Whore 9

2021 Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. The essayist asserts her right to be identified as the author of 'Whore.' This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review. If you see this story on any website other than Literotica.com, it is pirated without the author's permission.

Whore

By Nellskitchen

Valentine's Day, Las Vegas

I felt it; he was close, and thank God. It had been a long day, and among other things, my knees hurt.

Despite being well-practiced, and though my signature brand of fellatio was unquestionably expert, this guy was taking forever. It is my fault. I insisted he use a condom. Silly me, I should know better. Do the math, girl! Even extra-thins increase a guy's staying power--and the time it takes to earn a buck.

I glanced over at the clock. It was nearing ten. The day would have to end here, with him.

***

The afternoon's fucking left me a sticky mess. There was no time to shower, so I hurriedly pulled myself together, my thought, to pick up a quick hundred before bedtime. It was Valentine's Day, and fittingly, I opted for red. Having had my nails done just this morning and needing things to match, I pulled on a satin garter dress, lace-top sheers, and a satin G-string, finishing the pretty picture with a sexy pair of stiletto-heeled multi-strap sandals--all, suitably, red.

I contrasted my outfit against a white leather jacket; the effect, stunning. About to leave the hotel room, I glanced in the mirror at all that redness and grinned. Running a hand over my firm butt, I whispered, "Not bad for a used-up slut."

Satisfied, I stepped out onto Paradise Road. For readers conversant in the nuances of Las Vegas, it is a risky side of the Strip for girls like me. The area's swaggering police presence sends a clear message, to stay away.

Since working girls are walking commercials, I took my sweet time. Ambling along the sidewalk, I stopped now and then, once to adjust the straps of my sandals, a second time, to straighten my stockings. The traffic was moderate but noisy, and I kept an eye out as drivers shot by at Vegas speed.

A green sedan slowed and drew near to the curb. I made eye contact with the driver. He appeared handsome, fortyish. He looked me over but cautiously passed me up, probably thinking I was too old. Instinct said he was trouble, so, handsome or not, I was glad when he accelerated.

After that, a car filled with nosy kids cruised past. Some condescending girl was at the wheel, and she honked the horn as her stable of college boyfriends, shouting the usual four-letter words, hung out the windows. One threw me the finger and, at the top of his juvenile lungs, yelled, "WHORE." I didn't care; I was used to it.

Right behind the obnoxious kids cruised another car. The driver was alone in what looked like a rental. I glanced; he glanced; he decelerated, I stopped walking. He was kind of cute; slim, older, about my age. I hoped he liked red.

I approached the vehicle, and he rolled down the passenger side window. As a precaution, I glanced into the back seat, checking that no one else was inside. Lazily, I eyed him. He was good-looking, in a Brett Favre sort of way. Good looks help but are not mandatory. I let slip a half-smile.

"Hey," he called.

"Hey," I called back. "You like red, mister? It's Valentine's Day, and maybe I'm wearing it just for you."

"Red's nice," he replied. "Listen, do you need a ride?" He was edgy, his eyes darting to the surrounding traffic.

"Depends," I signaled.

"On what?"

"Depends on where you want to go and how long it will take to get you there." He eyed me suspiciously and continued to look around. "The cops don't watch this block," I said.

He had a friendly smile. I liked it. Then he asked, "Do you have an hour?"

"I've got half an hour," I answered. With phony shyness, I looked away and glanced about as if to say, 'my pimp's hereabouts, so if you hurt me, you will answer to him.' Refocusing, I added, "Sorry, it's all the time I can give you."

"How much will it cost?"

"We can talk about it--but I have some limits. You'll need a condom."

"I don't like condoms," he countered. He said it tersely, and I almost thought he might drive off. To keep him interested, I pushed back from his car to give him a better look at me.

"If you don't like condoms, I might be too busy." I walked away, but after a few steps, I realized he was following me. Driving alongside again, he voiced displeasure but caved: "All right, I'll use a fucking condom--get in."

As he rejoined the traffic, I refused to look at him instead; I stared out the passenger-side window and, defaulting to my most disinterested tone, asked, "What brings you to Sin City?"

"Convention," he abruptly answered.

"Yeah, right," I whispered under my breath.

"What's that?" He asked.

"Oh, nothing," I smirked, still not looking at him. Within a minute, he approached 'Terribles' Hotel-Casino, where he slowed and turned into the parking lot. "Do we have to go here?" I sighed. "I hate this place."

"Why?" He asked.

"The management is pissy; they hassle...you know, us girls."

"I've got a room here," he said. "So, how often do you come here?" It was none of his business, so I didn't answer. Instead, gracelessly, I slumped in the seat. Raising my knees, I let show the tops of my stockings. A ploy to up the price, I kept looking the other way so he could scan my body. Parting my legs, I ran a finger the length of my thigh.

"Pretty," he complimented.

"Thanks," I said, continuing my indifferent gaze out the window.

We slipped into the hotel; his first-floor room only steps from the lot. He was cute, and like a jock, he moved deliberately. I liked him, figuring him to be well over six feet. He was athletic. His innocence said he was a dad.

