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gingibred · 12 days ago

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if y’all don’t read and hype up this damn series rn im throwin hands

cherry

pairing: joel miller x f!sex worker!reader

wc: 7.2k

summary: Lonely, widowed, Joel seeks company where he knows he shouldn't.

warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [m!receiving oral], reader is a sex worker, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, smoking (r and joel), loneliness, joel struggles a loooooot with guilt, mentions of grief and past romantic relationships, smoking, r is referred to as cherry due to not giving her actual name out (only used once, will be used sparingly), first part in a series though this part can be read as a standalone, new parts every tuesday

a/n: yeah, yeah, yeah, we've all read it before, age gap, etc. but this is my version of this kind of trope. this is the first part in a series that is mostly completely written and that I've dropped and come back many, many times, edited to hell, and then rewrote. It's like, my baby and exactly what I want from this type of relationship. write the fic you want to read and all that. let me know what you think if you read!

Curiosity ruins your life.

It sets a wheel in motion that you are powerless to stop, unable or just unwilling you might never know, like a cat that sees a sparrow beyond it’s window and decides prowling along a too high, too narrow branch, is worth it.

Your sparrow looks like a man, handsome and sad and weathered and just a little like a cowboy if you use your imagination. If this were a saloon and not a club, if there were some jaunty tune being played on a twangy piano, double swinging saloon doors at his back, not the pulse of too deep bass and the flash of girls’ teeth in the dark. Pulsingly red, dim lighting, the shadows of dancers on the walls, sticky floors and reaching hands, neon lights.

He doesn’t belong.

You watch one girl lean against the bar, proposition him, leave a few minutes later, pouting just a little.

Chastity flounces away from him, cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, like she’s a girl again, like there’s something real in her name. You push away from the wall where you watch from the shadows, wasting time, decidedly not making any money though you can’t seem to help it.

You’re entranced; you need to know.

You catch her elbow as she passes by.

“What happened?”

“Just not interested, I guess.” There’s a glow in her eyes, lingering on the surface of her skin. “He’s kind, really. Not like they usually are, thinkin’ they’re doing you a favor.”

“Why does he keep coming here, then?”

This is the third week in a row he’s sat there, pretty and unavailable. You’d considered it a waste of time and put him out of your mind the first two times.

She shrugs, giving a flirty wave to someone over your shoulder. “One of my regulars is here,” she says. “I don’t know, I get the sense he’s real lonely. Maybe he just wants to sit and have a drink.”

Weren’t there better places to just have a drink, to feel less lonely?

He’s good looking and seems sad, and, well, there’s something about him, repeatedly u internationally reeling in women he apparently doesn’t want.

It’s a waste of time.

It’s impossible for you not to walk over, sidle into his space at the bar, close but not too close.

“You look lonely,” you greet, leaning against the counter next to him. Close enough to lean in and smell his cologne, close enough that he won’t have to work to see down your shirt.

“Howdy,” he answers, eyes flicking up to yours briefly before fastening to the bartop again. He’s nursing a drink that’s long gone warm and watery.

You eye him for a moment, the sharp line of his jaw, the lines by his eyes, the way his t-shirt stretches over his shoulders. He looks tired up close, drawn in a way that points your compass toward grief. “You look like you could use another drink.”

His eyes slide up again from the cherry red wood of the bar to meet your gaze. He blinks and settles back on the stool. There’s surprise in the pretty depth of his eyes. A brown color, cast darker, maybe, because of the low lighting. “I don’t mean to offend you, but I already said no to your friend. Chastity.”

He says her name so gently, it makes you smile.

“You remember her name.”

“Well I just talked to her.”

You shrug and hop up on the barstool next to him, adjusting your skirt as you go. He might be surprised at how little a girl’s name, fake or otherwise, mattered to so many men. “Oh, sweetheart, trust me I know. I’ve been watching you all night. I won’t bother you for long, I promise.” You can’t waste your whole night with someone who won’t pay you anyway, no matter how enticing the flutter of their wing.

“Huh,” his eyes flick over you again. “Seems like there’s plenty of willin’, uh, customers, to go around.”

The way he says it makes you want to giggle, and one slips out before you reign it in. He’s oddly polite, and strangely shy. Maybe even awkward, but in a charming, warm way.

