A Sexual Geek For All Seasons

Authors note--You have met them. A person whose personality was so strong you could not refuse their every wish, a person who could stand under a tree and the singing birds would descend to perch on their hands and shoulders, a person so gifted that they find the solution to severe disorders. Napoleon was an example; an entire nation would follow him in battle. The great religious leaders had this gift and are revered thousands of years after their demise; Christ, Buddha, Confucius, Mohamed, etc.

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Our story deals with an incandescent figure, a geek of humanity. Let the story begin:

I was aware of my power early on. Men never stood a chance with me. At maturity, my ability to control others manifested and my ability went far beyond. Some people are computer geeks, medical geeks, or robot geeks. There are music geeks who, after the first few notes, can identify the song's title or the performer's.

I'm a geek of humanity. Specifically, I am an expert on men and their erotic behavior, fantasies, and innermost thoughts at their most intimate moments. I control them. Once in my presence, they are so mesmerized they must obey me; they cannot resist.

When I was eighteen, my mother, became aware of my powers and sent me to Madame Rochet Finishing School in Paris, France, a secret school for people like me. What did they teach me? My counselors taught me special techniques that bolstered my sensual powers, channeling my gifts for sexual interplay. I learned if one can control men's sexual energy, the possibilities are endless. Sex is the path to wealth and power, and I am only starting.

In municipal libraries, I studied every sex manual I could find, every filthy novel, and every psychology book that dealt with sexual aberrations. I had access to the locked cabinets where secret knowledge was stored. From men of all ages, who were strangely attracted to me, my probing questions would elicit their personal intimate experiences.

At first, my extraordinary beauty attracted them; my perfectly formed breasts, large nipples, and curvaceous derriere. Once they were close to me, my potent pheromones mesmerized them; they became weak in their knees and timid in my confrontation, pliant to reveal their secret desires and bizarre sexual experiences.

I am a quarter an inch less than six feet tall, my hair is the color of oxblood with a slight curl when wet, my legs are long and graceful, and my ass is full and seductive, my eyes are green, my lips full and rose-colored, my breasts are large enough to attract attention and yet not gargantuan, my ears are of medium size and lie back pressed to the side of my head, my voice is of mid range but decidedly feminine, my hands are strong and able to find the most exciting pressure points or chakra on a man's body, should I wish to cause exquisite pleasure or intense pain. With my magical grip and a firm squeeze of the scrotum, I can cause a man to ejaculate within fifteen seconds, sparing me the need for further sexual intimacy.

After my academic education, I attended a secretarial school, thinking this was an accessible entry into man's world. I was trained to be a competent secretary. I learned to type sixty words a minute, to take dictation in shorthand, and was proficient in court steno. I had no intention of holding only a pen or pencil. Instead, I wanted to grip penises of every size, from the enormous to the minute and every variant in between. The hairy, the bald, the long, and the short, and their intricate association with the testicles that hang evenly below the staff or, as usually the case, one ball hangs lower than the other, ripe for the plucking.

I was applying for a secretarial job when I passed Blind Jeremie's Pub near the Senate chambers in Washington, DC. I saw a sign in the window,

'Bar Maid wanted, standard wages will train.'

I paused momentarily, realizing that the social and political world infused with alcohol might provide an easy entry into the political and social milieu.

How difficult could a barmaid's job be? I walked through the swinging door, much like the saloon doors you see in old Western movies, and although I saw no one, I could hear someone moving around in the back room. The bar appeared closed. Was I too early?

"Hello, is anyone here," I shouted.

An old man shouted back, "Don't get your panties in an up-draught."

I sat on a bar stool, waiting, took out my lipstick, applied it, and looked in the curved bar mirror. My eyes wandered around the large room. The large U-shaped bar was divided into three sections. On the left was a sign, 'Mixed Drinks,' where there were hundreds of colored liquor bottles to serve the bartender. In the center was 'Shot Alley,' where single shots were served in frozen glasses. On the right was 'Beer Culture' where a wall of beer taps was visible, probably close to fifty, some with names I'd never heard of.

On the far left was the men's bathroom; the white door had a blue jockstrap nailed to the men's room door, and on the opposite side was the woman's bathroom, where a frilly red bra was nailed to the door. No doubt someone's idea of humor. I was to learn very few women frequented Jeremy's Bar.

