Not The Preferred Technique

I hesitated, peering down at where they met. "I'm not sure I have enough access, anyway," I muttered. I was pretty sure I could get the safety tip down to the ring, but it was on there pretty tightly. Getting it underneath would have meant digging the shear handles deep into poor Ava's asshole, and I wasn't sure any of us was up for that. "Yeah," I sighed finally, my mouth twisting in a scowl, "I don't know if I can get that off safely." Going underneath was out of the question too, I noticed as soon as I bent low to look down there: his balls were squashed up against her shuddering red clit. "Yeah. No." I'd be snipping his scrotum off, I realized.

Nice balls, though.

"Get him out," she girl quavered, and I glanced up once more at Steve. He had lovely eyes, I noticed.

"Hang on, Ava," I ordered. "Let me just have a quick word with Steve here." I straightened and went on tiptoes once more to whisper at him. "You're way too far in there," I groused.

"I was fucking the shit out of her," he agreed.

"So." I swallowed. "Have you ever, like, cum with one of those rings on?"

"I can do it," he nodded, "but it's like really hard. There's a lot of pressure." He glanced down at her ass. "I'd really need to smash her, and, well, that's not happening."

I gnawed at my lower lip, hesitating, and it wasn't until Ava whimpered again that I made up my mind, something I'd read about once... not in a medical text, either. "Listen," I whispered urgently, "would prostate massage work?" He cocked his head and frowned. "Do you know what that is?"

"I'm an adult entertainer," he shot back, "of course I know. It's a finger in my ass." He stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "Wait. Like, now?"

Seized with the sudden knowledge that this was the only thing I could possibly do, I raised my hand to his face, pulled my glove tight over my fingers, and let it snap back against my wrist. It sounded like a gunshot in the sudden silence. "Like, now," I nodded grimly. "It's not the preferred technique. But desperate times..."

He thought about it for only a second or two before he shrugged. "Go for it," he murmured, and I stepped closer to his side and looked down at the struggling bachelorette.

"Ava, honey? We're going to try to get Steve to ejaculate. I've got some Plan B in my bag," I smiled at her, "so just think of this as a medical thing. Okay? It's not even like sex."

She went very still, then glared at me. "I'm not an idiot. This is sex," she hissed, "and it's fine if he shoots in me."

Well! There we go. I smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "We'll be as quick as we can," I winked, and then I was taking a deep breath and stepping up close to the naked Steve, his hands still resting on Ava's rump. I nodded up at him, not too sure quite how to do this. "Ready?"

"Go for it," he nodded. I stuck my latexed forefinger into my mouth, summoning spit.

"Try to relax and just let yourself... you know," I stammered, but then I reminded myself that the guy was a professional stripper, plus he looked like he was over thirty, so he definitely knew how to cum. I let my eyes rove down his body, taking in his muscles: dude must work out all the time, I reflected, my hand cupping his butt and curving around to dive between his cheeks. "Relax."

I could not believe I was doing this.

There was no give to his ass at all, no flab, nothing but pure muscle, his beautiful body firm under my palm. I was very aware, suddenly, of how close we were, my whole front pressed up against his hip, his arm wedged awkwardly between my breasts as my fingertip traced up and down his crack, seeking his anus.

We were both holding our breath as I found it, my fingertip probing, slipping past the hot tight ring of his hole. "Relax," I repeated, my breath almost silent in his ear, and then suddenly his body melted a little and I felt myself slide into his ass, his most secret place, delving deep until my knuckles stopped me. He let out a long sigh, and when I looked up his eyes were closed with his head tipped back. "That's it," I cooed, pushing in gently, my other hand resting on his hip.

"Ahh," he groaned, his sigh long and loud. Vaguely I was aware of Ava, twisting around, watching us, but there was only room in my world for Steve and his prostate and the thick dick plunged fully inside the poor woman. I found a rhythm quickly, pushing in and out, in and out, his body alive against mine.

I stirred when I felt his arm shift, scraping across my front and around my shoulder, bringing me closer. My wrist felt better at once, the angle perfect, and I drove my finger as deeply as it would go. Steve tightened against me, then relaxed, and dimly I became aware that his hand was clamped tightly to my ass as we worked.

I caught fire at once, feeling the heat spread off his body and into mine. I suddenly grew very aware that my pussy was pressed tightly to his thigh, and it was all I could do to keep myself from undulating against him.

