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You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve done this. It’s not your favorite thing in the world, but it’s something you can do, and it puts food on the table once in awhile, when you need it.
The customer this time was a handsome blond jockey with a smooth British accent. He’s short, not exactly your type, but good-looking enough. He’d hired you for the night while that cross-country horse race was in town, and asked you to come to his hotel room around midnight. Just ask for Magenta Magenta. For the stack of money he’d offered you, you agreed.
Midnight comes and you find yourself pacing down the hallway of the hotel to locate the room he’d given you. You find it on the third floor, primp and prepare yourself briefly, and raise a fist to knock on the door.
It swings open and there stands your client, waiting for you. Except he’s not your client at all. Missing is the short blond jockey; instead you’re greeted by a mess of greasy black curls and a horribly disfiguring facial scar, sunk into an empty eye socket. You swallow to keep from screaming or vomiting, whichever is coming up your throat, and turn to politely excuse yourself.
“I’m sorry, I have the wrong room.”
“No you don’t,” the guy says, and his voice grates on your ears like the coarsest sandpaper. You’re not sure you’ve ever heard a sound so annoying. “I’m Magenta.” You turn to face him, dread gripping your heart as you realize what you’ve been signed up for.
A trickle of snot runs out of his nose. He sniffles and licks it off his upper lip.
--
You are nothing if not professional as Magenta Magenta lets you into his room. It’s small, with a creaky bed and a warped mirror on the wall. Vermin scuttle under the floorboards beneath your feet. This establishment isn’t exactly known for its cleanliness.
You try not to look at his face too much as he approaches you, finding that the rough, lumpy scar over his eye and the drool and snot running down his face are a bit too much to stomach. You’re about to cut your losses and run when Magenta grabs onto your shoulders, holding you at arm’s length.
“What are you doing?” you ask, nervous, as he maneuvers you.
“Two centimeters to the left, I think,” he mumbles, squinting at you. He shuffles an inch to the right, reexamines you, and then lunges in for a hungry kiss. His tongue finds its way into your mouth with ease, shocked as you are, and he maps out your teeth and tongue as his saliva floods your tastebuds. You’re not sure this man has ever heard of a toothbrush. His snotty nose rubs against your cheek, leaving sticky viscous fluid there on your face. You squeal indignantly and smack at his chest, eyes wide. When he doesn’t let up, you bite down, catching his tongue between your teeth.
He shrieks and releases you, sticking his tongue out to examine it as you wipe off your face. You want to spit to get rid of the taste of him, but you’re still trying not to completely ruin this deal, disgusting as it is.
“What was that for,” he whines, holding his tongue between his thumb and forefinger and muddling his words.
“You were getting snot all over me,” you huff, still wiping your face for any residual slime. “It’s disgusting.” He gapes at you, then releases his tongue and pouts.
“Well saaaawwwwrry,” he says, flouncing over to the bed. He sits on the edge, fuming like a scolded toddler, glancing up at you occasionally. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, reminding yourself of all the money you’ll earn when this is over. What’s a little snot on your face when cash is involved?
“I’m sorry,” you say, “that was uncalled for.” Magenta nods petulantly. “It’s.. not disgusting.”
“It’s not?” His face lights up a bit. You’re feeling a bit more confident in this transaction now, and you nod.
“Of course not. I was just joking, see?”
“Oh! Ha, I love jokes.” He grins and wipes his eye, still chuckling like he’s actually heard something funny. “So if it’s not gross, it’s good, right?”
You grit your teeth a bit, then smile at him. “Right!”
“Then what are you complaining about, hah?”
You let yourself be pulled into another kiss, and this time you’re prepared. You tilt your head so his nose doesn’t touch you, and so that his excess saliva can’t flood your mouth.
Out of the corner of your eye you spy a pistol on the dresser, and focus on it to avoid looking directly at his facial scarring. You’ve dealt with enough gunmen to no longer be afraid of weapons, but you’re still a healthy dose of wary. This guy doesn’t seem terribly stable, to tell the truth.
He breaks the kiss this time and begins tugging at your clothes. You bat his hands away to remove them yourself, not keen on having your expensive burlesque outfit torn or dirtied with snot. You remove your shirt, leaving on the underbust corset and tights. Your breasts are now bare, and your nipples harden quickly in the chill of the room.
