✧˖° gooning thanks for listening ✧˖°

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Anthropogenic perturbations of biogeochemical cycling may induce nonlinear ecosystem responses that are temporally decoupled from the initial forcing mechanism.

You’re about thirty pages into chapter nine of your assigned reading.

Thirty pages?

No.

Three pages.

Though thirty sounds more accurate. Your crusty eyeballs, along with the pins and needles in your ass would agree.

You readjust in your seat in a lousy attempt to provide some extra blood flow to your sore cheeks, and press your shoulder blades together. The sound your spine makes is fucking euphoric, but still doesn’t do anything to mitigate the fact that you have twenty-six more pages left. Not to mention drafting up a discussion post.

Identify one concept from the reading that surprised you and explain its implications for environmental management.

A concept from the reading that surprised you? That’s a knee-slapper for sure. Don’t think the author of Emergent Dynamics of Disturbed Biogeochemical Systems had the element of surprise in mind when they wrote the damn thing. Unless you count the ability to put readers in a mental coffin.

The magnitude and directionality of these responses are frequently mediated by cross-scale feedback processes operating across heterogeneous spatial and temporal gradients.

Genuinely what the fuck. This shit may as well have been written in ancient Sumerian.

You highlight one more paragraph (that doesn’t make a lick of sense, but sounds important, maybe?), before planting your greasy forehead on the textbook itself - the gloss coating of the paper sticking to your skin. You’d scrawled something about equilibrium-state predictions in the margins, which is currently under your unwashed face and probably staining your forehead.

What time is it?

Your hand reaches for your phone, and you reluctantly peel your face off the page to glance at the display.

1:38 AM.

Not too late. You’ve stayed up much later for less important things. But less important things are also funner things. Ignore the bad grammar. You’re majoring in environmental science, not English lit.

You take a drawn-out sip of your lukewarm can of Monster and readjust the raggedy bun on your head. It’s been tugging at one spot for a while now and hasn’t been helpful in keeping your attention where it’s supposed to be. You get through maybe five more pages (a miracle in itself), all the while shifting in your faux leather IKEA chair that has your thighs sticking to its surface.

Such dynamics complicate the attribution of causality, as observed system states may represent the cumulative outcome of interacting legacy effects and transient perturbation pathways.

Alright. That’s enough. It’s due tomorrow night anyways. You can cram the rest in tomorrow during your three-hour gap between ENVS 302 and STAT 200. You’re telling yourself this now, but future you is gonna hate you for sure. Regardless, future you has no concept of existence right now, so present you can take the lead on this decision.

You rip your thighs from the leather with a groan and grab your laptop off the desk, tossing it and yourself onto the wrinkled comforter of your bed. You’ve been crumpled in that worn-out chair for far too long, so stretching out your body has happy tingles rippling across your nerves. Honestly? It’s about time you got rid of it. It was a gift from one of your friends before she’d moved in with her boyfriend. Well… gift is a loose word. More of a hand-me-down. Either way, free chair. You were in no position to complain then, so you took it like the broke college student you were.

Still in college (unfortunately), but not broke anymore. Might be time to go for something more ergonomic. You’ll scroll through Amazon later, but right now you’ll reward yourself by hitting a blinker and checking your inbox.

‘Cause weed cancels out caffeine, right?

With your faculties effectively fried and your immediate area smelling like blueberry-flavoured skunk, you’re greeted to an inbox full of inquiries and nothing but time to deal with them. Your fingers swipe along the trackpad and pull up one email:

Hello Lilith,

I came across your website and would like to inquire about availability for a first-time appointment.

I am interested in booking a two-hour engagement on April 17th, sometime after 7PM if possible. I would be happy to meet at a hotel downtown, or alternatively at a location you prefer.

This would be my first time meeting with you. I am 42 years old, work in finance, and am able to provide any screening information you require. Please let me know if that date is available and what additional information you may need from me.

Thank you for your time.

Best,

Michael

Wow. Okay. Corny as fuck. You’ll file him under the performers. Also, engagement? Really? At least he sounds polite enough.

Hello Michael,

That date works for my schedule. I can arrive at 8:30 PM if that time is appropriate.

Please send over the required screening information so I can approve the appointment. I ask that you review my rates, booking policies, and boundaries prior to the appointment time.

I also require a pre-paid deposit, which would be half of the overall rate. I accept either Paypal, Venmo, or Cash App.

Let me know if you have any further questions.

Thank you,

Lilith

The name Lilith isn’t necessarily something you had dwelled on. There was no way in hell you were gonna use your real one when you got into the business, but names like Vivienne or Juliette just weren’t palatable enough. Never felt high-end enough to carry them with confidence anyways.

From what you remember, it may have been a Biblical reference or something? Roughly translated to screech owl or night monster.

It fit perfectly.

So here you are. Toting around a name that essentially has you branded as The Night Goblin, and whoring yourself out to fund your college education… as well as your avid booster pack addiction.

In all fairness, the special illustration Latias ex you pulled last week has a pretty solid resale value, so it’s not like you blew $150 on twenty Surging Sparks packs for nothing.

‘Kay… moving on…

Pulling up the next email, your fingers stall on the trackpad as you read the following:

Hey Lilith,

I'll be back in town next week and wanted to see if you're available Friday evening.

I've been thinking about our last appointment quite a bit. I felt like we had a really good connection, and I'd love the chance to spend more time together. Honestly, things felt a little formal at times, so I was hoping we could be a bit more relaxed this time around.

Since we've already met, I'd rather skip some of the usual back-and-forth if possible. Let me know what your availability looks like.

Looking forward to hearing from you,

David

…ugh.

Oh David. Sweet, stupid David. It’s hard not to feel sorry for him, considering his mind has already blown past all forms of professionalism. Your last encounter with him was more than enough to plant him in the entitleds category. Hard. No debate on that one.

Hello David,

I will have to respectfully decline this appointment request due to the nature of our last encounter.

To clarify, my site clearly states my boundaries and expectations, which I require every client to read and acknowledge prior to our appointment time.

We had agreed on pricing, though you were insistent that I offer you a discount due to your being late. I want to reiterate that it is your responsibility to show up on time, and failure to do so will not result in any leeway on my end.