“There are,” you say and wave down the bartender, gesturing at his poor excuse for a drink with one hand. “But you’re different.”

“How d’ya figure that?”

You don’t answer for a moment, smiling at the bartender when he sits the drink down in front of you.

You push the whiskey in front of him and then slide the much held onto glass from between his loose fingers. His hands immediately circle the new glass, like it’s some kind of fucked up security blanket. It’s hard not to notice how nice his hands are, thick fingers and broad palms lined and scarred from work. He wears a watch on his left wrist, the green band worn and stained in places. His hands tell a story, that he works with them everyday, blue collared and tired, tanned from the sun, a tiny sliver of paler skin peeking out from behind the watch face.

When you look up, you find him already looking at you. At your face, surprisingly. When you push out your chest, elbows narrowing subtly in towards your waist, his eyes don’t move. You tilt your head at him and he raises a brow.

“Every girl on this floor thinks you’re a widower,” you explain with a shrug. “They have since you first came in three weeks ago. And, usually widowers out looking for a girl treat them a certain way.” Your mouth twitches up into another smile, “So you’re special.”

You glance up and meet his eyes. “And I won’t ask, but I kind of agree with them. You have that look.”

He breathes out sharply. “How’s that?”

You tip your chin against your palm. “Sad. Like you’re ashamed to be here, and really lonely, but not in a desperate way.”

“Jesus,” he mutters and takes a sip from the glass. He makes a face and pushes it away. “All that just from me sittin’ here?”

You blink and tilt your head at him. “Well, you’ve been coming back. Was I right?”

There’s a long pause, like he’s considering not responding or agreeing. But then he says, almost defeatedly, “Yeah. Most of it, anyway.” He releases the lowball glass to slide one hand down his face, fingers scraping roughly over his beard before cupping his chin.

“Sorry to hear that.”

He just nods.

“All right, well, I was being honest about not bothering you and I’ve satisfied my own curiosity. I’ll leave you be, and I’ll tell the other girls to leave you, too, if you really don’t want to be approached. I could suggest somewhere better though, where you won’t be bothered, if you only want a drink,” you lean in, brush your hand against his arm. “And, if you take my word on nothing else, take it on this: the drinks here are shit.”

His skin is warm beneath yours; there’s a scar along the top of his forearm, a scrape and pull of hair against your nails when you let your hand slide off and turn away.

Before you can vacate your seat, his hand covers yours, and you pause.

The touch is brief but warm, and enough to make you stay. You can suddenly feel the eyes of all the other girls working that night on your back, hot with jealousy, holding their breath, curious as the cat finally stepping off the window ledge, that much closer to the sparrow.

You cross your legs and prop your chin on your fist again, watching him spin the glass on the bartop and not drink it, not say anything. “You don’t really look like you belong here,” you murmur, reaching out to trace your nails along his forearm absently. “You don’t really fit in here.”

In fact, no one has ever looked more uncomfortable. Nervous, you see that all the time. But not this.

He clearly wants something that he doesn’t know how to ask for. Or, maybe it’s the shame and the loneliness again, tangled up and impossible to unravel.

“We could just talk, you know,” you say gently. “Or. . .sit together. You don’t seem like much of a talker. And sometimes it's enough to have another warm body in the room.” You don’t say it, but you could pet him like this too, nails against his wrist, catching at the dark hair on his forearm.

He fidgets with the watch on his wrist, looking down at it like it holds the answer to a question he doesn’t know how to ask. After a long moment, he scoffs. “Startin’ to see why I’m special.”

You nearly backpedal, but the gruffness is directed inward, not at you. The last thing you need is to offend him, not see the swing of a fist and flinch fast enough.

You nod, knot between your shoulders smoothing away again. “Yeah. It’s usually about the. . .companionship more than anything else. You’re missing someone and that’s okay. I can fix that. Or, ease it, at least.”

He turns to look at you fully then, eyes flicking over your form, and you can tell exactly what he’s thinking. This isn’t a place you really fit in. Like him. There’s something different about you, that’s not like the others that have approached him.

You just smile at him again, run your nails along his arm again.

“Do you have somewhere quiet we can go?”

His gaze casts away, and he clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“All right, sweetheart. Ready to go now?”