“Wow,” Magenta breathes, cupping your tits in his hands. “Wowie.”
“You like what you see, cowboy?” You ask, raising your arms up above your head. “Those are yours for the hour.” You expect him to bury his face in your bosom and stay there, awestruck as he had seemed, but instead he guides you to the bed and sits you on the edge, fumbling to unbutton his pants. You sit back, legs splayed, as he yanks his pants down and whips out his cock.
He doesn’t smell quite as bad as you’d expected, but he’s unwashed,. You decide as he approaches, cock in hand, that you’ve probably had worse things in your mouth than an unclean penis, and so you take it gingerly between your manicured hands and lick at the tip, staring prettily up at him.
“You’re so big,” you lie to him, and you actually feel his cock twitch in your hands. You grasp it more firmly, pumping with one hand and lapping at the tip with your tongue, watching him tilt his head back and groan to the ceiling. “You taste so good,” you purr, and he outright moans, grabbing your carefully pinned curls and pushing into your mouth. You gag a bit, but keep at it, licking and sucking at his prick as he thrusts into your mouth.
You may have been wrong about having worse things in your mouth.
He pushes in fully, cockhead at the back of your throat, sweaty pubes against your nose. You choke for breath, struggling against his hand, but he keeps you in place and grinds against your nose, pubic hair tickling you until your eyes water.
He finally releases you and you gasp for breath, panting onto the head of his dick. He grabs your hair to push you down again and you shove his hand away, doing it yourself. If he likes being deepthroated, you’ll give it to him. You don’t have to be held down to do it. You bob your head over his dick, lipstick smearing until there’s nothing left on your mouth. You take him to the back of your throat and keep him there, rubbing your tongue against the underside of him. He pants and moans, trying to thrust against your face, one hand on your shoulder, one on your head. You pull off and bob down to the base again, before he shoves you off.
“I wanted to do it,” he pants, crawling up onto the bed and beckoning for you to follow. You continue sucking his cock up on the bed and he shoves against the back of your head, holding you still again and rutting against you. You realize that he enjoys being in control, holding you in place and manipulating your movements. He likes having power. He must be a pretty pathetic man in real life to get his rocks off just being in charge for once.
He comes down your throat after a few minutes of thrusting and gagging you with his cock, and the salty taste makes you grimace. He lays back against the pillows, gasping for breath, eyes closed and cock half-hard.
“Tell me that wasn’t all,” you purr playfully, trailing a finger through his chest hair, and his eye snaps open. He scowls at you, clearly hurt, and shoves you off to stand and pace the floor.
“Don’t rush me,” he half-whines, stomping his feet, and you cover a snort with a strained smile and an “okay.”
He returns to the bed and shoves you down, kissing at your neck and your breasts. You let slip a few moans while he laves at your nipples, not actually impressed with his technique. But hey- what does it hurt to compliment the guy? “You’re so good at this,” you whine, as he stuffs his hand unceremoniously between your legs and paws dumbly at your tights.
“Really?” he asks, face lighting up.
“Would I lie to you?” you chuckle, reaching down to pat his face. “You’re making me feel so good.” You are absolutely lying to him.
“Tell me more,” he demands, “I want to know how good I am.”
“You might be the best lover I’ve ever had.” He beams at you- “No, wait.” His face falls. “You’re absolutely the best lover I’ve ever had.”
“You mean that, right? You’re not lying to me for money, right?” He laps at your nipple like a kitten at a bowl of cream, fingertips wearing a hole in your expensive tights.
“Oh, no, I mean it. You’re so skilled and giving, and you’ve got the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.” He moans at that, cock stirring at the praise, and you continue eagerly- “I can’t wait to have you inside me. I just know you’re going to be good.”
“I am,” he says. “I’m going to be great.”
“You sure are.” He bucks his hips, gnawing on his lower lip and staring at you. He’s waiting for more compliments. “And- and that face! You’re so young and charming.”
“And my body?” he grunts, working his cock with his hand now.
“Like a young Adonis,” you assure him, positive that he doesn’t know who that is.
Magenta kisses you again, quick and sloppy- and you’re almost getting used to the snot and drool, now that it’s all over your tits and neck. He pulls away and stands again, heading back over to the dresser. In the meantime you work on your corset, unfastening the many fasteners to remove it, freeing your upper body. You’re only wearing tights now, and you’re ashamed to admit that you’re wet between your legs from all the excitement.