A worker's entry from the back room interrupted my study of this modern 'bar-tap room.' He was rolling a sizable gray metal beer keg on a dolly toward the bar.

"And what the fuck do you want, dolly?" said the man.

"Thanks for 'the what the fuck.' You have a sign in the window that says, 'Barmaid Wanted'?"

"Yeah, so you're fucking applying?"

"Yes, if you don't mind."

"Any experience?"

"None, but how difficult is it to serve a pint?"

"Well, if you want the job, you'll have to show me your tits, and I can see you've got a good rack."

"My tits? Are you kidding me?"

"No, dear, that is the first requirement for working here."

I could see this line of questioning was exciting the man; his pants were swelling up in anticipation of viewing my nude tits. I reached out as quickly as a flash and grabbed him just below the imprint of his cock's on his pants, by the balls, squeezing as hard as I could until he dropped to his knees.

"No, sir, you will show me," I laughed.

He nodded his head like a puppet, uttering,

"Please, ma'am, you are hurting me; please let go of my balls."

I released his genitals, and I could see my unexpected reaction had calmed him down.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I had no intention...."

"Shut up. Now take out your cock and show it to me."

He slowly unbuttoned his pants and hoisted a long slender penis out of its hiding place. It looked more like a tuber than a cock. I took a photo of his organ with my iPhone."

"So when do I start working?"

He knelt there shaking,

"You'll have to speak to Henry; he's the boss."

"And you, who are you?"

"I'm nobody, just a poor worker at your service Ma'am; call me Jacob, ma'am."

"You can put away your that nasty dick Jacob; the next time you 'fuck up,' I think that is your expression; your discipline will be more severe."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for taking up time with me. I enjoyed our encounter. No offense intended."

"Though some were taken."

"Please, Miss, have a seat. Henry will arrive momentarily."

I sat down at the nearest table and lit a Swann cigarette, a woman's cigarette with a red tip designed to hide lipstick stains. I used to buy them at Sherman's Tobacco Store on 5th Avenue in New York, but I order online since Nat's closed. I miss the old townhouse where the sales clerk would put two packs in a bag and charge me for only one.

The bar air was stale with last night's spilled beer, Jacob's mop, and a yellow-wheeled bucket of cleaning detergents with a strong disinfectant smell. The morning sun had found its way into the dark room from high windows. The room was warming up, and I undid the top button of my blouse.

I had hardly finished half my Swann when Mr. Henry walked in. He was a man of medium height wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of Jeremy's Bar, a soaring eagle holding a leprechaun in his beak. He had muscular arms and a beer belly. Henry quickly looked around the room, and when his gaze fell on me, he scrunched up his upper lip and snarled,

"And who are you? We ain't opened yet, girlie."

I turned to get his full attention. When his eyes met my cleavage, his attitude softened like a bar Queen's cock after a busy Saturday night in a gay bar.

"Are you Mr. Henry?"

"Just call me Hen or Henry; it doesn't matter. What can I do for ya, honey?"

"I'd like the open barmaid job, and I'd like to start tonight."

"Sure, glad to have ya. Did Jacob give ya a hard time?"

"Oh, he's got sore balls to show for it, but that calmed him down."

"Oh? Well, good for you; he needs to learn some manners."

"You'll find him somewhat improved. Mr.Hen, I'd like to start tonight if possible."

"Sure. What's your name.?"

"Kerry."

"That's a good Irish name. If you're agreeable, Miss Kerry, you'll do the night shift, 6-12, and be paid overtime when we stay open till 2 pm on busy Saturday nights."

I could see Hen was still staring at my cleavage, so I leaned forward to snuff out my Swan and gave him a quick look at my tits that gravity rolled forward like two perfect bowling balls from their confinement in my demi bra.

Hen's Adam's apple cocked itself like the hammer on a.45. As I left, I turned around and could see in the reflection of the mirror that Hen had gone behind the bar and was moving his right arm ferociously; obviously, the quick view of my breasts had gotten him excited. He was busy jerking off.

I started working that evening. When I arrived, I saw all the bartenders and workers wearing trademark t-shirts. Hen gave me one that fit tightly, partly crushing my breasts and revealing my ample nipples through my thin nylon bra.