Steve moved slightly, his hips trembling, and with amazement I suddenly realized he was trying to push himself back against my hand, impaling his ass more deeply on my finger. I dug in, his face turned to mine now, and in that moment his eyes locked on mine and I felt a surge of power I was not prepared for, a sense of my control over this man and the helpless little tart hanging off his dick. I felt alive, vibrant, my lips curving into a mischievous grin as I saw his Adam's apple bob in his throat: I was going to make him lose it, hard, into this girl's willing snatch.

Me. I was going to make him cum.

Suddenly my hand was off his skin, snaking up my own ribcage, my chest, tugging at the collar of my uniform shirt. His eyes lit greedily up as I gave him my cleavage, feeling one of my buttons work itself apart, then the next. His lips parted, eyes dilating, as I focused on a single roll of sweat beading on his forehead and running down his face.

I'd never wanted to lick something so badly.

He was breathing raggedly now, his pussy-stenched breath in my face, eyes riveted on my tits while my finger dragged him further and further along the swooping road toward whatever his grotesquely swollen penis was about to do in her clenched, desperate pussy, and then he was gritting his teeth and I was speeding up in his anus, my leg lifting to rub my boot along his calf while his hand held me powerfully up from under my ass...

When Steve came, his entire body tightened like a bass string, vibrating, incandescent, until with a ragged gasp he let go. I could feel his asshole grip my finger suddenly, tightly like Ava's pussy gripped his dick, and he cast his head back again with his mouth wide open as he let out a stifled groan. I imagined my fingertip could almost feel his semen rushing past through his body, hastening away down the constricted tunnel of his cock and out into his woman's grasping vagina.

I heard her moan, like a sound coming through cotton, but there was nothing about her that interested me anymore: I kept my finger up Steve's asshole while he rode out his orgasm, one hands clawing her hips, the other one cupping my own cheeks. "There you go," I urged, my other hand quite inexplicably skating along Steve's ridged abs.

I'd never seen such amazing abs. I couldn't believe I was touching them. "Fuck," he huffed toward the ceiling, and I smiled: it was a sound of total masculine satisfaction, and I was the one who'd given him that satisfaction. I, not the chick with his cum sloshing around inside her.

* * *

The big, baby-boomer door shut behind us as we stepped out into the cool night air of Ava's dad's porch. "I can't believe that worked," I marveled, my whole body still tingling.

"You said there'd be tits," he grumbled reproachfully as we started down the walk.

"Yeah, I assumed 'strippers' meant women. Shows you how enlightened I am in this post-feminist world of ours," I sighed. "Bride was naked, though. Pretty nice pair, too."

"I barely got a look," he shrugged, but he wasn't too unhappy. This call had given him enough stories to cover a whole years' worth of bullshitting at the station house, and besides, I found out later he'd gotten one of the bridesmaids' digits.

Steve had not been bashful after his softening cock had finally emerged from Ava's troubled, inseminated pussy. She'd finally collapsed, gasping, onto her parents' big bed while Steve backed off and looked critically at his penis. I watched as he carefully removed the silicone ring, his thick shaft glistening as it swung trunklike from his body.

While I stood there with my gloves smelling like his ass.

He'd smiled warmly at me. "Thanks," he'd nodded, and I tried desperately not to look at that nobly swinging dick as I buttoned my uniform back up.

"That... well." I had nothing I could say. I could only hope I wouldn't get a lawsuit from Ava, now sprawled naked across the bed with Steve's massive load working its way out of her carefully plucked pussy. I cleared my throat. "This is definitely something you should get checked out," I told her, feeling tawdry as I gave her a sample pack of Plan B. "Just tell your gyno, and I'm sure they'll want a follow-up."

"Will I be able to fuck my husband?" she'd fretted, and there was no way I could answer that. So I'd let one of her bridesmaids in and beaten a hasty retreat with the nude Steve, who led me into a living room gone positively Roman as his partner sat lounging on the sectional with two bridesmaids sucking his dick.

"So," he'd begun, leaning on the kitchen counter, "that was really something."

"I feel bad," I'd admitted. "That was not quite what I'd call ethical."

"Yeah?" He'd shrugged. "How ethical would it be if I asked for your number?"

"More than if I gave it," I'd laughed, and we'd left it at that. Mikey and I returned to the firehouse in silence, with me thinking it would probably be wise if I left out certain details of my encounter with Steve and Ava when I filed my run report. The key would be keeping the report plausible, and when I got summoned to my lieutenant's office a couple days later, I figured I'd failed.

