Moaning as I was, I felt nothing. No excitement, no urge, definitely no pleasure. I looked up at his pimpled, greasy face, and wished myself to my happy place. Away, ever away. His eyes, squinting in the dim light sucked me in as a eager fly sucks in a chunk of filth. His haggard breaths and occasional pants betrayed his exhaustion. His cock, a misshapen thing, near as wide as it was long, pushed in and out of me with the urge of an over-excited puppy. He stank.
As his climax rose, he accelerated, pumping hard fleetingly before ejaculating with a squeal that put me in mind of a pig being pulled from its mother. I shuddered slightly, before re-gaining composure. He looked down at me hungrily.
“You loved that, didn’t you slut” he licked his lips. “I could hear you begging for it, and I felt you cum at the end!”
“Absolutely Sir” I answered. Have you any idea how hard it it to bit one’s lip through gritted teeth? “Would Sir like anything else?”
“No, but I bet you do!” He answered, somehow convincing himself... I sighed.
“Yes Sir, of course” He made no reply, but looked down at his now wilting, some what pathetic member.
“Well, you’ll have to wait for it then” he frowned. “How much?”
“For you... two hundred” I answered. Twice my normal charge. Greasy boy lapped it up. With a wink he fished the money out of his discarded trousers and tried to tuck it seductively into my only remaining item of clothing, my hitched up miniskirt. However he managed to drop three twenties onto the floor, and I had to stifle a laugh as he bent to retrieve them. He must have heard the slight giggle that escaped though, as he scowled, pulled on his clothes and left without another word.
Thankfully, Pimples wasn’t a regular of mine. He had to be one of the worst shags i’ve ever had, and believe me, I’ve a worryingly large amount to choose from. Im a prostitute. Go on, Judge. Everyone does. I see the look on some people’s faces when I tell them that. Some try to hide it, some let it show plain. Some try and reason behind my back, I hear things about drug problems, debts, bad upbringing. But the honest truth? I just really like sex. Really like it. My parents are strictly religious, but it made no matter. Ever since I was 14, when I first found out it felt good to touch myself just there... when I slid my finger into my hole for the first time... I loved it so much I nearly collapsed in pleasure. I was so excited I told my mum about it. That earned me a cold shower and several one to one sessions with the local ‘YCS’ or ‘Youth Christian Support Worker’.
He explained how it was against God’s will for me to do that to myself, and that I would be punished in Hell if i did it again. But why would God hate it if it felt so good? I didn’t stop.
It was a year from that point that I lost my virginity. I was the first girl I knew to have done so, and I was happy to begin telling horror stories of pain and blood to my friends. But my fling was quickly over and I began to become frustrated. Touching myself wasn’t doing it for me any more, I needed a man.
The problem was... I found too many. And before long i’d earned myself a title. Slag, slut, hoar, I didn’t mind. I knew they were coming from the mouths of the jealous. However my friends began to slip away, one by one... and I didn’t care. By now, at 17, all I lived for was the feel of a warm cock slipping deep into me, my wetness, the tingling, the hot white sticky cum seeping down my legs.
Then came Thursday the 17th of October. The day my dad decided to come home early from work to surprise me. He Did. Surprised me so much I nearly bit off the cock that one of the local rugby team had jammed down my throat. That probably would have scared the second member, who was filling my pussy with his juice at the time. That was the day they kicked me out.
I always remembered my Mums advice. She said that the best place to work was doing something you loved. And so here I am. ‘Escort’ to high paying men in the evenings, rentable fuck-toy in the dark of night.
I was snapped out of my revere by a knock at the door. This shocked me. You could tell a-lot about a customer by the way they entered the room. Some barged in, often drunk, and I knew I would hurt a bit. Some tapped ever so gently on the door, and I knew they were ashamed of being here. Some lingered in the doorway, attempting to project suave, others rushed about everything as if I charged by the minute. But nobody ever knocked. I called out, “Come in?” and the door opened.
I was agape. What was this kind of man doing here? He was wearing a simple, tight white T-shirt, with a gold arrow in the right breast, and plain denim jeans. He had a shortish crop of dark curls, near black, and his skin was a dark olive. His mouth betrayed the first hints of a smile and his eyes said much the same. They were large and emerald green, both dazzling and sinister in equal measures. This was a man who could quite easily get what he’d come here for free of charge, but for the cost of a dinner out.
“Hello” He said. His voice was like melted chocolate, rich, cheeky, and it immediately brought a smile to my face. His half grin seemed somewhat contagious.
“Ummm...” for a moment, words escaped me. Then I slid back to my usual self. “Hello Sir... What is it I can do for you?” He just smiled. And before I knew it he was across the room and onto me. His tongue slipped into my mouth, and he ran his hands over me, my body, fingertips caressing my smooth skin, up and down my legs, down my chest, over my erect nipples, teasing one, over my belly button, brushing my navel and slipping deep into me. I gasped! He grinned, and began to curl his fingers. I could feel both of them, rubbing slowly inside me, gently teasing my still sensitive inner spot. It went against all my codes, my rules, my regulations, but none the less, I was willing.
He added a third, and I gasped! Not in pain (I had grown used to such things) but at the smooth, sensitive style with which he inserted himself...
