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.
