Geek's Revenge Ch. 04

I was so preoccupied with a real estate deal over the weekend that I had totally forgotten about Carla. Well, not totally -- the weekend threesome with a vindictive Bev had been burned pleasantly into my memory and would likely feature prominently in my fantasy life until I left the nursing home for Pleasant Green cemetery. So I was caught a little off-guard when my cell phone rang Tuesday night.

"Cooper, here," I answered automatically, expecting the broker -- again. I swear, real estate is fun, but the constant back-and-forth negotiations can be wearisome.

"Hey, it's Pe—It's Carla," came a soft voice on the other end. "It's Tuesday," she reminded me. "You still interested?"

The instantly throbbing boner in my pants sure was. But I HAD to put this thing to rest soon, or it would fall in the crapper and I'd lose my $10k option. I had plans for Carla, to be sure, but money before sex. Because if you have money, you can get sex.

"Gee, Carla, I'm . . . I'm kinda in the middle of—"

"I've got my new test back yesterday," she interrupted. "Clean. I'll bring the last three, if you want." She sounded a little hesitant.

"You do?" I asked, surprised. "Well . . . look, I'm kinda putting together a deal right now. But I guess as long as my phone is on . . . you know where I live?"

"Nope."

"322 Rockwood. The old Kress building. Ring the bell for the top floor and I'll let you in. Um . . . what do you have time for?" I asked, considering the matter carefully. Oh, I could always use a good BJ -- who can't? But if she was going to the trouble of bringing her test in, she wanted more than that. Hell, so did I. I'd dreamt about that pussy every day for years, way back when.

"I'm free -- Tuesdays are slow," she sighed. "And . . . I really need the money right now. My . . . boyfriend, Bill, he wasn't . . . it doesn't matter. But if you're up to it, I'm open for business any way you want me. For three hundred you get me all night."

"I thought it was seven?" I asked, surprised.

"Well . . . that was the weekend rate with . . . that girl involved. On a school night, I usually make it more reasonable. And . . . I mean, we went to High School together, right? I'll give you a discount."

Heck, that was a better deal than I had planned. "All right, stop by in about two hours."

"Wear anything special?" she asked. "I can do dress up, some, if it's not too outrageous."

"Nah, I want to see you naked. We can get freaky later, if necessary."

I straightened the place up a bit, because I'm a hell of a slob when I live by myself, and even though she was a whore she was still someone I knew. I even ordered a pizza, since I didn't feel like cooking. And exactly two hours later, my bell rang. I buzzed her in, and she was soon at my door, a big purse hanging over one shoulder, wearing a print-patterned lightly shabby blue dress that was just a cunt-hair too slutty for a cocktail party.

"Coop!" she said, beaming. "Good to see you again!"

"Um, you too," I admitted. "I hope that the other night wasn't . . . too much. I didn't realize Bev would get that intense."

She laughed. "Compared to pulling an ass-train for six black guys who just got out of prison, well, it wasn't that bad." Ouch! Carla had been busy. It made my butt-hole sting just imagining it. "I even enjoyed parts of it. Your friend, she's kinda cute, when she isn't being a bitch."

"Yeah, well, that's most of the time," I said, ushering her in.

"So . . . you own this whole damn building?" she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

"The whole deteriorating, decrepit pile," I agreed. "Got a good deal on it, though. When they put that new downtown mall in, this will be prime real estate. Top five floors are apartments, though I expect to take them condo when everything is said and done. Two commercial spaces on the ground floor, and three floors of offices. All zoned mix-use."

"Wow," she said, genuinely impressed. "I never knew someone who owned a building before."

"This is my second. Remember that old gas station on Broad? I bought it first, right after my first IPO. Ten grand in improvements and I sold it for double. Now it's—"

"The ice cream place, yeah," she said, grinning. "I blow guys back there, some time! I guess I should pay you rent or something!"

"Well, I did sell it, so that's someone else's problem. I didn't know you worked over there, too."

"The college crowd," she agreed. "Lousy tippers, but easy to please. I once blew ten guys from a frat and only spent an hour there. Hair-triggers," she explained disdainfully. She tossed her bag on the couch and went to stare out my big bay window across the city. "This is amazing, though! Pretty! And you own it. Damn. Damn!"

"The rewards of my nerdom," I agreed. "Um, you had your test results?"