Additionally, I was not comfortable with the way you conducted yourself. Upon my arrival, I found you to be mildly inebriated. You were also operating outside of our agreed-upon services, which I found to be disrespectful.

I hope this provides some understanding, and if you ever choose to engage in these services with another individual in the future, that you treat them the way you would any other provider.

Sincerely,

Lilith

Translation: his drunk ass wanted anal play when he absolutely did not want to pay for anal play.

You’re too nice sometimes. Could have just told him to fuck off via email, but you’re courteous to a fault. The prick didn’t even tip…

Soliciting yourself has never really been an issue. Sure, you had the option to just provide the girlfriend experience, but the sex never bothered you as much as it maybe should. Chalk it up to a traumatic childhood? Nah, too cliche. It really just boils down to the fact that anything feels like work, no matter what you do. Listening to a guy complain about property tax over a handjob? Sure, as long as you get paid for it.

You scroll through a couple more emails, and each one is more or less the same. Most fall into the transactionals category, which is honestly the easiest to deal with. They know what they want, they know what you don’t want. In and out (pun intended), easy money.

A couple of regulars here and there, mostly lonely talkers or chemistries. A bit harder to deal with, given what they usually bring to the table, but you can work with them. Seeing them regularly helps to navigate their preferences better anyways.

You pull another long drag from your dab pen, taking a minute to let your vision adjust before moving on to the next email.

Hello Lilith,

Two-hour appointment request for Saturday, 9 PM.

First-time client. Will provide screening details as required.

Leon

Hmm…

Straight to the point. Gotta give him credit for that.

Funny. He’s not even trying to immediately get on your good side. Not even a ‘hope to hear from you soon’. A lot of guys forget that as long as payment’s on the table, the emails don’t have to be flirty or over-explanatory.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard, forming a drafted reply.

Hello Leon,

Saturday at 9 PM works for my availability.

I ask that you carefully review my rates, booking policies, and boundaries prior to the appointment time. 

Please send over all of the required screening information within this email thread. Also, please indicate if there are any add-ons you are interested in, and I will review.

Thank you,

Lilith

Your laptop gives off a satisfying whoosh as you send off the email. With your inbox effectively empty, you roll onto your back and expel a soft sigh, allowing the cannabinoids to work their magic on your overworked brain.

Not even five minutes go by before your laptop lets off a soft ping.

Hello Lilith,

I have reviewed your rates, booking policies, and boundaries.

I would like to proceed with a two-hour appointment on Saturday at 9 PM.

Add-ons: none requested at this time. I am open to your recommendation within your guidelines.

Screening information:

Age: 49

Occupation: Federal contractor

Location: Harbourview Plaza Hotel

7420 Westhaven Drive

Identification: Government-issued ID attached to this email

Reference: First-time client, no prior bookings

I understand and agree to your screening process and terms. I will also send over the deposit before our meeting, as stated on your website.

Leon

Quick and dirty, huh? Falls into the transactionals… probably.

You type up another reply, sending off a Google Calendar invite, along with your payment links and a reiterated list of your policies.

Can’t be too careful.

With that, you’re finally able to snap your laptop closed and fully succumb to the THC-induced drowsiness that’s been creeping up on you for the past ten minutes.

⋆｡°✩ 

Screw stoned, past you.

Your three-hour gap between classes wasn’t nearly enough to cram twenty-one more pages of indecipherable jargon. Thankfully, your statistics professor is old as dirt and halfway blind, so you’re able to catch up on your required reading amidst his droning on about regression models and how everything apparently becomes linear if you stare at it long enough or whatever.

Granted, you did submit the discussion post two minutes past the deadline, but you actually put some thought into it, so maybe your ingenious commentary on threshold-dependent ecosystem change will earn you brownie points.

If not, you could always just offer up your services to your professor for extra credit. It’s not like he isn’t the same demographic as most of your clients.

Okay chill. That was a joke.

Anyways…

The rest of the week trudges along with minimal fuss. Two essays and a group presentation are unceremoniously dumped on your plate (‘cause none of the faculty members communicate with each other apparently), but they’re not due for another two weeks, so you have time to put them off until the last minute as usual.

Saturday eventually rolls around. Leon was prompt with the deposit. Sent it the day after you approved the appointment, actually. Already setting a good precedent.

Definitely a transactional.

The clock ticks past 8 PM as you swipe on sparkly lip gloss in front of your bathroom mirror. You usually try to keep your makeup simple. Not full glam, but not minimal enough that your eye bags shine through. Enough concealer to cover up your stress-induced acne that’s stubbornly decided to make its presence known, and a generous amount of blush to give off that cutesy ‘girl next door who’s also secretly a horny freak if you’d like to find out’ kinda vibe.

Older guys eat that shit up for some mildly gross reason.

You settle on a black, lace bralette, with a matching pair of string underwear that rounds out your ass effectively. Is it comfortable? Well, that depends. Is giving yourself a wedgie on purpose comfortable? Literally nobody asked, but no.

Finishing it all off with a ruffled skirt and a fitted navy sweater, you grab your clutch off the kitchen counter, already stuffed with a wad of condoms and pepper spray, and head out to meet your Uber.

⋆｡°✩ 

The cold, evening spring air bites at your exposed skin the moment you step out of the car door.

As you approach the rotating front doors, the impressive architecture of the Harborview looms high above you. It’s a pretty popular location of interest, and one you’ve frequented regularly. A lot of clients have money to burn, and decide to spend it on theatrics… not that you’re complaining. Beats the roach-infested motels you’ve met others at, and sworn you’d never step foot in again.

The gooseflesh pricking your legs breathe a silent thank-you once you step foot into the lobby, and you’re immediately enveloped by the warm, velvet and gold-trimmed atmosphere. It’s populated by hotel staff and patrons alike, each absorbed in the sort of quiet routines that make expensive hotels feel perpetually lived in. Bellhops wheel polished luggage across the marble floor while guests linger in velvet armchairs over coffee and evening cocktails. Nobody pays you a second glance.

You fish around in your purse for your phone and pull up the email thread.

Room 517.

Executive level, huh? Fancy.

You make your way into the elevator and press the fifth floor button, leaning against the mirrored walls as the doors slide shut. The steady crawl upwards gives you time to touch up your makeup and lay your styled hair in an aesthetic enough fashion. Likely won’t stay that way, but for now, you’ll care enough to try.

