by Amanda Gray
But that day, alone in that seedy motel room, I knew a quick rub-and-tug wouldn’t be enough. It was too hot outside - and too sweaty and grim inside the motel room - not to find another body to help me generate a little real friction.
I grabbed my phone and began browsing online for whores in the area. Why not ? I mused, as I thumbed through the brightly colored listings for flesh and fucks. The photos were all angled such that you couldn’t quite see the ladies’ faces, but could still get a good enough idea of what each one looked at. Blondes, redheads, brunettes…black girls, white girls, Asian girls…some slutty, some coy, all of them posing in skimpy lacy underwear with their tits pushed together and their feet stuffed into over-high heels.
A twinge of guilt shot through my body as I flicked through the online offerings. For all my sexual perversion, I’ve never been much of a whore kinda guy. What can I say – I’m cheap, and it’s always seemed a bit nuts to pay someone for something that most of them will give away for free.
I almost decided to forget it, stick my phone back in my pocket and find some nasty porn on TV when my scrolling hit on a picture that can only be described as luminous. Like all the others, you couldn’t see the face – but the hair was thick and lustrous, just the same shade of soft brown as Malia’s, and the ass in the photo had that same luxurious, thick curve as my ste-sister’s. I swallowed hard and my cock stiffened inside my slacks. Damn, I thought, as my finger hovered over the icon. Maybe this was the hooker to make me a “whore kind of guy.”
“Ah, what the hell,” I muttered under my breath, tapping the icon and placing the order for this particularly tempting prostitute. It’s saner than jerking off to my stepsister, I rationalized in my mind. And besides, I was a long way from home. No one would ever know.
Or so I thought.
Barely an hour later, the knock came at my motel-room door. I’d been trying to stay cool, taking a shower and pulling on the handle of Scotch I had in my briefcase after a trip to the motel’s ATM machine. But by the time I opened the door, my dick already standing to attention and my skin was hot.
And there, on the other side of the seedy motel-room door – I kid you not, I swear on the lives of my children and my flat-chested wife and my very own cock and balls – stood none other than…my step-sister Malia.
It took me a second to fully grok what was happening. I hadn’t seen her outside her sweats and Mom-jeans in a decade or more. Now, here she was, poured into a skintight gold minidress that barely covered the bottom of her voluptuous ass. Her stockings and garters – in that same trashy black-lace from the online photo, no less – were visible, and clearly straining to contain her girth. Her fleshy tits were pushed up so hard that they bulged out the side of her armpits.
“M-Malia ? What are you…?”
What the hell? My step-sister, in place of my whore?
She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth as. “Holy Christ, Mick. What the –“
“I – I – you can’t stay, I’m expecting a visitor!” I stammered.
She looked at me with her red-painted mouth hanging wide open. Then she closed it, then opened it again.
“Sure, no problem Micky, talk to you later, have a good night!”
She started to hurry from the door and down the fluorescent-lit hallway. I breathed a sigh of relief, but then I came to my senses and it dawned on me: This wasn’t some strange coincidence. There was no other woman on her way. Malia was her - my whore was my step-sister… my stepsister was a whore !
“Malia!” I called down the hall, as she wriggled towards the fire-escape in her slutty get-up.
She stopped walking in mid-wriggle, motionless, her spiked heels frozen in place.
Well, what now, smart-ass? that voice in my head taunted me. You seriously think you have the stones to pay your step-sister for the fuck you’ve always wanted?
“Malia!” I called again, my voice suddenly deep and self-certain. I heard myself ordering, in that commanding voice, “Come back here.”
Slowly, she turned and walked back towards my room. Her head was dropped, her eyes fixed on the floor. Her steps were slow and deliberate, as if she were daring herself to keep going.
“Get in here, before anyone sees you,” I commanded. As I held the door open and her body passed by mine, I took a second for a deep, long inhale of her musky perfume mingled with the familiar clean scent of her hair. She’d used the same shampoo for decades – coconut-vanilla something – and the smell of it lingering on her soft brown curls was enough to send my cock surging in my slacks and a wave of urgent heat washing through my groin.
She stepped inside my motel room and stood awkwardly against the wall. I walked in and closed the door behind me. Her eyes were still lowered to the floor, her chin against her chest. I shoved my hands in my pockets and waited, not entirely sure what to do next. Eventually she let her eyes drift up toward mine. We stared at each other in shameful silence.
“Well,” I said after perhaps 30 seconds.
“Well,” she replied, allowing herself a timid smile.
I sucked in my breath and took her in, letting my eyes linger over every inch of her, that trampy outfit and her squeezed-up tits and those succulent thighs of hers squeezed into those naughty, lacy stockings. I couldn’t get over what a juicy piece of meat she looked like, all stuffed into those over-tight clothes and rouged up for her night of whoring. I couldn’t stop staring.
