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Whore

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Jon is only eighteen, and he's already been through three identities. There's the quiet young innocent he left behind along with his virginity. There's the sullen, broken boy who walked around for a few months after, snapping at anyone who offered him more than a quick fuck in the dark. Now there's the whore dancing in the club, hands twisting above his head, hips rolling against the man in front of him. He's got glitter in his hair, gold flakes sticking to his skin.

Jon remembers the first time he took home money for sex. He remembers the smell of the bills, damp with sweat and sticky with alcohol, as the man he'd been teasing all night shoved money into Jon's waistband and dragged him off to the back room. Some people frame the first dollar they earn; Jon's considered it. The pair of twenties from the nameless man at the club ended up stained, sticky with come. Jon went home, stared, felt the sticky-smooth texture of the cloth-paper against his fingertips, and couldn't help himself.

Whore.

Slut.

He'd earned the title in spades, and the money was proof of something. The bills were much stickier by the time he was through with them.

The man in front of him has had enough. "C'mon," he pants, "just c'mon, I got a place..."

Jon shakes his head. "You know what I need," he says. His voice is just barely loud enough to be heard over the rough bass beat of the music. He pulls back to get a good look at the man's face. He'll do just fine, so long as he has the money.

 

Which he does. He digs it out of a pocket and waves it under Jon's nose: an even hundred. "C'mon," he says again. "You want it."

Jon leans forward and takes the money with his teeth; he slides it into his back pocket and grins, drifting closer to his trick. "Yeah. Come on, let's go."

Jon's a good whore. He doesn't have to pretend he's somewhere else. He doesn't get bored. When the money changes hands, he lights up, cock hard, breath sharp. The world narrows down to this: the blurred definitions of sex and need and power. The crossed wires of being the owned, bought, and paid for along with being the valuable, the commodity, the boy so wanted that men exchange the hard-earned rewards of their blood and sweat and work for a chance to touch him.

A hundred will get the trick a lot; it'll get him most of the night. Not the whole night. Jon's not after that kind of connection. He's not lost, not looking for Prince Charming to bring him home. Jon's the prince. When he's been paid for, he's the one providng the fairy tale.

Tonight's trick probably told Jon his name back at the start of the evening -- Evan, maybe? -- but Jon has to admit he doesn't care. Some tricks care whether Jon knows who they are; others don't. Some want to pretend the night is part of a relationship, and are reluctant to let him go. Some have kicked him out of their cars, houses, apartments. He went home bloody after a pair of college boys decided he wasn't worth the money after all; that night he lay in his bed, still smeared with his blood, and stroked himself off, picturing the looks on their faces, the taste of come still sour in the back of his throat. He was sore all over in the morning, chest sore, face sore, cock sore, and his sheets were stiff with his come.

It kept him away from the clubs for a week. The memory was enough, and the bruises needed time to heal. He had a flash of curiosity about what sort of man might hire a bruised whore for the night, and clamped down on it. That's for some other time, when he's desperate and not just hungry.

Tonight he's hungry enough to make maybe-his-name-is-Evan groan when they get back to his place. "Yeah," Evan grins, "God, yeah, Jon, come on." He pushes at Jon's shoulders, a tentative command. Jon's lips quirk up at the corners, and he slides to his knees, as if they're still on the dance floor and he can still hear the pounding thunder of the bass line echoing in his chest.

Evan's cock is thick, short, cut. It's wide enough Jon has to stretch his mouth over it, lips going white at the corners, and his full lips look beautiful this way; he's been with men who like to do it in front of mirrors so they can see those lips from every possible angle. Jon moans at the stretch and sucks Evan's cock down, rocking back and forth, making it look and sound as good as it feels. Evan's paid. He deserves the entire package.

Evan's hands card through Jon's hair, and flakes of glitter come down over Jon's face, catching in his eyelashes. He closes his eyes; black lashes with gold flecks dust over pale cheeks hollowed with warm wet suction. Evan is too stunned to speak. Or maybe he just doesn't speak when he's getting sucked off; maybe he just goes quiet.

Jon knows he gives his tricks something beautiful. They can take unapologetic pleasure from him, caring about what he gets from the experience only if it pleases them to do so, secure in the knowledge that there's nothing in the world he'd rather be doing; their money buys them his complete fucking undivided attention. Jon takes home the twisted satisfaction that comes from taking an act that's supposed to be degrading and turning it into an act of worship. He takes home energy and lust; he goes home as the secret, guilty vice of men who need it this way, bought and sold on the open market.

All too soon, Evan is drawing back; Jon understands, and lets him go. Evan's all about the visual; Jon had him figured for a sometime voyeur just from the way he watched Jon on the dance floor. Evan needs to see it, to pair the flashing, primitive beauty of his climax with the sticky, visceral image of his come painting Jon's cheeks. Jon keeps his eyes open as Evan's hand comes up and works hard: one-two-three-four strokes before he comes, groaning, hand squeezing tight to help the jets shoot in messy white streaks against Jon's skin. After a few soft, panting breaths, Evan draws his fingers through the trails of his come and smiles.

He's beautiful. Jon smiles back.

"Mmm. You are just amazing." Evan puts his hand under Jon's chin and leans down to kiss him, carefully avoiding the white streaks, not wanting to disturb his canvas. Jon hums with genuine pleasure; Evan comes away sighing. "Do you have a number I can...?" The look on Jon's face stops Evan from finishing the sentence. It's a combination of sad and rueful; it reminds Evan who Jon is and what he's really doing here. Evan sighs a little, but there's nothing bitter in it; he gives Jon a gentle nudge and Jon comes up off the floor, graceful as ever.

Evan puts his cock away and zips his pants up. He licks at a spot of come at the edge of Jon's cheekbone, and Jon closes his eyes, shivers, leans into Evan for a moment. Evan pulls back and nods, then slaps Jon lightly on the shoulder. "Time to go," he says, and something in his eyes begins shutting down. Jon doesn't mind. This, too, is a part of why he plays the whore. The sense of tying up loose ends and watching his tricks come back to their normal selves is empowering, in that same twisted way that makes Jon think he's infinitely valuable in this role, not just another one of the millions of hungry young boys struggling to put money in their pockets by selling the one thing they have open to them. He's both, really, although he hasn't quit his day job. He probably could, if he wanted to. He won't.

Evan keeps his on the road as he drives Jon home. Jon gives his tricks a fake address, a block away from his real apartment; they wait to watch him go into the lobby and then take off while he pretends to wait for the elevator. He's had to get on the elevator once or twice, and has ridden it to the roof and back to buy time before walking home.

This time, Evan takes off without a moment's hesitation. Jon is grateful; as he walks the block back to home, he rubs a finger over his cheek, feeling the way Evan's come has dried on his skin.

He gets inside and goes to bed without washing his face off. The itchy feeling is good; he wants to keep that feeling on his cheek as he rubs his cock through the sheet, ready to turn the bed into his own canvas.

It doesn't take long. Jon arches up hard and comes, biting his lips to keep from moaning. He pants into the quiet, dim light of the room, and lets out another soft hum, rubbing the come into the top sheet.

Tomorrow he'll be back on the dance floor, arms twisting above his head again. Maybe the next night, too. He's looking for something, and he knows it -- how could he keep from knowing it? -- but until he figures it all out, his tricks give him enough to let him sleep at night. This will do for now.