, not asking, and add a second finger, scissoring them, stretching him. His body resists, then yields, the pattern of all worthwhile penetration. I find his prostate and press, watching his hips jerk, watching his spent cock try to stiffen again against his will.
"Please," he whispers, and I don't know what he's asking for, but I give it to him anyway.
The dildo is modest, beginner-sized, but it looks enormous against his pale skin. I press the head against his opening and wait, feeling him breathe through the intrusion, feeling the moment when fear becomes anticipation becomes need.
I push forward slowly, relentlessly, watching him take it, watching his body accept what his mind still can't name.
"Good," I murmur, my hands on his hips, guiding him back onto me. "That's good. You're doing so well."
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "I can't—this is—"
"This is what you wanted," I say, and begin to move.
The rhythm I find is slow at first, deliberate, each thrust pressing against his prostate, making him gasp and shudder. I watch the place where we join, the pink skin stretched around the black silicone, the obscene visual of me inside him.
My skirt is hiked around my waist, my blouse stained with his cum, my heels still on because I never took them off, because this is still business, still transaction, still me doing what needs to be done.
"Touch yourself," I command, and his hand moves to his cock, still slick from my mouth, from his own spending. He strokes himself in time with my thrusts, the dual sensation overwhelming him, reducing him to pure response.
I increase the pace, the force, snapping my hips against his ass, hearing the slap of skin-on-skin echo in the empty penthouse.
The view behind him is ridiculous, the harbour bridge golden in afternoon light, ferries like toys on the water, and I think of my mother in her prime, closing deals in houses with views like this, using whatever tools she had available.
"You're going to buy this apartment," I say, my breath coming harder now, the exertion of fucking him more demanding than I expected.
"You're going to fill it with furniture you actually like. You're going to host dinner parties and learn to cook something impressive. You're going to be someone Sarah notices."
"Sarah," he repeats, the name coming out broken, transformed by the pressure inside him.
"And you're going to text her," I continue, not slowing, driving into him with each word. "You're going to send her pictures. Not dick pics, not that crude. Pictures of you here, in this view, looking like someone worth wanting. Pictures that say 'look what I have' without saying 'look what I'm missing.'"
He comes with a cry that sounds like my name, or maybe just a sound, his hand working frantically, his ass clenching around the dildo as he spills onto the kitchen island, onto his own fist, onto the stone where I'll have to clean it later.
I keep fucking him through it, slower now, gentler, drawing out the aftershocks until he's whimpering, oversensitive, begging me to stop.
I pull out carefully, watching him close around the absence, feeling the strange power of having been inside someone.
He collapses against the counter, shaking, and I unbuckle the harness with practised efficiency, tucking it back into my bag, smoothing my skirt, finding my professional smile where I left it.
"There's a shower in the master," I say. "Clean up. Then we'll talk numbers."
He signs the offer three hours later, sitting across from me at a café in Circular Quay, his hair still damp, his phone in his hand.
I watch him compose a message to Sarah—a photo of the harbour view through the penthouse windows, no caption, just the image and the implication of access, of elevation, of a life she hasn't seen him living.
"Send it," I say.
His thumb hovers. "What if she doesn't respond?"
"Then you send another one next week. And the week after. Not desperate. Just present. Just visible."
I sip my flat white, tasting the burnt roast, the milk slightly sour.
"You spent years being invisible, Oliver. Being adequate. That's the habit you break now."
He sends it. We watch the screen together, the little delivered checkmark, the silence that follows. His leg bounces under the table, his nervous energy finding new channels.
"She's probably in a meeting," he says.
"Probably."
I don't look at my own phone, where Marcus has finally texted—"u up?" at 11 PM last night, fourteen hours too late to matter.
"Or she's showing her friends. Trying to figure out when you became interesting."
He laughs, surprised by himself. "Is that what happened? I became interesting?"
"You became someone who takes up space."
I gather my bag, my files.
"The apartment helps. But mostly it's that you stopped apologising for wanting things."
I leave him at the table, still watching his phone, still waiting for a response that may or may not come.
Outside, the evening rush is beginning, the ferries crowded with commuters, the sandstone buildings glowing in the long light of approaching summer. I walk toward my office with the signed offer in my bag, another commission secured, another month of survival guaranteed.
My phone buzzes. I expect my boss, the bank, another demand I can't meet.
Instead, it's Oliver—a screenshot of Sarah's reply, three words: "Nice view. When?"
I don't answer. I keep walking, letting the crowd carry me forward, feeling the familiar ache in my feet from heels that don't fit; the taste of him is still faint at the back of my throat.
Somewhere ahead, the next client waits. The next need I can name before they speak it. The next desperate bargain dressed in professional courtesy and silk blouses from consignment shops. My mother's smile fits better now. It feels less like wearing something and more like becoming it.
I turn toward the office tower where my desk waits, where I'll file the paperwork and calculate my percentage and pretend this is sustainable, that there's an end to the needing and the taking and the careful accounting of what remains.
But damn it, girl. You sure know how to peg a dude!