Chapter 42: Finding a job
The stale air in David’s room tasted like defeat, thick with the ghosts of pizza and the sour tang of yesterday’s sex. His cum had dried sticky between my thighs, a constant, itchy reminder of the bargain. Protection bought with flesh. My flesh. I shifted on the edge of the unmade bed, the springs groaning beneath me. My heavy breasts ached, sensitive even beneath the soft fabric of one of David’s old band t-shirts I’d pilfered. Too big, but swallowing me felt safer than anything form-fitting right now.
David had left his laptop cracked open on the cluttered desk, a silent offering before he’d mumbled something about class and fled, unable to meet my eyes. Smart move. Looking at me seemed to crack open the pit of his guilt and let the raw hunger pour out. The hum of the ancient fan in the corner was my only companion, stirring the heavy air uselessly.
Job. The word echoed in the hollow space inside my skull, the space where my old life used to be. Money meant independence. Escape. Or at least, less reliance on David’s conflicted charity and the terrifying volatility of Mark. I pulled the laptop onto my knees. The screen flared to life, illuminating dust motes dancing in the perpetual twilight of the room.
My fingers hovered over the keys. Help Wanted. Such simple words for the chasm of degradation that awaited. Three tabs glared back at me from the browser history David hadn’t bothered to clear.
Tab One: "Velvet Touch Modeling" The website screamed amateur. Grainy photos of women with unnaturally large breasts and vacant eyes posing in cheap lingerie. "Exclusive Opportunities!" "High Pay for Confident Models!" The contact email was a jumble of letters, and the ‘studio address’ looked suspiciously like an industrial unit on the bad side of town. A front. Definitely a front. Probably for porn. My stomach churned. They wouldn’t see Taylor, ex-college jock. They’d see Ella Knox’s tits and ass and pussy and assume that’s all she was good for. The idea made my skin crawl. Revulsion warred with a terrifying sliver of curiosity. How much would they pay for… that?
Tab Two: "The Gilded Cage Gentleman's Club" The ad was slicker. Dim lighting, polished poles, silhouettes of impossible curves. "Dancers Wanted. Top Dollar. Flexible Hours. Stage, Private Rooms." Private rooms. The words pulsed with unspoken menace. The image of strange hands, strange mouths, invading the space David had claimed just hours ago… Panic fluttered in my chest. But another part, the traitorous part swimming in estrogen and leftover arousal, whispered possibilities. I look like that now. Could I…? My nipples tightened under the t-shirt at the sheer, illicit thought of being watched, desired by strangers. For money. Survival. Could I fake it? The dampness starting between my legs felt like the ultimate betrayal.
Tab Three: "Spic & Span Domestic Services" Mundane.Safe. Relatively. Pictures of smiling women in crisp, borderline-frilly maid uniforms holding mops and vacuums. "Reliable Cleaners Needed. Competitive Pay. References Required." References. I had none. Not as Ella Knox. Who would vouch for the girl who used to be their male roommate? The sheer banality of it was almost appealing. Scrubbing toilets. Dusting shelves. No groping. No stripping. Just… work. But the pay listed was laughable. Barely enough for ramen noodles, let alone saving for an escape. The thought of kneeling to scrub some stranger’s floor while wearing a stupid little outfit curdled something inside me. Humiliation, but of a different, colder kind.
Which hell was preferable? The blatant exploitation, the lurid display, or the grinding, underpaid servitude? My head throbbed. I traced the outline of my new breast through the t-shirt, the flesh yielding, heavy. Proof. Curse.
The door creaked open. David stood there, books clutched to his chest like a shield. He looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes. His gaze flicked from me to the laptop screen, frozen on the Gilded Cage's homepage – a woman arched backwards over a pole, breasts straining against sheer fabric.
"Job hunting?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral. He stepped in, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch sounded unnaturally loud.
"Trying," I muttered, snapping the laptop lid shut with a decisive click. The image vanished, but it was burned onto my retinas. "Options are… limited."
He dumped his books on the overflowing desk."Yeah. Saw the ads earlier. Before..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards the bed where he’d fucked me raw. He ran a hand through his messy hair. "The maid service seemed… okay?"
"It pays shit, David," I said flatly, looking up at him. "Less than minimum wage after they take their cut for the uniform, probably. Can't live on that."
