tagErotic HorrorGoin' Down 101

Goin' Down 101

byCarol123321©

Carol always kept lube and a small egg-shaped vibrator in her car, and not because she'd been trained to, although she had. Brad, the guy who'd turned her out, liked car sex but he'd long since found an even younger and bustier dancer -- a miracle of modern technology -- and Carol could've gotten rid of all the objects that carried reminders of him if she'd wanted to -- but not only were the vibe and lube not that important, they'd just have had to be replaced. Also, he came back sometimes. He said the new girl didn't give good head and that Carol owed him. Carol doubted both points. She clearly remembered him telling her that she sucked like an amateur even when he'd been taking enough from her in two nights to pay his rent for a month.

None of her dates ever complained about the head she gave. They groaned, they bucked, they called her filthy names, they grabbed the back of her head and held her down, and some still managed to gag her -- but rarely. They drenched her in oceans of cum and they asked for her number. The thing they didn't do was complain. She'd never once had to refund money.

She hadn't been sorry when Brad looked elsewhere. She'd all but given him the idea in the first place. She'd told him whoring was hard and that she wanted to go to school now, instead, and maybe just do a few guys on the side or something. He hit her a couple times and told her she was a smart dumb cunt to get out before her boobs got any saggier but that was just Brad doing what he figured his Brad, The Pimp, role demanded. He'd never once prevailed once she'd really dug her heels in about something. And her boobs didn't sag.

And she wasn't getting out. She just wanted to choose her own dates and keep her own money. If guys wanted to fuck her -- and if they'd pay to do it -- why stop? She knew she was good for it for a long time still. She knew because when guys paid for sex they assumed that meant they could say whatever they wanted to, which seemed fair enough to her. She'd have heard about it the minute her body wasn't up to the job anymore. She'd gained a couple pounds after she first started -- under the stress of the work she'd turned to food for comfort -- but once guys started talking about her belly she'd gotten disgusted and worked every ounce of the fat off. Now, and for the whole two years she'd been at it, nobody had ever said anything much beyond, "Oh, fuck, yeah," when she wiggled out of her clothes asked if they liked what they were seeing.

The current guy kept pumping. He had her on her back on his tool bench and every now and then something would rattle its way to the edge and land on the floor with a great crash. Carol would've laughed but the guy seemed tightly wound. If she was going to get what she came for, she was going to have to play it straight up.

"Yeah, baby. You fuck me so good."

He didn't say anything. He'd lifted her legs onto his shoulders, taken a solid stance and started in like he'd needed cunt for a very long time. Or maybe conversation just wasn't his strong suit, which was fine with her.

"Come on, baby, pump me full of it. Shoot that cum in me. Get your money's worth. Fuck me like a whore."

She'd picked this stuff up from the talkers. Lots of them liked to tell her she was a whore and elaborate on what they intended to do with their cum. Carol thought it was sexy enough under the right circumstances. The other girls never agreed. They insisted that work was work and sex was sex and never the twain would meet. She never challenged them on it but if she ever did, the thing she planned to ask was, well, then, why did so many girls hook up with, and even marry, guys who'd started out as clients?

It had surprised her when Brad had first started her as a dancer, just how many girls hated the work and simultaneously used it as a way of husband hunting. Why would anybody want to marry a guy who used whores? But to hear these girls tell it they weren't whores, either. They were dancers, they were models, they just needed help with the rent, or they let guys they dated give them money to "get something nice to wear," but they weren't whores.

Carol was. She knew what she was and sometimes she even liked the work. Like, take this guy right now for example.

She'd pulled into his garage with her story all ready -- going down the coast, had to get there ASAP, friend in dire need, money really tight, and what happens but the damn Toyota's brakes get loose. Some of this was true. It was better to start with a certain kernel of truth, Carol thought, and then bend it into whatever shape the particular guy wanted.