Lt Brickley was a good boss by my standards, meaning he cared a lot more about the hook-and-ladder side of the fire department than the ambulance-and-stretcher side. So he left us alone. But I had to figure my hazy report about a mostly-undisclosed treatment for penis captivus would lead to a few questions.

I was mistaken.

"Hey, Sloman." He nodded toward one of the chairs he kept out front of his desk. "Have a seat."

I decided I should try to go on offense. "Look, LT, if this is about that run the other night? Briggs Road? With the stripper and the penis? I put it all in the report."

He blinked at me through some bifocals, tipping his head up and down as though he couldn't quite decide which lenses to use with me. I wondered whether I should scoot the chair forward. "Yes, it's about that run, and no, I don't have a problem with the report." He leaned over to his inbox and rummaged around among the papers there, selecting a phone contact form from Dispatch. "Someone dropped this off for you, then followed up with an email."

"Yeah?" I cocked my head, a trail of dark hair escaping my ponytail and drifting across my view. "Good email, or bad email?"

"Good email." He peered at his computer. "Says here I'm supposed to thank you for your kindness and professionalism in dealing with that call."

"No shit?" I blurted. "Who sent the email?"

"Some chick named Ava Bernardi?" He glanced over at me. "You must have really made an impression. I never get emails from community members like this. Most of them are all about how pissed they are at me."

"Relatable," I sighed. "They usually yell at us, too."

"Which is why I'm surprised by this one." He read the email again, then shrugged. "So. Great work, Sloman." He fingered the contact form unearthed from his inbox, scanning it. "This Bernardi patient, she also wanted to leave a message for you directly." He slid it across the desk toward me. "I said I'd pass it along."

I leaned forward and glanced suspiciously at the phone message, in the shaky handwriting of Kenny From Dispatch. It was a note... wondering, amazingly, whether I'd be able to drop by Ava's wedding reception next weekend. For cocktails, it stressed, not for food. I raised my eyebrows. "Fuck. At the South Shore Yacht Club?"

"Money," Brickley muttered, nodding knowingly. "How was the house? Does she look loaded?"

I stifled a laugh. "She was definitely loaded, all right. Overloaded even." I'd never even thought about going to an event at South Shore; the place had an awe-inspiring reputation for its service. "This says she wants me to be the guest of honor," I snickered.

He stared at me impassively. "Based on your run report," he said slowly, "the fucking wedding wouldn't be happening at all if you hadn't figured out how to get them, uh..."

"...disentangled?"

"Yeah." We both chuckled. He'd been amused when I'd given him a summary of the run, too. "Anyway. Attagirl, Sloman."

"Thanks, LT." I was already thinking about what dress I might be able to fit into: a reception at South Shore might just demand something more impressive than I owned. I wondered whether I could maybe borrow something from Izzy or Ronnie... "That it?"

"That's it." He waved me off. "Keep up the good work, yada yada."

* * *

I showed up for the reception in one of Izzy Speier's most expensive silver-sequined dresses, with a hemline well north of my knees and a neckline that framed my boobs quite nicely, if I did say so myself. "Fuck, you look like a celebrity!" she'd gushed as I tried it on at her place, and for once? I thought she was right.

But I'm a bit bigger than her in the derriere department, so I felt the hem clinging to my thighs as I tottered across the parking lot on my unfamiliar heels. I tugged the hemline down uncertainly: the tightness across my butt obviously made it impossible for me to wear anything but a thong, so I was grateful for whatever coverage I could get.

There were actual footmen at the door, Downton Abbey-style, and I did my best to channel my inner aristocrat in hopes they hadn't seen the plain ol' Honda I'd driven into the lot. "Ma'am," one of them said to me. He was well-trained: he wasn't ogling my cleavage, which was considerable in that dress.

"The Bernardi reception," I informed him airily, like I was a countess. "I'm attending for cocktails."

"Of course." He swung the door noiselessly open for me. "Enjoy the party, ma'am."

"Thank you." I had to bite my tongue before I called him sir, my usual first-responder go-to when talking to people whose names I did not know. I passed at once into a world of clean opulence, full of easy laughter and the luscious voices of wealthy people. Hell, even the clatter of the trays sounded dignified. I stood just inside the door, blinking at the largest chandelier I'd ever seen, nearly jumping as a waiter materialized from nothingness beside me.

