Elene

 

 

I can't do this anymore. 

I thought it would get easier. I thought I was just going through a phase, because I remember a time when things were different. It hasn't always been like this. There was a time when I almost enjoyed this, a time when it came easy to me and I felt like the luckiest girl on Earth, because I found a way of making money that comes natural to me and leaves me with a degree of freedom that is unknown to any 9-to-5 office slave. I only had to work two days a week, if even, but I still made more money than most of my friends.

It was great. I felt great.

But at some point, things changed. I started to doubt myself. I started to doubt this profession. I started to doubt my moral compass and my own emotional health.

I started to dislike what I was doing. But that's normal, right? Everybody hates their job once in a while, don't they? It's called work for a reason. It's not a hobby, not fun. Most jobs aren't fun.

But my job is all about fun. Fun and pleasure. Not mine, though. It's the client's pleasure that counts. 

The service I provide is a taboo, unthinkable, dirty, immoral. I've never been bothered by that since I first started, but now it seems that all those societal judgments are catching up to me. I'm incapable of shutting down the voices of self-doubt. They've been gnawing at my conscience for too long. Things that came easy to me no longer come at such ease.

I want more than this.

Or at least something different. Something… better.

I shake my head, trying to clear my mind. Because… now is not the time to think about all of this. I have to focus. 

I have work to do.

I close my eyes as I wrap my lips around his cock, a smaller than average version that almost disappears inside my hand when I close my fingers around it. He's rock hard, so I know I can't expect a lot more than this. This is all he has. Poor bastard. 

I don't care. I don't need to care. This is not about my pleasure; it's about his. 
I moan and squirm beneath him, moving my hips seductively while I feel his eyes on me. He's panting heavily, standing tall and tense before me, his right fist clenching around a riding crop. He's almost ready to burst, and I know I could make this end any moment now. I open my eyes and look up, trying to catch his gaze, but just to make sure he's too deep in the zone to realize where my eyes wander next.

His eyes are closed. He's not even looking at me while I'm working his pathetic cock. I decide not to care and peer over to the nightstand next to the bed at the clock that belongs to neither him nor me. Still twenty minutes to go. He paid for a full hour, and I need to provide. I can't make him come just yet. 

He lets out a desperate moan when I retreat, keeping my fingers locked around his member while my eyes wander up to his sweaty face. He's old enough to be my father but in good shape and generally good looking. He wants me to call him "Sir" and that is all he is to me. I don't know his real name and I don't care to know, even though he's one of my regulars. The fact that he can afford our services multiple times a week speaks of his wealth, as does his appearance. His expensive suit, the obvious – and somewhat tacky – Rolex  on his wrist, the Salvatore Ferragamo shoes that are waiting for him next to the door. He's fucking loaded, and I know I'm not the only girl at this agency who serves him regularly.

I have no idea who he is, but he's one of the big guys for sure. He might not even be from this area. He might be married, even though I've never seen a ring on his finger. He might have kids, a family. He leads a life that's completely unbeknownst to me, because I'm not a part of that life. 

All I am to him is this.

I am his whore. 

He has his own schedule, just like every other regular. He wants to see me about every other week, always for an hour, always in this particular room, always with a similar procedure. He is all about routine. He likes black and never wants to see me in any other color; he always expects to see the same hairstyle and the same make-up. He always wants to hear the same words from my mouth, and he always wants to come on my face to finish. 

He is so fucking boring. 

"Slut," he breathes, glaring at me with a look that's supposed to deliver dominance but seems somewhat misplaced on his face. "You're lazy today."
He always calls me "slut" and never cared to learn my real name. Most of them don't.
"Seems like you need a little encouragement," his voice thunders above me, shortly before the riding crop meets my skin, sending a hot wave of pain through my behind. I flinch and yelp, exaggerating my reaction for his benefit. Another blow strikes my skin, then another one, and the one following after that is strong enough to rob me of my breath. 

Shit, that fucking hurt. 

My pulse speeds up and my head is painfully clear within an instant. It happened again. I drifted away. I retreated back into my head, dwelling on how much I am starting to resent this job. 

Soon, I won't have a choice but to quit, because I won't be good at this anymore. And that's a big fucking deal, because I've always been good at this. No, not good… great. It's not arrogance that makes me say this, but I know to be one of the best. It shows in the prices the men pay for me, and it shows in the amount of times I've had to say "no" to a new client. I can say "no," because I can choose my own clients. I don't have to fuck every moneybag that comes around. 

I groan when he hits me again, closing my eyes as my hand tightens around his cock. His strikes are painful. Deliciously painful. Each blow makes my core tingle with heat, making me yearn for more. It's the best I can get out of this and my key motivation to disobey. I crave the punishments, the pain. Agony is the only thing that my body responds to. 

I wish I could beg for more, but I know he doesn't like that. He just wants two things: dedication and obedience. Right now, I'm reluctant to give him either.

"Move!" he barks at me. I know what he wants of me, despite the vague command. He wants me to lie back, so he can shove himself between my legs and fuck me. For two minutes, maybe three. Then he'll pull out and climb on top of me, and he will stroke his cock, panting, sweating and...

"Slut!" 

His exclamation is accompanied by another hit with the crop. I yelp in pain. A devious smile finds its way on my face when I look up at him. 

"Take it," I tell him, my voice hoarse and creepy. "Take what you want from me."

His eyes flicker for a moment. I've never said anything like this to him, and his reaction is hard to predict. Usually, I'd be more careful. I'd never risk upsetting any of my clients. 

But today I don't care. 

I've made a decision that was long overdue.

"On your back!" he yells at me, grabbing a fistful of my hair at the back of my head and yanking me up. I hurry to gather myself up on my feet, tumbling as he drags me over to the bed, where I fall into the sheets, on my back. My legs spread on instinct, and I produce a well-rehearsed moan when he parts my lips with his hard tip. I coil and squirm, knowing that his cock is gliding inside with ease. The agonizing strikes with the crop did this. I'm wet for him, because he gave me pain. But I know I won't come. In about a minute or two, I will tense up, rolling my eyes back into my head as I let out a tirade of groans that will make him believe what he wants to believe. I won't come for him, but he will think I did.

He rams into me with rhythmic motions, while I count, waiting for the perfect moment to start my act. It's a routine, a boring routine that does nothing for me but awaken the voices of self-doubt. But I don't care tonight.

Because I've decided.

A smile is tugging at the corner of my mouth when I close my eyes, getting ready to make him feel good about himself for one last time. One last fake orgasm, one last dusting of his cum on my face, one last smile as I lick my lips when I clean it off. He doesn't know it yet, but this will be our last time together. 

Because I'm going to quit.

It's decided.

I am going to talk to Miss Barry.