Whore: one of the first erotic shorts I ever wrote

I didn’t need the money. In fact, I didn’t even need the sex. I’ve been desperate before, impassioned between my legs until my standards became as weak as my knees, and I bucked under the pressure of less than cromulent partners. This was different.

“What?” He asked peering out from behind his apartment door drowsy and perplexed by the unexpected knock at such a late hour.

I had obviously woken him up, and, for that reason, I tried to temper the usual annoyance I find in having to repeat myself a second time.

“Would you be interested in paying me for sex?”

A long pause. His eyes narrowed while he contemplated the offer as much as calling the police and having me thrown in jail for the unquestionably illegal act of solicitation. The last person I asked, his neighbor, had slammed the door abruptly in my face. The guy before that had offered me some pity money but declined any sex, no cigar.

Apartment 22A was my last hope, the end of the corridor. I had run into him in the mail room more than once and often saw him taking out his garbage every Tuesday. He was a heavyset guy in his early forties. His red beard, protruding belly and big arms made him look more like a lumber jack than the IT technician I would eventually learn he was, and hopeful fantasies began racing through my mind about how he might split me down the middle like a log on the chopping block.

“How much were you thinking?” He asked, after assuring him a few times how serious I was.

“How much are you willing to pay?”

He ran his hand through his hair and smiled culpably, self-consciously, like a child caught in a lie. “Honestly, I’d empty my bank account for a chance to make it with you.” He said.

The earnestness in his voice worked like an aphrodisiac, and I threw myself at him kicking the door shut behind me. He held me in his arms like something precious, and for a second I almost believed that I was.

“I don’t have much.” He said regretfully, almost painfully, with his lips against my forehead.

In the end we settled on the nominal sum of a hundred dollars. The amount had no significance to me whatsoever, other than being a nice round number, and it still sits presently on my nightstand, worth more to me as a kind of trophy than for it’s monetary value.

Once he paid me, from a bulky leather wallet on his coffee table, we moved to an arm chair on the far side of the room. He led me by the arm the way you might bring in a stray animal off the street: kind but stern, concerned but untrusting. Only, instead of a leash, he locked his hand like a shackle around my wrist. His fingers dug into me, as if he suspected I might try and run off before satisfying my end of the bargain.

I wasn’t exactly attracted to him. Not really, but the idea of seducing him like this, so unexpectedly in the middle of the night, made the inside of my panties slick with anticipation.

He relaxed his grip on me when I climbed willingly into his lap, to straddle him in the floral sundress which I had intended to wear on a date earlier. As we kissed, the hem of my yellow dress rode up and reveled the black lacy thong I had wore for someone else. As we worked in tandem, to pull the dress up and over my head, I moved my hips impatiently, back and forth, posturing myself on the hard lump of an erection aching to get out of his pants. He was scarcely able to get each of his hands on my now bare breasts, before his head rolled back and he groaned in defeat.

I arched my back and pushed my chest into his, so I could slowly, methodically, desperately grind my whole body against him as I whispered in his ear. “How do you want to fuck me?”

I lapped my tongue up the side of his neck and, wanting to wake him up, bit down hard on the flange of his ear. He was a good sport about it, at first, but when I bit down harder he yelled and shovel me out of his lap.

Although I was enthralled and a bit turned on by his sudden aggression, he cursed and called me a bitch, all while rubbing his bleeding ear. I couldn’t help laughing, tickled by the sudden sternness in his voice, and stumbled clumsily as I stepped out of my panties on the way to the sofa.

He followed me warily, on edge with his hand still pressed to his ear. “Why did you do that?” He asked like an interrogation.

Kneeing on the couch now, I pouted up at him sardonically, mockingly.

“Answer the question.”

I paused my bratty charade, but hesitated, unsure if I should say. “I did it…’ I took his hand and took my time explaining myself as I slowly guided it up to my neck. With my throat firmly against the web of his thumb and forefinger, I explained. “…so you wouldn’t be afraid to hurt me back.”

I bit my lip as he closed his hand around my neck. “You’re a crazy bitch.” he said, calmer now.

I began to say. “You have no idea,” but he throttled me with a second hand and stifled the words in my throat. A few shallow gasps for air were all he allowed me before my eyes began to roll back in blissful abandon, and I began to slip silently into the dull panic of a black-out.

Others, who have seen me in moments like this, have told me how I have a very peculiar and serene smile as I waver at the edge of consciousness.

The next thing I can remember is being face down in a warm puddle of my own drool. I could hear him panting behind me and fucking me with the full weight of his large lumberjack body. Frantic and trembling, I could barely manage to force my hand under myself, but when I finally did, I scrubbed feverishly at my own sex and brought myself to tears and a number of sobbing climaxes. As my body convulsed and one of my legs fell off the edge of the couch, he stacked his hands between my shoulder blades, pinning me down so he could fuck me even harder. I tried to scream, genuinely afraid he might break my spine, herniate a disk or some other irreparable organ. In the end, he quite literally fucked the wind out of me, and I began to black out once again.

Epilogue:

When I regained consciousness, I found myself alone and laying in the hallway outside of his apartment door. I’m clothed, sort of. My dress is on backwards and my panties and shoes have been cast haphazardly around me, as if tossed out the door in a hurry. I stand up slowly, unsure if I dreamt the whole thing. As I make my way back to my own apartment, I steady myself with one hand flat against the wall and use the shoes in my other hand as a sort of ballast as I stumble barefoot down the hall. I wonder what, if anything, happened. Did I hit my head and make the whole thing up? I smile knowingly when I feel the unmistakable discomfort of a paper note crumbled up and logged spitefully inside of me.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/u04mum/whore_one_of_the_first_erotic_shorts_i_ever_wrote