“Drug Fueled and Used: Emmaline Troxell’s Office SEXscapades,” the headline filled the page.
Sal pushed a tuft of her short, bushy red hair away from her face and leaned in. She had been at the café to study over a mug of spicy chai. That plan had been going well until that headline swept her away into a digital land of pure procrastination.
According to the reports the beautiful young heiress had been dropped off at Troxell Tower by her father, the CEO of Troxell Corp.
In interviews Mr. Troxell had been quoted as having planned an event for his daughter’s twenty-first birthday. The office tower erupted into pure chaos when Emma had arrived “blanked,” or self-dosed with a popular, ultra-powerful aphrodisiac.
“Two people got stabbed?” Sal went wide eyed when she read an interview. That article went on to describe the hormone-fueled chaos as if the office workers were wild animals during a rut.
Another article from the Daily Collegian, her college’s news site, compared it similar events hosted by the university. The Gala, as it was known, was lauded for offering picturesque civility despite overtly adult themes.
Sal prickled with jealousy. Emma Troxell was a stunning, mocha-skinned, grey-haired woman about her age. She figured she was just one of many on a long, long list of people who had a crush on the celebrity who they’d never met.
Her mind wandered. What it must have been like, helping herself to that body that had curves in all of the right places?
The news was starting to hit social media now. Sal’s humble following online, fans of her streams, knew about her crush on the heiress. Now they were sending pictures, videos even, that they’d drug up from across of the internet.
Sal put on her bulky headphones and pulled up her sweatshirt’s hood. After a nervous peek to make sure no one could see her screen, she clicked play.
The first video showed the woman bent over an ornate wooden desk. She was nude, save for a pink collar and a matching set of cuffs on her wrists and ankles. A man was helping himself to her mindless body, fucking it with such fervor that his hips slapped against her perfectly firm ass as he thrust in over and over again. The woman, sweat soaked and flushed, eagerly obeyed his every command with manic, orgasmic pleasure.
Sal chewed on her thumb. The carnal, raw way the woman was being used sent a shivering lick of lust across her body. Wishing that she could be with someone so beautiful made her sigh. What made her bite her lip and deepen her breath was the idea that she could be the one in Emma’s place. It was so sloppy, so dirty, so raw and animal-like. Before she knew it, Sal was lost in a daydream, where she was the one being used by nameless strangers.
With a frown, Sal reminded herself that she was at the café so that she could study. However, she also bargained with herself. Some private time, later on, was sorely needed. For now masturbating would have to wait. There was studying to do.
Despite that, she watched video after video. The moans of the amber-eyed beauty were a powerful aphrodisiac and only served to pull Sal’s mind farther away from the stack of notes on her table.
What would it be like? She wondered. How would it fell having her own nude body being used in such a raunchy and careless way? No talking, no awkward flirting. Just straight to the fun; as if she were nothing but a toy to be passed around, used, and left behind without a second thought.
Could she even do something like that? Was it even okay to want something like that? Not all the time, but maybe sometimes, a little experiment? Not real life, but more like a game?
Sal patted her cheeks. Yeah right. The anxiety would kill her first. There’s just no way. Just study.
Don’t think about a barista coming up, putting a collar around your neck and using you to pleasure themselves with. Being used, over and over again, until your skinny body was a hot, slutty puddle of a human on the dirty café floor.
“Focus!” Sal scolded herself. Where was this coming from? She grimaced. Normally her fantasies weren’t this aggressive and kinky.
A long sip of chai did nothing to help her center her thoughts. Instead she compared it to Emma. Both were hot and spicy. Sal figured herself to be more like skim-milk. Pale, plain, and a little watered down. Then again, she figured, combining those two different things did make a pretty tasty drink.
Her and Emma’s body, tangled in one another. It was a wonderful fantasy. Nude, vulnerable, their bodies exposed for the world to see. People fighting over them. Person after person using them.
Feeling their warmth inside her, smoothly sliding in an out. The feeling of strong hands lifting her, controlling her, exploring every inch of her body. Every person in the room watching her, lusting after her. An ecstatic orgy of people fighting just to feel her.
Sal huffed and groaned.
Maybe one day, she’d be brave enough to do something half as wild as that. Not something as crazy as what Emma did, of course. Sal doubted that anyone would line up to be with her. She was too boney, had too many freckles, and definitely did not feel nearly as cool as Emma.
After she passed her midterm then maybe, and it was a big maybe, she’d check into the Student Body Rental Center that the University maintained. That way she could at least confirm her self doubts. She could get “blanked” there and test out some kinks semi-anonymously. Plus, if she was blanked she wouldn’t care if no one used her body anyway.
Another video ended with a short of Emma tied to a chair, her body bare, chest rising and falling. A stranger’s load trickled between her breasts. When the screen turned black it left Sal’s blue-eyed reflection staring back at herself.
Usually her followers were kind about her looks. Probably just desperate get a peek of her topless, she figured. Sal wasn’t that sort of streamer. People went crazy for the perfectly curvy bodies and perky fake breasts; not skinny freckled nobodies.
Sal slumped in her chair, wondering what that drop-dead sexy rockstar life would be like.
“Would you like a free sample?”
A delightful whiff of bitter coffee and molasses danced across Sal’s nose. In front of her was a slice of coffee cake laid out on a little napkin atop a plate. The barista offering it was a mocha-skinned young woman with stylish grey hair.
In this moment, Sal did three things.
