What's He Going To Say?

He doesn't say anything. My eyes are closed and so I don't know what's happening. I don't know how he's responding.

But I can feel it.

I can feel the air on the bare skin of my breasts. I can feel his eyes, his gaze, taking me in. I can hear the repetitive hitch of his breath as he stares at my breasts revealed to him, at my body bare from the waist up.

Slowly I chance a glance and to my utter shock, he's not staring at my bare breasts. He's looking at my face instead.

His eyes narrowed. Jaw set and mouth a narrow horizontal cut. Distrust and disbelief clearly visible on his face and how did I not see this coming?

We're in the place I asked him to be and I've got a convenient story. This could just as easily be a trap as it could be the truth.

And he has no reason to trust me.

While I open my eyes fully and let my hands nervously twist my shirt between my fists he sits back, leaning against the door behind him and crossing his arms over his chest while his eyes stay locked on my face.

"What do you think you're doing here?" he asks me.

"Paying," I say numbly, feeling like I sound like an idiot while I say it, "Paying for my ride."

"With tits?" he laughs, "Don't know that the bank accepts that currency."

Urgently I implore him, leaning forward and seeing him jerk back even more but still I speak, "Not just looking. We can do other things... We can... You can... I can..."

"Sweetheart," he drawls, gesturing once more at the fee on the display, "You're offering a whole lot for a real low rate. You want to be a whore that's fine with me, but at least know your worth."

Whore. That word hits me like a slap. Whore. Prostitute. In the classical, literal sense of the word. A woman who has sex for money. A woman whose service is spreading her legs and...

That's what I am right now, isn't it? It is in a manner of speaking. I'm not going to be paid for this but I'm offering my services in exchange for his service already rendered so what else does that make me?

And why do I like it?

Whore. He called me a whore and my stomach did flip flops and butterflies fluttered in it. He called me a whore and I had to bite back a moan because the thought of it turned me on. I liked it, in the same way that I liked the thought of him being rough with me and the same way I liked the thought of being used. The same way I liked being with a man who didn't turn me on, the very fact that he didn't turning me on in the process.

God I was so fucking confused. What the hell was wrong with me?

Did I want to fix it?

"I mean I'll play along for a minute," he says, rolling his eyes, "And assume this ain't some kind of elaborate trap. But even still I gotta say that you have to know you can charge more than that.

"You're young. You're beautiful. You've got tits and a body that looks fucking tight and fresh.

"Such a nubile little freshman. Fresh faced. You'd be an awful temptation to freshly fuck. But darlin' you can charge more than pennies on the dollar for your cunt, and what you can charge I ain't got enough to pay."

Is this really happening?

"I mean I just don't want you to sell yourself short," he smiles, genuinely, "If you're going to spread your legs, might as well do it for a decent rate."

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