A tendon in his jaw jumps when he clenches it hard, the muscle pulsing beneath his skin. You’re afraid for a moment that you read it wrong, his tone and the shape of his shoulder, and he is about to hit you, but the turmoil seems to be turned inward once more.

Instead of answering, he tosses back the rest of his drink and stands, offering you a hand as he goes. “You’re right about the drinks.”

“Gentlemanly of you,” you say and take his proffered hand, balancing heavily on him as you stand. “And I usually am.”

His fingers are light against your spine as he guides you out of the dim interior of the club, the pulse of light coating him in harsh reds and blues before you push through the doors out into the parking lot. “Not a compliment I usually get.”

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” you coo as he directs you across the pavement. “You are exceedingly polite.”

This is usually the scariest part, getting into a car with a man you don’t know. By the time you get to their room you’re settled, but this is where you’re always reminded of the risk you’re taking, the very real danger you could land yourself in. That anything could happen to you, and that probably no one would know or care if something did happen, that no one would look for you.

He stops beside an older pickup truck and opens the door for you with a squeak, hand offered for you to brace yourself on again. “Well I’d like to know who isn’t calling you a gentleman,” you say with a smile as he releases your hand.

It earns you another amused huff, before he closes the door and rounds the hood.

The interior of the cab is worn but clean. In the dark, you can only make out a few details. A tree shaped air freshener hangs from the review mirror that no longer puts off any smell. There’s a woven mat spread over the leather bench seat, a friendship bracelet knotted around the gearshift, a tangle of straw wrappers in the side of the door and an empty pack of cigarettes on the dash.

The dome light flickers back on briefly when he opens his door.

You’re plunged into shadows again just as quickly, but the flash of light is enough for you to see the box of cassette tapes by your toes that you’d missed.

The truck rumbles to life beneath you, a calming purr against the bare backs of your thighs. It reminds you, just briefly, of evenings spent in a different truck. More rundown than this one, more likely to break down on the side of the road than get you to your destination, the smell of cigarettes and your mother’s perfume thick on the air, billowing up from the stained fabric seat.

Pushing the memory away, you point to the box. “Mind?”

He inclines his head slightly. “Go ahead.” Then, “Seatbelt.”

“Who bothers with seatbelts?” You ask, crossing your ankles delicately, plucking up the box to deposit on your knees.

“Me,” he grunts.

Well, so do you, but the men you find yourself with usually don’t. They want to put their hand high on your thigh and talk about their car as they drive. They want you to lean over and suck their cock.

This man puts one hand on the steering wheel, the other along the back of the seat, as he reverses out of the parking spot.

Jesus, he’s good looking. The relief of his face is sharp, plunged into shadow and light as you pass beneath streetlights.

When he pulls out onto the highway, lined with scrubbrush and cacti and hot red dust, both his hands anchor on the wheel. He doesn’t even glance over at you, and remains quiet. It unsettles your nerves further, just a little. Either he’s nervous and worried about what his dead wife would think of him, or driving you to the middle of some open plot of desert next to an emptier stretch of highway to kill you.

You pick through his cassette collection as he drives to calm your nerves and try to glean something about him from it. He asks you twice if you’re cold, despite how hot the night is. “I’m fine,” you say. “Really. It’s actually a little warm.” He rolls down the windows so the sweltering summer air filters in.

You’re grateful for the warm air, for the soft caress of the late breeze against your face.

It feels good on your skin, chilled from the air conditioning at the club. He must have noticed your cold hands when you touched him.

At a red light, you hold up one of the tape cases. “You have good taste.”

Johnny Cash, Garth Brooks, Pearl Jam, Metallica, Halican Drops are only a few you skim over.

“Well, ain’t all of it mine.”

“Whose are they?”

He hesitates for a long moment. “My daughter,” he answers eventually. “She left ‘em in here.”

You nod. “She has good taste then.”

The light flickers green and the truck rolls forward again. His pretty face is still, unmoving, revealing nothing. You admire it anyway, the curve of short graying hair behind his ears, the scar along the bridge of his nose, the way he blinks hard, thinking something over, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “That don’t bother you?”

“What?”

“That I have a kid?”

“Does it bother you?”

He doesn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw tightens again as he runs a hand over his chin.

Thinking again, you suppose, as you cross from one side of town to another. It’s a wealthier area, usually you only see the inside of the motel down the road from the club.