The elevator dings quietly, followed by the doors opening up to the designated floor. Your heels scuff along the carpeted hallway, and lift up soft floral notes that likely indicate it’s been shampooed recently. These kinds of places do it almost daily. Overkill if anyone were to ask you, but again, nobody did. So…

You pass a few numbered doors before landing on 517. Bringing your hand up, you leave a swift series of knocks on its polished wooden surface.

Roughly five seconds pass.

Click.

The door swings open and-

…oh.

Okay. Just to backtrack a smidge.

Looks don’t matter.

Hilarious, considering you were just preening yourself in the elevator mirrors.

To clarify, your clients’ looks don’t matter. What? Think cherry-picking based on generalized attractiveness is part of your screening? Kinda defeats the whole purpose of paying for sex. In a way, it’s almost easier to perform when they look average at best. Not to be a hater, mind you. You’re only as judgmental as the next person.

Though it’s hard to be judgmental when the figure standing in the doorway happens to have stepped right out of a Viagra ad.

Maybe it’s the fact that his arms could be labelled as heavy machinery, given how toned they are. Or that his dress shirt sleeves are doing absolutely nothing to hide them. Damn, his hair is long… for someone his age, anyways. Dirty blonde, and swept back from his face, with loose strands falling forward over his blue-grey eyes. Still slightly damp, likely from having just showered a few minutes prior. He’s also got stubble that suggests he forgot what a razor looked like three days ago.

In any case, you’d have to be blind and senile not to notice the bottom line: This guy’s hot as hell.

“You Lilith?”

Get it together.

"I am. Leon?"

He nods once and opens the door a crack to allow you inside.

The hotel room, unlike the man occupying it, gives about as much as you expected. Plush carpeted flooring. Curtains long enough to skim the ground and thick enough to block any light threatening to pass through. Two black leather sofas sit opposite each other, with a glass coffee table in between. A minibar sits tucked away in the corner of the room, already housing a bottle and glass of Jack Daniel’s. Across the lounge area, another door lies halfway open, revealing a sliver of more fluffy carpeting and a king-size bed.

You’re still taking in your surroundings and revelling in the fact that an absolute unit has decided to book with you, an absolute dingus, when he speaks up.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

He nods towards the couches while walking over to the minibar and picks up the half-filled glass.

“Want somethin’ to drink?”

You immediately shake your head.

“No thanks. I don’t drink during bookings. Especially with first-timers.”

The corner of his mouth quirks upwards, and he leans against one of the varnished wooden cupboards.

“Always?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah…”

“Good call.”

He takes a slow sip, polishing off the rest of the glass and setting it back down on the minibar counter. Despite his nodded invitation, you’re still standing with your feet planted and heels sinking into the carpet fibres. Not bothering to wait for you to move, he strides over to the couch and falls into it with an aged groan.

His head tips forward to give you a questioning look.

“You come with an on switch? Or what?”

You blink.

Right.

The job.

Truth be told, you’d spent so long sorting men into neat little boxes that sometimes it takes a minute for your brain to catch up whenever a new one shows up.

The transactionals. The lonely talkers. The performers. The chemistries. The entitleds.

Most men fit somewhere.

The transactionals are the easiest. They want exactly what they paid for and nothing more. No awkward attempts at friendship. No emotional unloading. No pretending this is anything other than a business arrangement.

The lonely talkers are almost the opposite. Half the time, they seem more interested in conversation than anything else. Recently divorced. Maybe widowed. Working sixty-hour weeks and realizing one day that they hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in months.

Then the performers.

Those ones are easy to spot. Every email sounds like it’s been workshopped by a committee. They want to seem charming. Sophisticated. Different from other clients.

Usually they’re not.

The chemistries are trickier.

Not because they’re dangerous.

But because they’re fun.

Good conversationalists. Easy to be around. The appointments feel shorter than they actually are. You still maintain boundaries, obviously, but they make the hours pass quickly.

The entitleds can go fuck themselves.

Those ones think paying for your time means buying pieces of you. Usually starting small. Requests for discounts. Requests for exceptions. Requests for things that hadn't been agreed on beforehand.

Every category serves a purpose.

And people are easier when they come with labels.

It’s just a little hard to figure out which box Leon belongs in yet. His email already had you pegging him as a transactional, but transactionals don’t usually cater to your comfort before having their way with you.

So the jury’s still out on that one.

He gestures for you over and pats the material of his jeans. Icky. A hot kind of icky, though. The sort of icky that only looks good on a man like him. Walking over to the edge of the couch, you slip off your heels before planting your ass on his toned thigh.

He’s definitely not one to skip out on leg day, that’s for sure.

With you firmly seated on his lap like a mall Santa, he — unlike a mall Santa — wraps his arm around your waist and settles his hand on one of your legs, thumb tracing your kneecap with a thoughtful expression.

“You find the place okay?”

Another nod from you.

“Yeah. Don’t have enough fingers to count how many times I’ve been here.”

He chuckles softly. “Experience under your belt, huh? Should count myself lucky.”

His calloused hand glides along the supple skin of your thigh — heavy and possessive — just barely brushing the hem of your skirt before travelling back down again. He makes a couple more passes like this, making no move to traverse any higher than your skirt line.

He doesn’t offer much else in terms of conversation, which you could just chalk up to him being shy or something (though his fingers are pretty much sandwiched between your legs now, so that might be a poor assumption). After a couple ticks of quiet, you reach into your metaphorical bag of ‘idle pre-fucking’ chit-chat topics.

“So… Federal contractor,” You murmur sweetly, switching on your crafted charm. “Is that as boring as it sounds on paper?”

He leans his head back against the couch as amusement spreads across his features, hands still continuing their exploration.

“Depends on your definition of boring. Keeps me from goin’ stir-crazy, but I ain’t about to call it a hobby.”

“Well, what do you do exactly?”

“Can’t tell you that. Sorry, sweetheart.”

Figures. Can’t be one to judge, though. How many times have you lied to your clients about your own life? At least he’s got the balls to tell it like it is.

But you offer a sweet pout anyways. The one that usually has men falling for you hook, line and sinker.

“Aww… come on. Can I have a teeny tiny hint?” You coo, following it up with your head coming to rest on his shoulder and a hand to his broad chest.

