Speaker 1: The street corner stank of shit and diesel exhaust. I
counted seventeen cigarette butts on the pavement, seven of them
stained with lipstick some other woman's mouth, some other night.
The wind cut through my fishnet stockings like they didn't exist.
I'd been standing here forty three minutes. Forty three smile,
my husband said, his voice, coming from the boarded up
laundromat doorway. You look like you're waiting for a bus.
I didn't smile. The recriminations had been running on a
loop in my head since he'd laid out the math.
Ten thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars, the handbags, three
of them Italian leather. The smell alone worth the price
the shoes. That weekend in Cancoon, where I'd charged eighteen
margaritas to the room, plus the room itself, plus the
upgrade to Ocean View, because my friend Jessica said it
was essential, I'd signed every receipt with a flourish, the
way you do when the money feels imaginary. It wasn't
imaginary to him. You're a kept woman who stopped appreciating
the keeping, he'd said, dropping the credit card statements on
the kitchen island. His voice had that terrifying calm, the
one that meant he'd already decided everything. So now you're
going to learn what money actually costs. You're going to
earn back every dollar on your knees. I'd laughed, I'd
actually laughed, because it sounded like a joke, like one
of those dark things couples say when they're ang angry
and then take back. But he wasn't taking it back.
I can't believe what was happening. I was being pimped
out by my husband to pay my debts. Headlights swung
toward the curb, a sedan, dark and beat up, with
that particular rattle of a car that's seen too many winters.
The window hummed down. A black man's face emerged from
the darkness, broad, heavy in the jaw, gold glinting on
his ring finger. Married, then, or pretending not to be.
How much? Before I could form a syllable, my husband
materialized at my elbow fifty, the mouth one fifty, the cunt.
The man's tongue moved behind his lower lip, Considering all right, no,
I whispered. My husband's hand found the small of my
back through the cheap fabric of my top. His fingers
pressed in with a familiar intimacy that made my stomach turn.
You have to learn, sweetheart. The alley stretched between two
brick buildings, narrow as a coffin. A dumpster hulked against
one wall, rust bleeding down its side like old scabs.
The client the words sat in my mouth like a pebble,
handed my husband a fold of bills. I watched him
count it, licking his thumb between each note, methodical. Satisfied,
he stepped back into the shadows until I couldn't see
him anymore. I could only hear his breathing. The man unzipped.
The sound was obscenely loud in the narrow space. His
cock sprang free, thick and uncut, the head already glistening.
The sight of it sent a jolt through my nervous system.
Not desire, not exactly, but something adjacent, something my body
recognized before my brain could veto on your knees, my
husband's voice from the darkness. I dropped the asphalt bit
through my stockings, immediately, gravel digging into my knee caps.
The man's hand found the back of my head, not rough,
but not asking either, just settling there. Heavy and warm.
I opened my mouth and he pushed inside. The taste
hit first salt, musk that hadn't been washed since morning.
The texture of skin sliding over my tongue. I breathed
through my nose and focused on the mechanics. Lips tight,
tongue flat along the underside, the rhythm of give and take.
My jaw stretched around his girth until the hinge ached.
Saliva slicked him. Drool slipped from the corner of my
mouth and dangled from my chin in a long, cool string.
There you go. The man murmured, good fucking girl. The
words landed in my chest and bloomed. My nipples tightened.
I hated my nipples in that moment, with a pure,
focused hatred. He didn't let me finish. His hand nodded
in my hair and hauled me upward, spinning me around.
My palms slammed against cold metal, the dumpster, its surface
pitted and stinking of old meat. He kicked my ankles
apart behind me, the crinkle of a condom wrapper, then
the wet snap of latex. His fingers dug into my hips,
right above the garter belt. He entered me in one
thrust that emptied my lungs full. There was no other word.
The sensation crowded out the cold, the smell, the shame,
until all that existed was the thick pressure of him
moving inside me. His The rhythm was brutal and efficient,
each stroke shoving me forward against the dumpster. The metal rattled.
My tits swayed with the impact, nipples scraping against the
inside of my top. From somewhere behind me, I heard
my husband's breathing quicken. The man grabbed a fistful of
my hair and yanked my head back. My spine arched,
the angle shifted, and he dragged across something inside me
that made my vision go white at the edges. A
sound came out of my throat, not a complaint, something higher, breathier.