Eventually, he pulls into the parking lot of a hotel, imitating Spanish style vistas in a way that feels real, the front entrance manicured and clean.

It’s a nice hotel, one of the locally owned ones with charm, not a soulless chain. He kills the engine and looks at you through the dark, through the yellow light of the buzzing streetlamp on the corner.

“Yeah.” It takes you a moment to realize he’s answering your question, if it bothered him that he has a kid. You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already out of the cab, door slamming behind him.

He’s at your side of the vehicle before you have a chance to reach for the handle, holding your door open and offering you another hand. It’s strange; you try not to think about it. “Why?”

“I figure you two must be about the same age.”

Ah. Still, surprising for a man to care.

“You must have had her pretty young.”

He doesn’t answer you again, hand pressed lightly to your back, like this is a date and you’re a lady he’s taking home, guiding you toward the brightly lit, glittering facade of the hotel.

It’s very odd and sweet and totally unexpected. This isn’t how this usually goes, how any of this usually goes, and it almost makes you resent him.

As much as you can resent someone you just met and who you’re about to fuck and forget and be paid for the privilege. Still, it stings, persistently itches at the inside of your skin, in a way that makes you wish he’d just be rough with you instead.

“You’re never going to see me again after tonight. I’m just an ear, sweetheart. You can tell me and I’ll keep all your secrets.” You say it low, leaning into his side; intimate and just a tad sweet, a secret between lovers.

“Sweetheart,” he repeats.

Oops. Maybe the familiarity was a mistake.

“What’s your name?” You course correct as he pulls open the heavy front door for you. “Doesn’t have to be your real name. Just need something to call you if you don’t want me calling you sweetheart.”

The hotel is different, too.

You’ve become accustomed to flickering neon motel signs seen though tattered window shades, rough, threadbare carpet beneath your knees, rust stained shower drains, furniture a decade or so behind the times, a persistent smell of mothballs and grease that permeated the lobby, if you even got to pass through it. Most times there was no need, a parking space right in front of a too flimsy door, a chain lock that hasn’t been attached to the wall in at least a year. The belch of refrigerant that only ever served to make you sneeze and cool down the room not at all.

“Never said that,” he grunts.

“Okay.”

The lobby is cast in a strange white, gold light. A quiet kind of elegance seeps in around the edges of your vision, deep green walls and softer cream accents, dark woods and crystal that you fear might be something more expensive.

Plants thrive in the front window, lending an air of carefully curated locality to the space. The employee at the front desk greets you as you go by, not a hint of judgement in her carefully schooled features. “Good evening, sir,” she inclines her head at the pair of you.

“Ma’am,” he answers, just as polite. You like how he sounds, how his voice touches the farthest reaches of your lungs when it reverberates against you. You feel bad for it, but you can’t help but notice how at odds he is with the place, and wonder briefly what he does for work.

The rest of the lobby is deserted.

There’s a bar, you notice, and a restaurant, empty at this hour.

The warm ghost of his fingers against your spine again urges you slowly along through a dark wooded archway and then up the stairs.

He seems mindful of your heels and how short your dress is as you ascend. You wouldn’t mind if he tried to look up your skirt or touched the back of your thighs, but he doesn’t.

“Joel,” he says when he unlocks the door to room 202 with a keycard.

“Hm.” The room is intimate but not small, dominated by a large bed, sheets a crisp, clean white. The furniture here, too, is dark and quietly luxurious. It smells nice, not like cheap disinfectant and dollar store room spray. “Joel,” you repeat, and perch on the edge of the bed, cool against the backs of your legs. “That’s a nice name. I don’t even mind if it’s not your real one.”

Joel fidgets with the lock, then slowly sits down next to you. He seems tired. “You got somethin’ I can call you, darlin’?”

“Darlin’,” you say, imitating his drawl. The sound of his voice is comforting. It reminds you of the people you had grown up around, of your mother; your own accent shaken like a bad habit when you finally got away from them. “I like the sound of that.”

“So you don’t got a name?”

“Not really, no.”

He leans close to you, there’s a hint of laughter in his voice for the first time. “That’s a damn lie.”

You smile, flutter your lashes down, just a tad of innocence. “They call me Cherry.”

“Cherry,” he repeats, trying it on for size. “Why?”

“Why not? They have to call me something.”

