Anything for Money: A Sex-For-Hire College Romance

by Lindsey Bedder

After that alarming scene in the restaurant, everything was turning my way. My secret out in the open. My pussy awake from Borden’s deep fucking. My spiderweb lace dress hiding nothing of my nubile, primed body. Two boys who understood my need to whore myself to strangers, and moreover, who needed me to get them out of a tight spot. I was ready to meet this new side of myself.

  The Short-Term Girlfriend

  Despite the full parking lot, the bus depot was largely empty. Even so, I made a scene. The men inside (it was only men) looked bleary, unkempt, and low-end, just like me. I checked myself in a glass door and saw smeared lipstick and wind-tossed hair.

  Still, I was a hot young woman in a tiny little dress. I was showing a lot of breast—not just down the front but the sides too. My back was bare down to my ass. My legs, except for the top few inches, were uncovered. I was comprehensively open to inspection.

  And I was inspected, all right. Here was a sexy woman clomping past each man in turn, as if she was testing them, or waiting for something. They stared like I was a winning lottery ticket, and either smiled or hid their faces when I checked them out.

  Borden and RJ followed a few minutes later, after I’d made my first circuit. RJ winked and took a seat, clearly enjoying himself.

  Borden looped his arm through mine. “Find one, yet?”

  I wanted things to start happening. I simply nodded at the nearest man.

  “Here’s one,” I said. My voice was husky in a way I hadn’t heard before.

  The man was young, college-age like we were. He couldn’t take his eyes off me. We were right in front of him, so I twirled a little. His fascinated eyes roamed up my legs, over my ass, to my breasts, then face—then back down to start over again.

  “She’s a handful,” Borden told him.

  “I believe it,” College Boy said. To my relief, he sounded normal and non-crazy.

  “You don’t have to take my word for it.”

  “Huh?”

  Borden guided me over and pressed me into the seat next to him. College Boy seemed nervous about that. I turned toward him and stared, perhaps a little too intensely. I was turned on and steaming like a bachelor pad Jacuzzi, breathing deeply through wet, messy, fresh-kissed lips. I wanted to memorize his features. In the first five seconds of sitting close to him I knew I could fuck him.

  “I have a call to make,” Borden said. “Will you you keep her company for me? You can make out with her. Think of her as a short-term girlfriend.”

  “I—what?” College Boy glanced at me, and I nodded.

  “A dollar a minute,” Borden added.

  Too high! I thought. He’ll never go for it.

  So help me, a part of me wanted to just work for free until I gained enough experience and built a résumé.

  College Boy still didn’t move.

  “Marylou,” Borden said, “hold his hand.”

  I took one of his hands in both of mine. He glanced at me tremulously. I loved that he was nervous. His hand felt strange and hot. I was so turned on.

  “Kiss his hand,” Borden said.

  I gave it a long kiss on the palm. His fingers curled around my face and gently clasped my cheeks. It was such a sudden, unexpected intimacy, I fell a little in love with him.

  “Isn’t she great?” Borden asked. He told me, “Put his finger in your mouth.”

  I finally had something to suck. I closed my lips over his forefinger and slid them down to the knuckles, washing his finger with my tongue. I sucked him, moving his hand in and out, watching his awed expression.

  I didn’t even know his name.

  I’m such a whore!

  “She’s good at this,” Borden said. “Marylou likes hooking up with guys. You should see her at college parties. Only today, we need some gas money.”

  “All I have is ten dollars left,” College Boy said with deep regret. “I just bought my ticket.”

  I plied him with more finger blow-job. I wanted this gig!

  He wavered.

  “Dollar a minute?” he asked. “To make out?”

  We had him!

  “See you in ten,” Borden said. He gave me a proud look and turned away.

  It wasn’t fucking or sucking, but it was whoring. I slid onto his lap and wrapped my arms around his neck. He was immediately distracted by my cleavage, and I had to hook his chin and draw his eyes up.

  “Kiss me, gorgeous,” I whispered.

