14 comments/ 39453 views/ 2 favorites One Hundred Dollars By: Darla_Darling The flared head of the man’s penis reminded her of the bright red hat on her aunt Desiree’s garden gnome. She thought of the fluted spear of a devil's tail, of caps on toadstools, of branding irons and plug heads. His penis was the length of a dollar bill and the daunting breadth of a glass coke bottle. She was nervous. She was afraid that it would hurt her. She was afraid that she would grimace and he would get angry and complain. It was her duty to gracefully engulf him, to pretend pleasure, to be at least silently tolerant, if nothing else. She would not grimace. She was resolved to feign enjoyment. She had a strong work ethic, after all. She had some pride. -- The first time the thought had occurred to her, for real, was when she was in the bath, at home in her three bedroom share house. She was thinking, thinking, thinking in the tepid water, her troubled brain twisting its gyri into fisherman’s knots, pondering and flexing and scheming. She was worried. Some might say stressed. Some might say frightened. She had a problem. A big problem. All of her problems were big problems, as her troubles would twist her brain until she was exhausted. This time she had to get money. And fast. Money. Now there is a problem, right there all rolled up into that one silky word. That seductive, reductive word. Money. Money for her meant: food, roof, rent, safety, freedom. It meant not being enslaved by the whims of others. Others like her parents. As she put her head back underneath the water, blowing bubbles through her nose, her knees forced up out of the water to make room, she thought of her mother and stepfather, in their distant home in the desert heat, frowning and arguing over her. As she came up from the water to catch her breath, the heavy water dragging her hair back from her face, she thought of living with them in their isolated town full of miners and drifters and dust, and not much else. She would be ridiculous there. Like a tiger in a circus cage, pacing and fuming and growling. She refused to let them win. They had played their hand, and she had nothing left to beat their aces. Her last hope was school. And she had let that one slip, through carelessness. She had dropped out, and they had make it clear that they refused to support her city lifestyle any longer. The plane ticket was already bought, and it was sitting at the bottom of her dresser drawer. She had five days left in this city, this draughty group house, these days of cafes and actors and waiters. Then, she would be gone to the great red desert. It was horrible. The bored faces and blank looks she got going from business to business. Hotels, bars, drugstores. What, no experience? No way. The patronizing smiles. The hostility. She felt like a whore. So why not? Sarah had many thoughts that were not serious. She thought about killing herself, for example. She would imagine the slick bite of the blade penetrating her skin, and of her blood pouring in beautiful red clouds into the bath. She would think of violently diving from the roof of a ten story building, the ground speeding up to obliterate her. She would picture herself boldly dashing into the middle of Northbourne Avenue at rush hour, forever merging herself with the paint and dust on the front of a semi-trailer. But these thoughts did not frighten her, because they were not real. They were her little joke. They were diversions. She concocted these muses to keep herself from taking things too seriously. She thought of being a whore. It was a safe thought. She thought of being brutally smashed against silk sheets by fat oily grandfathers with alcoholic sweat ground into her skin. She imagined them with bad breath, killer’s eyes. But this time, in the bath, her feet and hands wrinkling, she thought, why not? And she began to shake, because she realized that she was taking herself seriously this time. That she was resolved. That this was the terrible answer that she had been trying not to come to. But it was there. -- The manager of The Taj Mahal was a short, round woman with a hard mouth and eyes like slivers of glass. She had no sense of humor. Sarah discovered that, at their first interview. “Go easy on me. I’m a little bit nervous. This is my first time.” She had said. Silence. The stony eyes of Berenice, that was her name, betrayed no amusement. “This is no picnic.” Said Berenice. “But the money is good. If you work hard here, you can make two thousand dollars a week. But if you’re lazy, we have no use for you. Take off your clothes; put them on that chair there.” She did as she was told. It was cold in that room. The air conditioner seemed to be turned down to sub arctic temperatures, but Berenice did not seem to notice, as she was clearly made of granite. She had never been naked in front of a stranger before. She was used to getting to know a person first, having a few drinks maybe before she stripped down to her skin. Berenice was peering at her from across the desk. Her eyes seemed to have narrowed even more, if that was possible. The woman’s gaze seemed to leave slimy trails as it slid down Sarah’s body. She was trying to hold herself as confidently as possible, considering that she was standing naked in the middle of a cold room, being interrogated by a woman who seemed to take her etiquette tips from the Gestapo. Sarah held one arm on her hip and stood with the other hip flared out, resting most of her weight on the opposite foot. She tried to look like a Renoir bather, but she felt more like a naughty little girl being punished by a pervert. “You’ll need to trim your bush. Some men like hairy ladies, but most don’t. How old are you?” “Nineteen.” “How many men have you fucked?” Sarah had to think about it. She almost said, “That’s none of your fucking business.” but on consideration, it wasn’t a particularly inappropriate question, considering the situation. Should she lie and make up a bigger number, or was it good that she was “inexperienced”? What was the definition of fucking, anyway? Penetration? What