Not So Easy Ch. 01

Disclaimer: All individuals in this story are eighteen or older. This is intended as a work of fiction. The author does not condone sexual acts with non-consenting participants. Please enjoy. Constructive feedback is appreciated.

*****

I'd like to set the record straight. This is not an admission of guilt. I've changed the names of everyone involved for two reasons. One, to protect their privacy, as well as my own. Two, because some of these people are still in my life in some capacity, professional or otherwise, and I'd prefer that none of us end up in jail. Especially me.

Ok, I think I'm getting ahead of myself here. I should probably start at the beginning. Or at least, where it became interesting.

It all started during my favorite class, in the fall semester of my senior year of college. Econ 405, The Economics of Crime, taught by Dr. Steven Keller. During the first several weeks, we learned the economic and social dynamics that governed drug dealers, how they played on the dreams and ambitions of the desperate, generating massive profits with a work force making less than minimum wage. Like so many things I'd come to take for granted in my twenty-one years of life, even something as unsavory as a street dealer had a layers of complexity that were intriguing.

If I sound like a massive nerd, you're probably got the right idea. Economics in general, and unusual or exotic markets rank pretty high on my list of interests, right after sex. I know, I'm supposed to say God, or my family, or my boyfriend, something like that. Well, God isn't real, I don't have, or particularly want a boyfriend, and my family... I love them, but let's just say that sex is a lot more fun and a lot less complicated.

Seriously, how great is sex? It is by far, without a doubt, the absolutely best freakin' thing in the whole goddamn world. Whether it's with a guy who gently kisses and caresses me all over, or a girl who can finger my pussy like a Stradivarius, or a man who just bends you over and fucks me like his life depends on it, sex is definitely number one on my list of favorite things.

Which brings me to the chapter of Dr. Keller's class: prostitution. I was intrigued from the get-go. A subject that combines my intellectual interests with my more sensual pursuits. What's not to love? He explained how sex, like anything else that anyone has ever traded for anything, is a commodity, subject to the same basic economic principles as any other commodity, including the law of supply and demand. He went on to explain the class stratification within the sex industry, what separated the drug addled street walker from the high end call girl. I was eager ask more questions after class, but an email summoning me to the bursar's office kept me from sticking around.

I wasn't exactly looking forward to this conversation. Rumor had it that the college had suffered some financial setbacks. Apparently the new governor wasn't a big fan of higher education, or as he so eloquently put it, "socialist indoctrination camps." Bottom line, a lot of funding was getting cut. The look on the counselor's face said it all. My ears were ringing as words phrases like, "grants suspended," and, "scholarships withdrawn," were bandied about.

You know how I mentioned my relationship with my family being complicated? Well, let's just say my dad voted for the new governor. Mom is a stay-at-home mom who thought that women who tried to do anything different were all, "man-hating lesbians feminazis." Basically, we love each other, but we don't really like each other. Especially since my parents made it abundantly clear that they did not agree with me going off to college and had no intention of supporting me, financially or otherwise.

I was on the verge of a full-on panic attack by the time I staggered out of the office. I had till the end of the semester to come up with enough money to pay for my classes. That's three hundred dollars per credit hour, times fifteen, plus food, housing, fees, etc. Thousands of dollars, per semester. I was on the verge of tears when the notion of moving back home wormed its way into my head.

I thought about all the things that I would miss. My school, my friends, even my shitty little apartment. But above all else, my freedom. Dear old Dad certainly wouldn't tolerate me, "whoring around," under his room. No freedom, no future, other than becoming the brood mare of some high school football hero, spending the rest of my life in the same trailer park town where I spent the first eighteen years of my life.

-

As the sun started to set, I decided to quit feeling sorry for myself. You only live once, or as people with an IQ over 105 would say, Carpe Diem. I wandered out of said shitty apartment, where the sound of loud music and a boisterous crowd echoed in the distance.

I followed the sound a few blocks until I came upon a party, and a pretty kick ass one at that. I regretted not wearing something a little sexier, but I could make jeans and a camisole look pretty damn good, especially braless. I'm pretty well endowed, almost disproportionately so, but that fact was not sufficient motivation to subject myself to the elastic and metal monstrosity known as a bra. And if it gets me a little extra attention, all the better for me.

I was hoping I could find someone sober enough to string together two sentences, but drunk enough to fuck me and forget me afterwards. I was in that kind of mood. Naturally, most of the male population was completely trashed. Goddamn frat boys. I wasn't really feeling a lesbian connection tonight either. They always want to talk after. Men are at least decent enough to get up and leave or fall dead asleep.

Lucky for me, one of the few sober males started heading my way. He was cute, in that slightly geeky kind of way. Glasses, mop of curly dark hair, Batman t-shirt. I could get into that.

"Could you do me a favor?" he asked.

"You could at least buy me a drink first," I joked. He didn't laugh. Guys never laugh. I'm funny, dammit.

"I will pay you a fifty bucks if you'll pretend to be my girlfriend for the rest of the evening," he said adamantly.

