She doesn't agree

"No," Ronnie said, the word a raw scrape in her throat. It was quiet, but it cut through the night air. "I don't do that."

The old man blinked, his magnified eyes registering surprise more than anger. "A pity. A true artist knows no bounds." He shrugged, a gesture that made his whole jacket shift. "Very well. Two hundred for the standard performance then."

Ronnie nodded, relief warring with the acidic churn of shame in her gut. She needed the money. She needed to win.

He led her to a parked sedan, its engine ticking as it cooled. The interior smelled of stale cigarettes and leather cleaner. He propped his camcorder on the dashboard, its red recording light a malevolent eye in the darkness. "Just as you are," he instructed. "Don't clean a thing. The... previous texture is part of the composition."

She performed mechanically, a detached marionette. The sounds were wet, ugly, the old man's breathing a ragged accompaniment. He spent quickly, sighing with the satisfaction of a man who has just ticked an item off a list. He counted out the bills with meticulous precision, pressed them into her cum-sticky palm, and drove off without a backward glance.

The next few weeks she takes on client after client. She builds a reputation. The pale ginger slut who would do anything. The men who visited her were a spectrum of desire and desperation. She did them in seedy motels that smelled of bleach and regret, in the backs of cars steamed up with their exertions, in alleys that reeked of piss and rot.

A pair of wealthy university students, twins with matching blue eyes and sandy hair, paid extra to share her. They weren't cruel, just clinical, taking turns with an efficiency that was almost more degrading than the roughness she was used to.

They called her "the subject" and discussed her responses as if she were a lab experiment. She closed her eyes and pictured Ginny's face, imagined the look on her face when she came back with a thick roll of cash. That's what this was for. The competition.

Another night, a group of four construction workers, their skin caked with dust and sweat, cornered her near a half-finished building. They smelled of cheap beer and earthy labor. They were loud and rough, their laughter booming in the night as they passed her between them.

They fucked her against a pile of cinderblocks, the rough concrete scraping her back raw.

She finally end her week with a decent amount cash. Ready to meet with Dudley and earn the employee of the month reward.

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