"Oh! Yeah, here," she said, digging three pink papers from the Public Health Department out of her bag. I glanced at them, verified her name and the dates, and inspected them carefully. No AIDS, thank God, but also no herpes, crabs, clap or other hazards of her profession.

"Great, great, I think we can do business, here. One thing, I may have to stop for a call. Goddamn broker is having a hard time with the seller -- the old Victory Warehouse. Keeps changing the price on me, backing out, all sorts of bullshit."

"Hell, you don't have to stop just for a phone call," she said, sitting on the couch and daintily crossing her legs at the ankles. "Not for me."

"Good to know," I said, watching her legs, mesmerized. Despite a few years on her, she had very shapely ones, tanned, and her gaudy high-heels made her calves look exquisite. "You want to, uh, maybe do a little tease? You were pretty good at that the other night."

"No tease," she said, seductively, pulling her skirt up slowly. "No, I promise, I deliver. Always."

"Even back in High School?" I asked.

"Yeah . . . usually," she admitted. "Every now and then I'd cut out early. Not with anyone important, of course, but there were some guys that just didn't . . . make the cut."

"Like me," I said, staring. "I wouldn't have made the cut."

"No, probably not," she admitted, a little troubled. "I was a different person back then," she said. If she was implying some sort of spiritual growth, I wasn't buying it.

"Yeah, you fucked for social status and power, not money," I said a little acidly.

"That's right," she said firmly, her hem finally over her panties -- tiny, tiny white silk and lace. "I fucked for power. And I had it, too. How many times did you jack off to me, huh? How many loads did you spill thinking about this body, Coop?"

"Many," I said, swallowing hard.

"That's right. And if I had asked you to . . . wash my car, would you have done it?"

"Probably not," I said, a little defensively.

"If I told you I'd show you my tits?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. "Or let you cop a feel?"

"Uh . . . yeah, I would have," I said, disappointed in myself for admitting it.

"And it wouldn't have cost me a thing. You have money, now. You can buy what you need. Including this pussy, right now. Back then, I had my body and my rep, and I used it. Just like you use your money."

"Yeah, but you hurt a lot of people's feelings along the way, Carla," I said, staring at her hand as it disappeared into her band-aid-sized panties and started working. "Bev, for one. Leslie. And about a million others. You pissed on a lot of us nerdlings."

"And now you get to fuck me," she said, as if that made it all better.

Well, didn't it?

I mean, she might have been dumb as a box of hammers, but she had a point. Money, sex, it all came back to the accumulation and exercise of power. In High School everyone was carrying around an intoxicating level of testosterone -- we would have fucked a goat, if no one was looking too closely. There her body was at a premium. She had used it, just like any asset. Me, I had my brain, which ironically didn't mean shit, power-wise, in High School.

But now . . . well, I owned the building. I had a few millions tucked away. I could -- and did -- get all the pussy I cared for, and I'd be lying if I said it was because I was a great guy with an engaging personality. Now my brain was at a premium, and as for Carla, well, a new crop of fresh pussy graduated every year. I would always get smarted. She'd never be what she was at sixteen, never again. Despite a gallant attempt to maintain her edge, she was competing with younger women and was destined to lose that competition on an increasing basis. My brain would only get better -- her tits would eventually sag down to her kneecaps.

"Yes, I do," I breathed. "Go ahead, masturbate. I want to watch you." She smiled sexily and pushed aside the crotch and started to work her clit a little more. "I also want to know more about you."

"Why?" she asked, confused. "I'm here to fuck, remember?"

"You can talk while you fuck," I corrected her. "Consider it geek foreplay. I'm curious. You studied human sexuality," I said, laughing at the idea in my head even as I spoke. "You must understand the human need to explore sexual limits."

She shrugged. "Sure. What do you want to know?"

"Why keep doing it?"

She considered. "Well, I love the sex. I really do. But . . . well, to be perfectly honest, I need the money. My . . . call it a contract . . . my contract still has over ten thousand to go on it. And it's hard to keep paying it down when I have so many accessories to buy."

"Accessories?"

"Coke, mostly. Oh, a little X every now and then, and weed, of course. But mostly cocaine. And clothes, but mostly cocaine. My boyfriend sells it to me cheap, just over cost, but . . . still have to pay that bill. After that, it's hard to pay down my contract. I can't even think about a straight job until that's paid off. By then, I probably won't have the looks for the good gigs any more anyway."