  He tentatively opened his mouth. I was already hot and ready to go—I could have swarmed all over him, but that would have probably been terrifying. Instead, I started with some light kisses that were the right mix of eager and shy.

  He learned fast and kissed me more deeply. His mouth wasn’t fresh, but then I didn’t want it to be. He was a stranger and I wanted him to taste different… that was the turn-on.

  The kissing turned hot. He realized I was the Full Girlfriend Experience and didn’t leave his hands on my back. They slid down to my ass and under the hem of my short dress. His fingers met my skin, sending shivers up my spine.

  Then his hands slid around to my front, intimately learning every curve of my body, and latched onto my breasts. My mouth was on his so I couldn’t talk, but my approval came out as a low, needy moan. His hands slid inside my dress. He palmed my hard nipples. The strange hands felt sensual as they lifted and squeezed my breasts.

  “You’re such a young whore,” he gasped.

  “I’m twenty.”

  “You’re also really cheap.”

  He knew just the right things to say to me. I grabbed one hand out of my top and shoved it between my legs. My burning hot pussy met his fingers and exploded with sensation. He delved into me. I threw my head back and gasped. I opened my legs to give him deeper access—who cared if we were in the middle of a bus depot?

  I stretched in his arms, my spine cracking. His fingers worked in me—either he was very good at this, or I was simply very receptive. My chest popped out of the dress—it was useless for holding breasts in, but perfect for hooking. College Boy latched on to my hard nipple with his lips and swished it with his tongue. With nips and licks, he got down to business—sucking deeply as he finger-banged me.

  I wanted to be kissing him, this man I didn’t know.

  This man I didn’t know.

  I opened my eyes with my head thrown back. The bus depot looked upside-down to my point of view, and the grimy, trash-strewn linoleum floor was my new sky. Shabby chairs filled that sky, several of them containing strange men. The men watched me with mesmerized eyes, as if from above, like I was lying beneath them. They met my eyes boldly. Men I didn’t know.

  Men I could know.

  A girl could get used to this, I thought, and then my vision turned white.

  College Boy’s fingers found the right location inside me, with the right balance of squeezing, rubbing, and tugging. He felt my body tighten, and clamped down on my nipple.

  Orgasm flooded through me like a warm red wave. I don’t think I made a noise, but it was no secret what I was feeling. I simply lay in his arms, listening with a body that had turned completely sensitive. I felt his heartbeat in his legs, I felt the ridges of his fingers as they slid over my sex, I felt the wafts of his breath.

  When I opened my eyes, my vision was spinning. Borden stood next to us, waiting with his hand out.

  College Boy was still breathing hard when he passed over two five dollar bills. “Worth it."

  I glowed with accomplishment and pride.

  “Thank you, that was amazing,” I said. I pecked him on the cheek.

  “Wait—!” He looked so woeful I had to smile. “You’re going already?”

  “Do you have more money?” Borden was enjoying being a bad-ass pimp.

  “Not right now… but later?”

  “Then talk to us later.”

  I took his phone and punched in my number. “Call me if you’re near College Town. I’m a dollar a minute. Tell your friends.”

  The Frenchman

  Borden led me
away—but not back to RJ. I wanted a moment to covet the money I’d earned, to look at it and talk about it, but he led me directly to the men’s restroom.

  “Your next John is here,” he said, pushing through the door.

  “Ooh!” This was more like it. “Some privacy too.”

  Borden gave me a flat smile. “Fucking around in the open like you just did, there isn’t a person in the bus station who believes you are an undercover cop. I mean, you were naked and thrashing in that kid’s lap.”

  “There was gas money on the line,” I said.

  “This guy talked to us while you were still coming. You’re his for thirty.”

  My next John.

  He was a tall man in a nondescript trench coat. Under some scruff, he was actually quite handsome, with planed cheeks and a cleft chin. I thought he looked quite kissable, in fact. Just like the previous guy. Maybe that was the whore’s secret: that every man was attractive in some unique way, and utterly fuckable… and the money was the icing on the cake. The perfect whore mentality.

  This man seemed tentative, as if I might actually reject him. I left Borden’s side and stood in front of him, posing as he slowly stroked my cheek.

