#Money can be exchanged for goods and services | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

metalbrew · 3 days ago

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callgirl.. m.r

reader pov. sex-worker. p in v. spanking. dirty talk. inexperienced mattheo. a little rough around the edges. the tone of this isn't for everyone. mdni x

I’m seeing stars burst behind my eyes, gone in a blink, swallowed whole as a hot-white haze coats the motel room. My breath is caught; like a fucking knot choking any breath that wants to escape from the back of my throat. My hair splays across the pillows like a darkened halo of decay; coated by a sheen of sweat that I’ve also got pooling across my skin. Mascara smears down my cheeks – I can feel it. It’s almost like a thick black river mixed in with rogue tears, but don’t get it twisted; I’m crying from the high I’ve just fallen from, not some bullshit excuse like heartache. The scent of the room, the burn between us – it’s my only anchor in this chaotic mess of a moment. My chest heaves. The heavy rise and fall taking away a smidge of the pain my cunt feels. Throbbing. Pink and raw from the way he’s fucked me better than I probably have been in along time, and I’m staring up at the ceiling, questioning all of my life choices as I’m sprawled out a little too easy on cheap bed sheets; half dead, half alive, all fucking want.

Mattheo. He’s twenty three. Single. Far to fucking pretty for the emptiness that he drags around behind him like a shadow he wears dressed by guilt. He works in finance, some kind of large corporation – family connection deal. His eyes dark like burnt coffee. He wears a smile that could scam you out of your last dime. Tonight he reeks of whiskey and menthol; a vast difference from his usual college brat Polo Black scent of sharp citrus and wooden tease. No, tonights scent; it screams money. Money and control. Earlier, fuck, hours ago, I ripped the suit off he was wearing; buttons popping, fabric tearing under the prettiest cherry red manicure I’ve ever had. God it was fun. Fuck, fun isn’t even the right word. Thrilling. I can still feel the way his skin was beneath my fingertips – hot and taut. The way each inch of muscle gave way under my grip. Intoxicating. Mattheo isn’t just a client. No. He’s a god damn fucking problem.

Most men are work: in relationships, in reality. A grind. A paycheque. A good one if you play the game right. I know the job – I know it well. You fake the moans, countdown the minutes you’ve agreed upon for the right exchange of a dollar and then pray to whatever deity you believe in for the night that they don’t get fucking weird. Every once in a while, though, there’s a cock – and well, a man that it’s attached to; that sinks into you and your cunt really just doesn’t want to let go. Mattheo’s one of those guys. Fresh meat. Wiling. Don’t get me wrong, the cash he exchanges for my services is good, it’s not that though. He just happens to look at me like I’m more than just a hole to fuck. A void for pleasure. Like I’m real, and gosh; in my world – that’s like a knife to the throat.

The first night we met up wasn’t even about getting off. I mean that’s what most men want; but I guess most men aren’t him. We met up and we talked; of all things, over a lemon and garlic linguine that tasted like it was made with actual god damn care. The restaurant was this tiny little Italian, hole in the wall kind of place on the outskirts of town where the mood lighting was so dark waiters didn’t think twice to glance at the low cut of my dress. He spilled his guts out and all it took was a single drink – finance sector, numbers that crush him, excel spreadsheets which bore him to tears, a boss who refers to him as ‘kid’ while stealing his ideas. I asked him about his fantasies, his dreams, his desires. Hoping to better understand why a guy like him would be paying for my services. He mentioned want, affection, attention. I smiled, sipping on cheap wine while nodding and memorising each word. There were two rules which all call girls will tell you are essential to abiding by if you want to make a profit. Rule 1: know your mark. Rule 2: Do not, under any circumstances, care. Let me be honest; I broke that second one somewhere between his shy laugh that hit me like a lullaby and the way he tipped double. Fancy.

Our second night. Fuck – he was silent. I ran my mouth like an absolute bitch. Teasing, taunting, laying out the rules of our bodies like a roadmap to desire that he might one day have the privilege of feeling. He nodded along like such a sweet little boy. Shy. Vulnerable. Hell I almost felt bad. Mattheo found out that night that he had a thing for spanking. Sharp and sweet, it not taking long for my hand to find the right rhythm. Oh, that and well denial play. God was it a beautiful fucking sight to watch his cock twitch as I made him wait. Made him beg. Made him break. I’d never heard such pretty whimpers.

Tonight though, our third night; two more than others usually get, I let him take the lead. Hell; the whole idea actually working in my favour for once and not a total fucking catastrophe. His hands, ugh – they were bruising. His teeth – fuck; I’d have claim marks painted across my skin for weeks. Not once did I have to use my safe word. Atlas, in case you were wondering. The night is a total fucking blur and I’m wet just hating myself for enjoying it.