He shifted his weight, uncomfortable. His eyes kept darting down, unable to resist the line of my throat, the swell of my chest beneath the thin cotton. I saw the conflict warring in him – the guilt, the residual horror at what he’d done, and the undeniable, base hunger my new form ignited. His jeans were already tightening slightly at the crotch. My treacherous body responded instantly, the dampness between my legs intensifying, a warm pulse echoing the phantom ache David had left inside me hours before.
"The… modeling thing?" he ventured cautiously, his voice thick. He knew what it was.
"Porn, David. Let's call it what it is." I stood up, needing space. My breasts swayed heavily with the movement. His gaze locked onto them. "You think I should do porn?"
"No! Fuck, Taylor, no!" He flushed crimson. "I just… I don't know what to suggest. The club…" He swallowed hard. "You'd be incredible. You know you would. Look at you." The admission hung in the air, charged and dangerous.
"So, dancing? Taking my clothes off for strangers? Letting them stick bills in my g-string? Maybe more, in the back rooms?" My voice was rising, sharp with a brittle edge. Fear. Anger. And that fucking stirring inside me. The image wouldn't leave. The lights. The music. The power of that body on display. Stop it.
He stepped closer, drawn like a moth to a flame he both feared and craved. "I didn't say that. But…" His hand reached out, trembling, brushing a strand of hair back from my face. The touch sent an electric jolt through me. "You need money. You need… safety. Maybe it's… an option? Safer than… other things?" He meant Mark. He meant the streets. He meant the Velvet Touch.
His finger trailed down my cheek, to my jawline. His breath hitched. The scent of him – soap, paper, that underlying male musk – filled my nostrils. My skin prickled. My nipples were hard points against the fabric, screaming for attention. The hormonal fog was descending, thick and cloying, drowning out the screaming man inside.
"David…" It was a warning, weak, breathy.
He ignored it. His other hand came up, cupping my face. His thumb brushed my bottom lip. His eyes were dark, pupils wide, the guilt momentarily submerged beneath the tide of lust seeing me like this, talking about stripping, had unleashed. "You drive me fucking crazy," he breathed, the words rough. "Just looking at you… thinking about you up there…"
He kissed me.Hard. Not like the hesitant, conflicted kiss from before. This was claiming. Possessive. His tongue plunged into my mouth, demanding, tasting. A moan tore from my throat before I could stifle it. My traitorous body arched into him, my hands finding his shoulders, clinging, not pushing away. The laptop clattered forgotten to the floor.
His hands were everywhere. Rough on my back, sliding down to grip my ass, pulling my hips hard against the rigid bulge in his jeans. He ground against me, making me gasp against his mouth. The friction against my clit, even through layers of fabric, was electric. My core clenched, empty and aching.
"Need you," he growled, tearing his mouth from mine, lips trailing wet, biting kisses down my throat. "Right fucking now." His hands slid under the hem of the oversized t-shirt, finding the bare skin of my waist. His touch was hot, urgent, igniting paths of fire. He pushed the shirt up, bunching it under my arms, exposing my breasts to the cool, stale air. My hard, dark nipples tightened further, begging for his touch.
"David, the job… we were…" My protest was feeble, drowned out by the roaring need in my veins, a need this cursed body owned completely now.
"Fuck the job," he muttered, his mouth closing over my right nipple, sucking hard. The sensation was a lightning bolt to my core. I cried out, my head falling back, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there. His tongue lashed the stiff peak, teeth grazing, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating outwards. His other hand shoved roughly down the front of my loose sweatpants, past the waistband of my panties. He found the slick heat instantly.
"Oh, God, you're fucking dripping," he groaned against my breast, his voice thick with awe and triumph. His fingers plunged into me without preamble, two thick digits curling, finding that spongy spot deep inside. "Thinking about dancing got you this wet? About showing off this perfect fucking body?" He pumped his fingers, the rough pads dragging exquisitely against my inner walls. He sucked harder on my nipple, biting down just enough to make me yelp and buck against his hand.
Sensation overload. Shame and pleasure collided, a supernova behind my eyes. My hips jerked uncontrollably, fucking myself on his fingers, seeking more, harder, deeper. The rational part of my brain was a distant scream. All that existed was the desperate ache, the skillful invasion, the hot suction on my breast. My breath came in ragged gasps, punctuated by whimpers I didn't recognize.
"Gonna come?" he demanded, his voice guttural. He added a third finger, stretching me, filling me. His thumb found my clit, rubbing furious, tight circles. "Come on my fingers, Taylor. Show me how much you fucking need it."