Magenta Magenta returns to the bed as you strip off your tights, naked, one hand behind his back. “What'chu got there, cowboy?” you ask him playfully, tossing your balled up tights over to the pile of your clothes as he crawls onto the bed.
“This,” he says, whipping out the pistol and pointing it at your face.
You scream, but he covers your mouth and shushes you, spitting slightly. “Shuuuush, shh shh shh. It’s okay. I won’t shoot you.”
“I should hope not!” You cry as he removes his hand, indignant. “What are you doing, waving that thing around?”
“Lick it,” he commands, shoving the barrel against your lips. Louder, when you turn your head and scowl at him, “Lick it! Now!”
You glare at him, slightly scared and mostly offended, and lick the muzzle of the gun. He presses it into your mouth, sliding the cold metal against your wet tongue, and you quake as he pulls the hammer back. You don’t want to die like this.
He grins, scar tissue stretching and wrinkling at the motion, and fucks your mouth with his gun. In and out he pushes it, so the barrel is shiny and wet with saliva.
“You like that?” he asks. You shake your head as best as you can with a gun in your mouth. “I do,” he says, decisively. You dread what he might do with it next.
Luckily, he’s very desperate to use his cock again- or just not imaginative enough to stick the gun inside you. He slips it out of your mouth, front site clipping your front teeth, and crawls over you. “Spread your legs,” he says, and you do, parting them so that he can crouch between your thighs. He maneuvers without setting the gun down, sliding into you smoothly (you’re so wet, why are you still so wet?) and points the pistol at your forehead.
“Feels so good,” he mumbles, and you’re not sure if he means you, or the gun. His eyes flicker between your face and the gun as he thrusts, rolling his hips into your wet nethers. Grabbing onto the headboard with his free hand, he begins to fuck you in earnest, cock sliding in and out just like the gun had, his scarred face scrunching up in pleasure. He ducks his head to kiss you, pushing his tongue past your lips again, and you suck at it, still eyeing the hand that holds the gun with fear. He moans against your mouth, eyelashes fluttering over his one good eye.
You’re slightly mortified by how good it feels, his cock pounding into you, his rough, sweaty pubes scrubbing against your clit. You whimper in pleasure when he brushes against your g-spot and his eye flies open, staring at you in surprise. He strikes that spot again and is rewarded with a louder moan. Overjoyed by your positive response, he adjusts his position and pounds into that spot, drawing out gasps and squeals of pleasure.
You feel your orgasm building and don’t try to fight it. He must be close too, because his grip on the gun is loose, and he can’t seem to keep his one eye open. Just as you open your mouth to ask him if he’s going to, he collapses against you and comes inside. His hot seed shoots into you as his finger curls tight on the trigger. You come. The gun clicks. You scream shortly.
Nothing happens.
The both of you lay there, panting and a bit sweaty- him more so than you- as you try to process what happened. He pulled the trigger. No bullet came out. Is it jammed? Is it a miracle? Magenta Magenta pulls out and rolls off, holding the pistol to his chest.
“It… it didn’t kill me,” you say, reaching up to feel for an entrance wound, just in case. He glances over at you, staring with his single eye.
“Course it didn’t,” he says, and yawns. “Wasn’t loaded.”
You’ve never been so happy to have misjudged someone. “Well, thank goodness for that,” you breathe, sliding down against the pillows, your curly hair in disarray around your face. Magenta snorts in amusement, or perhaps to keep the snot from rolling out of his nose, and turns over to face you.
“Are you leaving?” he asks, reaching out to rest a hand casually on your tit.
“I probably should,” you say, surprised by your own reluctance. “But if you’re ever back in town, we can meet again.”
“Free of charge?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say FREE of charge…”
Eventually Magenta drifts off to sleep, hand still cupping your breast. You slip out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and pull your tights, corset, and shirt back on, along with your heels, and duck out of the room.
The jockey is waiting for you in the hallway. You size him up again and find he’s not as handsome as you’d thought. Kind of smug and smarmy looking. “Did you have fun?” he laughs, handing over the rest of your money. You count it and shrug.
“Actually, yes. He’s a very charming gentleman.”
The jockey balks, eyes going wide. He doubles over, laughing and wheezing at the notion as you turn down the hall and leave.
Jokes on him. You’ve never come so hard in your life.