about the Christian boyfriend who had wanted to save himself for marriage? He had licked her, sucked every crevice of her body, slid his fingers in and out of her cunt and her ass, rocked his penis into her mouth, and come between her breasts. But he had never, ever penetrated her vagina with his penis. Did that mean that they had never fucked? What about her brief foray into lesbianism, and her girlfriend’s toolings with a leather strap-on? Didn’t that count? It seemed all the same to her. Hetero penetration? Well, there was her first boyfriend, with the honey skin and straight white teeth. Mmm. . . Beautiful boy. That made. . . one man. Well, he had been more of a boy really. They had only been sixteen at the time. . . She decided to add in the girlfriend with the dildo, and pervert Christian boy, also the time she had been at that party and that boy whose name she couldn’t remember fingered her when they made out on the couch. . . and the time she had gotten drunk with her roommates and they had taken turns going down on each other. . . How many did that make? Oh, fuck, just make up a number. “Five.” “Hmm.” The woman said. “You got big tits. Good. Bend over. Grab your ankles and spread your legs.” Sarah felt a tight ball of anger crouched in her stomach. This wasn’t the worst job interview she’d ever had, though. At least she didn’t have to fill out any personality surveys. . . Personality seemed fairly irrelevant to the job at hand. After she bent down, Sarah had a good view of the bottom of the door to the office. She had a sudden thought that anyone could walk in at any moment. The thought made her stomach tighten again. She felt her heavy breasts hanging down. She could almost touch them with her chin, in that position. She kept thinking to herself “I’m an actress. This is just one of my more interesting. . . roles.” There was an unidentifiable snapping sound. It was no longer possible for Sarah to see her interviewer, but she could hear movement. It sounded like the chair behind the desk was being scraped back. There were footsteps. Sarah was beginning to lose her breath, from being in such an uncomfortable position. “Umm. . . Do you mind if I stand up now?” “Hold still.” Sarah was shocked by the sudden feeling of intrusion that occurred subsequently. “You’re tight.” Said Berenice. “Try to keep it that way.” Now Sarah knew what the snapping sound was. Gloves. For several terrible moments, Sarah held still as the medical examination ensued. Her nether regions were prodded and pinched unkindly, and the examiner clicked her tongue. “Get up and put your clothes back on. You can start Monday. Ten o’clock.” She was dismissed. -- Now the penis was before her. It was ten thirty-seven Monday evening and she was staring at the head of a stranger’s penis, inches away from her thighs. What next, oh what next? She was tightly poured into a black satin corset, her legs encased in silk stockings, her breasts smashed into valleys and hills, her buttocks neatly parted with rope-like panties. She was sitting back against the velvet headboard of a four-poster bed and the man, her client, her john, was in front of her, almost fully clothed. Almost fully clothed, that is, except for his naked, thickening member urging itself closer to her parted thighs. Funny thing was, his name was John. Or so he claimed. She had told him her name was Monica. Monica had a thick black bob with a razor sharp fringe. She wore a black satin and arm length gloves. Her eyes were circled in kohl and her lips were stained red, red, red. She should have called herself Cliché. Men don’t mind fucking clichés. Actually, they seemed to prefer it that way. After all, every woman has a cunt, every man a cock. How unoriginal. Vive la difference. Vive le cliché. The man was stunningly ugly. His face was sharp, dissected by crags and tight lips. His eyes were deep-set, hooded, and a pale shade of green. Green the color of veins beneath thin skin. His teeth were white, but crooked. His steely hair was straight and close cropped. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive gray suit with a green silk tie. The tie was loosened and it brushed against her stomach. This man, her trick, seemed to know how to not ever breathe. He struck her as immobile, like a glass statue. He had a low, curt manner of speaking and once they were inside the room he told her exactly what he wanted without emotion. “I want you to pull out my penis. Then I want you to suck on it. Then I want you to take off your panties and masturbate in front of me. Then I want you to fuck me. I’m going to come inside you. Are we clear?” It would have been funny, if he hadn’t been so intense. He looked like he could rip the heads off kittens without looking down at his hands. But it wasn’t as if any of his requests had been unreasonable. “One more thing. Call me Daddy.” You. Sick. Fuck. “Yes, Daddy.” “Good. You’re such a good little girl. Now unzip my pants.” She was trembling a bit. This was it. This was really it. The cock was in her hands; she was stroking it and encircling its thickness with her fingers. She looked around the room. The walls were painted red, and the plush draperies covering the window were a darker shade of the same. She saw a crack in one corner of the ceiling, and she thought, “This room is real. This man is real. I am real. This is really happening.” She wondered how many people had fucked on this bed. How many times. How much semen had been spilled on this bedspread? She felt the hot, taught skin in her hands, she felt his tie tickling her stomach, and she smelled his scent of whiskey and smoke and sweat. She wondered what it would be like to kiss this man. Kissing was of course completely against the rules. Fortunately. It was harder to pretend with kissing. The condom. It was Strawberry flavored and red, like everything else in the Red Room. Her hands were shaking as she tore open the package. She had only ever put a condom on one other man before, it occurred to her. What if she did it wrong? What if it broke inside her, and he had AIDS and she got it and