First, she panicked. The woman looked just like Emma Troxell. It couldn’t be, Sal assured herself. Emma was super rich. Someone like that would never work in a little local café. Still, Sal slapped her laptop closed, cutting off an explicit video.
Second, another vivid fantasy was sparked. In it the barista was spread across the table, commanding Sal to freely sample every inch of her body.
Third, Sal imagined herself as the one on the table. Her own hips rising as the beautiful barista peeled off her pants and pressed her lips on the warm wetness between her legs.
All in all, it was a very complicated and sexually frustrating moment for Sal. It was a moment which, unfortunately for her, showed the full scope of it’s complications clearly on her face.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” The barista smiled politely, placing the plate next to Sal’s mug.
Sal tried to respond. Nothing more than a barely audible squeak that sounded almost a little bit like a “thank you” came out.
The barista stretched her back as she stood. Her polo shirt rode up, exposing her smooth, toned torso to Sal. It was perfect. So perfect that Sal imagined planting her lips on them. It was if a goddess had stepped down from heaven to shower her in it’s radiant and terrifying glory. Sal tried to push the heretical fantasy out of her mind.
“Later hun.” That was all the worker said before she was gone again as quickly as she’d appeared.
Sal sat there for a moment. Then, she sat there for several more moments. Once her brain caught up with the situation, her thoughts cascaded out like water flowing from a shattered dam.
Opening her laptop, she cycled through the tabs she had open. The first had a photo of Emma at a red carpet gala, forcing a smile on her obviously bored face while wearing a form fitting silver dress.
The second was the same woman, bound by cuffs on her wrists to Troxell Tower’s front doors. Nude and covered with the spent efforts of countless Troxell staff. The words free to good home were scribbled on her bare chest with a thick black marker.
Sal nearly choked when she looked up for a quick second to sneak a peek at the person who couldn’t have been the same person in the videos. The barista caught her gaze and returned it with a devilish smile.
Sal face got hot. Breathe, she told herself. Don’t freak out. That has to be her. That had to be Emma.
Sal whipped out her phone.
“Cassie! Ahhhh! Help me!” She texted. “How do I know if someone if flirting with me?”
If there was ever an expert on flirting, it would have been Cassie. Her sister literally wrote the dating advice column at for the Daily Collegian.
“Are they cute?” Cassie answered.
“Yes.” Sal answered.
No response. So Sal did what any anxious freshman would do when they were presented with a free confectionery treat and devoured it.
When only crumbs and a napkin were left on the plate, Sal saw it. There was a name written on the napkin; Emma. Beneath it was a phone number.
Sal clutched the phone to her heart as if it would shock it steady. A vibrating text notification nearly shocked the flustered redhead to death. With a yelp, Sal fumbled her phone, grabbed it before it hit the ground, and frantically read Cassie’s text.
“If they’re cute go flirt with them dummy!”
– • –
Across the café, Emma leaned on the service counter stifling a laugh.
She wasn’t too humble to know that she was young, fit, and part of one of the most powerful families in the country. However, most of the people who asked her out were after the family money, not her. Every ex wanted only a trophy wife. She’d rather burn the world down than have that happen.
That was, after all, why she got blanked on her birthday. Burn it all down. Her gift to herself. Burn her reputation. Burn her connections. Burn the world that wanted her to be a pretty little pawn.
The plan had worked. The paparazzi had even stopped hounding her. Turns out most people don’t care about what shirt you’re wearing after they’ve seen you getting fucked like a sex doll. No one cared who you’re dating anymore once everyone they know has slept with you .
Plus, and it was a big plus, it was fun.
She liked sex, loved it even, but there were always so many strings attached. Feeling that anticipation, the orgasmic ache, the sore way her legs wobbled the next day was shockingly addictive. Doubly so when there were no strings attached. Relationships were already complicated enough being a Troxell and having to deal with thousands of armchair voyeurs picking through her life for tidbits of gossip.
The little bell over the door dinged when the redheaded beauty Emma had asked out fled the café. The napkin was still there.
Emma felt immediately embarrassed.
Maybe she should have known better? Maybe the whole cake thing was too weird? Maybe the redhead wasn’t even into women? No matter the reason, Emma’s cheeks flushed when she went to bus the abandoned table and clean up her awkward failure.
– • –
The café’s front door opened.
Sal, held up by the thinnest strings of bravery, stared at her feet as if loosing focus for even a moment would allow them to carry her away again.
Her plan was simple. She’d get in, get the number, get out, go home, freak out, scream, call Cassie, scream again, then freak out more. After that, maybe after a few days, she’d feel brave enough to maybe, maybe text Emma.
That was the plan.
It went wrong.
Sal plowed forehead first into Emma’s chest.
There was a long, awkwardly long, painfully long, unbearably long, excruciatingly long pause as Sal stood there, mouth agape and stunned.
Emma, improvised on the situation. She grabbed the napkin, rolled it up and stuck it in the gawking redhead’s mouth like a celebratory cigar.
“Text me later,” Emma said, playing cool. After a playful pat on Sal’s cheek she hurried back behind the counter, biting her lip and fanning her flushed face the whole way. Still giddy, she gambled on looking back to peek at the aftermath. When she did, the redhead had already vanished.
Fifteen new PotluckSoup illustrations help bring the kinky story of Emma and Sal’s First Date, the first full erotic novella written by PotluckSoup, to life. If you are a fan of the shorts and flash fiction posts on PotluckSoup.com, you’ll enjoy this full story about Sal, Emma, and Cassie’s sensual adventures. Plus, it costs less than a cup of coffee.