"Welcome to the Club, ma'am. Would you prefer a piña colada, a grasshopper, or a Malibu sunset?" He glanced meaningfully at a large silver tray resting on his arm, and my eyes widened at all the little glasses there sparkling like jewelry scattered across a mirror.

"Ooh." I felt my grin spread quickly, a delighted flush tickling my cheeks. "Piña colada, please," I said, since I'd never heard of the other two. Thank god for that Rupert Holmes song, I reflected as I took a little stemmed glass brimming with milky yellowish goodness. I was surprised at how cold it was: I'm a beer girl at heart. I was still deciding whether I was supposed to tip the kid when, with a warm smile, he vanished to find a new target.

I sidled toward the bar. I knew absolutely nobody here, but that was perfectly fine: I'm a simple woman. I was here to linger on a deck over the sea with a drink, pretending I was one of the rich people around me for a few hours. No longer, I told myself. I had the early shift tomorrow, and it wouldn't do to get plastered.

Three drinks, I told myself. I could handle this one and two beers, easily.

The place filled up quickly and I made my way to the bar, a heavy mahogany monstrosity against the far wall: like everything else I could see it was tastefully nautical. I arrived just as I swept the last of the cocktail into my mouth. "Hi!" I said to one of the bartenders, who looked young and cute. "Can I have something that's not an IPA?"

She smiled. "I know, right? Everyone seems to want those these days." She turned to find me a bottle of something dark. "Here you go, sweetie."

"Thanks!" I slipped a couple of dollars into a tall carafe nearby. "I appreciate it." She winked at me as I spun away toward a large set of doors with sunlight flooding through the windows, and not for the first time I found myself wondering whether I should ditch Don and try a woman. He hadn't been doing the job lately, I reflected with a slight frown, but then he wasn't the most perceptive man. And part of it, I knew, was me. My hours sucked, and I didn't make much of an effort with him.

There was another guy there to open this door for me, a natty little fellow in a clean blue suit, and I was already flashing piña colada smiles right and left. "Thanks!" I burbled, putting a big pair of sunglasses on as I strode across the deck. My heels on the wood sounded like a dominatrix moving toward her prey. The thought made me smile again as I reached the sturdy railing at the edge of the sea, the harbor in front of me a bobbing thicket of white masts from the members' boats, and I stood there a moment with the sun on my skin and the ocean in my nose, enjoying my day.

Half the beer was gone, on top of the piña colada, and my teeth were losing feeling when I heard footsteps beside me. I turned away from watching a seagull drop a crab onto the rocks by the seawall and saw a man in a nice grey suit, just a little taller than me. He seemed familiar.

Especially when he smiled.

"Thought that might be you over here," the stripper said in that rolling, surfer-boy voice of his. "I thought it was weird that Ava invited me, but if you're here it makes a little bit of sense."

"H-hey!" I managed, my shock probably obvious. I straightened, blinking furiously behind my glasses, trying to understand why this guy was here. "Steve?"

He kept his smile and cocked his head pleasantly. I noticed his shades were more expensive than mine. "I'm so sorry," he began earnestly, "but I forget your name..."

"It's Nadia." I knew I was grinning, grinning like a fucking madwoman, remembering what he looked like naked. "Nadia Sloman," I added automatically.

"It's so hilarious that she invited us," he went on, leaning against the railing beside me. He had a wonderful manner about him, and holy shit he looked good in that suit. I took a convulsive sip of my beer as a breeze stirred my hair. "She sent me a note at work."

"Like, through the stripper people?" I giggled. For an instant I wondered whether my cleavage looked indecent, but then I remembered how he'd stared at my tits with my finger up his butt and decided it didn't matter what I showed. "Strippers-r-Us?"

"No, we're called Dirty bASStards," he replied with an easy laugh. He conjured a business card from his suit pocket and offered it to me.

"I think your, uh, your friend already gave one of those to my partner." I just couldn't stop smiling. "I bet Ava might want it, though."

"Right?" He shrugged. "No, she called me at the gym. I'm a personal trainer at Coast."

I arched an eyebrow. "How did she know that?"

He straightened a little, looking out at the bay. "I mean, I do talk to people sometimes. I don't just let them suck frosting off my chest, then get my penis stuck in their cooch." We laughed a little breathlessly. "She asked when she saw my muscles. Before we did it."