This guy hadn't needed the story at all. He'd stared right at her boobs and said, "Not workin' today." That hadn't set him apart from any of the other guys she'd seen that day. The Memorial Day holiday weekend had started hot and had gotten hotter and her dress was really great. It had a certain nautical styling -- big red and white horizontal stripes - that might've made it appropriate for the coast if it had not been a sheer knit, two sizes too small. Her tits and ass couldn't have been more plainly outlined if she weren't even wearing it. Women, seeing her coming, hated her on sight and the more bold among them muttered so she could hear it. Men muttered, too, some even shouted, and the things they said weren't nearly as mean as the comments the women permitted themselves. Guys liked the dress just fine.

She'd given him a big shrug and her best smile.

"You're really not working? Not at all? I mean, really?"

One slow shake of the head. "Nope. Not workin' today, not workin' tomorrow."

Carol had fixed her gaze on his cock and tried the thing that almost always worked. She'd put one hand to the hem of the dress, right between her legs, and lifted it. Cunt. Right there.

She'd said, "I am."

The guy had picked up a pair of needle-nosed pliers, moved very close, slowly drawn one spaghetti strap down off of her shoulders with it, then the other, and then had taken a nipple between the fingers of one hand in a firm, steady grip. He'd waved the pliers before her eyes, opened them, and slid them between her legs. Cold. She'd gasped a little. Very cold.

She didn't misjudge very often but some guys hid their mean streaks better than others. This guy looked serious and he'd made a few small, decisive adjustments with the tool. She might've started out on autopilot but from that moment he'd had her full attention.

She'd moaned very softly and said, "Do you want to hurt me?" Sometimes it helped to talk about things and as matters stood she'd been in no position to run.

"Why? You a freak?"

"No." (Well, not usually, she'd thought, but there was no denying she'd gotten a little damp around the cold metal.) "I really just need some help getting down the coast so I can see this friend of mine."

"I don't pay." He'd squeezed her breast hard. She'd leaned in and lifted one leg up around his waist. He'd let her do it but hadn't loosened his grip on her nipple or on the pliers. She'd squirmed against his belly.

"Please? Can't you just look at the brakes? The curves on that road --"

He'd moved like a cat. He'd grabbed the back of her head and had a nipple between the pliers before she could even begin to fade.

"Shut your fucking mouth. Take it out."

He was big, hard, and inside her in no time at all. She'd let him pump a while. Only when he finally threw down the pliers did she ask, "Are you gonna look at the brakes?"

"Not if you don't shut up."

They understood each other now. After that it was all up to him and Carol thought, Fuck anybody who says work can't be pleasure. She liked it. She liked him. He had the biker look and the biker style but he really wasn't mean in the way he fucked. He wasn't trying to hurt her. He did want it in deep but lots of guys did. She understood that, mostly, he just naturally resented that it was costing him. He'd wanted to find it in himself to pass it up but, since he hadn't, he wanted to get as much out of it as he could.

He finished in her cunt the first time and then sent her to the corner store for a couple beers. They talked about work a little and he said, dollar for dollar, she was the one getting the deal here. She figured she probably was so she watched him work and then, when he handed her the keys, she got on her knees without being told. He slid one of his thumbs into her mouth and she opened wide. He inserted the pliers, held her tongue, and told her to show him how she liked to play with her tits. She did.

He took a long time in her mouth. She even gagged when she got her lips down to his balls and he held her there, but he didn't seem to mind that any more than he'd minded when she'd whimpered and drooled around the pliers, her eyes watering. When he zipped his pants up the second time, she got into the car without making a move to wipe his cum off of her cheeks or breasts and said, "I'll stop by on my way back home."

He leaned in the window, studied her for a second, dropped a clean rag into her lap, and said, "No need. You're not gonna have any more trouble with those brakes. I do good work."

She wiped herself off, and said, "I know. That's why I'll be back." He smiled just a little. She held the rag out to him.

He said, "Keep it. I think you're gonna need it again soon. And you might not want to come back. I still won't pay for it."

She reached into the glove compartment. "It won't be work next time."

Always leave 'em smiling, she thought, lubing up the vibrator and inserting it slowly. He just shook his head and then reluctantly returned her wave as she pulled away. Maybe, she thought, she really would come back.

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