You aren’t fond of it, in truth, but you were loath to pick something like Chastity or Divinity or something worse. At least Cherry had a meaning, connected to something more.

“Hm.” He looks like he’s thinking it over, eyes on the far wall and then back on you, watching you curl your legs up on the bed, palms braced on the mattress behind you. “I think darlin’ might work better.”

“You’re giving me a name?”

The beginning of a smile tugs at his mouth. “I reckon so. There a reason they call you that?”

You lie back on the bed. “Doesn’t matter. You can call me whatever you want, Joel. I don’t mind.”

He looks at you, eyes flitting over you again with a sudden clarity. The crease between his eyes deepens and then something firm settles in his gaze. “You mind me askin’ how old you are?”

You blink hard, surprised, like cold water was thrown over you. “How old do you want me to be?”

Something pained passes behind his eyes. That’s a first for you. That coy little response usually gets you a laugh and a worryingly low number as a reply. “That ain’t—I really want to know.”

“My real age?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

When he doesn’t answer you slide your hand across the bed, rest your finger tips at the base of his spine and work into the tense flesh. If anything, he goes more rigid, so you let your hand drop. “My, my you are riddled with guilt.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, if my wife knew I was with a woman half my age she’d crawl out of her grave to take me into it with her.”

You shrug. “But she doesn’t know. And we aren’t really doing anything uncouth.”

“Uncouth,” he murmurs, a huff of reluctant, almost laughter on his tongue. “You are somethin’ else.”

You aren’t sure where to place that assessment. Supposing it’s a compliment, you pay him one back. “Well, I don’t think I’m half your age.”

“You gonna tell me how old you are?” The question is barbed on his tongue, a sharp rebuke to your teasing. This is serious to him, and means the difference between spending the night with him, or wasting time getting back to the club, finding another john. You need the cash, you need him to decide.

You have only a brief moment to consider if you should lie or not. But really it’s an easy choice, older is clearly going to soothe him. You tweak it and add a couple of years. If it soothes his conscience, let him relax, the lie is worth it.

Besides, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll never see him again, after tonight.

“I’m twenty-seven.” You press one hand over your heart, “Scout’s honor.”

He squints at you. “Serious?”

“If you were a different kind of man I’d guess I’d tell you I’m freshly eighteen and you would believe it.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, not laughing.

“I look. . .younger, I guess,” you say, earnestly as you can. That is true, at least. “Which is important in this line of work. I also don’t think men can really tell how old women are, most of the time anyway. I’d show you my ID but I think that’s bad business practice.”

“No, I believe you.”

“Why? How old did you think I was?”

He thinks for a moment, and then finally sinks down beside you. He stares up at the ceiling, fingers threaded together over his stomach. “At least twenty-two is what I was tellin’ myself.”

“So if that’s half, you must be. . .forty-four?”

“Try fifty-two,” he grunts.

You think for a moment. “So not half your age, exactly,” you murmur, tentatively reaching out to touch him, waiting to see if he tenses up again when you stroke your fingers over his beard.

He really is unfairly handsome.

It’s no wonder all the girls had tried with him. A pretty, sad, lonely widower that just needed someone to talk to.

Still, you wouldn’t mind if he did want to fuck you.

“Close enough,” he says.

“Is that why you said no? To Chastity?”

Chastity, as far as you know, really is freshly eighteen.

Those dark eyes meet yours. You can see streaks of gold in them, even in the dim lighting. He doesn’t stop you when you move your hand from his face to his chest, slowly rubbing back and forth. “You’re real good at this.”

“At what?”

“Gettin’ me to say more than I should.”

“It comes with the territory. Besides, isn’t that the point? You can say it to me, and it won’t matter in a couple of hours. Like speaking into a void. Wishing it away.”

He swallows and looks back at the ceiling, covering your hand with one of his own to pause its path. You can feel the echoing beat of his heart against your hand. It’s an oddly intimate move and for a moment you’re taken aback and unsure what to do. “One of my daughters is older n’ you. Than all of them girls that—” He glances at you. “Hard not to feel like a dirty old man.”

“You’re a dirty middle aged man at worst.”

A grunt of surprised laughter leaves him. “You’re funny.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm.” You move your hand again and he releases your fingers to let you, eyes closing. The tension pulling at his neck and shoulders loosens as he finally relaxes. “It’s a good age though, really.” You notice the sheaf of little gray hairs starting to creep into the hair at his temples, a few in the bristles of his beard. It’s more honest that you usually dare to be, that you usually can be.