  He ran his fingers through my hair. He traced down my temple, jaw, neck, to the line of my spaghetti strap, and then down to my breast and into my cleavage—a simple, slow touch that gave me goosebumps. Before I knew it, I was ready to go again. I was revving like a glossy muscle car.

  “You are gorgeous,” he said. “Simply bewitching.”

  Good lord, he was French.

  “You’re beautiful too,” I told him, perhaps a little fervently, but I meant it. I wanted him, my body wanted him—and there was no doubt that he would have me. The Frenchman’s mouth opened, not quite a smile, which revealed strong teeth. He smelled like cigarettes as he pulled me close.

  Every man will have different details, I realized. Every John will have little things that make him distinct from the others.

  I surprised my Frenchman by standing on my toes and kissing him. He slipped his trench coat to the floor, and then I had his warm torso, in jeans and a button-up, under my hands. I pulled him close, rubbing my breasts across his chest. His mouth was strong and knowing. He opened it to mine and somehow he made a direct connection to the wetness between my legs. I pressed against his lips, deeply hungry, wanting more sensation. He gave a flattering groan.

  I feel the same, Frenchman! He was so different from the College Boy from two minutes ago, who was different still from Borden. A girl could get used to this variety! My lips were still sensitive from the earlier make-out sessions, so they picked up with the Frenchman where the others left off. It was as if this third man was just another stage in a day-long sex act that was building to an explosion.

  “Would you take off your—”

  I pulled my dress over my head before he finished asking.

  He lifted me off the ground and I curled my legs around his hips. His mouth slid down my chest. His tongue left a hot trail that set my skin on fire. When he landed on a nipple I heaved against him. I wanted to escape the intense feeling—but dive into it too.

  I settled on gathering him closer, as if I could control the sensation by smothering him against me. I clasped him with my legs, scissoring so tightly he grunted. He couldn’t pull away without wrestling me, but he didn’t want to pull away.

  I glanced in the mirror and saw Borden standing by the door. He was timing us with a wristwatch and staring at me with adoration.

  I turned back and unbuttoned the Frenchman’s shirt. He stopped me: “Someone might come in and see me.”

  I smiled. Double standard much? I was completely naked, except for heels, in the men’s bathroom at the Indianapolis bus station. I unwrapped myself off him, landed lightly on the floor, and then manhandled him into the handicapped stall. I winked at Borden and closed the door.

  Now in private, he let me open his shirt to reveal the hard, tan body of a laborer. He had a tattoo right over his heart, of some kind of French army emblem. I laid my face against it and brushed my lips over his detailed chest. I gripped his sides. He was hot and soft to the touch, but muscled like Adonis.

  I held his gaze as he explored me. He slid one hand to cup my ass, and the other trailed down my belly to my sex. He opened the folds between my legs, and I felt as soft as flower petals against his fingers. His palms seemed to score my inner thighs, as if I weren’t flesh but instead some inestimably delicate artwork that shouldn’t be handled. I wanted to be handled.

  “Tell me something in French,” I breathed.

  “Qu’est-ce que je ferais sans toi, ma petite?”

  Wow. For a moment I could only smile dumbly at him. A girl had to be careful listening to French. I was already more than a little in love with him—and yes, I knew he was a stranger, but that’s the magic of a whore.

  I slid to my knees and got his belt open in seconds. I’m a pro, after all. I pulled his pants down and had his long, dark cock free in the air a moment later.

  I didn’t take it in my hand, that would’ve been too slow. I caught it in my mouth and swallowed it whole, pressing my face into his groin. I didn’t stop until his pubic hairs tickled my lips, and my face pressed against his strong, flat stomach.

  He gasped an obscene word and danced a little. Too much sensation all at once? Welcome to my world, Frenchman! I held him in place with my fingernails on his ass. My entire arm strength was dedicated to keeping his cock in my throat, and when he trembled my body vibrated around him.