“I, uh…I had no idea you’d been…” I paused, waiting for some euphemism to come to me, anything other than ‘I had no idea you’d been hooking.’ For a moment I couldn’t find my voice – I was just too overcome, and too confused about how I was even feeling. Turned-on? Dismayed? Sad that my sweet little step-sister was selling her body for money? Or wildly excited at the prospect that I might get to buy that ass for myself?
I cleared my throat and finally found some words: “I had no idea you’d become a lady of the night.”
She let out a snort. “Yeah. Well,” she rolled her eyes and shook her head, clearly as smacked by the surreality of the situation as I was. “I guess I forgot to put it on the last Christmas newsletter.”
“Malia, I gotta say, I’m shocked,” I told her, deciding that – for the moment at least – the disapproving step-brother was a solid position to inhabit.
“Oh you are, are you?” she demanded. Clearly she had picked an emotion to go with as well – anger – as she let her embarrassment give way to bitchiness. ‘That’s funny, cause I’m not in the least bit surprised to find you willing to pay for sex.”
“Fuck you!” I retorted, then laughed. “Fair point though. But I mean…fuck. Malia. And what are you doing way out here, anyway? It’s a little out of your way for a work commute, wouldn’t you say?”
Again, she snorted, and again she rolled those big beautiful brown eyes.
“What do you expect me to do, pick up Johns at the PTA meetings ‘round the parking lot at the kids’ school? Maybe stand outside the grocery store with my leg out? Or just go around the racquetball court where you and my husband are smacking around a little rubber ball, see if any of the guys there want to stick it in me to help pay my mortgage. Yeah, great idea Mick – you oughta be a pimp, you’ve clearly got the logistics of this stuff all worked out.”
I shrugged and said nothing. That dismissive, fuck-off sisterly tone had been pissing me off and making my dick hard – at the same time – since we were kids, and now was no different.
She sighed, folding her arms across her chest, and softened her tone slightly before going on. “I tell everyone I’m going to a night class outside of town, three or four times a week,” she explained with another sigh. “I drop the kids off after school and head to my ‘night class’, drive out here for a few appointments, one of the PTA moms carpools the kids home, and by the time I’m back everyone’s asleep and I’m a grand or two richer.”
I let out a low whistle; I couldn’t help but be impressed.
“I’m with the agency y
ou called,” she said, then added with a smirk: “I’m in very high demand.”
“I’ll bet you are,” I whispered, fixing my gaze on hers. “That was one sexy, slutty little photo you had up there.”
She stared back at me for a moment, then –for the third time in less than five minutes - rolled her eyes.
“Shut up, Micky,” she said. “And get me a drink.”
I walked over to the cheap motel-room desk and poured her a full cup of scotch into one of the motel’s plastic bathroom cups. There was an ice-machine down at the end of the long fluorescent motel hallway, but I knew how my step-sister liked her scotch: warm and neat. I handed the glass to her, and our eyes met as our fingers crushed together. She bit her lip and said nothing, just closed her hand around the cup and, keeping her eyes on mine, took a long drink.
She swallowed and exhaled a low sigh. She stared down into the cup for a moment, then looked back up at me with a grave hang on her on her cutie-pie face.
“No one can know about this, Mick.”
“I know.”
As if I wanted anyone to know that I paid for whores to get my rocks off in some flea-bag motel while away on business, cheating on my wife and blowing the kids’ orthodontics money?
Malia laughed, shook her head, and took another long pull of her drink. I chuckled along with her, and raised my own cup of scotch as if to toast our case of mutual assured destruction.
“I always figured I’d run into someone I knew eventually, doing…this,” she mused. “But hot damn, I never once imagined it’d be you, bro.”
“Step-bro,” I murmured, watching her carefully. I wondered if she had noticed my boner, not quite adequately covered by the ends of my shirt. In my head, that filfthy, nasty inner voice was chattering away with the possibilities. I wonder if she remembers my cock from all those years ago in the bathtub, when her tits and ass were just beginning to sprout....I wonder if she ever thinks about it now, if she’s just dying to know how big and hard that cock grew up to be.
“Well, it was good to see you Mick,” she said, breaking me out of my reverie. She gulped down the rest of the scotch and set the cup back on the desk. With a little smirk and one final roll of her eyes, she turned and started making for the door. “Take it easy Mick. Good luck finding another whore.”
“You – you just got here,” I said, startled, caught off guard.
I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to happen next…but I did know that I couldn’t pass up the revelation that my cutie-patootie little step-sister was in fact a filthy slut-whore who rented her chubby body by the hour.
“Come on, Malia,” I said, letting my voice slip into the taunting sing-song of adolescence, the same tone I’d used when I was trying to get her to do anything we both knew she wasn’t supposed to. “Come on, whaddya, scared? Stay awhile longer, unless you’re chicken.”
She paused, her hand on the doorknob. I held my breath and waited.
