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…that I am a whore.

It’s an eight-storey building that houses therespectables. We walk around the swimming pool enjoying the cool breeze as he runs his fingers along my arm and squeezes my ass with the other hand.
Night has long fallen.
We go up to his flat; on the 6th floor and in the elevator he keeps a suspicious amount of distance from me. We re-enter his house and he hangs the key behind the door as I walk to the middle of the room.
He’s rough and tall.
He throws me around the room and likes pulling my hair a lot. I can almost forget that I’m performing a service and not a mutually beneficial dating ritual.
I’m bent over on the futon in the living room and he’s entering me slowly, so slowly. He slaps my ass; I moan. He does it again; I push it up into the air to encourage him. He fucks and spanks me simultaneously. Slowly at first, testing the waters, then harder and harder. He runs his hands over the prints on my posterior.
He taps it gently. And after a momentary pause begins to slap it harder once again.
I see his trousers lying 5-inches from me, I slip out his belt and put it around my throat, I canfeel his grin on my back. He grabs the slack and starts fucking me harder. Sometimes, whores have real orgasms too. For a moment, we lose ourselves in the moment.
“Pay me,” I tell him in a harsh tone as we lay our backs, satisfied and breathing in sync, “I have to go.”
And before I go I look you in the eye one last time and we speak the language of gazes; I tell you that in some twisted way I now respect you more, you tell me in an evaluative stare that I am a whore.

He’s young.
That is basically the first thing anyone would notice about him. He still doesn’t really have hair on his face and he’s wearing enough cologne to attract the whole neighborhood.
It’s sweet, I suppose.
I can tell that he has just bathed; he’s fresh and clean.
Also rather considerate, you know.
But oh so young.
“How old are you?” I asked him basically within minutes of being alone in the miniscule room in that very weird hotel with the very pretty pink and black board upfront.
“23,” he says lazily toying with the buttons on my shirt.
“Are you sure?” I ask slightly suspicious.
“Are you sure you want to get paid?” he asks cocking up his eyebrow in a disdainful glance and pushes me onto the bed.
He’s trying to fuck me roughly and it would totally work if he had better tools to work with but it is over quickly and I’m not even fully undressed yet. I worry the whole night will be a series of mini-fucks (in so many ways). He’s zipping up and standing in front of the mirror carefully setting his hair back in place.
“Are we going somewhere?” I ask, slightly hopeful.
“No you wait here,” he says, “I’ll just be playing poker downstairs.”
Weird hotel, I think as you look me in the face before turning the knob and we wordlessly communicate; I tell you I’ll be waiting for you whenever you want more, you tell me in a possessive overview that I am a whore.

It’s the fourth time he has requested me in two months. I know he thinks he’s doing me a favour, but I really wish he would stop asking for me. Knowing exactly what to do with the man doubles his time and cuts my fun in half. I’m really doing more of the same work for the same money; I’ll take it but I could live without it. He’s friendly now and his moustache is bushier.
We usually have a drink of whiskey from a cheap tetra pack and he eats while I refuse food. After that I take my mouth to him.
Really, like all over him but eventually a lot morelocalized than that. He has told me before that his wife would never do that and “likes” it; liking is putting it a bit mildly, to be honest.
It always amused me that at the heart of it, it felt like the man only strays out of his marriage to have his ass licked.
Tiny little trouble maker.
Well that, and the spitting.
I do my dirty job and he finishes on my face. He spits on me and I get up and go wash up.
I pick up my bag and take a drink of water with one knee resting on the bed, you caress my thigh and look me deep in the eyes; I tell you that I understand how unfulfilled little needs may leave a man sore, you tell me in the licks of your lips that I am a whore.

He tells me he’d like to see me dance.
It’s weird but not as weird as requesting I wear a saree; not even as weird as retying my saree in the most revealing but aesthetically worst possible fold ever.
He dims the lights and puts on some (h-o-r-r-i-b-l-e) music. I inhabit a headspace so foreign from my own; but so familiar because I’ve seen it so many times before. I understand who he is; I should have understood right when he took me to that bar to have a drink. That “women-don’t-go-here-unless-they-intend-to-strip” bar.
I think of the women he wants me to emulate; artistic in vulgarity and I shed any classical dance training that may linger in my mind from years past and I dance with my cunt.
Just like those women; I abandon all shame and move my entire body. I don’t just dance for him, I dance at him. I let my clothes fall around me and I feign modesty as I wrap myself in his clumsy fold again.
I can see him enjoy it and it fuels me. I move toward him and the currency he was throwing at me he now slips into the folds of my clothes.
His eyes are red, his breath reeks of booze and the sex is awful but I’m wet, my body is eager and even that is more than he needs.
I retie my saree in knots even worse than yours as I head home and before I go I study your tired visage with mine; I tell you your cheap brand of perversion is liberating at its core, you tell me in a pout intended to demean that I am a whore.

I go home and sit alone just lost in so much thought.
I tell her that I should stand against the wall and take everything off. I strip down to the skin as I watch myself emerge.
“I know what you want,” I tell her as I smirk at the poor girl exploring her tired body. I run my hands all over the evidence of my day.
I forget all disgust as in memory it’s all so attractive. I repeat words and gestures into my own head as my fingers search for warm, wet shelter. I curse repeatedly and taunt myself with minute details of my night. I take myself back to times of wondering what is right and then pull myself back to abject delight. I moan and whimper and lay back on the floor while she scratches at my skin.
Right before I orgasm and you retire for the night I swallow your ineffable presence and we talk in my mind; I tell you that of us all your sickness still shows so much more, you tell me through the gush between my legs that I am a whore.

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About ancilla9876

I'm a young, female, Indian submissive and masochist. I am many other things, of course. But this blog mostly deals with the contents of my lede sentence.

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