You like older men; like the lines by Joel’s eyes and at the curve of his cheek when he smiles, the worn, steady quality of his palms, the gray hair, the not yet faded strength in his shoulders. “A handsome age. Girls like an older guy, you know.”

“Uh-huh. Now you’re just sayin’ shit.”

You mean it though. He’s a dream, in more ways than one. You wonder what he’d think of you if you told him this isn’t your day job, that this is simply a means to an end, that you are more than this, a girl literally and figuratively on her knees.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to at least take my clothes off?” You offer. “I promise I’m pretty.”

He laughs again, still that slightly surprised huff, and the lines by his eyes crinkle up. “You’re plenty pretty right now, darlin’.”

“See? A goddamned gentleman if I’ve ever met one.”

He chuckles, there’s a looseness in his limbs now. You’ve satisfied something at least, enough to have him relax.

You don’t ask, but he tells you a little of his wife, then. It wasn’t a love marriage, it seems, but convenience. She had a child from another man, him, a daughter from another woman, and it made sense for them to be together. Logistically and realistically and for tax reasons and trust reasons. But they lived together and shared everything, adopted a third kid together. His kids moved out years before, and now he’s alone so much of the time, now. They were companions and partners and he loved her in his own way, even if it hadn’t been strictly romantic.

It had been complicated, tangled. He seems like he still isn’t sure what they really were together. But he misses her, loves her still.

“So you’ve never been in love?”

He blinks. “No. I guess not. Not like that.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You? Really?”

“It just doesn’t seem to find me.”

Joel doesn’t ask what you mean by that.

You listen and touch him, tracing the thick veins in his arms, the minute wrinkles by his eyes and the lines in his forehead. His is a face you’ll never forget for how long you’ve been gazing at him. It’s a face you won’t want to scrub from your memory the moment you leave the room.

It’s nice to know you were right, that he is just lonely, just unused to being alone.

Joel is a stranger, but it doesn’t really feel like you met him just hours before. You move his shirt and feel the outline of a scar on his side, the coarse hair on his belly, and he doesn’t stop you.

He acquiesces when you tug it further up and then over his head. Some of them don’t like to be kissed on the mouth, so you don’t, pressing your lips along his neck and chest and belly. You listen to the hitch of his breathing, the sigh of his lungs. He closes his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounds nervous.

It’s impossible for you not to notice when he gets hard. Your skimming fingers and the close heat of the room seem to have been enough. “It’s all right to want this,” you murmur. You cup the bulge of him and squeeze gently. Air hisses through his gritted teeth. “Relax,” you coo and look into his face for a moment, his closed eyes, rubbing him gently through the thick denim of his jeans, relishing in the harsh breath that leaves him.

Joel opens his eyes and meets your gaze. His stare is heavy and watchful, but he nods.

With deft fingers, you unbuckle his belt. You have to look away to get the button undone and slide his zipper down. His breathing hitches when your fingertips brush his lower stomach, the dark thatch of hair that draws your hand lower.

He groans lowly and threads one arm behind your back, tugging you into his side when you circle your fingers around the base. He’s bigger than you expected, thick. A whine spills out of his throat when you move your hand down him slowly and then back up, thumb sweeping over the already leaking head.

“You like that, huh?”

“Damn,” he mutters against your hair; the brush of his facial hair against your temple is a delicious little scratch.

You turn your head to suck a harsh kiss against the side of his throat. He tastes like the salt of sweat there. Familiar and somehow new. “Been awhile, sweetheart? Is this all it takes?” You squeeze a little tighter as you twist your hand up.

He takes the teasing in stride, but shutters in your grip all the same, arches into your hand. It’s desperate, and he’s trying to keep it in.

You like them like this, shivery and needy, and had not expected this man to be that way. You move your fist along his length, warm and heavy in your palm, pulsing with need in your grip. It makes you feel powerful in a way this moment usually makes you feel dirty.

You curl your fingers softly through his hair, watching him closely. There are spots of color high in his cheeks, eyes clenched closed. “Let go,” you murmur. “It’s just me and you here,” you assure. “Don’t keep it in.”

