Fifty Bucks

A/N: I’m exploring my limits here. This is actually quite fun because I don’t seem to have any… hah! But here’s another late night write for you, mostly edited, I think.

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I’m not sure what to think about this place. The music is bad, the food is worse and the lighting could use some work. It’s popular though, for some god-forsaken reason that I can’t seem to fathom, and because of this I often linger around.

See, it’s the crowded places where I get noticed most. You’d think it was the other way around, that with so many meshing bodies, noticing me would be almost impossible – but if so, you’d be thinking wrong.

Walking down the heady corridors is easy enough, but doing so without brushing up against someone’s body is the hard part. This is where the crowd comes in – a touch can start off as completely accidental but can easily morph into spontaneous sex. Trust me, I would know.

The only difference is with me, no touch is accidental. I’m sort of needy for attention and the better pat is, I have the ability to make heads turn. I’m fresh, you know – just recently. I had a fake ID for a while, but now I’m nineteen and everyone seems to love that about me. I’m young and promise no strings attached, it’s practically my motto, so it’s no wonder why I never have to buy my own drinks or go home alone.

Okay, I lied. There’s another difference. Needy as I might be, I don’t go looking around for just a good fuck. I go looking around for a good buyer. I can cash in loads with a quickie because I know when to make the right noises, and more importantly, I swallow. See, if I had to advertise myself with a pamphlet, I’d be all set, motto and all.

It’s still early, the music is still painful and my pockets are empty. I’m thinking that tonight just isn’t my night, which is funny in itself because every night is my night, when I catch sight of a gorgeous blond.

I’m going to tell you a secret. I’m hugely envious of blonds. I refused to have sex with them for months after I dyed my hair and it was a failure. I keep my hair its natural auburn colour now and got over myself enough to start hitting on blonds again. And this one – well, he’s just plain stunning. I think he’s a natural blond and this is something I promise to confirm later tonight.

Now, catching sight of a gorgeous blond isn’t hard at a popular club. There are loads of them, all grinding against each other or gulping down excessive amounts of alcohol, but this one just stood out. He was wearing more than a mesh muscle top, unlike half of the other men in the room, and looked sophisticated. I mean I could tell just by looking at him that he was the suit and tie type. I could also tell that I wanted him to notice me.

Usually there isn’t much of a chase. I chat up a guy for a couple of minutes, he stuffs a couple of bills into my underwear as I give him an intense blowjob, and it’s over. I forget his name, what he looks like and basically everything else about him. Sometimes they reciprocate, but usually only when I’m feeling generous and take down my price a few notches.

With Mr. Sophisticated, I can tell there’s going to be a chase. For one thing, his jeans are so tight it’d be an achievement if I even manage to slide them off his narrow hips. Next, the bored look on his face is accentuated by his sharp glasses which somehow only contribute to his overall sex appeal. He’s not the type of guy I would usually see around here and this is a very exciting prospect.

It’s no wonder that before I manage to lose him, I’m skipping down stairs, ignoring the approving remarks of drunken men and making my way over to the left-center stage where he’s absently leaning against a railing reserved for Saturday Striptease – an event that I admittedly rather enjoy.

He doesn’t notice me right away. I’m really put out at this point because this goes against all my club laws. I have to settle my languid limbs in a provocative position locked against the railing he’s leaning on in order for him to look at me. When he finally does, a small smile stretches over his lips and I’m pleased to say it reaches his beautiful green eyes.

“You have to tell me,” he is rather slender and effeminate, not the type I usually go after, but tall and towers over my exposed body easily. His voice is a low, rich tone that makes everything he says sound dirty. “How you get your body to bend that way.”

I grin because my club rules are finally beginning to be followed. I uncurl my leg from its position and lean in close to him, the smell of alcohol faint on my breath – it had been a couple of hours since I had received a free drink. “How about I show you instead?”

It turns out Mr. Sophisticated isn’t so sophisticated after all, because the fitting sweater encasing his body is slipping off his shoulders before my tongue is finished tracing the shell of his ear. I smirk and slip off his glasses, my thin fingers setting them down somewhere beside us and I know he’ll never find them again.

Now, everything’s going perfect, right? The gorgeous blond is whispering hotly into my ear, telling me all the things he’s going to do to me. I’m not really listening to his exact words because I’m too busy trying to work off his pants – I really wish I had taken the time to listen because his next words might not have come as such a shock if I had.

“It’s only fifty more if you want foreplay…”

I blink. Something’s wrong here. My fingers release his zipper and my face contorts into something that looks pretty offended.

“What?”

He’s surprised himself, it seems. I guess, like me, he’s never really faced rejection and me stepping away from him, aghast, is kind of like rejection is it not?

“Oh come on, fifty is nothing.” He’s right. I charge seventy-five for foreplay, an extra ten if they want me to pay attention to their scrotum.