He offers a raised eyebrow, clearly catching on to the fact that you’re fishing for his attention, but nothing about his demeanour suggests he has any intention of pulling back. Instead, he readjusts you in his lap to where you’re snuggled up next to him, and twirls a lock of your hair with the hand that’s not preoccupied with your legs.

“I clean up messes.” He shrugs. “Usually after they’ve gotten wildly outta hand.”

With a soft giggle and your eyelashes fluttering, you trace the indentation of his chest through his dress shirt, popping one button open and revealing skin dusted with scars and a thin layer of hair.

“Mm. Sounds stressful.” You tilt your head, lashes fluttering up at him. “Should I start charging hazard pay?”

Each word pours from your mouth with the thickness of wet cement, yet the taste of each one overwhelmingly saccharine. Cavity-inducing, if you will. His laugh comes out short and disbelieving, yet all too telling. The laugh of a man who’s ultimately fallen into your lap, even though you’re physically in his.

“Damn. You really do this for a livin’.” He murmurs, the roughness in his voice settling into something lower, almost appreciative. “Guessin’ this is why your rates are higher than your competition?”

“I suppose I just know my own value.”

Your egotistical statement is punctuated by your hand sliding further down his chest and snapping open another button. With his shirt unbuttoned to his pecs, you’re able to trail your hand under the fabric and palpate hard muscle under warm skin.

He groans softly, eyes following your hand with a lazy, half-lidded focus. His hand stills during the upward pass along your legs, just below your skirt, once again. This time, however, he gingerly slips past the hemline, travelling higher and gripping the dough of your upper thigh. 

“Is that so?” He breathes. His other hand releases the lock of hair curled around his finger, and instead slides up your back until he’s gripping the nape of your neck.

“Better get my money’s worth then.”

His hold on your neck tightens, manipulating the angle so your head’s tipped back and neck’s bared. He leans in closer, lips brushing faintly before pressing into your skin. They’re coarse enough that the friction has your skin prickling, but the action’s gentle enough that you keen from it anyways. He continues on, peppering your neck with fleeting kisses that have you squirming and giggling on top of the overtly hardening bulge in his jeans.

A chemistry instead? Maybe…

Not much time to dwell on that, though. He plants one more kiss to the bottom of your jaw, before patting your thigh like you’re some kind of prized horse. Nothing new, really. Not exactly flattering either, but again, not new.

“Alright, sweetheart. Want you to sit on me proper. Gotta get a good look at ya.”

He shifts you along his lap and pulls your legs to where they’re bracketing his own. His hands settle onto your hips, thumbs tracing small circles into the exposed skin where your sweater meets your waistline. Your skirt’s ridden up to the point where it’s revealing more than it’s covering, but he doesn’t seem to take it as a problem, by any means. One hand leaves your hip to ghost up your side, stopping just under the swell of your chest.

"How old are you, anyway?" he asks suddenly, voice gruffer than before. "Too young to be doing this, probably."

Despite the words, his hands don't move away. You give an experimental roll of your hips against his clothed hard-on.

“I’ll be twenty-six next month.”

“...so...twenty-five.” He repeats, the number rolling off his tongue like a verdict.

He exhales sharply through his nose, a dry, cynical scoff escaping him.

“Fuck me. Half my age.” 

He pauses for a moment, then his grip tightens slightly, guiding you to grind down harder against him. "You got a life ahead of you, kid. And you're spendin’ your Saturday night on my lap.”

“Well it’s not like it’s for nothing.” You say teasingly. “Assuming you’ll make it worth my while.”

“Smart mouth.” He mutters, but there's a flicker of approval in his eyes.

He doesn't deny the transaction, just leans back into the couch, letting his gaze travel shamelessly over your exposed midriff and where your skirt has hiked up. Reaching forward, he grips the edges of your sweater, peering up at you questioningly.

“Mind if I get rid of this? Don’t get me wrong, you look real sweet in it, but I think it’s overstayed its welcome.”

You nod and raise your arms over your head, allowing him to drag it clean off. The pull of his gaze as it settles on your bralette is enough to burn a hole right through you, and then some. He brushes your hair off your shoulders, and his hand lingers along one of the straps, fingers hooking under and pulling it taut before letting it snap back against your clavicle.

“So, you enjoy the work? Or just the paycheck?” He hums, tracing the outline of your nipple through the thin fabric.

Your expression sharpens a fraction before settling back to a softened grin. “Ask me in about two hours.”

“Alright.” He says, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I can work with that.”

He starts to slowly roll his hips up against you, grinding you down on his clothed cock and letting his head drop back against the couch with a rough, appreciative sound.

“Atta girl.” he mutters, tapping your ass lightly.

Your hands return to the wall of his chest. The warmth he exudes has your palms melting against him, and only furthers your drive to undo more and more buttons. He doesn't help or interfere, just watches your slender fingers work with anticipation. You peel the shirt open, exposing the solid, scar-heavy muscle beneath.

“Go ahead.” He pats your ass again. “Touch whatever you want.”

Don’t have to tell you twice.

Your fingers glide along each ridge of his chiselled torso, outlining old marrings and raking through chest hair with interest that’s ten levels above piqued. There isn’t a lick of give when your digits press into his tanned skin. Body fat isn’t applicable here, only hard-worn definition. Poking a boulder would feel one and the same.

Your focus follows the sprinkled happy trail lining the middle of his abdomen, woefully cut off by his belt. You’ve gotten pretty good at catching print over the past year, but the hard line straining against his zipper is a pretty good indicator of what you’re about to work with. Doesn’t take a dick expert to clue into what he’s packing.

Let’s face it. You’re gawking. Can’t really blame you, though. He’s got more than enough to gawk at, multiplied by fifty.

“Eyes are up here, sweetheart.” He whispers, this time dipping his hands under your skirt to directly palm your ass.

His fingers slide upwards to catch the waistband of your thin underwear and give it an insistent tug upwards. The feeling of it wedging further into your asscrack is far from comfortable, but the way it also simultaneously pulls taut against your pussy provides some contact that you didn’t realize you were craving. It has you hissing before you’re able to twist the sound into something more elegant (i.e. porn-worthy).

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip in some attempt to reorient your persona.

