Polly climbed out of the car, all legs and stilettos, like a spider, awkward and uncomfortable in her skimpy outfit and impossible heels. With her long hands clasping each side of the doorframe she levered her body out and tried not to stumble onto the pavement. On the other side of the car the door clicked shut and his sure, strong footsteps came swiftly around to meet her.
“You okay?” He flicked his keys around his index finger and she nodded quickly before he closed the car door, pressing the auto-lock.
Without another glance he strode up the garden path and she followed, only a few steps behind him, trying not to wobble. He was so smooth, so slick in everything he did. His appearance was immaculate and as they reached the front door, he slid the key into the lock and swung the door open in strong, unthinking hands.
Polly wasn’t used to men who were so self-assured; most of the people who approached her were drunk and nervous, awkward and shy. He, on the other hand, never took his eyes off her face and negotiated money before he had seen the wares. It was refreshing, and it was unnerving.
Once through the door he carried out a series of rituals, barely acknowledging her as he removed his shoes and cast his keys into a bowl in the hallway. Having briefly flicked through the post and emptied his pockets of wallet and loose change, he turned to her.
“You can hang your coat there, if you want,” He vaguely gestured towards the coat stand and Polly slipped out of her £20 jacket, hanging it next to four or more expensively cut suit-coats.
He was already moving down the hallway when she looked up. She tripped after him, trying to keep up.
They walked out into a brightly lit open-plan kitchen. It was warm and welcoming; the centre of a family home. All the tops were polished granite which seemed, to Polly, to gleam with impossible cleanliness. At the stove stood a woman; she was a few inches shorter than Polly, with a head of glossy blonde hair. Her body was petite and tight. She wore a blue summer dress that showed off her legs, which were slender and tanned. The woman turned, and seeing him, smiled welcome.
“Hello darling,” She kissed him deeply and Polly felt herself recoil. Was she not supposed to follow? Surely this woman was not supposed to see her. Polly was never brought home to meet lovers or wives or girlfriends; Polly was, if anything, a dirty secret, not to be told at any cost. The man, however, seemed unconcerned as he took the woman in his arms and slipped his hand over the curve of her buttocks.
Polly remained still, letting her feet sink into the pain of her shoes for the first time since he had picked her up. She watched their happy union and thought of her parents.
As they parted the woman turned back to the stove, stirring something, without even glancing at Polly. “Are you going upstairs then?”
“Yes,” said the man in a weary voice.
“Okay. Well there are clean sheets on our bed, and dinner will be ready in an hour.”
He nodded and walked back towards Polly. Passing her, he gestured for her to follow him. They walked back down the hall and up the stairs. The house was bigger than most in the city, but no palace. It was impeccably furnished though, every end table and carpet picked with a stylists eye. Polly wondered if, perhaps, this couple had in fact hired an interior designer. They ended up in the master bedroom. By the time Polly entered the room, still struggling to keep up with him, he was sat on the end of the bed, undoing his shirt sleeves and his collar. He looked up at her.
Polly leaned on the doorframe, trying not to sway too violently. “Was that your wife?”
The man nodded. “Yes.”
She tried to fight it, but she felt herself frown. “And she doesn’t mind?”
“No.” A filthy smile crossed his face and he stood up, walking towards her.
“You’re a lucky man.”
“Actually, it was her idea.”
In that instant he slipped his hand around her neck and pressed her against the wall, forcing her to stand on her tiptoes as she gasped for air.
“In fact, my wife loves knowing that I’m upstairs fucking some young, filthy piece of meat on our marital bed.” His eyes ran over her face and Polly felt more violated than she ever had with any number of strangers between her thighs. “Especially when I’ve paid for it. And especially when it’s a fat slut like you.”
She breathed through her nose, trying to remain calm as his other hand worked under her skirt, between her soft, naked thighs, to clutch at her bare, smooth cunt.
He groaned. “You’re not even wet yet. I’m going to enjoy this.”
In one smooth movement, Polly was dragged across the room and thrown onto the bed, her arms and legs splayed to catch her fall. She knew now that from where he stood she was fully displayed to him. She tried to scramble up the bed, pulling herself up onto all fours, hoping to present herself with more sophistication, but she found herself held, one of his hands on her left hip, where she was. Reaching under her, his other hand pulled down her dress until it was all rucked around her waist, letting her heavy tits hang beneath her. She felt fear grip her heart as she realised how helpless she was, how vulnerable to whatever he wanted to do to her.
As she had expected, as she always expected, he was selfish. He wasn’t concerned with her pleasure as he spat on her cunt and smeared his saliva across the shape of her, he grunted like an animal, rubbing the heated head of his cock against her.
And then she was impaled. He rammed inside her, groaning as he fucked her, all for his own pleasure. She was just a toy, a paid slut, a whore, a hole for him to stick his dick in.
Polly swallowed the lump in her throat just before he started talking.
“You fucking fat slut… take my cock. Moan for me. Good girl. Do you like it? Do you like taking my cock in that tight little hole? My wife is the best piece of ass for miles around; but sometimes I want something to fuck that doesn’t deserve care and attention. Sometimes I want it filthy and rough and on my terms.”
He continued to drive his pulsing cock inside her. She moaned, as he had requested, feeling the pressure building. He fucked her faster with every stroke. He hunched over her body, reaching for her breasts, taking her nipples between his fingers, between his nails, knowing just how to hurt her. Polly screamed.
“Fuck yes. Cry for me slut.”
Polly was almost relieved by the swelling of his cock. She didn’t mind this job, but she was still glad when each client was finished. He throbbed in her cunt.
“Tell me how old you are,” he growled.
“Fuck…” He bucked against her, grunting, his fingers now firmly on her hips, pressing into her skin and bruising the flesh as he came, hard. Polly felt his hot come coating her insides, and she moaned.
And then his cock recoiled, and he recoiled. Polly grabbed her cash and left.