Anything for Money: A Sex-For-Hire College Romance (7 page)

W
e all waited
. I’d been moving too much, grinding my hips under Randy’s sleep-fingering. I’d forgotten that I was scissored with a stranger, and that his sweaty cock was stuck on my inner thigh. I belatedly noticed how his cock had been steadily lengthening and thickening as I rocked against it.

In those quiet, tense moments, I also had a chance to connect a few dots.
Randy’s hand stopped when the guy moved!

That meant… that meant Randy had only been
pretending
to sleep! But why would he do that?

Maybe,
Bad Rebecca said, rolling her eyes,
so he could suck on your tits and explore your pussy at his leisure?

Ugh, men! Bad Rebecca was probably right, for once. I should have suspected something was up. Randy incessantly begged RJ to use him for a modeling shoot. Now, he’d finally found a way, that devious fucker!

I know I should have been flattered, but I wasn’t. Randy doesn’t understand what we’re really trying to achieve, RJ and me. He’s just a guy, a Rugby player doing an Exercise Science degree. He wouldn’t be thinking about how to advance the artistic goals of RJ’s project. He lived in a house where he was surrounded every day by giant, detailed, sexually themed pictures of me latched on to various guys. His simple, one-track guy-mind only thought of me as a piece of ass.

To this day, I still haven’t convinced him that that morning in his bed was about capturing a certain
ambience
and
feeling
in the photographs. Whenever the story comes up at parties, he brags about finger-fucking me on camera. Which is
so
not the whole story, but try telling that to a group of fraternity guys while Randy is pulling the pictures up on his phone.

My thoughts derailed when the strange guy between my legs spoke.

“Hi, everybody.”

“Hey,” RJ answered.

I shot him a look that said, “The jig is up!” He motioned me to stay calm. He wanted to see what would happen next.

In a barely intelligible and still-drunk voice, the guy asked, “Is my forty minutes still going? With your slutty model?”

“Sure,” said RJ. “Have at her. Her name is Rebecca.”

I peered between my breasts at the stranger, but couldn’t see much. I wasn’t surprised when RJ gave permission. When he wanted a picture, nothing would deflect him. He was driven, as he’d warned me on that first day. And heck, I would have said the same thing. The model in me saw an excellent chance to change what was becoming a static, boring situation.

But the other, non-model part of me was thinking, “Who, exactly, gave this stranger 40 minutes with me?”

Bad Rebecca snickered in the back of my mind.

The stranger shifted, stretched, and crawled up my body. Randy rolled off me to give him room.

For a brief moment, I was free and unencumbered—my arms stretched over my head, my back arched, and my breasts pointed at the ceiling. My pussy lips seeming to grab at the cloth of my panties with the same throbbing rhythm of my whole body. If this wasn’t a photo shoot, you would have thought I was primed for penetration.

The camera went: *Click* *Click* *Click*

“You can’t use my face,” the guy said automatically.

It was a high, nasal voice, and I suddenly recognized him. He was another student in RJ’s photography class. I rarely saw him. To me, he was mostly an annoying, opinionated drawl in the darkness that made caustic comments about other people’s work. There was no love lost between this guy and the other students.

“Archibald, if you don’t want your face in the pictures, keep it out of my viewfinder,” RJ said. “Because fuck yeah, this is going in my project. These are excellent pictures.”

“That’s great,” I said, glad to have feedback.

RJ added, “Don’t cover her up, Archibald.”

“No one calls me Archibald,” said Archibald. “Call me Onyx.”

Archibald was categorically drunk. He started tipping to the side. I grabbed his arms and steadied him over me.

“Stop moving around,” he said.

“I’m helping you,” I said.

When he was stable enough, he leered down at me and grabbed my breasts, one in each hand.

*Click* *Click*

“Can I call you ‘whore’?” he asked.