"Wow," I sighed in amazement. She was still working her clit pretty well, small, tight circles. It seemed to beckon me across the room, nearly hairless, just a 'landing strip' at the top, but wide open and glistening wet. It could have just been lube, of course, but I treasured my illusions. "And you think of this as a career plan?"

She shrugged. "Hey I get to fuck for money. No clock to punch, no hours to fill, and every john is an adventure. It's got some bad parts, but what job doesn't?"

"I guess I see your point," I said, doubtfully. "But . . . well, what would you do if you could do anything in the world?"

"Maybe go back to school," she said, a little wistfully. "But that doesn't matter. I like most of the parts of what I do. If I hadn't . . . gotten in trouble that first time, I'd be some fat middle-class housewife with three kids and a fat husband who only fucked me on the weekends. What kind of life is that?"

I had no ready response to that, outside of the raging erection that had formed as Carla lewdly ran two fingers into her twat. It made little squishy noises that I found alluring. "You want me to cum first?" she asked, with an air of professional detachment mixed with honest excitement.

"Yeah, sure, I'd like that," I said, relishing the idea. I love to watch a woman have a big fat orgasm. It's such a compelling, beautiful agony, and reveals some of her innermost thoughts. Sure, I'd seen Carla cum, back in the hotel, but I had been pretty distracted at the time. This time it was just her, making herself hot and happy. She nodded with a small smile, then leaned her head back and began working her clit more seriously.

It didn't take as long as I'd thought it would -- either that or she was a really good faker, hard to tell. But within five minutes she was thrusting her hips and moaning, fingers flying as she polished her little bud. She backed off and collapsed back against the couch. "That was nice," she said as she exhaled.

"It surely was," I agreed. "How about some head?"

"Thought you'd never ask," she said with fake enthusiasm. She did a great slut-crawl across the carpet and took a position between my knees, where she deftly unzipped my fly and released my cock. "Mmmmm," she moaned, her tongue flicking out and licking the tip. "I bet you jacked this thing a lot, thinking of me, haven't you?"

"You have no idea," I said, earnestly. "I wanted to get into your pants in the worst way. But you cheerleader bitches didn't have time for us geek boys. You didn't even know we existed." "Now, don't be silly," she chided. "We knew. Hell, we went out of our way to torture you. It made me wet to think of you little spazzes beating your meat thinking about me every night."

"Oh, well, glad I could help out," I said, annoyed. I pulled her mouth to my cock and pushed it inside. "All those nights thinking about the unobtainable Carla the Cocktease. I guess Carla peaked a little early. Me, I'm a late bloomer," I said as she went to work with determination. I'll give Carla this: she wasn't a lazy cocksucker.

There was silence as she pumped her lips up and down my shaft, stopping after every seventh or eighth stroke to lavish some tongue attention on the head. Her hand was busy with a constant scrotum massage. She made little moany noises in the back of her throat as she worked, and when she took me particularly deep I could feel it. Damn, but I could feel it. Cheerleader or whore, Carla knew her way around a dick. Just to make sure, I put my hands on the back of her head and urged her down until her nose was pressed into my pubic hair. She took it like a champ.

I indulged myself in the pure bliss of getting one's cock sucked for twenty, maybe thirty minutes before Carla brought me to a happy, creamy conclusion, one she swallowed down matter-of-factly.

"Nice," I breathed, when I could speak again. "Very nice. I—" and my phone rang.

"Just in time," she said with a seductive giggle.

"That asshole," I growled, snapping it open. "Cooper!"

I won't get into detail about the deal -- the details are inconsequential. What became clear was that the seller, a bitter old guy across town, was changing the terms of his offer out of pure spite at this point in order to draw out the process. That way he could pocket my option. Fucker. I argued with my broker for a while, and then called the seller directly, Carla all but forgotten.

Forgotten, that is, until she started sucking my cock again. I ignored it at first as was focused on the deal, but you can't ignore an experienced whore's lips on your meat for very long. I got the tiniest bit distracted, something the seller tried to use to his advantage by talking fast, putting me on the defensive. I hate being on the defensive. I'm an offensive kind of guy.

Wait. That didn't come out quite right.

There came a point, about the time Carla started working me back into her throat, where my testosterone levels got high enough for me to get mad. I finally broke.

"Look, Foster, your fucking building has been sitting vacant for years! You pay how much in property taxes? Don't answer, I know already. You want to dance around this thing forever, fine -- we can do this the nice way or the hard way."