“Just admiring the gorgeous view.”

He scoffs quietly, though there’s no derisive undertone. More along the lines of ‘you’re treating me like a fucking sucker, but I’m here for it.’

“Workin’ hard for that tip, huh? Gotta respect that.”

“I always work hard.” You hum, pressing your upper arms to your sides. “But I also tell it like it is.”

The position does a pretty good job of squishing your tits together, something he seems to appreciate very much. You’re only proven right when his hands give one final squeeze of your ass, before leaving it entirely. They instead glide up your waist with his thumbs brushing against your belly in their wake. Reaching your chest, he traces the stretch lace bordering each cup — unhurried and measured.

You’re only offered a fleeting glance before he tugs the fabric down, bunching it under the curve of your chest and letting them spill free. His eyes immediately zero in on your tits as they fall out of their respective homes, with a gaze overtly lecherous in nature.

“...Hell.”

He studies you for a second longer, hand coming up to thumb your nipple and roll it between his rough fingers.

“You’re real pretty.” He breathes, like it’s more a fact than a compliment. 

You squirm and whine in his lap as the sensation takes a direct path to your clit. The level to which all this is affecting you is lowkey baffling. Though this isn’t the first time a client’s charmed you, so maybe it’s just ‘cause you weren’t expecting it this round.

All your wiggling works in his favour, though. It has your unhoused tits bouncing directly in his line of sight, which he watches with a relaxed, appreciative smirk. His other hand comes up to spread wide across the other, pressing calloused warmth into your soft flesh.

A breathy whimper spills from your lips. You paid it enough mind to make it sound cuter this time, but no less real than the unfiltered noise you made earlier.

“You like that?” He purrs, kneading firm and flicking your nipples into stiff, reddened peaks. “Y’like bein’ treated like a fucking plaything?”

Who’s plaything? Anybody’s?

Not really, but does anyone really enjoy doing something they’re paid for?

His, however?

“Y-Yeah…” You whine airily. “Like it a lot…”

“That right? Lettin’ me use you, baby? Gonna make the price tag worth it?”

Holy shit…

You nod eagerly.

He chuckles wickedly, letting his hands fall to your thighs and giving them a rough squeeze under your bunched-up skirt.

“C’mon then.” He nods towards his belt, voice thick with arousal. “Think I’m gonna unbuckle this myself?”

Course not. That’s what you’re here for.

Your hands waste no time in honouring his request… or command. Obviously, he doesn’t help. Just lies there like a panther sunbathing. You fumble with the buckle as you work the leather free, threading it through the metal until it falls apart. Buttons and zipper next, which are much more forgiving, considering he’s tented enough for them to come undone with minimal intervention on your part. All that’s left are his briefs — navy and taut against his evident hard-on. You graze the band with your fingertips, brushing against the thin patch of hair peeking out and drinking in the delectable sight of abdominal muscles tensing under your touch.

You’re mesmerized. Too much so. Attention so locked that the hand snaking up your spine doesn’t register. At least, not until it grips the back of your neck again and abruptly tugs you forward.

“W-What the-”

“Didn’t tell you to keep me waitin’, now did I?” He grits quietly, angling your neck in a way that forces your eyes to meet his.

Starting to almost sound like an entitled, but his grip’s too soft for the label to stick, so maybe not. Doe-eyed and lips parted, you verbalize the only sensible thing to say when a client gets a little too handsy.

“Sorry, daddy.”

Oh.

Welp.

His eyes widen.

Guess your guts are on the floor now.

Ah, yes. The classic title. Overdone and painfully millennial in your opinion, but highly requested nonetheless. Keyword being requested. It’s every middle-aged man’s wet dream to have a cute twenty-something calling them daddy while hitting it from the back. Or the front. Or wherever the fuck.

It’s never something you offer up out of your own volition.

Until now, apparently.

“Well, fuck me.” He murmurs lowly, his hand leaving your neck in favour of cupping your chin. “Keep it up, and I might just have to double down on that tip of yours.”

Being reduced to the circus monkey that dances for peanuts isn’t tasteful, by any means…

But you’ll overlook it this time.

You give another nod. Pathetically quick.

“Can… I play with your cock now, daddy?” 

Each word is enveloped in its very own candy wrapper.

He groans approvingly, sliding his hands higher and invading his thumbs into the elastic of your underwear. Not to take them off, but to have something to fiddle with while you’re busy with your own fiddling.

“Not askin’ twice, sweetheart.”

Hard to tell who’s really in who’s lap now…

Your fingers dip past his own waistband and tug it down hastily, allowing his waiting cock to spring free and slap against his abs with a particularly wet sound.

Oh goddammit.

A tiny part of your libido-driven brain (which may or may not be in charge anymore) had held onto a small sliver of hope. That you had overshot your estimate, and that his clothed erection was nothing but smoke and mirrors. Maybe that would’ve dulled the fantasy a little, allowing you to screw your head on straight and make it through this appointment without falling over dead.

But your abilities are as accurate as usual, and he’s nothing short of hung, thick, and heavy. Honestly impressive, and not something you find the average client toting around on their person. A prominent vein runs down the underside, visibly pulsing with want. The head is flushed dark, glistening faintly from the precum smearing and dribbling down the length of it all.

You swallow the saliva collecting under your tongue.

“Looks yummy, daddy.” You breathe with full intent, even though there’s no way in hell you’re about to give raw oral to a man you just met. You’ll happily jerk him off, though.

“Yeah? Bet it doesn’t taste as good as you do.”

He punctuates his statement by reaching up to grip one tit and leaning forward to suck your nipple into his mouth. Your moan is every shade of immediate and candid. Warm, slick heat continues to gather steadily between your legs with each flick of his tongue. By the time his lips let it go with a soft pop, your underwear’s good and drenched.

“Just like I thought.” He grunts, still holding your tit hostage. “Too sweet for your own good.”

His cock gives an anticipatory twitch. Not too keen on getting scolded again, you wrap your hand around the base. His breath hitches — a sharp, rough inhale through his nose. Your fingers barely meet without tourniqueting the girth of him, and it kicks in your grip the moment your hand makes a slow glide upwards. Your thumb traces the vein up to the crown, all the while palpating the rhythmic throbbing it emits.