I knew I should say no, out of principle. But it was an unexpected piece of flattery, and moreover, I’d already pegged him as a difficult modeling partner. I would have to work overtime to keep him happy, and to make our poses look good. On the upside, I’d have no trouble at all looking attractive next to him.

I winked at RJ and said, smoothly, “Sure, Onyx. I like being a whore.”

I got a frisson of excitement just saying the words out loud.

I steadied him over me. His nearly erect cock slapped my stomach, and his balls rested against my panty-covered mound. He released my breasts, and wrapped his arms around my torso, bringing his face to my chest.

He gnawed at my tits, mumbling, “Whore, whore, whore...”

I sent a “good grief!” look to RJ, who was no help. He fiddled with his camera, changing settings.

“Those are great expressions, Rebecca! It’s like you’re loathing this and not loving it. Try to keep it going. Archibald, leave some space over her body, will you?”

To tell the truth, this was one of those rare occasions where I wasn’t completely enjoying the attention—I mean, immersed in the work. Not that it should matter to a model, but Archibald wasn’t my type, and I’m not exactly picky. I have a
lot
of types. I think his personality turned me off the most.

His over-enthusiastic mouth worked its way up my chest and neck, leaving a trail of glinting saliva. Not photogenic. I stopped the lick-fest the only way I could. Grabbing him by the ears, I moved him to my mouth, where he immediately fastened on my lips.

“Move your hands!” RJ snapped, “you’re blocking his face.”

I let go, and Archibald managed to stay on my mouth. He rocked from side to side, his drunk eyes unfocused and even pointing in different directions.

I had to crane my neck to keep my mouth under his, otherwise he would have slid off and face-planted in the pillow beside my head. I followed his mouth around, trying to look receptive, submissive, desirable, and not repulsed. Archibald reamed my mouth. He chewed my lips, licked my cheeks, and lapped at my tongue. Before long, the lower half of my face was slick and shiny.

You’re a good whore,
Bad Rebecca whispered in my ear. Another spark of excitement rilled across my nerves. It was a brief, fugitive thought, completely unprofessional, but it kept me in the game so I could focus on being the best whore I could be. I mean model.

*Click* *Click*

Suddenly, I had pressure against my panties, again. Archibald’s lower torso surged between my legs, sending waves of heat from my pussy through my stomach.

“Man, this is surreal.” Randy was beside us, propped up on his elbow. Every now and then, when there was an opening, he reached over and stroked my nipples with his free hand. “Archibald is mauling her.”

Archibald paused, breathing hard in my face. “Well, I have a time limit. Besides, when am I going to get this kind of tail again? She’s basically a fashion model!”

Damn right,
I agreed.
I’m basically that.

Randy shrugged. “You might get another chance with Rebecca the next time she drinks.”

“That’s very nice,” I said sarcastically.

But Archibald wasn’t listening, he was talking. “I mean, for every class assignment, Ripper Jack puts this chick’s pictures in the projector. Splashes them up on the wall, twelve feet high. Everybody just groans. We all want her. Her tight ass, her fuckin’ slammin’ body, her huge tits that point straight out.”

He paused, and I wasn’t sure if I should respond. He seemed to be talking mostly to himself, as he surged up and down my body.

“I don’t need a bra,” I told him.

“You sure don’t. No way in hell should you wear a bra ever.” He glanced over to Randy. “Dude, you don’t understand: this chick is always in class, or waiting for Ripper Jack afterwards, and everybody is always checking her out. She’s always in some tiny flip-up skirt, or a blouse that’s unbuttoned to her stomach, or see-through yoga pants. She has a muscle shirt that barely keeps her tits in. It’s always sliding off her shoulder and or flapping open. One day I passed her in the Student Union, and she was wearing a crocheted top that showed everything!”

Archibald thrust his crotch against mine. He was up on his arms now, staring down at my wet, open mouth and my tits.

My panties had long since shifted to the side, leaving me exposed to his bare cock. His dick slid smoothly over my mound, not inside me, but between my lips, and its thick veins thrummed across my clit like an all-knowing tongue.

