Candy's Store Book 4 The Back Room

Book Four: The Back Room

It’s rare that I actually entertain a client myself. Normally, my role is strictly front-of-house. I am the mother hen, the soother of qualms, and the face of professional courtesy and discretion. I am the figure of shrouded desire, too, the one thing not on offer. The ring master to the theater which surrounds me, and it doesn’t do to fracture that illusion. Taking part in Mr. Harcourt’s little drama, however, reminded me of how much I miss.

Perhaps it was that, so fresh in my mind, that inclined me more favorably towards James Brooker.

A tall man—neither especially broad nor overtly muscular, but pleasing to the eye—he loitered in the reception room like he was afraid of his height, that he wished he could shrink somehow to be invisible. Lena, my front desk girl, took pity and showed him right into my office, then sent in tea, coffee, and biscuits. Little human comforts help put nervous clients at ease.

His looks, once I saw past the shyness, caught my attention. Sun-scarred cheeks, lean and ruddy, with twinkling blue eyes beneath a sweep of floppy, pale brown hair, bleached in streaks of summer blond. His thin nose had a slightly crooked tip, and his lips a pronounced Cupid’s bow, giving him an air of elfin mystery. His long fingers played incessantly around the handle and rim of his coffee cup while we talked, a blush rising frequently to his face.

“I just…I’ve really never, um, done this before,” he said apologetically.

For once, I actually believed those words.

I excused myself for a moment, popped out to tell Lena she should hold any calls for me and, over the next forty-five minutes, slowly extracted a full picture from Mr. Brooker.

He was twenty-four, he told me. A trust fund baby grown up under the aegis of his family’s money and reputation, he found himself now stuck somewhere in the limbo between adolescence and adulthood; too young for his father to consider letting him on the company board, yet too old to enjoy the feckless pleasures of youth. And he had enjoyed them. Unfortunately, years spent out of Mommy and Daddy’s sight had honed tastes he knew he couldn’t continue to indulge.

“It’s not a problem,” he assured me, his voice hollow and his gaze fixed on the table. “I mean, I like women…romantically, as well as men. I-I suppose I’m attracted to the
person
, not their, uh….”

“Quite.” I poured myself another cup of chamomile tea. Confidante and therapist, just another two of my functions. “So, you’d be looking for an introduction to a gentleman friend of mine?”

“No.”

I stopped, already poised to stand and retrieve the binder I kept on the shelf by the door, a tasteful portfolio of my staff and their expertise.
No?
Mr. Brooker raised his azure gaze to mine and blinked a couple of times, cherubic mouth trembling to a smile.

“I mean, I’d like…. Gosh, I don’t know if you can do it. Um.” He reached into his pocket, drawing out a crumpled piece of paper. “I saw this online and I wondered….”

I stared at the print-out. The machine resembled a low, backless couch of sorts, upholstered in red leatherette, but the seven inch jelly dildo rising from its centre was not the sort of thing usually associated with most furniture retailers.

“What I’d really like,” Mr. Brooker said, as if he was timidly asking for his favorite but costly flavor of ice cream, “is if a woman would…make me.”

The pattern of his desires fell into place, and a smile curved my lips.

“I see.”

What he wanted was the physical satisfaction of a cock up his ass, a little gentle humiliation for craving it, and the overwhelming imprint on his mind of a forceful, dominant woman who both accepted his needs and would see them fulfilled. My mind turned immediately to Serena. Surely, she’d be the ideal candidate for this request and—the sight of her, with Gina, indulging Mr. Harcourt’s three-way play still fresh in my memory—I couldn’t help feeling it might be a good idea to give her some time spent working alone. I was about to move again, to fetch the portfolio and show Mr. Brooker her picture, when he cleared his throat.

“Um. I don’t suppose
you
…. I mean, do you…ever…?”

I looked for a long moment at this pretty, dented man, and crossed a line I am normally content to leave fairly well alone.

“That can certainly be arranged, Mr. Brooker. What date did you have in mind?”