“Goddamn…” He rasps, pressing his fingers deeper into your hipbones. “Soft hands.”

“I’ll let you know what moisturizer I use.” You giggle, adopting a slow but steady rhythm, each upstroke accented by a subtle twist of your wrist.

He lets out an amused huff, with his hips giving a shallow, involuntary micro-thrust up into your fist.

“Seems to be workin’ for you.”

Amidst your preening at his words, your free hand comes up to card his hair, which is a hell of a lot softer than your hands could ever be. The strands slide loosely between your fingers, feathering against your knuckles before slipping free. The longer pieces at his crown fall right back into place the moment you move your hand.

Honestly, if anyone in this scenario is giving product recommendations, it should be him.

Somehow, his cock starts to grow firmer with each pass of your hand. It’s only really surprising ‘cause he was already hard enough to use his dick as a battering ram, but your strokes only encourage it. Like having a mind of its own, your hand coaxes out tiny twitches that come in tandem with low, chesty grunts that continue to slip free.

Your eyes stay locked onto his as you dip your head a bit, letting your tongue loll out and dribbling a string of saliva onto his reddened tip. The trail mixes with the steady stream of precum that’s been leaking out onto your fingers. The blend of the two is enough to coat the length of him, making each pump messier, obscenely noisier, and all the more erotic

He groans at the contact, eyeing the dribbled trail connecting your tongue to the head of his cock. His hands return to the swell of your ass, kneading almost reverently.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

You hum softly, leaning in closer. “About what, daddy?”

“Hell if I know.” He lets out a short breath, stomach tensing as you swipe the crown mid-upstroke. “What's your opinion on the political climate?”

The question immediately sucks you out of the motions. Your hand stalls halfway up his cock, followed by an involuntary laugh bubbling up your chest.

He shrugs.

“Didn’t know what else to ask.”

Is he fucking serious? No, he can’t be. Not with the way he’s smirking at you, which by the way is enough to make you nut on its own. Sarcastic or not, asking about anyone’s political stance, regardless of context, is a potential accident waiting to happen, and is usually reserved for Thanksgiving dinners with your extended right-wing family members.

But fine.

You’ll bite.

“Well… I think governments are terrible at planning for disasters they already know are coming.” You pause, watching him shift under you with the drag of your hand. “Also, environmental policy shouldn’t change every election cycle.”

Your answer earns you a raised eyebrow in return, in addition to his hands spreading your ass out.

“Worst ones aren't the surprises.” He offers a faint shrug. “They’re the ones people argue over until they're emergencies. Doesn’t exactly make for good policy.”

Your grip tightens along with the increased pace of your somehow bureaucratic-turned handjob. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and clutches your ass tighter, but his eyes stay focused on your face. Not your tits. Not your hand.

Just your face.

You tilt your head, humming thoughtfully.

"It’s funny. We always talk about disasters like they're singular events, but most of them are just the final symptom of years of small decisions.”

Your hand slows for a half-second, then resumes its spit-slick pumping.

“I guess that’s why prevention is so hard to sell. If it works, nothing happens. Nobody celebrates a disaster that never occurred.”

There’s a brief shift on his face. It’s subtle, but enough to question whether you’ve inadvertently dubbed yourself a political pundit. You’re about to follow it up with something sexy enough to salvage the situation, but he speaks up before you do.

“You’d get along with a couple people I’ve worked with. The ones worth talkin’ to, anyway.”

He mutters the last part under his breath. His head tips back against the couch, and his hands have, for the most part, stilled on your well-kneaded ass. His gaze stays locked on your face, though, but its horny elements have been reduced to undertones. Still ever present, though outweighed by something you can’t quite place.

Your wrist is starting to ache a bit.

“Oh, really?” You answer, replacing your dogmatic tone with a much cuter one. “Bet they’d be pretty jealous of you right now, huh?”

And just like that, the switch flips. His hands pick up where they left off, working your ass with enough technique to make fucking bagels, while his eyes reflect that familiar predatory flavour. The one that, without fail, sends your blood pooling low and molten.

“Not really one to brag about what I get up to on my days off, sweetheart, but I’d bet money on it.”

His grip leaves your ass and settles on your waist, circling his thumbs by your belly button. There’s a small uptick in his breathing, and the way his jaw is tightened is a decent enough tell on its own.

You lean forward, pressing your cheek to his. Just barely ghosting his ear with your parted lips.

“Yeah? So no one’ll know you’re gonna cum from me ranting about disaster mitigation?”

The shiver that leaves his body ripples right through yours. His fingers tighten around your waist and pull you closer, slotting his cock directly between your parted thighs. 

“I — fuck — I ain’t tellin’ a soul. Can’t have them askin’ me to share the merchandise.”

Your giggle sends another shudder across his large frame, tensing as your tongue peeks out to flick his earlobe. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples, which you dutifully lick off as you stroke his dick with filthy precision. The salt spreads across your tongue, coating your senses with desire and making you all the more feral for his impending release.

Each twist of your wrist pulls more and more sounds out of him that greatly contrast the broad-shouldered, weather-worn man you’re straddling. His hips rise with each stroke, thrusting into your fist and seeking the friction that you’re so desperately trying to deliver. The hard wall of his chest rolls in time with his laboured breaths and animates every scar littering his wrecked body.

“Where do you want it, daddy?” You whisper, breath curling against the shell of his ear.

His head dips into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply and releasing a strained groan that rolls through your chest. The vibration sparks along your nerves and waves of gooseflesh erupt across your skin in response.

“On your fuckin’ tits.” He snarls, indenting your hips with crescent moons as his nails dig into your flesh. “Wanna see those perfect things glazed.”

“Yeah? You gonna mess me up, daddy?”

“Damn right I am.”

You don't break rhythm, your wrist twisting slick and fast over the sensitive crown, aiming the thick head right at your chest. With a ragged, broken curse, his hips snap up violently.

The first spurt lands right below your chin.

The next splatters against your sternum.

The third just under the swell of your chest.

Your hand rides him through his cresting orgasm, wringing out every drop of pleasure and letting it all drip between your tits in slow, creamy lines. He’s still trembling under you, jaw clenched tight, and hair sticking to his forehead. As your strokes begin to slow, the tension banded in his limbs loosens as well, eventually replaced by a sated warmth that seeps into your frame.