"Seriously?" I asked.

He sighed. "My ex Lindsay is here and she's with an old buddy of mine. I guess she traded up. Anyway, I made up some stupid lie about being here with someone too. I need her to be real, and preferably gorgeous," he explained gloomily.

I felt bad for the guy. Breakups, even amicable ones, can be hard, and it was pretty obvious that this one was anything but. It'd been a while since I'd been with someone that meant that much to me, but I remembered the feeling. He was hurting and was trying to find a way not to.

Still, the economist in me wouldn't be swayed so easily. Rare commodity, limited time, motivated buyer. Price is in the seller's court. "Make it hundred and you've got a deal," I replied.

"Seriously?" he shot back.

I nodded. "Trust me, I'll put on a good show," I said with a knowing smile.

He weighed the pros and cons briefly, glancing over my shoulder in what I assumed was his ex-girlfriend's direction. "Deal," he said. He pulled out his wallet, pulling a crumpled stack of bills out. I was intrigued. Who carries cash anymore?

Nevertheless, he was good to his word, discretely slipping the bills into my hand. Four twenties, a ten, and two fives. Easiest hundred bucks I ever made.

I slid my arms around and nuzzled his collar. "Which one's your ex? Describe, don't point," I murmured.

"Uh, curly brunette. A little taller than you. Jeans, leather jacket," he stuttered.

"Got her. She with a dopey guy with a soul patch?" I asked.

"That's her."

"I figured. She's giving me the evil eye."

"Seriously?"

"Uh huh," I said confidently. "Full on bitch stare."

"Cool," he replied happily.

"Well, now that we've got her undivided attention, it's show time," I announced. I took his hand, leading him an empty spot on a nearby couch. I gently pushed him onto it, then straddled him, reaching behind his head and pulling him into a deep kiss. I was happy to discover that he was a decent kisser, maybe a little hesitant, but he didn't try to dive into tongue right out of the gate, and he did that where you suck on the other person's bottom lip a little, which I loved. I started to lose track of our original tasks as I started grinding against him, my panties starting to dampen as I felt him stiffen against me.

Ms. Bitch Stare snapped us out of our lusty haze. "Hi," she said with that catty warmth girls use when meeting someone they already loathe. "I'm Lindsay. You must be Liz."

"Elizabeth," I corrected. I don't even let my girlfriend call me Liz, which as far as I'm concerned is short for lizard. I'm not sure why I felt such sudden and thorough animosity towards this girl. Maybe I was just a loyal mercenary, maybe she just rubbed me the wrong way, I don't know.

It occurred to me that I had no idea what Batman's T's real name was. "Bruce Wayne, obviously," the whimsical part of my brain told myself. Not helpful. Hopefully the name would drop in conversation before it became obvious that I had no idea what my "boyfriend's" name was.

"So, I'm sure Michael's told you all about me," she said. Score! She glanced possessively at the man whose lap I currently occupied.

"No, sorry. Never mentioned you," I replied sweetly.

"Right, so silly of me. Why would he? We were only high school sweethearts," she said acidly.

"Well, it's like you said Lindsay. We're in college now. It's not like we were going to get married." Michael replied.

"Well, I'm glad you found someone too. Someone older and more...experienced would be good for you," Lindsay quipped. Sigh. Seriously, why do girls have to fight like this? Why is the feminine form of a street brawl a verbal sparring match of back handed compliments and thinly veiled innuendo. At least have the guts to just call me a slut.

"Well, speaking from my experience as the resident senior of this little gathering, I'd like to give you a piece of advice, girl to girl. You can't just lie back and think of England sweetie. It gets old," I said knowingly.

"Michael! How could you talk about our private business with this...whore!" she screeched. Finally. I was getting sick of all this passive aggressive bullshit.

"If you're referring to your sex life, he didn't. You just seem like the type," I said nonchalantly.

With that, she turned away in an angry huff, grabbing Soul Patch on the way out. "Too bad. She seemed nice," I said wistfully.

Michael snorted beneath me, his whole body rocking beneath me with laughter. I chuckled a bit myself, proud that I had come out victor in the Battle of the Bitches, and prouder that I managed to make him laugh.

"So...Michael," I said after our laughter died down.

"Elizabeth," he replied, resting his hands on my waist.

"We probably should have exchanged names ahead of time," I remarked.

He nodded. "Nice save by the way."

"I promised you a good show, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," he said softly.

I could tell he wanted to fuck me. I wanted it to. Still, part of me held back. This kid, fresh out of high school and on the rebound, would fall in love with me in a second if I didn't play my cards right. He was a nice guy. I couldn't do that to him.

I don't know what possessed me to say what I said next. Maybe I wanted to give him an out, maybe I wanted to give myself an out. Maybe I was broke and desperate and scared, and I needed a good enough excuse to feel something other than those things.

"You know, I could really be yours for the evening for the right price," I whispered into his ear.