He had large hands. Every girl knows about large hands. I make it a point to check, and guess what? When he slipped the key into the door, I detected the telltale tan line from an absent wedding band.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Ellen," I lied. "What's yours?"

"Jason," he lied.

"So, Jason, you married?" He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"No," he answered, a little too coolly. Impatiently, he asked, "So, Ellen, tell me your limits."

"You're not a cop, are you, Jason?" I countered, looking directly at him.

"No, I'm no cop," he insisted. "I'm a doctor, a radiologist, a single guy looking for a good time, that's all."

The Radiologists' convention had only just ended at the Luxor, so for the first time, I believed him. I knew he was lying about the married thing, however. For sure, he was hitched, probably to some bitchy lady doctor back in Ohio.

"That's good," I remarked. Slipping out of my jacket, I stood in front of him with my legs parted, then turned and moved about the room. I kept my back to him. I even picked up an irrelevant object here and there, allowing him to better study my ass. It worked because he did not tell me to hit the road.

I turned to him and announced, "To be honest with you, honey, this little pussy had some commuter traffic earlier today--it was only one guy, mind you--and I haven't had a chance to fully, um, freshen things up. Like I said back out on the street, I have limits tonight. You OK with that?"

Meant to narrow his options, I knew what any girl knows; guys don't like re-plowing recently-plowed territory. I hoped he might be up for a down and dirty head-job; besides, my afternoon client fucked me hard and left me sore.

I walked up close to him and tapped his nose with a brightly polished red nail. "You don't strike me as the sloppy-seconds type, so, how 'bout it?" I blinked at him, adding, "I give the best head."

As he mulled our little power struggle, I plopped down on the bed. Looking up at him, I crossed my stockinged legs, and smiled--but promptly looked the other way again. The move had the desired effect, concentrating his focus. When I looked back, his steel-blue eyes were all over me.

"Beautiful," he whispered, looking at me a little more intently now. I parted my legs, but not much. Needing to steer him away from full-service, I casually said, "Thanks, but you still haven't answered my question. When do I get to know what you want from your whore? Tell me how you want to come."

He ignored the question. Instead, probably to be sure I was leveling with him about my earlier tryst, he pointed to the red triangle between my legs and said, "Even if your pussy is off-limits, I deserve a look at the other guy's cream pie."

As I lay back on the bed, I purred, "All right. I shaved this morning and hope you like it." I pushed hard on my pelvic muscles in an attempt to produce telltale evidence. Raising my open legs high for him, I pulled the delicate moisture-stained fabric aside, knowing the afternoon's fucking left my vaginal lips glistening. I inserted a finger for him. "A hundred should do it, but I'll take more," I said.

With a cynical smile, he changed the subject. "I forgot to tell you I don't have a condom. Why the insistence? You admitted you did some guy bareback a little while ago."

"Don't take it personally, gorgeous," I said. "It's just that I don't know you, and a girl can't be too careful. The guy I fucked this afternoon was my husband. Anyway, I have condoms in my purse." Reaching into my bag, I took out a handful of familiar foil wrappers and dropped them on the bedspread. "You pick."

"That one," he said and pointed to a black-wrapped magnum.

"Good," I replied. Lightening the tone, I grinned, and thumbing my G-string, asked, "Do you want me naked?"

He shook his head, walked up to me, looped his thumbs in my satin shoulder straps, and whispered, "I want you to lose the dress." I let it slip down, and he said, "Nice tits." To appear self-conscious, I placed a palm over each nipple, then gave him my 'what now' look.

"Go over to the mirror," he ordered. I did as he asked, and he followed me. Reaching around from behind, he grabbed my nipples and rolled the tips between strong fingers. It hurt, in a nice way, and I felt his erection against my bottom as I slid my G-string down past my knees.

To show I enjoyed his touch, I moaned softly. He seemed good and hard, and I turned, caressed his face, then dropped to my knees in front of him. Stroking his cock, I said, "Positively worthy of an XL," He smiled at the compliment.

I unzipped him and undid his belt. His jeans dropped, and he pulled his shirt off. He stepped out of his shorts and ordered me to flounce my breasts. "Give those pretty boobs a lift." I did it--several times, letting them bounce on my chest. We laughed together; among other things, I liked his laugh; strangely, I was into this guy.

I lifted his testicles and ran my hands over his erection. "You're beautiful," I gushed. "And, you're such a big boy. I like big boys--bet your wife is in love with your cock." He did not react, but through the next half-minute, he proved me right. Adding to its deliciousness, he oozed a thick glop of precum. Enchanting, it was clear, gooey, and rested forlornly on his corona. For obvious reasons, working girls need to stay detached, but I warmed at the sight of his emission, craved it, and, despite my condom rule, viper-like, I licked it away.

Attending to his tiny slit, I gently thumbed the leftovers, rubbing it into the underside of his dick. He reacted as I knew he would, his upper torso slanting backward. His chest was covered with dark hair. It narrowed on his tummy, forming an arrow pointing downwards to the thick thatch of curls between his legs. He had broad, muscled shoulders and fit the part of a Greek god.

What happened next startled me because he leaned down--and did the unthinkable, the one thing women of the streets seldom experience: he kissed me!