died? But this was her job. And she was going to follow through with it. The sticky red rubber skin stretched tightly over the trick’s cock as she struggled to roll it down to the base. Done. She bent down and tasted strawberries. He made her undress him. He lay back against the bed and told her to fellate him. She felt completely detached from the scene. This is my job, she thinks. It is not so different from making endless photocopies or entering long lists of numbers into a computer. The only difference is that the pay is slightly better. She moved her head up and down, up and down. The only sound to be heard in the room was the of wet suction, and his breathing. So the man did breathe, after all. She tasted chemical sweetness and latex. She smelled the yeasty smell of crotch and tried not to glance down at the man’s gray nest of pubic hair. She noticed the dark trail of hair leading from his pubis up to his navel. There was a straight scar there. He must have had had an operation. The scar was still pink. It looked recent. It seemed so sad, all of a sudden. This man’s aging body, the scar, the silence. The man looked infinitely sad and fragile, his thin white skin vivid against the crimson bedspread. She thought about how easy it would be to hurt this man. Her teeth encircled his most delicate part. She moved her mouth down to the base of his cock, and she felt a sense of power, knowing that she had him in a state of immobility. One hundred dollars. That was what she was worth. That was what this experience, all that she was giving to this man was worth. One hundred dollars. He made her stop what she was doing. He told her what he wanted next. She called him Daddy. His expression didn’t change. She crawled on her knees to the middle of the bed, the arch of her thighs hovering above his stomach. He ran his veiny hands up her legs and hooked his thumbs into the sides of her ridiculous, skin splitting underwear. He was breathing heavily now. She felt sorry for him. He was like an animal in pain. He slid the black fabric down, and she awkwardly moved one leg, then the other off the bed to rid herself of the uncomfortable panties. She felt the cold air hit her vulva. She had prepared herself earlier, as she was getting changed, with lubricant. She had been able to feel the wet stain of the lubricant for the past hour and it was a relief to no longer feel the sticky sludge of it rubbing against the g-string. She suddenly realized that she was slightly aroused. She hadn’t expected to be. She didn’t find the man attractive. This was a chore. She was only doing it for the money. But there was a tight, excited feeling in her intestines like she was doing something exquisitely taboo. The man moved his left hand over to cup her naked mound. She had gone through the pain of having all of her pubic hair removed for the job. She had to admit she enjoyed the feeling of all of that naked skin. If it had been another man, a man who she actually wanted to fuck, she would have relished the feeling of warm fingers caressing her there. He moved his fingers inside her folds and began to play with her slick lips. She became more lubricated with the mechanical manipulations of her vulva. She began to finger herself, as he had asked, and he gave a grunt of approval. He took his erection in hand, still in its strawberry sheath, and masturbated as she moved her knees forward and shoved her wet opening in his face. One hundred dollars, she thought. He grabbed her ass with both hands and pulled her back down to just above his crotch. The flared penis head was just inches from her opening. He was pulling her down. It was time. She began to tremble again. She was afraid that it was going to hurt. One hundred dollars. She grabbed the base of his cock and pointed the arrow straight up to meet her vulva. He was breathing so heavily. She hoped it would be over quickly. She inched herself down until she felt the head go in. It was a tight fit, but it didn’t hurt yet. The john let out a long breath. Moving her hips slightly back and forth, she stretched her vaginal canal over another inch of his meaty engorgement. She began to feel herself sweating. It was hard work, and it was beginning to hurt. His hands pulled her down farther. His cock was tapered, and it got wider towards the base. She looked down and saw the perverse sight of her bald vagina stretched uncomfortably over the thick red pole of the stranger’s prick. She felt slightly sick to her stomach. The man lunged forward suddenly, and his tool was completely encased inside her. He began fucking her wildly, and she bounced up and down on his hips. She breathed sharply, trying not to moan in pain as his cock plunged in and out of her. She saw his face contorting, saw him sweating and panting. He sat up in the bed and held her closely to him, with his arms encircling her back. She could feel his penis impaled tightly inside her. She was still wearing her corset, and he fumbled with the hooks. He released her breasts from their support, and now she was naked except for the garter belt and stockings. Her breasts here free now, and they bounced against his chest. She could feel his sweaty skin rubbing against her nibbles. He started pushing her backwards against the bed and before she knew it he was on top of her. The sweaty stranger was on her, in her, in control of her body, pumping into her. She smelled the alcoholic sweat, the fish smell of her cunt, the strange chemical scent of the strawberry condom, and she tried to be numb, to not think about what she was doing. One hundred dollars. The man was grunting now. He sounded so helpless, like he was in pain. “Talk . . to me. Who . . am . . .I?” She had to play the game. It was her job. “You’re my daddy.” “Say it.” “Daddy.” (You pathetic fuck.) He was losing control. He slammed her more and more quickly. She felt his cock vibrating, and the man groaned loudly. She thought of natural disasters. Of earthquakes and floods and tornadoes. She was calm. She was the center of the storm. He had come. She had just made her first hundred dollars.