Chapter 3: The Hunger
Nancy was "riding the hairbrush."
That's what she called it. She was lying on her bed, naked, on her back. Her feet were flat on the sheets, with her knees up and spread wide. Her right hand was holding on to the bristles of her plastic hair brush, with the round, ridged handled jammed deep into her pussy. She needed the stimulation to keep the hollowness, the horniness, deep in her being, at bay.
She started by rubbing herself with fast, urgent strokes. Just like some of her hand job customers preferred, she fucked herself fast and hard, with furious energy. The intense, relentless strokes stimulated the walls of her pussy, like an urgent, needful lover.
But then she changed tempo, and touched herself with the slow, loving strokes that some of her other customers preferred. Gentle, loving caresses, on her pussy lips, on her clit, on the walls of her vagina. She delicately loved herself, stroked herself, wanted to make her body feel worshiped and adored, as if under the touch of a smitten young suitor.
And then, finally, she pleasured herself with the long, looping, lubed up strokes that some of her other customers preferred; using plenty of KY to make her tender tissues slick and soggy and very receptive to the tender mercies of her hairbrush handle, her fingers, and her knuckles.
But none of it mattered. No matter how much she fucked herself with her hands, her fingers, and her hairbrush, the hollow horny feeling would not go away. Even after her orgasm, screaming there on the bed, flailing her head back and forth on the pillow, the best she could accomplish was to make the feelings, the emptiness, go to sleep; make it lie down and leave her alone, on a temporary basis, while she tried to get on with her life.
Eventually, Nancy knew that she had achieved all of the serenity that she was going to get for now, and closed her eyes and tried to sleep for a few hours.
It was Friday night, and she was due to spend the evening at Carl's dive bar in the manufacturing district. Nancy was a hand job slut, who gave men hand jobs for twenty dollars. More importantly, of course, she was a college student, a business major, and needed the money to pay for her tuition and books. She wasn't interested in sex herself, and never had been. She'd had sex with a few boys, but not many, and had never enjoyed it. After awhile, she had realized that she really wasn't interested in boys or sex at all, and had stopped pursuing them. Likewise, the boys had stopped pursuing her. No big loss, from either perspective. Nancy had dedicated herself to her school work, and only worked as a hand job slut to pay for her education.
Nancy was a short, plump girl, with limp blond hair and a plain face. She was not particularly attractive, but had learned how to tart herself up for work. She put on her slut outfit: a tight fitting t-shirt and a denim skirt two sizes too small, plus some tall, strappy espadrilles, and some cherry colored lipstick and green eye shadow. She took the bus down to Carl's dive bar. It was already busy, full of men who would happily pay her twenty dollars for a hand job. Most of them knew her well; she had been working the bar for many months now.
Nancy saw a familiar face, sitting at the bar and nursing a large mug of beer. His name was Daryl. He was tall and dark haired, with a beard, a baseball cap, and a beer gut. Nancy walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
"I'll give you a hand job for twenty dollars," she said, in her well practiced voice.
"Yes, I know, Nancy," said Daryl. "I've been waiting for you."
Nancy took Daryl into the ladies room. Since Nancy was generally the only woman in Carl's dive bar, the ladies room was almost always empty. She used it as her private hand job parlor. She sat on the toilet lid, and had Daryl stand in front of her, with his pants around his ankles. She took his cock in her hands.
Nancy gave wonderful hand jobs. She had studied the art of the hand job with a devotion rarely seen in any field, sexual or otherwise. She knew every vein, every tissue, every detail of a man's cock, and every way that a woman can please it with her hands. She deftly manipulated Daryl's cock with her talented hands.
She knew that Daryl liked a little bit of everything in his hand jobs. She called it "the works." She spit in her palms and slowly slid them up and down his shaft. She twirled one hand over his cock head while her other hand jacked his shaft. She palpated his balls and polished his knob. She tugged at his pubic hair and teased his little pee-hole. She played with his privates for just the right amount of time until he was ready to unload his backlog of semen, and then she administered the coup de grace: she pumped and stroked him in her tight smooth fist until he launched his long load of sperm in her direction.
As usual, Nancy ducked out of the way. She didn't want the semen hitting her; she preferred to let it hit the wall or the floor. She didn't mind cleaning it up later. Her customers didn't seem to mind, either; as long as they got off, they didn't have much issue with where it landed.
Daryl shot his wad against the wall, and seemed pleased. He rolled his eyes up into his head and let himself go. He was in bliss. Nancy held his cock, stiff, then softer, then limp like a deflated balloon, as he came down.
"Thanks, Nancy. That was great, as usual!" Daryl was saying.
"Anytime, Daryl," Nancy told him. "Tell all your friends."
Daryl went back to his friends at the bar, and his mug of beer. Most of the patrons at Carl's dive bar were here for the beer. They were working class factory men who liked beer, companionship, and hand jobs, mostly in that order. But they happily paid Nancy her twenty dollars for her hand jobs, especially since she was so good at them.
Nancy didn't leave the ladies room. The regulars knew that she was there, and tended to come to her in a steady stream. Occasionally, she would have to go out to the bar area and drum up business, but not usually. Tonight was typical; as one customer left, another would take his place. Nancy rarely went home with less that $500 dollars.
After five or six customers had come and left, Nancy found herself alone for a few minutes. She noticed that the emptiness, the hollowness, had crept back into the pit of her being. She frowned. Damn, she thought. Even riding the hairbrush doesn't last as long as it used to. She wondered if she had time for a quick self-gratification session. But it was not to be.