“No it’s not,” I find myself saying, “You could pull off at least another ten.”

He’s confused. I am too.

“I’m the whore,” I try to clarify.

It’s almost comical because he looks at me funny, his zipper down far enough to prove he’s not wearing anything underneath, and his narrow waist jutted out in offering. “No, that would be me.”

This is a predicament I can safely say I’ve never gotten into before today. I’m not going to pay him and the stubborn look on his face tells me I’m not going to get fucked tonight. It’s too bad, because he really is very good-looking.

The crunch of his glasses underneath someone’s stray foot draws back our attention. He’s rightly pissed now because instead of making profit with me, he actually managed to lose money.

I’m still half-hard and partly pressed against him. He’s suffering worse, I think, because my fingers have not moved from their awkward position on his fly. I’m always up for new things, I resolve, and tug his zipper down.

“Let’s compromise,” I say breathily, my shorter frame allowing me to bite gently just beneath his shoulder. I wonder if he gets sucked off often – I know I don’t.

“As in, sex for sex rather than sex for money?” Him discussing business as I work his pants down his thighs while moving us to the stimulating atmosphere where most of the spontaneous sex I was talking about earlier takes place, still only contributes to the comedy.

“That’s right.” My voice is husky because my tongue is lavishing his navel and I can feel the heat of his erection growing below my chin. “Sex for only pleasure.” I giggle at the thought, lifting a finger and tracing it around his hot flesh.

His hips buck. I know he’s trying to restrain himself – he is a “professional” after all, and needy reactions are supposed to be something he can control. But I know I’m good at what I do and he has no reason to be ashamed.

When his pants are off, I don’t waste anytime; I never do. I keep my hard length pressed against his leg to emphasize the erotic moment and wrap my lips around the head of his cock. My fingers reach down to his balls and cup them gently – free of the ten dollar charge.

He’s slender, I mentioned that. So when he arches his back wantonly – it’s funny to see him do this because usually I’m in that position – his ribs show through his taut skin. I let my tongue slide over his shaft, mesmerized by the rippling of his body and hoping to see the curve of his ribs again.

I’m not disappointed. As my lips rhythmically create friction against his throbbing cock his body moves in flexible ways that the muscular, built men I usually suck-off can never manage. He’s loud, did I forget to tell you? He doesn’t grunt to completion, but mewls and moans. I especially like when he whimpers so I pay extra attention to the slit of his erection while stroking the sensitive skin behind his balls.

I wonder if we’re a strange sight. I’m moaning too, rocking myself against him now. We’re both making pleading noises at that point and with one last steady suck, I slip my mouth off his cock and stare at him expectantly.

“You’re going to fuck me, right?” I say apprehensively. I’m a bottom. I’ve never topped.

He moans and slides to the floor, his cock hard pressed against his stomach. “Shit. There’s no way I’m fucking you.”

I wish I had gone for the brunet I saw checking me out near the bar.

“Shit.” I echo miserably. I’m hard and needy and don’t want any other cock but the stunning blond’s – who is, in fact, a natural blond by the way. He’s in much worse position because of my brilliant mouth and gives in first.

His fingers jerk himself a few times, bringing the excitement back to its peak, before he shivers and lets out a soft cry. Precum dribbles down his knuckles and he whines in his throat. The entire display has me stroking my own cock after I effectively strip, turn around and present him with my backside, rocking against my hand desperately.

I think he’s had experience with this. More than me anyway. Or maybe because of the fact he knows how he likes to be fucked he’s good at being dominant. Either way, he prepares me – it’s a nice touch, most guys don’t bother to – with two slender digits before engulfing his long length in the band of muscle contracting against his intrusion. I groan quite pitifully at the prospect of being completely filled and thrust back against his body on all fours.

He’s enjoying himself, moaning loudly against the music as he pulls out and then slams back into the stretched opening, hitting my prostate over and over. My forearms rock and slide against the cool ground as I meet each of his thrusts with one of my own and when he reaches around my waist to jack me off, my head falls lazily into the crook of my elbow as I muffle my yells.

It isn’t long before he orgasms, shoving his softening length into me a few last times as his warm semen is forced out of my hole to freely travel down my legs in a stringy mess. I gasp at the sensation, stretching my arms out and bucking my hips to push my erection through his tightening fingers. I’m finished a few strokes later and I’m whimpering as I come, my nails scratching against the hard floors painfully.

We managed to attract a lot of attention. I think it’s because Mr. Not So Sophisticated manages to look like he’s the one being fucked when topping. Sounds like it too. God, he really is talented.

In a lot of things – I meet Jacob too often now for me to recount all of our sexual experiences, but here’s something: his tongue is heavenly.

Seriously, he should never have settled for only fifty.