The bar owner, Blind Jeremy, had made it through the 'Mafia Wars' when the criminal syndicate was trying to take control of all the midtown bars. The criminals gunned down his Dad, and they blinded Jeremy in a lye attack leaving him sightless; his face was deeply scarred. Jeremy had to be in his sixties, fat and jovial. He knew his way around the bar even without using his white cane. His seeing-eye dog stayed in the back room, harnessed up and ready to escort Jeremy should he decide to leave the bar.

Jeremy called me into his private office on my first evening. He was disabled, but he was on top of his game,

"So you are our new bar girl." He said. "Come closer, honey; I may be blind, but I can see ya with my fingers."

I came close enough that he could smell my perfume and cigarette breath, and I got a whiff of his aftershave covering up his old man odor.

You're a smoker, hon?"

"Yeah, you picked up on that."

"Yeah, I don't care if you smoke, but you can't smoke openly in the bar; the health department will close us down, but there's a stoop out the back door where you can light up. It has a locked metal gate, so you don't have to worry about anyone bothering you."

"Sure, Sir."

"No need to call me 'Sir.' Call me Jerry. If my father shows up, you can give him the 'Sir.' You'll know it's him 'cause he'll be lugging a tombstone behind him."

I didn't respond, although the image was curiously comical.

"Here, kid, come closer; let me feel ya so I'll know whatcha look like."

He reached out with both hands and gently ran his fingers over my hair, eyebrows and eyes, nose and lips, where he lingered and probed between my Cupid lips with his third finger. I said nothing as he released my face and quickly ran his hands down the front of my t-shirt.

"Oops, I can see your nips are sticking out; that will earn ya some good tips—good tips deserve good tips, he chuckled to himself."

When he reached my waist, his hands curled around,

"Hmm, nice ass, not too big but high set. You'll do fine."

"You don't want to see my legs?"

"Never was a leg, man, but I'm sure they are great gams."

He withdrew his paws and said,

"Thanks for the look-see; you'll do fine. Good luck on your first night."

I turned and could see Hen standing in the doorway behind me, jealous of the feel-up the boss gave me, but it was quick and non-lingering, I was not offended, but I could see Hen's cock had swelled up in his jeans.

I got up to leave. When I passed Hen, I asked,

"How big is that thing, Hen?" pointing at his crotch.

"About eight inches, and it's at your service whenever you want to see it close up."

"Thanks, good to know."

Jeramy, who had moved away, must have had supersonic ears. He stepped close to Hen and piped up in an Irish accent I had not heard before; Jeramy could become a member of the 'old sod' in a split second.

"Don't ya be giv'n the young gal none o' you lip, Henry Smithers; show her to her station, now."

I followed Hen out of Jeremy's office to the right side of the bar; Hen said to me,

"This will be your station; what did you say your name was?"

"Kerry, like the County Kerry"

"Ok, Kerry, nice tag. Now at this end of the bar, we serve only beer; if the customer wants mixed drinks, send them over to the other side of the bar to Sweet Felix, he's the mixologist; that's a stupid name, but that's what they call him."

By now, the swelling in Hen's pants had receded, and his breathing had slowed.

He took a beer glass, the smaller size, and pulled the pump handle down. The frothy beer exploded, steaming out of the silver nozzle like cum out of cock.

"Here, look, if there is a head on the beer, the foam is too tall, use the beer knife to cut it. There should be about a half inch of foam on these smaller glasses. You can go three-quarters of an inch on the pint mugs."

Hen offered me the drink; I shook my head, and he drank it down in one long gulp, wiped his lips with his large hand, and said,

"Goodbye, Sweetie, ah, Sweet Kerry," he sighed and went off.

I soon got used to my job. It was a welcome diversion from the baffling world of politics and street crime that had become so common. Inside the bar was our little world. Customers were usually stable. If they had too much to drink, Isaac, the giant black security guard, would gently show them to the door. In some ways, our bar was like a frat party; I soon got to know everybody.

Of course, some unstable souls needed a point of referral, and that's how I became known among a group of my admirers. When I dealt with a truly obsessive client, obsessive in having a strong sexual attraction to me, there was only one way to deal with them.

I'd say, "I can see your frustration; follow me into the Woman's bathroom, and I'll try to relieve your pent-up emotions."