Such relief, such gratitude flooded his expression that I almost regretted my decision. He smiled, and it threatened to light up the room. We covered a few more details—the boundaries he wanted to lay down, the minutiae of his fantasy—then arranged an appointment for a week’s time, which would enable me to ensure the appropriate props were all assembled. The…machine was easy enough to get hold of, and I enjoyed the opportunity to pop into town and see Jed, the owner of the local adult entertainment emporium. Once I got ‘Wild Bill’ back to Candy’s Store, an interesting afternoon was spent unwrapping and investigating it in the staff break room.

“Never seen one of these before,” commented Danny, our maintenance man and part-time wardrobe assistant. “What’s the maximum weight it’ll stand?”

Discussion broke out as to whether the upper limit of kilograms prescribed on the box could involve one or more parties. Danny scratched his moustache, looked doubtful, and wondered aloud if it wasn’t worth considering building our own version. I smiled, shrugged, said he was welcome to claim expenses if he felt like trying, and watched him wander back to his workshop a happy man. Gina and a couple of the other girls were delighted to find that, not only was Bill remote controlled, he had three different detachable dongs, five variable speeds, and the option of attaching virtually any compatible toy to his dock.

“Oh my God! I’ll never have to date again!”

I chuckled. Some of the boys looked a little less enthralled by the thing, though I noticed more than a few second glances in Bill’s direction. It certainly made for interesting dinner table conversation that evening.

Mr. Brooker’s appointment, when it finally came, was of course a totally different matter. I confess to even feeling a little nervous—it had been that long since I found myself in quite this kind of position. I dressed in the clothes he’d requested: a mini-dress in a sparkling silver fabric, with a deep cowl neck and split sleeves, teamed with sheer stockings and black patent high heels. My blonde hair was piled up on my head, a few curls dropping to tease the nape of my neck, my make-up minimal apart from black eyeliner and baby pink lipstick. The overall effect reached somewhere between classy chic and disco slut—the kind of woman a man wouldn’t necessarily take home to Mother, yet wouldn’t mind showing off to his friends—and I had to admit I felt years younger. I waited for him in The Back Room, a dismally plain and functional space usually used for jail cell fantasies. Today, the prop cages, bars, and benches had been cleared out, and Wild Bill stood in the middle of the floor, no dildo in his dock. Naked and emasculated. The only other thing in the room besides a table that held a selection of lubes, toys, and a tub of condoms, was a large black leather wingback chair, set between Bill and the far wall.

I settled myself in it when I heard the knock on the door, crossing my legs and counting to four before I said:

“Enter.”

James Brooker shuffled into the room with his eyes downcast, closed the door behind him, and looked first at Bill, then me. His gaze trailed up my legs, the outline of my body beneath the dress, my pink-tipped hands resting on the arms of the chair and, finally, lingered on my face. He smiled breathlessly.

“You look beautiful. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

He licked his lips, attention flicking again to Wild Bill and all it promised. I tilted my head to one side.

“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Brooker. Would you like to take off your clothes?”

I nodded to the changing booth, behind a curtain at the end of the room. He traipsed meekly to it, and I waited while he shed his exquisitely tailored casuals, pretending I wasn’t eager to see if the body that lay beneath them lived up to the promise of his face.

He sported a pattern of tan lines on his upper arms and chest—the suggestion of a v-neck shirt—that spoke of modesty, though he wasn’t unduly pale. A sparse blond fuzz traced the chiseled swells of his chest—the physique of someone whose primary love must be swimming, I thought. Slim hips, neat waist, but broad shoulders and well-muscled legs. I pressed my tongue up behind my teeth, left him standing there in uncertainty while I looked him over. He shielded his flaccid cock—uncut and puckered like a shepherd’s purse—behind his large, square hands in a flash of modesty quite absurd, given the position I would shortly see him in.

“Turn around,” I said kindly.

He obliged, a slow twirl, glancing at me over his shoulder as he revealed a toned, pert ass. Yes, a swimmer indeed, his body polished and honed by the water.

“Very nice.”

The suggestion of a blush kissed his cheeks, and he smiled. I crooked my index finger at him.

“Now come over here. I have something for you.”

He nodded and obeyed, his gait awkward, too self-conscious of his nudity.

“I hear you like to take cock.”

I made sure to sound every consonant, the final ‘k’ cracking sharply into the still air. Mr. Brooker nearly stumbled over his own feet. Arriving before me, he stared at the floor and blushed furiously.