Chapter 2
“Yeah, well,” she hemmed and hawed, her hand still on the doorknob. “Would be nice to hang out, I don’t exactly feel like getting right back in my car after that scotch. But I can’t let this night go to waste – mortgage is due at the end of the week, and I know the agency can line me up something fast if I call them now and tell them to re-book me. I really can’t stay long.”
“But you’ve already got an appointment,” I heard myself say.
My voice had an insistent edge that surprised even me. Was this actually happening?
My heart was thudding in my chest and in my dick. Yeah, it was twisted and sinful and perverted and wrong, but…well, it was also just too wildly erotic a coincidence to ignore – wasn’t it?
“Mick!” Malia cried. “Shit, are you sick in the head? What’s the matter with you?!”
She was yelling at me in a high-pitched wail, just like when she was a teenager. The sight of her so upset only made my dick grow harder, the hot throbbing in my crotch more insistent.
“What’s a matter, my money not good enough for you, whore?” I asked, with a teasing hardness in my voice.
Something in me wanted to see her cry, just like she used to when I pulled her hair and snapped her bra when we were kids.
“Micky…” her voice wavered, and I could see tears welling up in her soft green eyes. I was almost too aroused to speak, but I plowed ahead.
“How ‘bout this?” I said, taking my wallet out and thumbing through the crisp bills. I counted out the fee that had been listed for her on the website - $600 for an hour - then double that, then triple. “How ‘bout three times what you’d normally earn for renting out your slutty little self for an hour? That’s $1,800 - 300% what you’d normally get for your trashy whore ass, isn’t it? Doesn’t that sound good, my slutty ste-sister whore? Hmm?”
She bit her lip and said nothing for a moment. Her eyes flashed with anger, but there was something else, I knew… she wanted it as bad as I did, maybe more. And it wasn’t just the money. She felt it too, the longing, the urgency…
“I know you want it, Mal,” I said quietly. “I know you want my fat hard cock pounding deep up inside you. I know you want it, you nasty little fuck-whore.”
“Don’t flatter yourself Mick,” she spat back. “The only reason I haven’t walked out of here and left you alone in this cheap-ass room is because I need the money.”
Even as she said it, I knew she didn’t mean it. Every muscle and bone in her body was trying to put up a front, to make like she wasn’t aching to take me inside her. But she couldn’t fool me. She never could.
“You’re just a dirty whore, aren’t you Mal? Anyone who pays can stick it in you, that right?”
I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her over to the ratty, cum-stained motel-room armchair. “Let’s see what my little step-sis whore can do.”
Malia whimpered, but didn’t resist as I shoved her head forward and bent her over the arm of the chair. I yanked her dress up over her creamy white hips. She was wearing black, lacy crotchless panties, with a gaudy gold bow tied over the crack of her ass.
“These are some trashy underwear,” I said, looping the strap of her garter under my finger, before pulling it back with a sharp SNAP!
Malia yelped in pain. I pressed my other hand into the small of her back, holding her down, while beginning to explore her expansive, gelatinous butt cheeks. I groped her gently at first, then roughly. With my knee, I shoved her legs open and thrust my palm against the flab of her groin. I rubbed the stubble over her fat, shaved labia, edged with cheap lace and silk ribbon.
She didn’t move as I manhandled her. But as I began to press my fingers into her cunt, I could feel – in all its slippery oozing glory – just how badly she wanted me.
“You’re one wet little hooker,” I told her. “I’ve never felt such a sopping, dripping wet puss-puss.”
She said nothing, just let out a low moan that could have been either intense arousal or a desperate sob – or both.
I grabbed her by the hair again and yanked her around to face me. Her absurd gold dress was still bunched around her belly, her pudgy ass aimed up toward the ceiling, her dimpled knees around her ears.
“Here’s the cash, whore.” I pulled the thick wad of bills from my wallet – all $1800 - and dangled it in front of her face, fanning her with the crisp green bills and watching her eyes dance back and forth as her gaze followed the money. She said nothing, but a hot flushed burn was rising up on her cheeks, as if she were boiling up inside with anger and desire and frustration and lust.
Slowly, I dropped my hand and pressed the roll of bills against her oozing wet twat hole. With my fist wrapped around the money, I began to knead and twist and push the money and my knuckles into her hole. I saw her grimace with pain, yet her pussy gushed even wetter.
“Count it,” I said, releasing my hand suddenly and letting the wad of cash fall over her pussy and thighs. “S’all there, all $1,800 for your disgusting whore body. Count it, step-sis. Count it, slut.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said as she finished her sums and arranged the bills in a pile. “S’all there, meaning I get to do whatever I want to you, right?”
She nodded, still staring down at the money, before looking up at me with wet eyes and a tiny smile.
“Yeah, Micky. You can do whatever you want to me.” She heaved herself off the chair, her dress still bunched around her waist, and walked bottomless across the room to tuck the money into her purse.