His thumb comes up to swipe a thick smear across your nipple. You lean back, slowing the warm trickle of cum that’s making its way down to your belly button. His hands fall back to your thighs as he lets out a rough exhale and takes in the view. Essentially bare from the waist up, tits glowing with his cum, hair slightly mussed, and straddling his lap with your skirt bunched around your hips. His softened cock rests heavy between your thighs, still damp and smeared with your fist work.

He looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your inner thighs.

“Spread wider.” He commands softly, voice rough from his release.

You shift in his lap, peeling your skin from the leather and parting your thighs further while he pushes your skirt up completely. Your underwear’s moulded to your pussy and soaked with pent-up arousal. The sight is enough to draw a satisfied hum from his chest as he reaches forward and tugs the fabric to the side. 

“Pretty thing, isn’t she?” He breathes.

His thumb swipes your damp folds and collects some of the slick along the way, emanating a faint sticky sound with each pass of his thumb. Catching your clit in the process pulls a soft gasp before you can reel it in fast enough.

Holding up his slick-coated thumb, his eyes flit up to meet yours with a raised eyebrow. “Do the waterworks cost extra?”

“Call it a freebie this round.” You murmur teasingly, in an attempt to disguise the fact that no client has ever really gotten you this worked up before.

“Good business model.”

His free hand slides up to palm and squeeze one of your cum-slicked breasts while his thumb circles your clit lazily. Your body instinctively tips your hips forward, chasing the contact like a magnet and making your pussy more accessible for him.

But his thumb pauses, his hand stills on your chest,

And he looks up at you again.

“As much as I’m enjoying playin’ with her, I think I’m working too hard.”

He abruptly pulls his hand away and leans back, resting his elbow on the armrest.

“Don’t you?”

Your brain lags for a moment, mainly ‘cause all the blood’s been shunted away to your aching clit, but also ‘cause you’re not really sure where to go from here.

“I… uh. What do you want me to-?”

“Play with yourself.” He says abruptly, cutting you off. “Gimme somethin’ to look at.”

Looks like there’s just enough reserve blood in storage, but it’s been claimed by your cheeks only. Heat floods your face within seconds of him uttering his filthy request.

Which is definitely a new one.

“I’m sorry.” You laugh, but mostly out of disbelief. “You’re asking me to…?”

The words trail off, and if someone didn’t know any better, you’d easily be labelled a fucking virgin, but come on. This shouldn’t be hard. You’re literally drenched in his cum right now. This shouldn’t be affecting you as much as-

“What? You gettin’ shy on me now?”

He drops that usual teasing lilt in his tone, now more questioning and with a slight tilt of his head to follow.

You shake your head quickly.

“Then?” He nods his head, gesturing towards your pussy leaking onto his lap.

Pushy…

But god, is it ever turning you on…

You swallow and lower your hand to your damp folds, nestling your fingers against your hardened bud and brushing against it ever so gently. Your body jumps from the action anyways. Would much rather have his thumb doing the job again, but jerking him off and still having his cum dripping down your chest is exhilarating in its own right.

“Yeah, that’s it…” He breathes.

You bite back a whine as your fingers develop a light and steady rhythm, circling the edges of your clit, while also trying not to spontaneously combust from the weight of his stare. His gaze stays locked on the tiny movements your hand makes, but occasionally flits up to catch your flushed expression. You shudder out a sigh as slick collects on your fingers, working it in and letting the lubricant intensify every slow drag across your bundle of nerves.

Throughout this entire debauched scene, he makes no effort to really touch you. Just keeps his one hand on the rest, with the other caressing your inner thigh. Excruciating, really. At least if he did, you’d maybe be able to distance your mind from the humiliating fact that you’re masturbating for someone else’s entertainment, but his hands stay exactly where they are. So does his cock, which lies against his stomach where you left it, not fully hard yet but definitely interested. 

The sight of him laid out in front of you, washboard abs on full display, and thick cock twitching against them has your fingers speeding up before the rest of your body can process the change. Each slick smear across your clit sends pleasure rippling down every available nerve and arousal pooling onto his jeans. He watches the mess seep into the fabric, absolutely unbothered.

“Look at that.” He murmurs, one hand leaving the back of his head to settle on your inner thigh. “You’re makin’ a mess, baby.”

You whimper breathily. “Can’t help it.”

“Shouldn’t be able to.” He agrees, tone entirely too satisfied.

Your slick coats his thighs, your entrance gaping slightly, practically sobbing for attention. He keeps his hand flat on your thigh, pinning it in place and keeping you spread open for his enjoyment. He watches your fingers drift over your clit, thoroughly mesmerized by the sight of you. You're soaking his thighs, your walls fluttering around nothing, completely wrecked.

You’re a mess. A needy, leaky, pathetic mess.

“S’good.” You mumble, primarily to yourself.

“I bet it is.” He traces the crease of your thigh with his thumb. “Y’like being watched, don’t you?”

You don’t immediately reply. Can’t, actually. Being asked if you enjoy touching yourself in front of a stranger is a question that shouldn’t even dignify an answer. Mainly ‘cause that question lands on every level of perverted (and you’re the expert on perverts), but also cause you fear the answer will be something that will make him very pleased with himself.

Which is exactly what you want. Weirdo.

“Only when you do, Daddy.” You sigh, keening from his stare alone.

He blinks, letting your whimpered declaration hang in the air along with the rest of the obscene sounds filling the room.

Then he laughs quietly.

“You’re somethin’ else.”

To be fair, you’d say that to any client, regardless of what they’re asking. Only difference here is that you lowkey kinda mean it. Also, maybe the fact that doing this is a first for you, but that’s a given.

He hums approvingly, eyeing your hand as it works your swollen clit. “...Didn’t think you’d actually do it.” 

His filthy words (along with the belated admission) are enough to knock you out cold, and would have, if not for the heat in your belly coiling tighter and tighter. Your hips twitch forward with every circle, chasing the friction your fingers are delivering. Desperation continues to dribble out of you by the seconds.

“God s-stop…” You whine with a small laugh cutting through.

“Stop what?” He asks mockingly, though the glint in his eye says he knows damn well what you mean. His thumb presses harder into your inner thigh, keeping your legs spread wide open. “Stop watchin’ you play with yourself all over my lap? Or stop pointing out that you're clearly enjoying havin’ an audience?”

