in her eyes and known she’d do anything to get some.
He grunted happily as she slid her warm wet lips up and down his shaft, and then tickled the top with her tongue. That felt good – hell, it felt more than good, it was delicious.
Sex is like eating
, he decided.
It answers some kind of need right in the centre of us. When it’s done right, it’s the ultimate physical satisfaction, it’s the reason to be alive
.
The problem was, his nerves were so strained and his body so jaded from the rigours he submitted it to, it was hard to feel that peak of pleasure any longer.
I’m fucking tired
, he thought to himself. The waitress had brought her hand into play, rubbing his cock in firm straight strokes while sucking hard on his glans.
So fucking tired
.
He could feel that circling tingle deep within his balls that meant a climax was not far off.
But it’s like a slot machine. Put your money in, you get your game. Doesn’t mean it’s worth the price of the play
.
The waitress increased her pace, stroking him hard and tickling faster with her mouth. Mitch felt his orgasm begin; he looked down at her blonde head bobbing up and down on his cock and it gave him the push over the edge: he groaned as he felt himself spurt into her mouth. He throbbed three or four times, his face contorting with the sweet agony of coming, then the ejaculation subsided and he quickly pushed her away.
‘Did you like that, Mitch?’ the waitress asked, wiping her mouth.
‘Yeah, baby, thanks.’ He tucked his cock back into his pants as best he could with one hand, the other arm still occupied with the box of Romaine lettuces destined for that night’s Caesar salads. ‘Very nice, honey.’
‘Have you … Can I have …?’ Her high voice faded away and she blinked big, needy eyes at him.
‘You want the junk? OK, no problem.’ He pulled a small plastic bag of pale brown powder from his pocket. ‘Here. Have it.’
Her eyes widened even further. ‘All of it?’
‘Sure.’
I’ll regret that
, he thought. ‘Take it all. Just don’t fuck up on the job, OK? And you’d better show up for your shifts or I’ll fire your ass so fast you won’t know what happened. Smack is no excuse for not working, understand?’
She nodded happily, evidently itching to get her hands on the treat he was holding out to her. ‘You got it.’
‘Good. Now, that was nice. Maybe we can do it again some time.’
‘Any time, Mitch, any time.’
He watched as she went happily off down the alleyway, her little reward stuffed into the pocket of her denim jacket. She’d go back to some dive she shared with a boyfriend, probably a cook too, someone who lived in the same strange world of crazy hours, intense work, heat and pressure, someone who also experienced the mad high of the post-shift euphoria and who craved the same release that drugs brought.
Was it really nearly a year since he’d come to New York? Mitch found it hard to remember that innocent young man who’d got off the bus at Port Authority then. That kid had never dreamt he’d get involved in this kind of world. He’d been a hard-working boy who wanted to make something of himself, clean-living, a young man whose only idea of a good time was downing a few beers and watching the baseball. His one vice was smoking – he was addicted to Camels. The only time he didn’t have one hanging from his mouth was when he was cooking. That was the crazy thing: he could go for eight hours straight without even thinking about a cigarette but, the minute he stepped out of the kitchen, he felt like he’d die if he didn’t have one of those babies within about ten seconds.
He’d never experienced physical hardship like working in a New York kitchen in a proper fancy restaurant. Working in diners out West was nothing compared to this. He started at seven o’clock in the evening when the first covers came in – rich men and women who knew good food and expected it on their plates when they were
He grunted happily as she slid her warm wet lips up and down his shaft, and then tickled the top with her tongue. That felt good – hell, it felt more than good, it was delicious.
Sex is like eating
, he decided.
It answers some kind of need right in the centre of us. When it’s done right, it’s the ultimate physical satisfaction, it’s the reason to be alive
.
The problem was, his nerves were so strained and his body so jaded from the rigours he submitted it to, it was hard to feel that peak of pleasure any longer.
I’m fucking tired
, he thought to himself. The waitress had brought her hand into play, rubbing his cock in firm straight strokes while sucking hard on his glans.
So fucking tired
.
He could feel that circling tingle deep within his balls that meant a climax was not far off.
But it’s like a slot machine. Put your money in, you get your game. Doesn’t mean it’s worth the price of the play
.
The waitress increased her pace, stroking him hard and tickling faster with her mouth. Mitch felt his orgasm begin; he looked down at her blonde head bobbing up and down on his cock and it gave him the push over the edge: he groaned as he felt himself spurt into her mouth. He throbbed three or four times, his face contorting with the sweet agony of coming, then the ejaculation subsided and he quickly pushed her away.
‘Did you like that, Mitch?’ the waitress asked, wiping her mouth.
‘Yeah, baby, thanks.’ He tucked his cock back into his pants as best he could with one hand, the other arm still occupied with the box of Romaine lettuces destined for that night’s Caesar salads. ‘Very nice, honey.’
‘Have you … Can I have …?’ Her high voice faded away and she blinked big, needy eyes at him.
‘You want the junk? OK, no problem.’ He pulled a small plastic bag of pale brown powder from his pocket. ‘Here. Have it.’
Her eyes widened even further. ‘All of it?’
‘Sure.’
I’ll regret that
, he thought. ‘Take it all. Just don’t fuck up on the job, OK? And you’d better show up for your shifts or I’ll fire your ass so fast you won’t know what happened. Smack is no excuse for not working, understand?’
She nodded happily, evidently itching to get her hands on the treat he was holding out to her. ‘You got it.’
‘Good. Now, that was nice. Maybe we can do it again some time.’
‘Any time, Mitch, any time.’
He watched as she went happily off down the alleyway, her little reward stuffed into the pocket of her denim jacket. She’d go back to some dive she shared with a boyfriend, probably a cook too, someone who lived in the same strange world of crazy hours, intense work, heat and pressure, someone who also experienced the mad high of the post-shift euphoria and who craved the same release that drugs brought.
Was it really nearly a year since he’d come to New York? Mitch found it hard to remember that innocent young man who’d got off the bus at Port Authority then. That kid had never dreamt he’d get involved in this kind of world. He’d been a hard-working boy who wanted to make something of himself, clean-living, a young man whose only idea of a good time was downing a few beers and watching the baseball. His one vice was smoking – he was addicted to Camels. The only time he didn’t have one hanging from his mouth was when he was cooking. That was the crazy thing: he could go for eight hours straight without even thinking about a cigarette but, the minute he stepped out of the kitchen, he felt like he’d die if he didn’t have one of those babies within about ten seconds.
He’d never experienced physical hardship like working in a New York kitchen in a proper fancy restaurant. Working in diners out West was nothing compared to this. He started at seven o’clock in the evening when the first covers came in – rich men and women who knew good food and expected it on their plates when they were
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