In reply, I did the unthinkable too, and like a magnet, I followed his kiss, raising myself to stand. It was not any old kiss; it was deep, special--I felt something! His tongue filled my mouth. He took his time, tasted me--even knowing I had had, well--other work, today! He even lingered, acting as if he did not care. I liked his taste, even offered my best smile when it ended.

Pleased, I knelt again, efficiently tore open the condom, and expertly drew it over him.

"Your wife is on the pill, isn't she," I whispered. Lazily, I touched his big balls. "Oh, I forgot--you don't have a wife." He chuckled nervously. Stroking him, I asked my signature question: "Are you going to pay me now?"

"Sorry," he said, barely hiding his impatience. He reached for his pants, drew a money clip from the pocket, and dropped two fifties on the table.

"Sure you can't come up with another of those?" I asked, half-protesting.

"Let's see how you do first," he countered. He was taking control, which I liked. Moreover, it was show-time, so I showcased a big smile for him. With the hard parts of the arrangement completed, I tugged at his testicles again and pulling him to me; I took the tip of his cock into my mouth. Working with customary efficiency, I kept one hand on his balls, another on his shaft, then sucked him as deeply as I could, inching my tongue down to his scrotum.

Reaching, he detached my hand from his dick. A little surprised, I pulled back. "Mouth only," he insisted. The guy was a purist, and following directions, I opened my mouth again, took him back, and sucked him. With his 'no-hands' rule in effect, I had to work harder, but he liked it, and by this time, two things came to mind: earning a generous tip and finishing him so I could get some badly needed sleep.

I worked him, steadily increasing the tempo and paying special attention to his perineum; I slurped and bobbing my head, I played to my audience of one. Soon after, he surged and grasped my hair to control me. I knew he was close.

He banged his cock hard at the back of my throat, and I choked, pushed him away, coughed, and wiped tears from my eyes. He hesitated and allowed me to catch my breath. By then, he was breathing heavily but wanting his money's worth; he reinserted himself, and a moment later, his legs stiffened, he let loose a childlike whimper, and though he stopped, he held my head vicelike in his strong hands. Seconds later, and hot against my tongue, the condom filled with steaming sperm, and I felt--and counted--his rhythmic spurts as he finished.

With my hands on his muscled thighs, I savored the feel of his muscular body. He stayed still, forcing me to breathe through my nose in heavy audible pants. Awkwardly, he drew back, and in a boyish voice, he said, "That was nice. You didn't lie; you give a great blowjob" He ran his hands through my loose hair, then pressed his waning cock against my reluctant lips for a revisit. Half-heartedly, I took him back, and he continued, sliding his safely encased dick in and out of my mouth before finally withdrawing.

"You're sweet," I said, and coughing more, I worked the condom from his glistening organ, the funk of yeasty semen bubbling from the little pouch. Once off, I held it in my fingers, and coyly tilting my head, I looked up at him.

Like a pendulum, and with its semen-filled tip acting as a counterweight, I swung the slimy thing back and forth, then ran my fingers over it, pushing the man fluid close to its open end but stopping before it overflowed. Puzzled, he gazed and watched as I drew the nippled end in and out of my mouth for his viewing pleasure.

"Just keeping it warm for you, sweetheart. Um, listen; I might be persuaded to get creative with this big load of yours; think you might like that?"

"Sure would," he replied.

"It's extra," I said. He frowned again, so I added, "A girl has to make a living, right?"

He frowned even more but reached for his pants and drew out another hundred. I would have done what I was about to do for fifty but took the hundred without complaint. Raising the spent condom over my upturned face, I looked into his eyes and drew two fingers down the condom's full length.

Thick droplets poured onto my forehead, strands of cum sprayed into my eyes and over my nose and cheeks. Taking the sticky vessel between my teeth, I held it there and, with my fingers, worked the residue of the warm white liquid into cheeks and throat.

"You're the hottest girl I've ever met," he admitted.

Dropping the condom to the floor, I gave him a piece of my mind. "Finally, some fucking enthusiasm! And just how many girls have blown you, anyway?" Not expecting an answer, I reached up, drew him down to me, kissed him with as much passion as my tired lips could muster, and said, "I like you, Jason. Next time you're in Vegas, maybe we can do it again."

"I don't know about that," he said, his words sputtering. "We'll see--maybe--possibly." Having had his way with me, he wanted to hurry things along, but he kindly asked, "Can I give you a ride someplace?"

"No," I replied. "But, I had fun tonight. So, maybe--if you say it's OK--I could stay for a while longer?" His broad smile was all the answer I needed.

"I'd like that," he acknowledged, moving his dick to within an inch of my face. "Of course, it naturally depends on the price; how much for the whole night?"

Giving him a final lick, I stood, then cautioned: "I'll stay, but only to sleep. It's been a long day. I need my beauty rest."

"I'd love to sleep with you," he admitted.

Pointing to the nightstand, I added, "All right, but I'll need to have those back, or it's no deal."

He handed me my wedding rings. Sliding them back onto my finger where they belonged, I said, "Tell me something, husband--did you like your whore?"

End