Pizza Man by Christa Faust

written by Christa Faust

Before I was a professional Dominatrix, I used to work the Peep Booths in Times Square. You know the ones, put your tokens in, the shutter slides up and you get to look through a little window at a LIVE NUDE GIRL. You can even pick up a prison-type telephone rig and talk. Our joint had something for everyone. Surgically sculpted porno queens all stiff blonde hair and big red lips. Cornfed promqueens looking like the cheerleader you always wanted to bang in High School who wouldn't look twice at you cause you were on the chess team instead of the football team. Manic crack-hos like hungry insects and voluptuous Mamacitas and sad old lushes who squeezed their sagging flesh into cheap lingerie and prayed for leftovers when the younger ones were busy. And me.

Nineteen and full of attitude, chopped off hair dyed purple and tumbling down over kohl-smudged eyes, fishnet and thigh high boots and you knew what you were in for when you came into my booth. I got all the grovelers, all the little rock and roll boys with lacy panties under their ripped-up jeans. The naughty sluts and the fetishists and the ones who took my scornful sneer as a cue to fall to their knees.

But even among perverts, there are the truly bizzare, the people whose kicks make even the most jaded scratch their heads. People like the Pizzaman.

He looked just like every other guy who came through, furtive eyes set in a bland, forgetable face, button down shirt and jeans and thinning hair. Except he had a slice of pizza in a paper bag and a takeout cup full of soda and ice. Since a lot of guys come in on their lunch hour, I didn't think much of it. He ducked into my booth without making eye-contact, so I shrugged and went inside. Tokens slipped in one after the other and then the whirr of machinery and the shutter cranked open.

He already had his maggoty little dick out, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. I smirked and picked up my phone.

"I'm gonna put on a show on for you," he said.

Amused by this, I sat back on my tall stool and raised an eyebrow.

"All right," I said. "Entertain me."

He took the slice out of the bag, and did the last thing in the world I could have expected. He wrapped it around his cock and started fucking it.Biting down on my lip to keep from laughing out loud, I watched him humping away, orange grease dripping between his fingers.

"It feels just like a pussy!" he said.

Horrified, I try to imagine what kind of pussy he had that felt like a slice of pizza.

Peeling off the thick crust, he turned around and stuffed it up into his loose asshole, working in and out as crumbs stuck to the surrounding hairs. Crust firmly in place, he turned back and continued furiously fucking the deteriorating slice.

He came then, stringy jiz mixing with fat drops of tomato sauce and melted cheese. But he still had a full minute to go, and the show wasn't over yet. He ate the sperm-streaked pizza with relish, saving the crust from his asshole for last. As a grand finale, he took his cup of soda and ice and removed the plastic top. Sliding his cock in among the icecubes, he pissed into the drink and drank the whole cup in one shot.

"What did you think of my show?" he asked.

I gave him an evil smile.

"Not bad," I said. "Next time, bring a hotdog. With plenty of hot mustard."

Then the time ran out, and the shutter slide closed, but not before I saw the bright possibilities in his eyes. I knew he would be back.

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