“’s.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I thought as much.”

I rose to my feet, luxuriating in the movement, the slip of the shimmering dress across my body. I only reached midway up his chest, and I could tell the thought of this tiny woman taking charge of him excited Brooker. Already, his dick had begun to stir. I walked slowly around him, the click of my heels a deliberate metronome beat on the solid black floor. He really was a well put together man. I inhaled, taking in the scent of a woody, oakmoss-based shower gel or shampoo. Summer freckles peppered his upper chest and shoulders. I reached out and—delicately—ran my hand over his ass. Smooth skin yielded to warm, ripe flesh in my palm, and Brooker pulled a gasp across his teeth, shivering against my touch.

“You like it up there, hm? Hot…throbbing…dick?”

He nodded.

Slap!

“Good,” I said brightly.

I left him standing there while I went to the table, preparing to select our first toy of the day, and I was sure his eyes burned into the back of my neck. I bent over, checking the lower shelf for things that weren’t there so he could get the opportunity to check out my butt. An eye for an eye, and all that. It’s only fair. I chose a string of firm-but-flexible anal beads and brought a bottle of lube with me, aware of Mr. Brooker’s sudden and intense interest.

“All right. Kneel down in front of my chair. That’s right.” I nodded with approval when he did what he was told. “Put your arms on the seat. Good. You can rest your head down there too…just where I was sitting. Is it still warm?”

I reached out, gently pushed the back of his head until his face made contact with the leather. He drew in a shuddering breath and nodded, distracted— probably by the idea of being able to smell my pussy—to the point where he didn’t expect me to bend down behind him and slap the lube on his ass. He tensed, then edged his legs apart a little and waited for me to grease his crack. I obliged, drawing out each motion of my fingers across the most tender part of him, feeling his button flicker under my touch. No doubt how badly he wanted it, how much the anticipation grated on his nerves. He moaned into the padded seat of the chair when I removed my hand to lube up the toy and cooed with satisfaction when I placed the tip of the bead string at his center.

The beads slipped in, one by one by one, graduating in size all the while. Each produced a sigh from Mr. Brooker, but nothing compared to the yelp when I pulled them out. He wiggled his butt at the empty air.

“Mm…more. Please?”

“Naughty boy.” I smacked his ass with an open palm. “Greedy boy.”

“Please!”

I smiled, though he couldn’t see it. The beads slipped back into his pink rosebud, buttocks working to swallow the whole string until only the ring-pull on the end remained. I swatted him again.

“All right. Get up.”

Mr. Brooker pushed back on his arms and stood, flushed and breathing heavily, the beads clenched inside him. His cock had sprung up to greet me, as well-formed as the rest of him, almost pretty in its shades of pink and tan. His hands hung uncertainly around it, unsure whether he could touch himself or not. I saved him the bother, reaching out to cup his balls, threatening his scrotum with the merest graze of my pearlescent nails.

“Gets you hard, does it? Feeling those beads up there?”

I gazed into his blue eyes, mottled with lust.

He nodded, licked his lips, his voice hoarse. “Oh, God…yes.”

“Do you think you’re ready for something bigger?”

His gaze darted nervously to the table and the array of plugs, vibes, and dongs it held. We wouldn’t get through everything today, and I liked dangling him over the uncertainty of what we might use.

“Yes. Please.”

“Good.”

I walked slowly there and back—
click, click, click
—and brought over a small, slim vibrator with an adaptor cap on its base. He watched me hungrily as I fastened it to Bill’s central dock and took the pink rectangular remote control in my hand. I idled it in my fingers and moved back behind Brooker, yanked out the anal beads to the sound of his quivering yelp, and passed him the bottle of lube.

“Now,” I whispered, craning as close to his ear as I could get without standing on a box, “grease up that cock and sit on it, greedy boy.”

He hesitated, so I smacked him harder across that tight little butt with my palm.

“Do it!”

Mr. Brooker obliged, his hands shaking a little as he prepped the vibe. He spread his ass cheeks and tentatively lowered himself onto the toy. After a few strokes he was fully impaled, and I gave him a moment to adjust, filling the silence with the sound of my heels on the floor. I retrieved a pair of black Velcro restraints from the table.