Providing an answer to either of those questions is too overwhelming right now, so you just shake your head insistently and direct your focus to the pressure building between your thighs. Your whines are also getting higher — stupidly so. Kitten in heat type of whining. The kind that either belongs in cheap porn or right here on a federal contractor’s lap.

Also, what the fuck is a federal contractor? Still haven’t figured that out yet. You’ll Google it later.

“Daddy, I- mmgonna…” You choke out, fingers blurring in circles, rubbing into your poor clit with enough force to start a campfire, which sounds painful if you think about it, but feels great in the moment.

“Mm?” He prompts, feigning cluelessness. His thumb presses down hard on your thigh, holding you open as you writhe. “What are you gonna do?”

“Gonna — ah fuck!”

His hands return to your tits, rolling your nipples with his thumbs and pulverizing any notion of an answer.

You’re right on the edge, desperately chasing the high your fingers are teasing. Your rhythm starts to lose coherence as pleasure swells, expanding to every inch of your body before bursting suddenly. The shriek tears out of your throat raw and sudden, your body seizing in a rigid arch as your orgasm crashes into you. Your thighs lock up iron-tight against his lap.

“Fuckfuckfuck…”

Your fingers keep moving. Stupid, desperate circles even though you just came your brains out. Your clit is impossibly swollen, probably angry at the treatment, but your hand won’t stop. It’s pure muscle memory now. Pleasure and humiliation seared into your mind like a brand. Slick pulses out of you in messy waves, while your hand slaps uselessly against your clit as you ride it out.

He watches your face — slack, sweaty, humiliated, and completely fucked out. At this point, the cum on your chest has dried down to a filthy mosaic, highlighting the curve of your tits in a translucent lacquer, patterned by haphazard swirls of his own design. He holds you steady as you tremble, keeping your thighs apart even though your body is trying to snap them shut, to curl in on itself in the aftermath. His lap is soaked — completely ruined, though he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he looks absurdly pleased, watching you gasp and pant through the aftershocks.

You’re shaking, one hand braced against his shoulder, using him for stability while your pulse hammers in your ears. As soon as you’re breathing semi-normally again, you pull your hand away slowly. A stretchy strand of arousal hangs from your fingers, connecting to your swollen pussy briefly before snapping apart.

He leans back, looking entirely too composed for a man currently sitting in a puddle of your own making. He waits for you to catch your breath, eyes dragging over your flushed face, down to your messy cunt, then back up.

“You made one hell of a mess.”

“Sorry…” You mumble sheepishly.

“Don't apologize.” He murmurs immediately. “Not an apology kind of situation.” He strokes your inner thigh soothingly.

“Was uh… was that okay?”

Your words trigger another sudden wave of embarrassment, reigniting your flushed face all over again. That’s the kind of question you ask after auditioning for a talent show. Or when your friends are trying your new casserole recipe.

It hits a little differently when you’re asking a client to rate your finger fucking skills.

“Okay?” He lets out a low, amused chuckle, his hand still resting on your thigh. “Sweetheart, 'okay' doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

You nod, shifting against the soaked leather and his ruined lap. The air settles in thicker, now that your head’s not clouded by your fingers buried in your cunt. It’s just enough for you to remember you’re here for a reason, and that he’s now rocking another semi.

“So um... you’ve got about half an hour left.” You mutter, glancing at the ticking clock hanging above the window. “Can I do anything else for you?”

He chuckles — a low, warm sound that vibrates against your legs. Giving your thigh another pat, you take it as a signal and clamber off. He tucks himself back into his jeans, only catching the tail end of your quizzical glance before you try to poorly school it into something nonchalant.

“You can, yeah.”

He pulls himself up from the couch, stretching his back with a quiet wince, and grabs his wallet sitting idle on the minibar.

“Tell me where the tip goes so I don't accidentally insult you.”

Your answer doesn’t follow immediately. Frankly, it’s hard to process the idea of a client not using all of you your time. The mental gymnastics must be scrawled across your forehead, ‘cause his face softens just a fraction.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. Seems greedy to keep you here for the sake of thirty minutes.”

“Oh… okay.”

Your brain lags for maybe a second more, only registering the cool air from the AC hitting your cum-splattered chest in passing. It’s only when he questioningly waves his wallet in front of your eyes that you snap back to the present

“Sorry. Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Go for it.”

You snatch your sweater off the floor and meander to a door that you hope is a bathroom, leaving him to thumb a few hundreds from his wallet. It’s only when the door clicks softly that you’re able to let a small exhale loose. It’s short-lived, though, and the rest of it comes out strangled as soon as you lock eyes with the mirror.

Hair thoroughly mussed and matted where he grabbed your neck, cheeks rosy, and makeup smeared into soft halos around your eyes. Your bra clings damply, fabric sticking in places it absolutely shouldn’t, while the aftermath of an absolutely shattering orgasm continues to run down your legs.

To cut it short, you look ridiculous.

You snag one of the mini towels off the neatly rolled pyramid in the cupboard, and soak it in a bit of hot water before beginning the arduous task of scrubbing the sticky mess coating your chest. The skin glows red, irritated by each swipe of the scalding cloth, but you really couldn’t care less. In any sense of the word. Hard to, when you’re trying to make sense of what just went down.

Transactionals.

Lonely talkers.

Performers.

Chemistries.

Entitleds.

Fragments of Leon might fit into the categories you’ve spent months organizing people into, but that’s just it. Only fragments. Leon as a whole doesn’t seem to neatly fit anywhere. Trying to place him in any of these boxes would be too hasty and frankly misguided. This is how toddlers must feel when they’re trying to shove a square block in a triangular hole.

With your chest clean and, for the most part, sperm-free, you’re able to tug the fabric of your bra back into place and pull your sweater on. Your hair, unfortunately, is done for, and no amount of dabbing can fix the streaky mess around your eyes. Better to just head home immediately and not look the Uber driver in the eye.

You take one more anticipatory breath before grasping the doorknob. As you leave the bathroom and prepare to negotiate a tip that you may or may not accept at this point (though doing so may cause things to fall into some weird territory, so you should probably just take it and run), you formulate a new, temporary category to slot him in for the time being.

Unfiled.