I'd signal one of the second bartenders to take my place and say,

"Come with me," to the unsuspecting rube who follows me into the pink and gold ladies' room, and I lock the door. When I shut the door behind us, I could see my chosen gentleman was visibly excited and breathing hard, sweating along the edge of his forehead.

"Let me see your dick," I'll say.

The guy will unzip his fly, drop his pants, or take them off and carefully fold them. When he removes his underwear where his swollen cock is straining to be free, he then looks at me and says,

"Are we going to fuck?"

"I don't think so," I responded. I hadn't removed any articles of my clothing.

"I'll give you a hundred," the rube says. I smirk. "No, five hundred." I smile. "Damn it; I'll give you whatever you want."

I hand them back their pants,

"Take out your wallet and give it to me. I'm borrowing your credit card; I need a new pair of Chanel shoes. I'll return your card tomorrow evening."

I hand back the billfold.

"If the clerk calls you from the store, just tell them to charge my purchase."

"Yeah, sure, Kerry."

The guy is standing in the nude from the waist down, and I see his cock dipping below the horizon."

"Now put this rubber band behind your balls and pull it over your shaft before you get soft."

"But I want to fuck you."

"Be quiet; I talk, you listen."

He takes the thick rubber band and stretches it over his manhood; it fits tight. One size usually fits all, but I have a bigger one for the magnum size cock.

He's standing there with his swollen cock; his balls are strapped so tightly they look like mini bowling balls.

"And now what," the rube demands, "Are you going to blow me."

"No, but that rubber band will keep your dick stiff."

"For what?"

"Now you are going to jerk yourself off."

Their resistance is gone. They obeyed me and for some unknown reason they accepted I was in charge. The men were always grateful for this sliver of intimacy we were sharing. As they jerk off, I take out my iPhone and video their performance.

"Don't you dare stop until your cream runs out?"

Sometimes I'd have to step back to avoid being hit by their cum rocket.

This episode always calms them down; after they ejaculate, as their cock softens, they carefully remove the rubber band. The only downside to their performance is that after time, I earned the sobriquet 'Rubber band Kerry.'

I unlock the door and leave them to attend to whatever they do next; after a while, they dress and quietly exit the bar.

The next evening they'll return to retrieve their credit card and ask where I keep the video.

"Oh, that? It's stored in an out-of-state server, but I can always email you or your wife a copy."

When I offer to send a video copy, they always demure. But some men find our erotic encounter so exciting they return for another 'rubber band session'; that's how addictive I become.

After a few days have passed, the same rube will offer me another credit card, begging me to repeat his humiliating treatment. They imagine we have shared a mutual intimacy. Masturbating in my presence while gazing at my face, breasts and nipples, legs, my luscious ass cinched in tight clothing or a miniskirt is as close as they are going to get to fulfill their dream of possession, an imaginary chance at having sex with me.

By the second or third month, the bar patrons considered me a sexual consultant, and I was soon advising men with serious problems. They look at my sexy appearance and assume I have experienced their most erotic fantasies and am familiar with all permutations of sexual behavior, from the most bizarre to the most vanilla.

I advise needy men, but I do not charge a fee, although they often repay me with gifts or cash. Most of these sexual bandits do not need raw flesh to soothe their troubled conscience; they need redemption.

One evening someone with a pocket knife carved the words, ''Confessional Box' into the bar railing in front of my station. Perhaps that encouraged men to tell their stories. Here are some I've heard and the advice I give men seeking mental health and salvation by chronicling their sins and accepting their comeuppance.

I will summarize these interviews, although sometimes these sessions go on while I'm pulling the taps to provide mugs of beer for the customers.

Gilberto Capezia, an Italian immigrant from Naples, spoke with a heavy Italian accent bolstered by a sizable amount of alcohol and beer.

"I can no sleep, Missy Kerry. At night I see visions of my dead sister pointing her long third finger at me while she trembles on her walking stick."

"She dressed in a long black shroud. She pulls the dress up to her belly, and I see her bleeding from her vagina."

He coughs.

"Would you like a beer?"

"Si senora." Gilberto drinks the beer down and continues,

"I as her, why does a ghost need a cane?"

"To beat the brother who raped me on my wedding night," she responds, then screams a long terrible never-ending utterance."

"Is that true?" I ask. "Did you rape her?"

He burst out crying, "Yes, I confess."

"Why did you do that to your sister?"