*Click* *Click* *Click*

RJ focused the camera momentarily on my pussy. He saw how Archibald was moving, and how I was moving in response.

“You can’t fuck her, Archibald,” he said suddenly.

I was surprised, but didn’t show it. One of RJ’s rules for his projects is that there are no limits. Everything has to feel natural, rising entirely from the moment. I guess that philosophy went out the window with a guy he despised.

I wondered what that indicated, really. Was RJ sparing me, out of feelings he had? Or was he simply withholding my pussy from this guy because he didn’t like him?

Archibald cared about the limit less than I did. He nodded briefly and continued his narration. “Then last night, there she is on the sidewalk. Our famous Rebecca. Internet sensation. Daily snapchat queen, guys taking her picture and she doesn’t even notice it.”

I’d noticed the pictures, alright. I’d gotten so used to seeing cameras and phones out of the corners of my eyes, I almost felt nervous when they
weren’t
there.

“There’s our Rebecca, on the sidewalk, making a huge scene outside the bar at 2am. She’s drunk. She’s yelling that she wants to suck someone’s dick. It doesn’t matter whose.”

I groaned in mortification.

“‘I’ll suck you off for five dollars,’ she was yelling. ‘You can even make a video!’”

“Shit, really?” I glanced at RJ to see what he thought. “I said all that?”

RJ paused just long enough to smile affectionately. “Every word, babe.”

“Was I joking?” I asked hopefully.

“No. You were totally serious. You had a crowd watching. It was so hot.”

No, it was so
humiliating.
I wanted to cover my face and disappear.

“Guys, that makes me look so bad!” I groaned. “Everybody’s going to think I’m some kind of slut!”

“Naw,” Randy said, grinning at me.

“I’m serious!” I said.

“Shut up, whore,” Archibald said, but not unkindly. It was nice of him to use that word. “Spread your legs wider.”

“Sure, okay.” I shifted to give him better access.

You can bet I was listening as he continued the story.

“Out of all the people crowded together to watch, she picks me! She says to me, ‘I’m going to change your mind about Jack’s photographs.’”

“Oh dear,” was all I could say. Bad, drunk Rebecca had recognized this nasty boy, and still picked him.

“Rebecca pushes me into the cab with you guys. She peels off her dress and throws it into the street, nothing on underneath, and climbs in after us. Everybody on the sidewalk is cheering. We pull away, and she’s begging the cab driver to put his fingers in her mouth.”

Too much!

It was just too much.

The sensations from my pussy. The word “whore” thrown around like it wasn’t my magic turn-on switch. The mortification of my behavior last night. The fucking dirty
thrill
of my behavior last night. The frustration that I couldn’t remember more than bits and pieces.

Underlying this miasma of conflicting emotions was the shame that RJ had seen me like that. What if he decided I wasn’t what I claimed? What if he decided I
wasn’t
that rare kind of committed model who could leave it all out there, who had the strength of character to bare the deeply personal, sexual side of herself? What if he thought I was just a slut, using modeling as an excuse to be a slut?

Too much.
I couldn’t unpack it in my head.

When I could get the words out, I turned to RJ. “I lost my dress?”

“I picked it up again when you weren’t looking, babe.”

I think that’s when I went from a simple crush on him, to real love.

* * *

A
rchibald opened
his mouth to continue, but then his brain seemed to slide back down his body to his cock. His shaft rested fully in my crevice, but lengthwise, so I covered him in my juices as he sawed back and forth. Every time he moved, we heard the wet sop, sop, of my sex.

Every now and then, at the end of a downstroke, the head of his cock would nearly enter me completely. If he changed his angle half an inch, he’d penetrate me. Shit, if
I
changed my angle half an inch, he’d penetrate me.

He pressed harder. I wished he would just accidentally slide in. Just accidentally.

You really are a slut,
Bad Rebecca chided me.

No!
I thought.
I’m a real model.