The command, the sheer dominance in his voice, was the final spark. My body convulsed, back arching violently off the floor (I hadn't even realized he'd pushed me back against the desk). A silent scream ripped through me as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot explosion of pure, involuntary sensation that turned my vision grey at the edges. Pleasure, raw and obliterating, pulsed through me in crashing waves, my inner muscles clenching rhythmically, desperately around his thrusting fingers. Slickness gushed, soaking his hand, my panties, the inside of my sweatpants.
He slowed his movements, prolonging the tremors, watching my face contort with ecstasy I couldn't control. "Fuck yeah," he breathed, a predator savoring his prey’s submission. "Look at you. So fucking beautiful when you come."
He withdrew his fingers slowly, glistening with my arousal. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with deliberate slowness, his eyes locked on mine, burning with possessive fire. "Tastes like heaven," he murmured.
Before I could even catch my breath, before the aftershocks had fully subsided, his hands were at his belt buckle. The metallic rasp was obscenely loud. He shoved his jeans and boxers down his hips in one violent motion. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, and already leaking pre-cum. He gripped it hard, stroking himself as he looked down at me – half-naked, trembling, sweat-slicked, panties and sweatpants shoved down around my thighs, my sex glistening and exposed against the edge of the desk.
"No," I whispered, the word meaningless even to me. My body was still humming, pulsing, craving more. My legs were open, helpless.
He stepped forward, pushing my legs wider apart. He gripped his cock, positioning the swollen, slick head against my soaked, swollen entrance. He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. He just pushed.Hard.
The thick intrusion stole my breath. He was bigger than before, or I was tighter, still clenched from the orgasm. He filled me with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. I cried out, the stretch bordering on pain, the invasion absolute. My fingernails dug into the cheap wood of the desk.
He leaned over me, pinning me down, his breath hot on my face. "Mine," he snarled, not a question, a decree. He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed forward again. And again. Hard, deep, possessive strokes that rocked my whole body, shoved the desk back a few inches with the force.
The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with his harsh grunts and my choked, involuntary gasps. Each powerful thrust hammered into that sensitive spot deep inside, reigniting the embers of sensation into fresh flares of unwanted pleasure. My traitorous hips lifted, meeting his drives, my body welcoming the invasion it had just climaxed from. My breasts bounced heavily with the force of his fucking.
"Tell me you like it," he demanded, his voice ragged. He gripped my hips, lifting me slightly to drive even deeper. "Tell me this cunt loves my cock."
I couldn't speak. Tears of shame and overwhelming sensation blurred my vision. A guttural moan was the only answer my body could give. It was enough. He fucked me harder, faster, the desk creaking dangerously. His rhythm was brutal, claiming, erasing the job hunt, the fear, everything but the raw, primal act of possession. His cock pistoned in and out, stretching me, filling me, hitting that spot with relentless accuracy. The pleasure was building again, a terrifying crescendo rising from the ruins of my willpower.
He saw it on my face. "Gonna come again?" he gasped, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Come on my cock, you fucking slut. Milk me dry."
His words, the brutal pace, the sheer, undeniable fullness – it shattered me. A second, even more intense orgasm tore through me, a silent scream locked in my throat as my body clamped down on him with vice-like intensity, pulsing around his thrusting length. I convulsed, back arched impossibly, seeing stars.
He roared, his own control snapping. He buried himself deep, hilting inside me, and held there. I felt the hot, thick jets of his cum flooding me, pulsing in time with the frantic beating of his heart against my chest. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing me into the unyielding wood of the desk, his softening cock still buried deep within my spasming cunt, pumping the last of his release.
Silence. Heavy. Broken only by our ragged breathing and the fan’s pointless hum. The sharp edge of the desk bit into my back. The smell of sex, sweat, and stale pizza was suffocating. David’s cum leaked out around his softening cock, warm and sticky between my thighs, mixing with my own slick. His head rested on my shoulder, his breath hot and damp on my skin.
I stared past him at the faded poster of some forgotten action hero on the wall. The hero seemed to be laughing. The maid service application window was still open on the closed laptop, forgotten on the floor below. It paid shit. The Gilded Cage paid more.
David stirred, lifting his head. His eyes met mine, filled with a familiar, dawning horror and regret. "Taylor… I…"
The words dissolved. What was there to say? The transaction was ongoing. Protection for access. My body, my new reality, was the currency. And as the treacherous warmth of his spend pooled inside me, a terrifying certainty settled over the wreckage: the 'modeling' site was still a hard no. But the pole at the Gilded Cage… it suddenly didn't seem like the worst option left. The thought sent a fresh, unwelcome shiver through my well-fucked, exhausted flesh.