Boys. No ---- Men like Mattheo don’t just want affection or attention. Please; a guy like him could get that from any girl who walked in his general direction. Hidden deep beneath the words of what he thinks he wants is undeniable description of control. Control. Men who don’t have it in every day life crave it like it’s air. For Mattheo, this is exactly the same. I notice it in the way his jaw clenches when I scream his name, the way he fucks like he’s trying to own me when my nails rake down his back. It is a risk, control – especially if it falls into the wrong hands. The hands of someone erratic, or perhaps even a little untrustworthy. Oh before I forget; there’s another rule that I should mention – one that blankets across all sex workers and that they agree upon in unison: no dating clients. Fuck; I mean it’s probably a good thing otherwise right now I’d be screwed.

Mattheo’s got a soft edge to him; that dangerous kind of gentle you might read about in a badly written romance novel. Along with it though; he’s got seven inches of trouble that I can’t stop fucking thinking about. Each night that he pays me; I feel like a fraud, a thief; but to hell with it, I cash out anyway. That’s the gig. Cash for sex. I sell to the highest bidder my body, my time and my soul, act like I enjoy it and try to never look back.

Now comes the cute part – Mattheo’s kink? Ha! It’s absolutely pathetic in its simplicity. He just wants to make a woman come. Cute right? See I told you it was fucking pathetic. Not pathetic like in those fake, scripted pornos you can watch for free on your phone while you’re at work but the alleged ‘real deal’. He wants to give a woman an orgasm which leaves her legs shaking as she swears black and blue beneath her breath that she hates him. See, cute. Our arrangement is that of sensei and student. I teach; he listens. When a woman says ‘keep going’ she doesn’t mean pound harder – no… it means don’t stop what you’re doing. He learns that spanks hurt less with an open palm; the sting of heat blooming artistically across the skin. He asks to go down on me – I oblige, obviously; for the purpose of teaching. He’s instructed to hook his arms under and around my thighs, pulling me up and onto his mouth and fuck… one slick lick and I’m gone. My fingers tangle their way into his curls with a precision that I never knew I had. They yank and earn a groan as his tongue reacts – greedy, sloppy, fucking perfect. My pussy is starting to resemble less of a meal and more of a waterfall and hell; right now I’m happy to drown in it, drown in him and not care about a potential resurface for air.

One thing Mattheo didn’t need training on – mhmm, praise. It was a god send when he realised that ‘good girl’; oh that’s for amateurs. ‘Kitten’; mhmm, closer. It said properly with the right kind of grumbled tone, it could make my skin him. ‘Mine’? Yeah – that almost does the job, a single syllable sprinkled with possession. Fuck though – when he lent in, voice low; whispering across my jaw that he wanted to ‘fuck me like an animal’, shit – I was done. My cunt floods, the sheets are drenched, my brain’s signed out and offline, I’m ready to beg as if I’m the one paying him.

Arms grasped at the wrists behind my back; I’m biting into the pillows I’m sure haven’t been washed properly between us being in here and the rooms last visitors and I couldn’t give a shit. My eyes roll back. The sound of skin slapping skin is both exquisite and toxic. The mattress creaks; springs giving in to the way I’m being ground against it. The headboard sounding morsecode through the walls of just how fucking good this feels. He wraps my hair up in a messy bun at the nape of my neck and tugs rough as he both come, but only I scream. Perfection in simplicity.

A few minutes pass, but Mattheo’s now on his back – chest smooth with sweat; catching his breath. The smell of the room is akin to a place I imagine dreams go to when they’re ready to die. I’m panting. I roll of the bed, sliding back into my heels while my legs are still shaking. It’s a split second view, but I catch my reflection in a cracked vanity mirror and look like a fucking crime scene. Makeup smeared, hair a mess, bruises blooming like a signature where he gripped too hard. Where I was slapped is still the prettiest shade of scarlet red. I’m wearing him like evidence. I step into my dress which I’ve found piled on the floor and shimmy it up over my shoulders before dancing up the zip. We’re both silent. I pour us both a cold glass of water from the minibar I hadn’t expected to be stocked. There’s no ice, but I swear the glasses still clink out aloud to break the quiet.

“You good?”, he finally musters up the courage to ask. Mattheo’s voice is gravel. Clearly fucked out. I glance over my shoulder and smirk. A semi-theatrical chuckle escaping me.

“Better than you, sweetheart.”