  If I was affecting him, his dick was affecting me. Girls can go into a blow-job trance if they’re not careful, and I felt it beckoning me. I loved being in the zone. Heat, saliva, rhythm—I could come before the man did if I wasn’t careful. I told myself to stay on task, and take care of him first.

  The Frenchman filled me without any extra space. The whole man was inside me: this lean, handsome ex-solider from France, who had no backstory, and who was paying to use me. I lashed my tongue against the root of his cock, and he thrashed against the door. I connected with his every movement down to the smallest tremor. I could fucking read his thoughts through his cock.

  Eventually, of course, I had to breathe. I pulled off and gasped, but he plunged forward again. I wasn’t expecting this and choked a little—which he liked. Time for his revenge. He grabbed my head and pumped my face—hard. His flat, muscular stomach surged in my vision like it was on hydraulics. I choked and tried to clear my throat, and that only made me gag even more. I saw his bedroom eyes light up at my discomfort, and then I didn’t mind it so much.

  “Putain!” he gasped, staring down at me.

  Whore. I knew that word in most languages.

  I watched him for signals through teary eyes. When he decided to switch, I was ready. He pulled out and I stood up, coughing. He spun me around to take me from behind. He held my hips with strong fingers that seemed to sink into my womb. He lifted me high, until my toes left the floor and I hung precariously off the top of the stall with a two-handed grip. I waited…

  “Moment.” He dropped me again. I waited with my body throbbing.

  Fucking condoms.

  He got his cock sheathed in eight seconds, but that was about a century past my preferred deadline. He finally plunged into my sex, and it was like I had tripped into a hot-tub. Heat and lust exploded through me. I cried out and heard Borden shuffle on the other side of the stall. Then he detected the pleasure in my next moan and backed away again.

  The Frenchman’s hands shifted, got a better position on my hips, and then tilted me a certain way—and I actually screamed. Somehow he had found exactly what I needed. His cock filled a new location in my canal, and everything I had previously thought was overwhelming sensation disappeared like a candle in a forest fire.

  “Oui,” my Frenchman gasped.

  I hung on for dear life as he railed me from behind. I couldn’t say a thing. I could only groan. My building orgasm was a self-feeding maelstrom
of desire and heat that laid waste to my language centers. Who knew? Maybe I’d speak French by the end of this.

  I forgot to hold myself up and simply flopped against the wall. It was a bus depot so it wasn’t the cleanest surface: I didn’t care. I breathed against it with a wide-open mouth, my teeth clattering against the “for a good time call… ” graffiti.. I would have licked the entire bathroom clean if he’d demanded it—I was delirious and euphoric and not thinking straight.

  The Frenchman felt it too. His movements turned jangly in a way I recognized from all men. He built toward his own explosion, and just the knowledge that he was using me as his vessel sent me over the edge.

  My last cry sounded sexy even to me—a throaty squeal, then a high whine that ran out of air… Lights exploded in my eyes.

  My horrible, dirty new job.

  This disgusting stall in a men’s room.

  The stranger using my body to get himself off.

  I’m a whore, my mind sang. And not just a regular whore, I was a good one. I was fabulously available, to anybody who wanted me. I was easy and attractive, and moreover, deeply in love with whatever man was closest. I could disappear into that sudden, overwhelming love, and do anything, everything he desired.

  These thoughts combined with the hands on my pelvis and the unflinching, friction-hot cock battering my pussy from behind. My body went cold, and the orgasm bloomed like a time-lapse flower in my womb. Sensation after sensation peeled off the Frenchman’s cock and refracted through my body. The surges built into a hurricane that hit my mental coastline and wiped it clean of all thought.

  We came together.

  I must have died for a second, or maybe I just left my body. I was nothing but a ring of flesh around the Frenchman’s cock. I squeezed it as hard as I could, being a brain-damaged whore, and felt his shaft swell. I felt the deliveries spurt up his shaft. I was a receptacle for his cum.

  He cried out and jetted into me. My feet kicked the air. His body shook, and my ass was so tight against his groin that my body shook too. Beads of perspiration spattered the floor. I wanted to feel his seed spill into me. I wanted that goddamn condom to break but it held.