Glutton for punishment

Glutton for punishment
by Hannah

Money has this uncanny power of making people honest. Not about their opinions or beliefs or anything like that, but about themselves and who they really are. Take any well-adjusted and sensible man, take away all his money and he'll break the law eventually. We all turn criminal if there's no other way. at least if you have some practical sense about you. But take a rotten bastard of a man, give him enough money and you'll see just deep his rottenness goes. With enough money to spend, everybody shows their true colours.

And I should know. in my line of work the filthy rich cross your path with startling regularity. With pockets deep enough, everybody's willing to pay for a unique experience in fuck. Admittedly what I do isn't so much a job as it is a perpetual job opportunity. If you're young and pretty you can reap a never-ending stream of consumers eager to pay for the privilege of giving it to you hard. And if you lack the looks, you can make due with kinkiness. And if you can provide both there's some reasonable money to be made. Some unreasonable sums even, if you're known to the right people. Now I won't insult your intelligence by telling you that I love my job. That's the kind of crap I give to people who pay you for it. But you didn't pay, so you don't get to hear it. I also won't bore you with a sappy tale about how I was down on my luck once, or how I got involved with the wrong crowd or how it all goes back to some childhood trauma. You have to pay for the fairytale. that's what this job is about.

I ended up in this job pretty much the same you probably ended up in yours. I didn't mind doing it for the money they offered, and after a while I realised I was good enough at it to get paid more. And there were parts that I actually liked. Yes, I said it. There are things about being a hooker, that I like. Of course there are. Otherwise I'd be battling depression with booze, drugs or worse. Some girls like the flirting. Some like to dress up. Others like to hate their customers after they got paid. Me, I like to figure what makes them tick, to know just how to move, what to say and how to behave to really push them over the edge hard. I aim to give them just a little more than they hoped for. Even those who just pay to talk. Especially those who pay to talk and don't seem too comfortable with wanting to fuck me. On a good day I get to play them like a fiddle and it's a fantastic feeling.

On a bad day though, I get to experience first-hand how rotten some people really are. I can assure you, there are some pretty bad apples running around. Once the hotel door is closed behind me and the client starts talking about money right away, I know that I'm in for a rough night. these guys like to silence what little conscience they have by making this a simple business deal. If it's just money changing hands for services rendered, they can deceive themselves that what they are about to do to me isn't sick, perverted and borderline illegal.

Some girls charge by the hour, but that has never really worked for me. Most guys get to fuck on a schedule at home anyway. I tried getting paid for each job individually once. But unless you're working the street, where hardly anybody ever wants more than two goes at you, it's too much of a hassle. I go for a fixed rate for the whole night. It's a little more, if we're talking about more than three clients at once. And a little extra for the particularly hard stuff. Of course, I don't mention what's covered by that. Clients tend to know when they've crossed the line. Those who don't would have argued with me anyway, and there's nothing worse than servicing a sick perv who's already upset with you over money. Angry sex is only good with your boyfriend. with everybody else you're just in for a beating with some fucking thrown in. I made that mistake exactly once and must have spent two hours crying under the shower, trying to get this feeling of filth off of me. I can only imagine what room service must have thought aboout the blood stains on the sheets, the carpet and the walls. They're used to dried puddles of cum or piss spread all over the suite. but with blood they know not to expect me for a week or two. I might do this for a living, but even my body has its limits.

One of the staff once found me crawled up under a running shower and asked me if I ever thought about doing something else. Of course I do. Every time a client is working me so hard I scream and cry. Every time they heap the humiliation and abuse on me until I break down in tears and just beg them to stop and to let me go home, I think that i'm done with this business. And every time they keep going until I've accepted my fate. Until they made me tell them that I deserve to be treated like this. That it's ok to spit on me, to slap me and to splatter cum all over my face, because I am just a gutter trash whore. He seemed to really empathise with me. Worried about what I was doing with my life and all the usual pack of lies the sensitive, intellectual types like to tell you. His bleeding heart eventually made him push my face into the water-filled bathroom sink while he rammed his dick up my ass. Cursing me out for being such a dirty fucking slut. Asking me if I liked being a whore now. If that was... if that was... what I had dreamed of... when ... when I was still a little girl....I'm... I'm sorry.... I don't know why i'm crying... it's not like he can hurt me anymore, right? Oh god. Look at me, I feel so stupid for crying over this... it was so long ago... you know?... But I'm ok, I am. seriously. I'm better... see? No more tears.... Some things simply stick with you, I guess. No matter how often you tell yourself you're over them.

Anyway.... he didn't need a lot of money to show his true face, just a tempting opportunity. But then again, that's nothing new. It's why I avoid certain streets when I'm in my work clothes. It's why I only do business in places I know well and it's why I ignore anyone yelling lewd comments after me in front of his mates. I had to learn the hard way that opportunity makes inhibitions disappear almost as reliably as money does. Some guys go off at the slightest provocation. Like they just need an excuse to unleash their inner monster. A look. A word. Or even something as simple as an innocent gesture. Anything that lets them see somebody as a potential victim as opposed to a human being. Sometimes that's all it takes to seal your fate.

I often wonder why I always seem to run into those type of men. Why I keep ending up alone and stuck in some godforsaken hellhole with those sick sadistic fucks. How I never seem to realise what I am getting into, until it's too late. Until the first punch brings me to my knees. Until my name is reduced to bitch or cunt and I'm given a glimpse of what's in store for me.

But you're different, aren't you? You're one of the good guys, I can tell. I feel safe with you. I really do. I can let my guard down, when I'm around you. Because you are not going to hurt me, right?

You won't hurt me.

You won't, will you?



...please, don't hurt me.

[NastyJack]

Of course I won't hurt you ... here, put your head on my shoulder ... on second thought, put your head in my lap ...

Excellent story!