Throbbing, I had to resist the urge to spread my legs in hopes of him reaching his hand between them. “So what exactly does this job entail?” I asked.
“We’ll get to that,” he said. “For now, I need to know that you understand how to take orders.”
By day, she looks for work. By night, she looks for hot men to stretch her wide and pump into her—preferably while pressed bare against the floor-to-ceiling window in her apartment. Angelie loves being watched, being used, and being spread open.
But Angelie’s world changes when she gets an unusual job offer. The position is unclear, but the boss, a sexy married man twice her age, makes her wet and hot. What exactly does this man want from her? Is the job for real, or does the boss just want to strip her bare and use her hard?
One thing is certain: Angelie is going to find out, no matter what it takes—or who might see her exposed young body being manhandled.
This is a hardcore 7,400-word short intended only for ages 18 and up.
I was twenty-one and had just graduated from college when I realized that real life was rough.
Sex, on the other hand, was easy. It was my only escape some days from the drudgery of daily life, and so I sought it out regularly. From as many guys as possible. As many ways, as many positions, as many fetishes. I wanted to experience it all.
“What are you thinking about?” the guy pumping into my tight pussy asked one night. I think his name was Sean.
I looked up at him. The soft light of my bedroom outlined his body, and I loved the contours of his muscles, just visible in the dark.
Embarrassed, I admitted, “I was thinking that I wish I could do this for a living.”
“Do what, fuck?” he asked, laughing at me.
“Yeah,” I said, totally serious, then turned coy. “I mean, I’m good at it, right?”
“Sure you are,” he groaned, thrusting deeper still. My thighs were pinned down by his own, larger thighs, my body dwarfed by his mass. It felt good to be taken roughly and made to feel so small next to this muscular beast.
He thought it was just sexy talk, but I meant it. If I could get paid to fuck, I wouldn’t be out there every day, handing out my resume at random office buildings around town, taking on temp work in interchangeable white-walled buildings for interchangeable tall, white men. Getting paid about half what I really needed to live well, and that only if I really hustled.
I hated the hustle. I felt like I was selling out every single time I walked into an office and asked the receptionist to speak to the hiring manager. Inevitably, he or she would tell me the manager was busy. I’d learned a few tricks to get around this, but most of the time I still ended up leaving my resume at the front desk and hoping the manager would call.
Sure, I could’ve submitted applications online, but I was hungry. I needed a real job and I knew the best way to get one was to make personal connections. I needed to look managers in the eye, smile at them, get them to really see me and listen to me. Make myself memorable.
And it wouldn’t hurt if they happened to catch a glance at my cleavage as I leaned over to hand them my resume. The middle-aged men who usually did the hiring at these downtown offices in tall glass towers usually responded well to that. They’d been married too long and craved someone new. Or maybe they were married to their jobs and just took what they could get.
Like I did. I would’ve happily fucked any of them who asked, if it meant I got the job. I didn’t care. I wanted it that badly. And okay, my pussy ached constantly to get used, so it’s not like it would’ve been all sacrifice. …