He stared at me, his head cocked to the side, as though here were trying to telepathically confirm what he just heard. I could see the gears turning as he weighed the implications of my offer, something that I had failed to do entirely.

Did I really just do that? Did I really just offer to have sex with a guy for money?

Maybe he'll think I was joking. Maybe he was secretly an idiot and wouldn't pick up on my innuendo. Maybe he'd just let it slide and walk away.

"How much?" he asked. The room was spinning. I realized I was holding my breath.

"Two hundred," I whispered.

-

My purse felt strangely heavy as we made our way to my apartment. I kept reaching for the bills as we walked, a little rush of anxiety and excitement washing over me as I felt the edges of the crisp pair of hundred dollar bills. "It's just sex. It's just sex. It's just sex," I told myself in a little mantra.

If Michael was nervous, he was doing a good job of hiding it. I wish I had that kind of confidence when I was eighteen. Hell, I wish I had that kind of confidence now.

It seemed like I was the lead in Virginity: The Sequel. I was in high school all over again. The combination of few wine coolers and the back of a 2005 Ford F150 sent my so-called innocence packing years ago. In truth, it wasn't that memorable. I had a feeling this would be.

I fumbled for my keys when we reached the door. I could feel Benjamin Franklin's peering up at me through my purse as I struggled with the lock. But when I felt it click, something strange happened.

I could have sent him away. I could have given him his money back and sent him packing. Hell, I could have kept his money and sent him packing. What was he going to do? Tell him some hooker ripped him off?

But I didn't want to do that. I...wanted this.

The second the door closed behind him, I was on him. Our mouths fused, tongues dancing as we stumbled our way through my tiny apartment. I broke away just long enough to slip my top up over my head, exposing my bare breasts to the cool air.

"Jesus," he breathed, transfixed by the view of the twin peaks.

I knelt down in front of him, slowly loosening his belt and unzipping his pants. I slipped his jeans and boxers to the floor. His cock sprang free as it cleared the elastic, firm and warm, with a tiny sliver of pre-cum oozing from the tip. He was about average, though his dick curved upward more than most, the purple head reaching toward the ceiling.

I gently licked the tip to start, just a little friendly stroke. He shuddered as I ran his head over my lips, groaning as I took his shaft into my mouth. I lapped at the base, gently massaging it with my tongue. I glanced up at him periodically, making sure not to overexcite him. Freshmen tended to be on a hair trigger, and I didn't want Michael shooting down my throat without having the chance to fuck me properly.

After a few minutes of working him up and cooling him down, I was ready for the main event. My panties were already soaked through, a dark patch spreading through the sheer cloth. I stood up and led him to the edge of my bed. Once there, I not so gently pushed him onto the mattress,

"Look at me," I whispered seductively.

I slipped my hands down the front of my jeans, gasping as my fingers brushed my eager pussy. With my free hand, I discreetly pulled a small plastic packet out of my pocket. I unzipped my pants, turning around as I slid them down around my ankles before kicking them away. I bent over, giving him a spectacular view of my ass as I slid my abused panties down to join the rest of the discarded garments.

I crept onto the bed, pausing to tear into the package. Like a professional, I quickly rolled the latex down his shaft, then continued to move up to meet him, kissing him deeply once I met his eyes.

I sat back, crying out as he effortlessly penetrated me. I bore down on top of him, trying to work as much of him inside me as possible. I rode him roughly, bracing myself against his ribs as I bucked against him. He reached up, taking as much of the fullness of my breasts as he could into his hands, massaging and kneading my tits as I fucked him in earnest. I clenched hard as he rolled my nipples, crying out as I felt him spasm inside me.

I was close, goddamn was I close as he started to cum. I leaned back, furiously rubbing my clit as I rode the wave of his penis pulsating. Almost, almost, and.

"Fuck!" I cried out as I came. I fell back on top of him, squeezing his cock as he continued to spasm inside me. I bit my lip as I enjoyed the little quakes that followed, leaning down to gently kiss his neck, his jaw, his lips.

We lay there for a moment, listening to one another breath. I rolled off of him once I felt him start to slip out of my cunt, lying next to him on the bed.

"That was fun," he said.

"That was very fun," I corrected. We laughed.

It was strange. I should have felt guilty. Why didn't I feel guilty? I just fucked a guy for money. I had literally crossed the boundary from slut to whore and it didn't bother me in the least.

Maybe there was something wrong with me. Maybe I just didn't get that portion of a woman's psyche that's supposed to say, "Don't fuck insert X." But I didn't care. I didn't care what the rules were. Consenting adults, that was my standard. And the fact that consent involved a financial transaction in this case didn't bother me in the least.

It didn't take long for Michael to pass out, a credit to both the alcohol and my sexual prowess. I quietly crept from the bed, taking a moment to examine the contents of my purse. Sure enough, the proceeds of my foray into prostitution were there, clear as day. Three hundred dollars, the first three hundred dollars I ever earned doing something I actually enjoyed.

I smiled as I felt the bills crinkle between my fingers. Best job I ever had.