Girl for Hire. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.
you can’t get away, sweet girl, so don’t even think about trying. I have a friend down at the bar I can call to hold you down for me, if I need to. He won’t be as nice as I am.’ He straddled my chest, his hard cock pressing into me, and when I tried to press him off, I couldn’t budge him. ‘Now where should I start with this tape? I want those pretty lips ready for my cock, so I think I’ll do your arms.’ When he lifted his hand from my mouth, I moaned, trying to twist away from him, but he was big and heavy and I couldn’t, even though each attempt to escape made me wetter. The sticky side of the tape pressed against my wrists until he had them coiled together.
‘Where next, my sweet? I could put this anywhere I want,’ he said, caressing my cheek with the tape, then rolling it between my breasts and along my stomach before easing it between my legs. I squirmed as I realised he could place the tape right there, along my wetness. I was utterly at his mercy, and that made me shiver. He’d bought far more than I’d bargained for back at the bar.
‘Oh, does that make you excited?’ he asked, resting the tape on my stomach as he pressed his fingers into my cunt. ‘You want me to put the tape here? But what about me doing this?’ He slapped my slit and I spread my legs wider, and he did it again. ‘Yeah, that would be a shame to cover up these slick, beautiful lips,’ he said as he tugged on one of them. Just as I was getting into his actions, he stopped and proceeded to place tape over my nipples. I moaned, already imagining what it would feel like coming off.
‘Oh God, Maya, you are so fucking hot.’ He was breaking his dominant mode, which made me smile a little, until he leaned down and bit my stomach, a random location but one that made me moan, his mouth so close to my pussy. He did, actually, ease his head down to lap at me for a few seconds, again so brief they were more torture than anything else. ‘I’m wasting my precious time here when I should be making sure I get my money’s worth of this tight pussy.’
I’d almost forgotten for a few seconds exactly why we were there, or, more accurately, how we’d come to be there, because the money was no longer why I was there. He could’ve ripped up the cheque and I’d have stayed exactly where I was, legs spread, panting, eager for him to slide his now condom-covered cock inside me, which is exactly what he did. No sooner was he fully inside me than he ripped the tape off my nipples. The pain was intense and immediate, and he didn’t try to soothe me, but instead captured a nipple between his lips and sucked and bit while pinching the other. I squirmed, and he moved on to tickle me, before gently placing his hand over my mouth.
‘So beautiful, Maya … how did I find you?’ he asked, the words soft compared to the way he was pounding me. I came like that, my muffled cries against his hand, my cunt unleashing an orgasm it seemed I’d spent a lifetime building.
He speared me over and over, until I was limp, still feeling every sensation but also looking down at myself, my true self, a girl who’d whored herself out to the highest bidder and been rewarded with a man whose lifetime of knowledge of women was being put to use on me. An image of him beating another girl, a beautiful young thing with a gag in her mouth and tears in her eyes, ones I simply knew were tears of joy, made me come again, and Clay held my bound hands down against the bed with one hand while he pulled his dick out with the other, removed the condom in the same motion, and sprayed me all over with his come.
Right before I fell asleep, I glanced at the clock. Technically, Clay had two minutes to spare.
* * *
Later, as we lay in his bed, well past my allotted two hours, his lips curved up into a grin. ‘I’d have gone much higher, you know. I just had a feeling you’d be worth it.’
‘And you could’ve had me at a bargain price.’ It was true, though I wasn’t about to rip up the cheque.
‘Maybe I can put you on retainer. Forever.’ His eyes again speared me with a look of such intensity I was almost scared, but I breathed deeply and then leaned back, sticking out my hand.
‘You’ve got a deal.’
I thought he’d meant a monthly retainer, another string of numbers with long strings of zeros behind them, and he did – but as his wife, complete with blinged-out diamond ring. Sometimes the best offer pays off in ways you can never predict. I stroked his hair as I reached for the phone to call room service, then hung up. ‘Let’s go out instead,’ I said, looking forward to letting him show me off, and vice versa. Still, I hoped I’d someday get another chance to walk into a hotel with him and play the role of woman of the night, second only to being her.
The Three Rules for Selling Sex
Lisette Ashton
1. Always get the money up front.
2. Always have sex under an assumed name.
3. Be a whore – not a slut.
* * *
1. Always get the money up front.
You’re going to think I’m an absolute whore for saying this but money is the thing that always turns me on. I think money is the thing that separates whores like me from those sluts who will do anything to please the guy they’re with.
It’s been this way ever since I started seeing Peter.
As soon as I feel money in my fingers, I enjoy a minor thrill of arousal. It’s as though there’s a money sensor in my fingertips, and that sensor triggers a reaction in my pussy. Push a five or a ten into my hand and the inner muscles of my sex clench as though they’re ready to feel something slide inside my wetness. Push a twenty into my hand and I will hold my breath whilst my pulse quickens.
I have genuinely climaxed whilst holding two fifty-pound notes.
This is because I’m a whore – not a slut. There’s a difference.
In some ways my instantaneous arousal is an embarrassing response that extends beyond my work as a whore. Recently, for a single week, I stopped working in the sex industry and took a conventional job, working as a cleaner in a hotel. When the duty manager paid me on the first Friday evening, I came close to fucking him simply out of habit.
We were in a hotel. It was a hotel where I’d occasionally worked in the past as a call girl. (Coincidentally, it was the first hotel where I screwed Peter.) The duty manager was thrusting a wad of notes into my hand. And the feel of the money in my fingers was enough to give me the same thrill I got from being paid up front by a client.
Three fifties, two twenties and a ten.
I could have climaxed on the spot. He was paying me enough for anal.
I disappeared to one of the hotel’s rooms and satisfied the appetite awoken by the Pavlovian response of holding notes in my sweaty hand. I rubbed myself to a furious, frenzied climax whilst sniffing the dirty money. An hour later I quit the cleaning job and returned to my more lucrative calling of being a call girl. I can honestly say I haven’t looked back.
Talking about money gives me a thrill.
It’s foreplay for me because conversations about money always precede a session of slow, sultry sex. It’s more exciting than cunnilingus. It’s more arousing than a pornographic movie.
My panties get wet whenever the client says to me, ‘How much?’
I don’t mean my panties get sopping wet. I’m not going to pretend that I’m constantly horny and desperate for cock. But the subject of money turns me on in conversation. The subject gives me a chance to tease and flirt and take control of the exchange.
‘How much for what?’ I ask.
I always lower my voice to a husky whisper. It adds to the illusion that our transaction is something discreet, unusual and extraordinary, rather than something that’s likely happening in a hundred or more different hotel rooms within a single square mile of where we stand.
‘What services do you offer?’ he asks.
This is the point where my nipples harden.