He grunts softly, a breathy fuck whispering past his lips when he suddenly covers your hand with his. For just a second, he guides your fist, then stops. “Hold on. You sure?” It’s a panted question.

“Sure?” You tilt your head, confused.

“It ain’t what we agreed on, necessarily.”

You laugh and sit up, stroking him from root to tip slowly, twisting your wrist. “Do you want me to stop? Kind of already in the middle of something here.”

“Christ, no,” he grunts.

His palm moves to press flat against your spine when you sat up. You expect it to wander, but it stays in place, warm against the naked expanse of your spine exposed by your top, like he’s supporting you.

“Mhm.”

He arches into your hand again when you move your hand faster, eyes fluttering shut. It really must have been awhile for him, or he’s incredibly sensitive, and you aren’t sure which is better. Warmth pools heavy between your legs, a formless ache that twists in a curl up into your gut.

You want to touch yourself, and wish Joel would be a little more handsy, that he’d slide his fingers beneath your skirt and push your panties aside. His hand arcs from your hip to your spine and back again.

Instead, you lean over and take him into your mouth. “Fuck,” he whispers, one hand against the back on your head now. “Warnin’ woulda been nice.”

You pull back and spit lightly against him, rubbing the tip against your lips, and keep stroking him, fast and firm. You glance at him and then shift to move to the floor between his legs, not stopping the movement of your fist. “I’m about to suck your dick,” you say. “Unless you don’t want that. Is there something else you want from me?”

You slot yourself between his legs, curl one hand on his stomach and squeeze the other around the base of his cock. “Please?” A whine slips into your voice that you don’t work to put there. “You taste good.”

There’s an oddly conflicted look on his face, lust tangled up with that earlier guilt, the shame of what he’s doing.

You slow your hand and rub his thigh. “Don’t feel bad about it. I promise I don’t.”

Sometimes, you have to lie. You do feel gross and disgusting and used.

You aren’t lying to Joel now; there’s no need to.

He covers your hand, big palm running up your arm to cup your elbow as he sits up. It’s surprisingly, so strangely, tender.

He surprises you again by reaching back with his other hand for a pillow. “Here,” he says and drops it on the floor. You want to tell him this is nothing, you’re used to kneeling on much rougher surfaces, fiberglass laden carpets that haven’t been vacuumed in years, scratching and leaving a rash that persisted until the day before you found yourself back there again.

Instead, you wriggle forward onto it, the cool relief on your knees immediate, twisting your hand up his shaft as you go.

Joel cups your cheek and presses a thumb over your mouth, spreading the shine of spit and precome left there against the seam of your mouth. You part your lips, and he touches your tongue, depresses the pad of it there until you close your mouth and suck gently, curling your tongue around him and let your eyes flutter closed for a moment.

“Hell,” he mutters, caressing your cheek again when you release his thumb, waiting patiently for you to open your eyes. “Look at you.”

A shiver tightens at the base of your spine. The light praise punches you squarely in the chest. You want him to keep looking at you like that, a songbird in a cage, a docile thing to do what he asks, for him to say that again.

You let him lower your head to slide your tongue against his balls before flattening your tongue against the base of him, licking slowly up to the tip. You suck lightly, not looking away from him, running your tongue along the slit. He tastes like salt, a clean muskiness.

“Can you take all of it, darlin’?”

You pull back with a little gasp and cough, feel the cup of his palm slide to your chest. “Yes,” you murmur, rubbing your thumb against the sensitive tip until he hisses through his teeth. “I can try.”

You take his cock down your throat slowly, relaxing your esophagus, stroking what you can’t take yet. His palm is against the back of your head, guiding you down and then back up. “Good girl,” he mutters, the glow of that praise taking up residence in your chest again. “Takin’ me so well.”

A fiery need pulses through your pussy, an ache that sits hollow between your legs, as you bob your hand, taking a little more of him each time, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. “C’mon, baby, you’re almost there. Know you can take it all.”

The praise settles itself deep in your chest, thick and welcome. He guides you back and you take a gasping breath, coughing and looking up at him through tear webbed lashes. For one horrible moment, you think he might kiss you, but he just rubs his thumb against your lips again.

You jerk his cock, not looking away from his eyes, the sound of your spit and his precome squelching in your first.