He grunted once twice, then drove deep and locked there
through the latex. I felt the pulse of his release,
the way his grip on my hip tightened into something
almost possessive. He stayed inside me for three long breaths,
then pulled out. The condom came off with a wet snap.
He tied it and bizarrely hung it from a nail
jutting out of the brick wall. It dangled there, a
pale trophy, swinging slightly in the night air. He laughed
a short barking sound, and walked back toward his car
without looking at me. I stayed bent over the dumpster.
My thighs were trembling so hard. I could hear my
stockings rustle footsteps, my husband the soft rasp of a
tissue he'd finished two. I could see the evidence on
the ground near his shoes, a dark splatter on the concrete.
He wiped his hands, then passed me a tissue. You
did well. His thumb brushed my cheek, smearing mascara only
ten thousand ago. The second car was an older sedan.
Two men in the front, gray hair paunches, the kind
of men who played golf on weekend and yelled at
cable news. My husband did the deal, pocketed the cash,
two for one special. One of them joked, and the
other one laughed with his whole gut back in the alley,
knees on asphalt. Two cocks. The first one took my
mouth thinner than the first man, longer, hitting the back
of my throat every time until I gagged and tears
streamed down my cheeks. The second one pushed between my
tits and fucked the channel there while I held my
breast together, the position absurd and degrading, and making my
cunt throb in a way I refused to acknowledge. They switched.
The one from my tits pushed into my mouth, tasting
of my own sweat and the faint chemical tang of
latex residue. The one from my mouth moved behind me,
and no condom this time, I noticed, but I was
too far gone to protest. Slid between my thighs from behind,
not entering, just rubbin against the wetness there, slicking himself
with it. Christ she soaked, he said, sounding genuinely surprised.
I wanted to die. I wanted more. They finished on
my chest, thick white streaks across my exposed tits, and
I knelt there, gasping while they zipped up and walked
away without a backward glance. My husband appeared with tissues
and a water bottle, his hand on my shoulder, steady
and warm. You're getting good at this. The third car
was an SUV. Four women, spilled out boots and leather jackets,
mean smiles, hungry eyes, short hair, and various shades of deliberate.
The driver did the negotiating, while the others looked me
over like I was a cut of meat. How much
for all of us? They they always paid. Then I
was in the alley with four women circling me, their
boots scuffing the asphalt on your knees. Pretty thing, the
tallest one said, and shoved me down. I ate cunt
for what felt like hours. The first woman was sharp
and musky, grinding against my face until my jaw ached.
The second was sweet and clean, shaved bare, her thighs
clamping around my ears as she rowed my tongue. The
third flooded my mouth with a pissy taste the moment
I touched her so wet it dripped down my chin
and pooled in the hollow of my throat. They took
turns flipping me, pulling my hair, slapping me, positioning me.
A mouth worked between my legs while I ate someone else,
the double sensation making my mind go blank and staticky.
Look at her. One of them crooned and a hand
came down on my ass. The sting spread across my
skin in a hot wave. Dirty little lesbo wife, I
moaned into the wet heat of another woman's cunt, unable
to stop myself, unable to want to. By the time
they left, I was a ruin pussy, juice smeared across
my face, hair a rat's nest, stockings shredded at the knees.
I knelt on the asphalt, spitting and wiping my mouth
with the back of my hand, my body humming with
a strange, exhausted electricity that felt terrifyingly close to satisfaction.
Good night, my husband said, helping me to my feet.
His hands were gentle, now almost tender. He wrapped his
jacket around my shoulders and guided me toward the car.
Let's go home. Maybe tomorrow night will be better. Tomorrow.
The word hit me like a slap of cold water.
I stopped walking. My knees were still shaking. Tomorrow. My
voice came out raw, scraped clean of dignity. He grinned,
not cruelly, not kindly either, something in between that I
didn't have a name for. Yet. We're not even a
grand in yet, sweetheart, You've got a lot of learning left.
He opened the passenger door for me, like we were
on a date. I slid inside. The leather was cold
against the backs of my thighs through the windshield. I
watched the street corner recede as we pulled away, the dumpster,
the boarded up laundromat, the nail in the brick wall,
where that first condom still dangled like a promise of
everything still to come. And tomorrow they'd be more condoms
hanging from nails. Those handbags were not worth it. I
hoped you enjoyed today's sexy story. If you love this podcast,
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See you soon,