He wondered if they’d endured so much, his whores, in the end, they felt as he did.
Nothing.
The man at his back, her husband or something, reached around and grasped Benito’s dick, pumping it while Benito gritted his teeth, knowing how this would end and it wouldn’t be in a good way.
He was right.
Starting to tug savagely on Benito’s cock, something that brought mild pain, but no culmination, then latching onto his balls and yanking them down, which brought more than mild pain, the man spent himself inside Benito loudly while she watched with the man who’d been sucking his cock now eating her out.
Through eye contact or some stupid shit, they came simultaneously.
He assumed that was supposed to be romantic.
Outside relief it was done and knowing the abuse would linger in his dick, balls and ass, something he was used to, Benito felt nothing.
The man didn’t give much thought as he pulled out at the back.
They rarely did.
Fuck, come, done.
He was a hot hole and some dangling junk to play with.
That was all.
“Let him loose and you both can go,” the woman ordered, getting up from the chair that had been positioned for her to watch and gathering her silk robe around her as her husband went to her.
They necked unashamedly and rather sickeningly the minute they got in each other’s space.
Christ, even softening, that man’s dick was mammoth, and the load he spent that was in the condom was huge.
Thank fuck he’d been liberal with the lube.
The other one hired for the night let him go, and Benito didn’t fuck around with gathering his clothes.
“Gratuity,” the husband’s deep voice came.
Benito watched as he tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the bed for the other guy and walked two bills over to him.
Benito took them and then grunted from the unexpected pain when the man took hold of his blue-balls, still-hard dick and gave it a vicious tug.
“Again next week,” the man said to him. “You’re tight and she likes you.”
Then he released his grip on Benito, reached for his own silk robe, shrugged it on and, linked together, they both strolled out.
“Give me one of those hundreds, I’ll follow you somewhere, suck you off in your car,” the other man said, eyeing Benito’s distended shaft.
“Go fuck yourself,” Benito replied with a look that had the other guy putting his eyes anywhere but him and going faster, pulling on his clothes.
Once dressed, Benito went out the back way, as instructed, got in his Nissan—a fucking Nissan—and he drove home.
When he got there, all he could say was the place wasn’t terrible.
He’d gotten in with a decent agency. They didn’t exactly pull a Knight Sebring the two times he’d reported to them some motherfucker had jacked his ass unlubed, or the one who’d fucking fisted him without paying for that shit, but they hadn’t sent him back to them.
So there was that.
Suffice it to say, his risky investment hadn’t come through.
Benito had been a small-time pimp. Ambitious, he’d started up in high school before he got into selling drugs and it had blossomed from there.
He’d never had a proper job.
And apparently, a man with a record, as minor as his early infractions were, that had to do with drugs and prostitution, so when they did background checks (and they all did background checks), he had not been able to find one.
He hadn’t tried that route for long, thinking, with his links to cartels, he could get a supply to sell himself to get him back on his feet.
Regrettably, they’d seen his tape, and the first one to actually take his call told him if he tried to phone again, he’d find his head no longer on his body.
He had not made another call.
He’d flirted, briefly, with going to the cops and providing testimony in exchange for immunity and WITSEC.
But those cartels had ways, and regardless, he might be a paid fucktoy, but he was no rat.
So now he was here, selling his ass for three hundred dollars a fuck (and giving thirty percent of that to the agency, highway fucking robbery), five hundred if two were there to give it a go, four hundred if they wanted to tie him up, five hundred if there were whips, batons, crops, paddles, clamps and/or hoods involved.
The scale of shit people would pay to do to him was endless.
At least he was no longer on the streets.
That had not been fun.
He wrested the orgasm out of his cock in the shower while he washed his latest john away.
It was not enjoyable.
But at least his dick was no longer hard.
And it would prove it was going to be not a very good night when he got out, put on fleecy joggers and a hoodie he got at fucking Macy’s, of all fucking places (but at least they were soft against his skin), and his phone rang.
He didn’t know who the caller was, but he’d earned his rent and the payment on his car and enough to pay the utilities with a goodly amount left over to feed himself and put on a decent suit and go to a nice restaurant that month.
This meant he wasn’t selling his ass for another week.
Not to mention that huge cock he’d just taken?
He’d be doing exercises while watching TV to tighten back up after he got jacked by that fucking snake.
He took the call anyway. It could be a simple blowjob, or he’d be doing the fucking and that he would do in order to add a little extra to what he’d been socking away to rent a better place and get some nicer things.
He was forced to admit, he appreciated tonight’s gratuity. It was generous. It wasn’t unheard of someone tossed him a twenty or a fifty, but two hundred was way outside the norm.
He had his eye on a better couch and was close to having the cash to buy it, that two hundred would help a great deal. Next time, he’d offer to suck the husband’s cock as a freebie before taking that beast, just to confirm them as regulars if they tipped that big.
“Yeah?” he grunted into the phone, opening his fridge and pulling out a bottle of wine.
He always did the six-pack discount. It wasn’t top of the line but at least it wasn’t five bucks, and he could sometimes get some decent ones with the discount if they were on sale as well.
“It’s good to have regulars, no, Benito?” Mamá Nana’s voice came through his phone.
She sounded like she was laughing.
He took the phone from his ear like it burned.
His hands were shaking when he disconnected and moved his finger over the screen to block her number.
Christ, he was in fucking Seattle.
It had been years.
And she was watching.
How did she even know they’d asked him back?
Christ.
To steady himself, he poured a glass of wine, got out his poor man’s brie and the water crackers and moved to his couch.
He fired up the subscription service, which was the only thing he got because he refused to waste money on cable when they had nothing on.
Anyway, he preferred to binge.
The second he clicked in, the trailer that came up on the top of his favorites listing espoused it as an award-winning, independently filmed documentary.
But Benito was frozen, glass of chilled, cheap wine in one hand, remote in the other, “Midnight Rider” playing over some images and footage done in black and white.
His eyes darted left and he read:
Blood, Guts and Brotherhood: The Story of the Chaos MC
From award-winning filmmaker, Rebel Allen, an in-depth study of a Denver Motorcycle Club, the Chaos MC, depicting how they pulled themselves out of the life of the outlaw, cleaned up their club, earned legitimacy and became the foremost purveyors of custom-design cars and bikes in the United States. A stunning, often moving, always no-holds-barred portrayal of a club that found a moral compass and built a brotherhood who made it through hanging on to one thing: Loyalty.
Benito watched it.
Yes, he did.
But before he did, he switched out to the best wine he had. A thirty-five-dollar chardonnay he’d been saving for a special occasion.
Through the movie, he drank the whole bottle.
He also ate all the brie.
This was unusual. He was careful with calories. He worked out. Clients liked their fucks fit.
He still ate every bite.
And when the film was done, he went into his bedroom. He moved to his sock drawer and pulled from the bottom the framed photo of him and his mother that his auntie took when he was five.