"I don't like a strong sell, Cooper!" he spat back at me. "I just want what's fair!"

"No, you want the fucking world for that crappy little space. The Victory has been an eyesore and a . . . a haven for prostitutes and drug dealers! Here I am, trying to improve the property to our mutual benefit, and you want to fuck around over a few grand? Well, Foster, we can play nice, or I can be not so nice. I'd rather spend my time convincing the city it would make a good parking lot or public space than watching you wave your little dick around like anyone still gave a damn! Call me when you're ready to deal, or I'll see you at the next city council meeting!" I snarled, and snapped my phone shut. Carla's lips never left my dick, but her eyes were on me, wide.

"Wow," she said, pulling off for a moment. "That was pretty intense. How much do you stand to lose?"

"Just ten grand," I said, with a sigh. "But at this point, it's the principal of the thing. I've driven by that warehouse every day for years and wanted to do something with it. And now this old geezer is trying to fuck with my plans."

"How did you know it was a crack house?" she asked.

"I didn't," I shrugged. "I can tell that it's not a fashionable boutique. And I've picked up a whore there from time to time. Is it a crack house?"

"Yeah, that's where Midnight has his office," she said. "Mid-level guy, has about six houses. It's around back, only open at night, but on the weekends it can be hopping."

"Can it, now?" I asked. "Interesting . . ."

"You ready to fuck?" she asked, nonchalantly. You have to admire her dedication to her art. She was fondling one boob seductively through her dress (okay, it came across as a little slutty -- but that's what I was paying for) and had her other hand between her legs.

"Uh-huh," I said, dumbly. For a split second I was fifteen years old and anxiously awaiting enough mustache to justify shaving -- then the reality of the situation kicked in. "Doggie style. Bend over and raise your skirt," I commanded.

"Yessir!" she said with a practiced smile. She whipped around on her hands and knees, leaned against my coffee table, and pulled her hem up over her ass seductively. She looked back over one shoulder -- tossing her hair flirtatiously in the process -- and cocked her head. "Wrap that rascal and fuck me stupid!"

I wasted no time rolling a rubber on -- sure, she was clean, but I'm not one to take a risk when I don't have to -- and lining up in proper form while she rested her hands and head on the coffee table. I glanced down to savor the moment, and then slid my cock slowly but surely into her pussy from behind, thus fulfilling another adolescent dream.

I won't lie -- she wasn't the tightest woman in the world, but I had expected that. You can't abuse a vagina like she had and not show the wear. That being said, she was wet and very, very hot -- I could feel her heat even through the rubber -- and her pussy contracted around my cock enchantingly. I moaned, and she added a little girlish moan of her own, while looking over her shoulder invitingly.

It was a sweet, savage fuck, the kind where the goal is nothing more -- or less -- than your own selfish pleasure. I ran my hands around the perimeter of her ass cheeks as I thrust, remembering the days when I watched it hypnotically wiggle down the hall to class. I palmed each cheek and did my best to push my cock all the way through her cervix. I didn't succeed, of course -- that was a pretty well-traveled path -- but it felt fucking great!

"That's it, Coop, give it to me, give me every inch!" she moaned. "Fuck that pussy! Fuck that pussy that teased you so bad! Fuck it hard, Coop, fuck it hard!" she screamed, encouragingly.

I hammered it, easily one of the most intense fucks I've ever had. She cooperated nicely, pushing her wet slit back to meet me, moaning non-stop, thrashing her hair around prettily, and possibly even having one good orgasm that she didn't have to fake. I fucked her doggie for fifteen solid minutes before my knees started to get tired, then flipped her over to bang her face-to-face.

"You're pretty good at this, for a nerd," she sighed, catching her breath. I pushed the top of her dress down around her waist to reveal her beautiful jugs.

"I've practiced a lot," I quipped, rolling my hips forward as far as I could. I was gratified to hear her yelp in surprise. "I've thought about fucking you forever."

"Well, you don't have forever, but we have the rest of the evening," she assured. "You can fuck this hot pussy as many times as you can. All yours."

"And at a bargain basement price, too," I agreed. Her eyes looked a little pained, but the fake plastic whore's smile never wavered from her lips. "Don't worry, I'm going to get my money's worth." And I did. I banged her missionary for another half-an-hour, and actually made her cum for real at least once, before I unloaded into the condom. Then I rolled over and stared at my ceiling while I caught my breath and enjoyed the orgasmic cascade of endorphins across my synapses.