Girl on the Net

This is a fantasy about a porn cinema that I wrote ages ago, for reasons I can’t remember. I like things that are simultaneously sexy and grotesque – like the blow job/dripping sandwich fantasy. That’s my way of saying the following story might be weird. And maybe disturbing. And creepily voyeuristic. Alternatively it might not be, and the fact I’ve waited six months to publish it has been a complete waste of my mental energy.

If you asked me to write my own future, I would write the following story. Then you’d wish you’d never asked, and I’d have to burn it, and we probably wouldn’t be friends any more because the whole thing would get awkward.

Anyway. Some erotic fiction. Or a disturbing vision of my distant future. Don’t judge me. Let’s go. 

The woman behind the porn cinema

There are ten of them in today. Dirty fuckers. Holes hastily cut in the pockets of their jeans so they can rub their dick-ends through the fabric with grubby little fingers.

Look at them.

The newcomers trying to pretend they’re not just ready to burst, plastering on weak smiles of amusement even though their eyes water at the thought of it. The old-timers – who I recognise from last week and the week before – their expressions are solid too, but this time twisted into a sideways sneer.

Grim. Like the expressions on the guys at the dog track.

I wonder sometimes why they bother when it seems to make them so miserable. Could say the same for the dogs, though, I suppose.

They don’t know I watch them.

They think they’re covered by darkness. That the washed-out glow of the screen won’t illuminate too much. I know they think this because I’ve seen them, rustling. And heard them. When the film gets to the good bit they all start touching in unison. I can hear them fumbling to unzip their flies, or to cover their laps with an old coat. I’ve watched the fabric moving rhythmically under their busy little hands.

Dirty hands. Fingers yellowed with tobacco, glistening with spit and precome. Smelling like God knows what.

They don’t know I’m watching. Or at least they pretend not to know. That the screen in the back office shows some crappy midday soap opera instead of the feed. It’s not cheap, either, that camera at the back. Not just for CCTV. Thought I’d splash out, you know? Treat myself.

They hand over their money to Steve at the door – used to be Lisa, but she’s left now. Couldn’t cope with the spunk-splattered pricks who’d try and shake her hand on the way out.

Good riddance, to be honest. She never came to join us in the back office anyway – didn’t get why we wanted to see it. No point keeping her if she’s only in it for eight quid an hour and the odd pint on Fridays.

Sometimes you get a bad day: just a couple of guys sitting out of view. I can strain to hear but I can’t really see, and it’s the seeing that I’m here for. It’s that which made me buy this place – take it over and turn it into this fantasy wonderland.

No, I’m joking. I know what it is. I’ve got no pride in it – pride’s not the point. It’s a shabby-as-shit fucking porn cinema backing onto a grimy pub. That’s the point. It’s not supposed to be pretty. But I own the pub too. It’s fucking mine.

It stinks. I like that the reek is the same in both places – maybe an extra twang of disinfectant and cheap whisky in the pub, but underneath it smells the same.

It smells like them.

I’ve seen their dirty hands slip neatly into those grubby pockets. Their necks tense with either effort or restraint. Guys who have to stop mid-way when the door to the theatre opens. Sometimes they bite their lips.

Yes, in case you’re wondering, I do go in. I slip in and sit in one of the seats at the back, trying to dare myself to join in. I never have, though. I just joke about it. The regulars think I’m there to check that no one’s wanking onto the carpet.

Fat lot of good that would do anyway, to be honest. Half of them can barely … you know. I’m not sure if they can’t manage it or they just want to eke out their money’s worth.

I like the rule-breakers best. The ones who reach too late for the tissue and decide they don’t care. Dribble their fucking juices all over the seat in front. Smearing it in, with their dirty fingers.

Like they can’t hold back.

When I’ve time, I watch. Then I nip back to the bar to pull pints for them.

“Thirsty?” I ask, like I don’t fucking know. I recognise my regulars – from the porn cinema matinees and Saturday-night closing time: they’re usually one and the same. And they pretend – that’s the best bit! All of them pretend that I don’t know! It’s like they know exactly what makes it good for me, and they don’t want to break the spell.

I pour their drinks and say “That’s four pounds fifty please love,” and I keep my face straight, just like they do.

As they place the dirty coppers into my eager, filthy hands.

Many thanks to the fantastic 19syllables, this story is available as audio porn. Click ‘listen now’ above, then head to the audio porn hub to find more sexy stories read aloud.