He laughs at my response. He really shouldn’t. The sound is soft, boyish, sweet – like honey melting against butter on warm toast and it stupidly twists something deep inside my chest. Fuck, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Mattheo sits up; it’s sheer beauty on display and I have to avert my gaze before I do something stupid. Absurd and ridiculous like I don’t even know – touch him. Lick him. Stay…

“You know, you’re not like other girls I’ve met before”, he mentions and the comment has me rolling my eyes back so hard they hurt. As if I can almost see the back of my skull. It’s vacant. Or well it was – he’s now imprinted back there.

“Stop while you’re ahead Mattheo. You won’t be the first and you sure as hell won’t be the last to say it.”

“No, I mean it…”, he shakes his head as he runs a hand rough down his face sits up a little more, eventually scratching at a crest he has tattooed on his chest. “You – you are like, present. You don’t just perform. You’re here. Attainable and…”

My stomach lurches with a grumble as it twists. I bite harshly down against my bottom lip. The air around me drops from comfortable to freezing cold and my cunt dries up at the mere thought of Mattheo saying what he’s saying. Remember rule 2? Yeah this is why we have it and it’s instilled into each and every one of us like a survival technique. I shake my head and slam the glass I was about to take a sip from down against the top of the minifridge, water sloshing across my dress and onto the floor to dampen the beige shag carpet.

“It’s my fucking job Mattheo. That’s why people pay me.”

“Is it?”, he asks, watching me with a newfound sense of naivety. He tilts his head to one side and his expression shifts to one that could peel my dress back off without single word as well as pull back my skin. “Or like – do you feel what I feel too?”

Fuck Mattheo. I mean, we already had – but fuck those innocent puppy dog brown eyes and his tender words and those possessive but gentle fucking hands and the way he makes a girl like me want to break every single god damn fucking rule. I find my handbag resting up on the small table beside the inside of the door and open it to pry out my phone and check the time; clock on the wall above the bed having skipped forward a few hours due to the vibration of the headboard earlier.

“I’m going to put this as nicely as I can Mattheo. Don’t try and play that angle with me. You’re a client; I’m doing a job. There’s nothing more.”

His face falls; it’s like I’ve just kicked a pound puppy. His expression, one of timidness is enough to make me fucking hate myself. In this line of work though – where cash is king and the clientele you keep fund your lifestyle, I can’t afford to care. Not for him, not for anyone, only myself. Caring gets you hurt. Caring causes problems. Caring can cause trauma. Death. I’ve witnessed enough girls, just like me; fall for men, just like him and stood on the sidelines helpless as I watch all those involved in ‘caring’ spiral when the fantasy they fell into ends. I’m an idiot, but not that kind of stupid.

“Look, get some rest”, I sway the conversation away from us with a cold but clear tone. “You have that meeting regarding a potential promotion tomorrow at 9am right? You need to be sharp. Present your best.”

Mattheo nods understandingly, yet his eyes don’t leave me. Fuck - I really don’t want to have to kick the puppy again.

“You don’t have to go.” “No, I do.”

Slinging my handbag over one shoulder, I make sure to leave the spare motel room key on the table and force Mattheo a smile which is angelic but feels like nothing other than a lie. I walk to the door, muttering aloud that I might see him again, around – someday… maybe; and step outside into the dark, dingy corridor. I hear the door click shut behind me. The corridors fluorescent lights which pulse with a buzz are like a slap to the face. Each step echoes with the sound of my heels clicking against the hard wood floor beneath them. Each step a reminder of what and who I really am. A whore. A call girl. A professional. A transaction. I’m not Mattheo’s girlfriend. I’m not his saviour. Not that I probably ever could be. As the elevator doors part open at the end of the corridor; I step in and catch a split second image of my reflection again.

The girl staring back has soulless eyes. The kind that look through people rather than at them. She’s got a mouth that’s forgotten how to mean something when she smiles. Fingers dancing along the number pad, I press the L button for lobby and let out a quiver of a sigh. It’s not relief. It’s a reminder that I’m trapped in the world I thought I wanted to be a part of and now, my only options are to either survive or run. From people like Mattheo. From myself. From the possibility of redemption, or from sanity. There’s a part of me that wants to turn back. Run back. Spend the night. Wake up satisfied beside company that I wouldn’t mind keeping when dawn breaks and I’m comfortable enough to perhaps whisper an honest good morning.

No.

Life doesn’t work like this.

Life isn’t always predictable.

What is predictable though? My work schedule; and you best believe that I know I’ll see Mattheo again. More than likely – real fucking soon.

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