His head tilts back, lips parting. You’re treated to the sight of his throat working, thick muscle contracting, veins standing out in a prominent green against the sheen of damp, golden skin. Joel’s hand slides to the back of your neck, then the top of your shoulders, palm flat against your spine.

You lean down to suckle at the head again, and take a breath before sliding his thick cock down your throat, until your nose nestles against the thick thatch of hair at the base. The burn makes you choke around him, but you hold yourself there, tongue sweeping out against his balls.

“Good girl,” you hear him mutter, the sound distant, throat contracting when you swallow around him. “Good job, darlin’.”

You draw slowly up, and then look at him, releasing his dick with a pop. “I want you to come in my mouth.”

Fingers curl against your jaw and draw you down. He hisses when you circle your tongue around him, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge of his orgasm. His body strains against you, hips bucking up to follow your mouth when you pull back. “Please,” you whine and lick the pulsing vein. “Please, Joel.”

He grunts and then moans when you seal your mouth around him again. He pulses in your mouth, bitter and warm but not altogether unpleasant. You swallow it all, sucking until he makes a pained noise and pulls you up.

You lick your lips and watch him flop back against the bed, hands beneath his head. “Jesus Christ.”

“Just me.”

His laugh is exhausted and weak.

You crawl up beside him, taking the pillow with you from the floor, ignoring the agony between your legs, how soft the bed feels beneath you. Just the slightest brush of his fingers against you would probably make you come. The need is so intense your thighs ache, muscle spasming in little jumps.

Still, you lie next to him and watch him breathe, chest rising and falling evenly. You brush a hand against his chest, the wiry curl of hair like lightning over your skin. He’s falling asleep and trying not to. “I can go.”

He blinks and looks at you and the expression on his face tells you he forgot for a moment. He forgot that you’re whore, forgot even, maybe, that you aren’t his wife.

“Do you smoke?” You say, to soften the blow of it.

“Not usually.”

“Do you smoke right now?”

“Sure.”

You turn and scrabble for your purse, fishing in the depths for the carton of cigarettes. His fingers brush gently against your curled legs, against your ankle and calf and then jerk away, remembering himself with sudden alacrity. “Here,” you murmur, flopping on your back next to him. You flip the package open and pull out a cigarette and the lighter you stuffed inside earlier.

You light it, blowing smoke toward the ceiling and hand it off.

For a while, you pass the cigarette back and forth, fingers brushing, shoulders pressed together, before you curl over his stomach and put his soft dick back in your mouth. This time it only takes him a few minutes to come, sensitive and too spent to hold off longer, panting quietly into the warm air of the room.

You sit up, after, and peer in the mirror across the room to make sure you don’t look too much of a mess.

Joel smokes again and then stubs the cigarette out in the tray on the bedside table, shifting to search for his wallet.

He has the gall to still look a little embarrassed.

You take the cash out of his hand, doing a quick count, smiling, before you throw a leg over his hips and push him down, bracing your palms against the mattress by his head. You take a long look at him, knowing you’ll never see him again. Too guilt ridden, loneliness soothed for the moment. Shame will keep him from ever returning. You memorize his face, his shoulders and arms, the feeling of his wet cock between your legs, pressing against your underwear where your skirt had ridden up.

“Don’t think about this too hard, okay?”

“Think about what?”

“About needing something.”

He blinks and you shake your head. “It was okay. To need this. You’re welcome to come find me again anytime. Goodbye, Joel.”

With that, you roll away, adjust your skirt, and slink toward the door.

You hear him shift on the bed as the door snaps closed behind you, and sense there was something he wanted to say. But you don’t turn back.

You ask the woman at the front desk to call you a cab back to the club, to your car. Joel tipped so well, or maybe just overpaid so much, that you don’t need to go back inside.

When you get back to your tiny, shitty apartment that you can barely afford, there’s no other face that you can conjure but his when you finally touch yourself in the darkness of your too hot bedroom, fingers working quickly, not bothering to hold back the moan in your throat. The sound of his voice, his praise, won’t soon fade. It loops on repeat in your mind, imagination trailing to what his beard would feel like on the inside of your thighs, if his cock might feel good inside you.

Sweat beads at the backs of your knees and under your breasts, hips lifting toward an invisible mouth.

When you come, you feel like you should mourn it being over.

You decide you will not think about him, about why he affected you this way when none of the others ever had.

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