Geek's Revenge

I was cruising the slums, looking for pussy-for-hire, when I had to slam on my brakes. I almost got rear-ended by a guy in a Suburban that was obviously looking for the same sort of thing I was. I waved him around, and he sped off with a mouthed insult about my driving.

I couldn't help it. I saw someone I knew. Carla Dawes. From high school.

She had been a cheerleader, just seven years ago, a hot brunette with lovely tits and an ass that approached divine. She had always been on the arm of some jock, strutting around with her nose and perky tits in the air, not willing to give a geek like me the time of day. I would have begged her for a date, had she not been so clearly out of my league. Many a night her face and perfect body had figured prominently in my onanism. She had been a year ahead of me, a perfect princess, a prom queen runner-up, destined for glory.

She didn't look that glorious now.

She was wearing a too-tight halter-top that displayed her primary assets admirably. She wore Daisy Duke cut-offs and high heels and carried a leopard skin handbag. Her once-gorgeous hair looked a little greasy and needed trimming. But it was her once-angelic face that drew my eye. It was worn and tired, carried too much makeup. I knew that look, the half-lidded eyes and the slack-jaw expression. I didn't need to see the marks in her arm to know that she was a drugged-out whore.

Carla Dawes. Crack whore. I almost laughed at the irony.

I couldn't help myself. I pulled up to the curb opposite the abandoned building she was working, and rolled down the window. She was at the window of the Jag before I came to a full and complete stop.

"Hey, gorgeous, wanna date?" she asked, a sly grin on her face. It was supposed to be sexy. It was a little pathetic.

"How much is a date going to cost me?"

"That depends on what you like, Sugar," she said, eyeing the car and figuring out how much she could soak me for. She still hadn't recognized me, which was golden.

"You ever take French in High School?"

"As a matter of fact, I was an A student! And I give lessons. Fifty bucks."

"Twenty."

"Now, Sugar, you know French is a hard language. My time is expensive."

"And you know that you aren't the only teacher in town. Twenty. Thirty if you're good."

"I don't have anything else going on, Sugar, so I guess I can give you a discount."

"Hop in," I said, unlocking the door. With a spring in her step that reminded me of her cheerleading career, she opened the door and slid into the passenger side. I didn't wait for her to buckle up. A wave of cheap knock-off perfume, the stuff they sell in the 'hood that is supposed to smell like expensive stuff, rolled over me and almost made me gag. "Where to?"

"Behind that old Food Lion," she said, pointing to an abandoned grocery store a block ahead. Then she sat back and drank in the leather-clad luxury of a $60,000.00 automobile. Probably remembering better days.

"What's your name?" I asked, nonchalantly.

"You can call me Peaches," she said. I nodded. Peaches, it was.

I pulled in behind the store and found a private place next to a dumpster. Putting the car into park, I locked the doors and slid back my seat. Carla gave me a thoroughly fake whore's smile and reached for my zipper.

I'm not poorly endowed, but I'm not a giant. She made the standard noises of appreciation for my size, though, while she worked my dick with her hand. I was already erect, but I appreciated the stroking. I relaxed as she leaned forward into my lap, and in seconds I was fulfilling my High School fantasy. Carla Dawes was sucking my dick.

She was very good, even for a pro. No doubt her reputation for fellatio in High School had not been exaggerated. She used plenty of lips and tongue, and even made little appreciative moaning noises. She was jacking me a little hard, though, trying to get me off in a hurry.

"No hands," I commanded. She grunted in agreement and began toying with my balls. For twenty glorious minutes her well-used lips caressed my cock, showing me all that I had missed in school. I guided her bobbing head occasionally, drawing out the experience as long as possible.

But all great fantasies must come to an end, and this was no different. I felt my orgasm approach, and despite my valiant attempts at staving it off, I was all too soon shooting my spunk deep into her warm, wet mouth.

I even said something corny, "Peaches, here's your cream!" as I came. She swallowed without a thought, making agreeable little noises as she did so. Carla even went so far as to lick and suck my dick clean before she zipped me up and resumed her upright position.

"How was that, Sugar?" she asked, wiping her lips.

"Carla, that was an outstanding blow job. Well worth thirty dollars. You're a credit to the Northern High School Cheer Squad." I dropped a brand new twenty and a wrinkled ten in her lap.

She was still fishing for them when the impact of my words hit her.

"You . . . you know who I am?"

"Carla Dawes, class of '94. 'Go Vikings!'" I added with a snort.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Brendan Fucking Cooper, you whore."

"Brendan Coop—You're Steve Cooper's little brother!"

Steve is my older brother, three years older, actually, and just the type of jock that Carla dated. They never did, to my knowledge, but they traveled in the same social circles way back when.

"Yep, Steve Cooper's little brother. Who you just sucked off."

"Ohmygod! She said, hiding her mouth with her hand. "Ohmygod, I'm so embarrassed!"

"You shouldn't be. That was truly excellent work."

"Shit! Shit! I just sucked off Steve Cooper's little brother!"

"For money," I reminded her.

"Sonofabitch! Well, how are you doing?"

It seemed like such an inane question, under the circumstances. She was obviously embarrassed that her whore persona had been breached, and by someone who had known her in better days. But she lapsed into the polite social niceties that we all cling to in uncomfortable circumstances.

"Oh, I'm doing well, Carla. I went to school, got a geeky degree in geeky Computer Science, got vested three years later, and last year I retired."

"Retired? You're fucking kidding me! You're just a kid!"

"A kid with seven million dollars in the bank."

"A millionaire? Ohmygod! What's Steve doing?"

"Construction, mostly. He hurt his back last year, though, and he's on disability. He married Bethany Davis, you know. They have two kids."

"Wow! Wow! What a fucking blast from the fucking past!"

"So, how have things been with you?" I asked conversationally.

"Oh, pretty good," she said automatically. She had forgotten for just a moment that she had been slurping my hog just five minutes before. "I mean," she said, stumbling when she realized how stupid that must sound. "I mean, well, I went to State out of High School, made their squad, you know. Then I got expelled for trying to sleep with one of my instructors. How was I to know he was gay? Anyway, I waitressed a little after that, and got a few modeling jobs. Then I, uh, got mixed up with a rough crowd. I started using a few years later. I'm doing this just until I can find a real job and get back on my feet."

Yeah, right. She was looking for a fix, was what she was looking for. Her lame lie hung between us, unacknowledged. I stared at her for a moment, letting it hang there until she was about to squirm in her seat.

"Well, I guess I had better get you back to work," I said, finally. "I'm headed up to DC for the weekend. Some kind of conference. I still do a little consulting on the side. But it was great seeing you again," I said, grinning. Great fucking her mouth, I meant.

"Yeah," she said, humiliated, realizing just how easily I had dismissed her. But she was an enterprising whore. "Look, if you ever want, you know, a little company, I'm available most days. Here, here's my cell number. Just call. I'll meet you anywhere in the city. And I'm really, uh, well, anyway . . ." I let her pathetic sales pitch taper off while I slammed the car into reverse and drove her back to her corner.

"It really was great seeing you, Brenan," she said. She may have even meant it. Of course, she got my name wrong.

"Yeah, well, maybe we can do lunch or something sometime . . ." I let it hang there dismissively, clearly letting her know I was done with her. She said, "Yeah, just call," with a bit of desperate emphasis, and she got out of the car. She even waved when I drove off. I didn't wave back.

But I wasn't done with miss Carla Cuntmouth Dawes. Not by a long shot.