a saturday night date

a nineteen year old college girl’s rough date for money

the last time i sold myself was about two weeks ago. i met a man late on a saturday night at what i would call a luxury hotel in the hudson yards area of new york city.

i was dressed casually—black ripped skinny jeans, a plain white tee shirt, a black g-string, no bra, black ankle socks and black converse sneakers—along with a black leather jacket. i decorated my face with dark lipstick, eyeliner, mascara and false lashes, and i painted my nails with dark polish. i tied my long blonde hair high up on my head in a ponytail.

i arrived outside the hotel a few minutes early and exchanged texts with my client to confirm my arrival and his room number. then i went into the hotel. that’s usually when i’m most nervous—walking into a hotel and the lobby and getting on the elevator—because i feel paranoid about hotel staff (even though they’ve never bothered me). i also get nervous (and aroused) about meeting a stranger, not knowing how it will go and exactly what he’ll do, and so i almost always drink a small nip of vodka, sometimes two, on my way to dates.

i got off the elevator, walked down the hallway and knocked on the door softly. he opened the door right away. he was completely dressed, wearing jeans and a dress shirt, a belt and shoes. he told me he had just come up to his room from the bar in the hotel lobby and probably just missed me walking in. he motioned for me to go into the room and he closed the door.

i always hear the sound of the hotel door closing, the sound that always reminds me that i’m all alone with a man i probably never met before, a  total stranger who is trading some of his money for the use my body. on this particular night, the man was about 50 years old and tall—at least a foot taller than me—with a little bit of a belly and thick, wavy grey hair. there was a brushed gold wedding ring on his finger. we stood in a narrow hallway with a hardwood floor. there was a big marble-tiled bathroom to my left. at the end of the hallway was my romantic opportunity—a room with floor-to-ceiling windows, two comfortable chairs, a small table and a king-size bed. the hotel calls it “the deluxe city view king room.”

he walked me into the room and told me to stand still—he wanted to look at me. he said,  “you really do look like an nyu girl,” and then he came up close to me and smiled—i smelled alcohol on his breath—and he put a hand on each of my breasts and said, “and you feel like an nyu girl.”

he slid a hand under my tee shirt and roughly rubbed and fondled one of my breasts and then the other. he thumbed my nipples and commented that he loved small tits on a girl. he slid his hand down my stomach and cupped and rubbed between my legs and reached around with his other hand and squeezed and rubbed my ass. he was pressed up close to me now. he asked me if i liked what he was doing and i whispered “yes.” i was warm, my nipples were hard and sensitive, i felt the beginning of wetness.

he told me to take my jacket off and drop it on the floor. he told me to take my tee shirt off and drop it on the floor. he told me to unbutton and unzip my jeans and pull them down a little. i did all those things and all the other things he told me to do that night.

i stood in front of him topless now, my small nipples erect and my tight, torn black jeans halfway down my thighs. my black g-string was displayed up around my hips, its black satin wedge barely covering my bald, already-wet, nineteen-year-old cunt.

he stepped back and looked at me and then stepped close to me again. he grabbed my blonde ponytail and pulled it back sharply, so i felt it. he looked down directly into my blue eyes —“you look more like a whore now, a little blue-eyed, blonde college girl whore, as advertised.” at almost the same time, he leaned over me and shoved his hand down inside my g-string and pushed it down. he rubbed my cunt and roughly forced two fingers up into me, so i made a sudden sound and bit my lip, and he repeated those words — “definitely like a whore.”

he took my hand and pressed it up against his jeans so i felt his cock. the first thing i thought was how thick it was. he told me to rub it — and it felt thicker and harder than i had first thought. he grabbed my face — “you’re going to get all of this cock, my little whore, don’t you worry.”

he stepped away from me and sat down in one of the chairs. the floor-to-ceiling windows were behind him. he told me to strip off my jeans but leave my g-string, sneakers and socks on. i did what he told me, struggling to pull my skinny jeans off over my sneakers, sitting at the edge of the bed finally, happy the material stretched.

i was standing now almost naked. picture me—barely five feet tall and a hundred pounds, long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, wearing nothing but a small, black satin g-string, black ankle socks and sneakers.  picture my made-up face with dark lipstick, eyeliner, mascara and long false lashes. picture my small fingers with darkly polished nails. picture me as an invitation to sin, a submissive little girl who will make your soul black from sadistic pleasure. picture me as sugar and spice and everything nice. picture me as a whore since the day i was born. picture me however you want.

he stood up and started to fondle me, every part of me. he had big hands, thick fingers. he commented as his hands explored me. he appraised my hair, my eyes, my face, my lips, my mouth, my throat, my tits, my nipples, my ass, my cunt. he estimated the value of each part of me for satisfying his needs. he liked that my nipples were hard and sensitive and that i barely winced when he twisted them. he pushed a finger into my cunt and liked that i was wet — “you must like what you do.” he noted how small i was. he bent me over, ran his hand over my ass and roughly pushed a dry, thick middle finger into me — anal penetration intended to hurt. he stood next to me and pushed the finger into my mouth and told me to suck it and i did — i gave him a sample of what i can do with my lips and tongue and mouth.

he told me to get on my knees. he quoted a children’s book i loved, “let the wild rumpus start,” as he unbuckled, unbuttoned  and unzipped his jeans. he moved right up to my face, grabbed my blonde-leashed head and pulled my face  up against his cock — that straining predator still contained in his common navy-blue briefs. he repeated, “you love my cock, don’t you, little whore,” as he made me move my lips up and down that cock so i felt it, separated only by a sheath of thin cotton. he still gripped my hair and told me to pull his underwear down. i did what he told me. i let his cock out — his long, hard, thick cock — all eight inches now up against my face.

he told me to keep my hands down, to finger myself if i wanted, but not to touch his cock. he rubbed it over my lips and face. he held it up and told me to lick his balls, big and hanging. he said, “that’s it, you’re a good girl, a good little whore—lick my balls because you know they’re full of cum for you.” then he put his cock in my mouth—“suck it” was all he said, as if i didn’t know. his cock stretched my lips and i wanted it.

he slid it out of my mouth, rested its hard, wet length on my face, and told me to look up at him. “such pretty blue eyes,” he said. he knew how to make me feel like i was only good for one thing. then he grabbed my head and shoved his cock into my mouth so i gagged.

he held my head tightly now and roughly pumped his cock into my throat with hard deep thrusts—“good girl, that’s it”—until i tried to push away. he didn’t let me at first—he kept at it and wrapped a hand around my throat—before he pulled back as i coughed and almost retched, gasping and struggling to catch my breath in a mess of stringy spit.

he gave me a few seconds to compose myself and then grabbed my hair and pulled me back to his cock. he repeated this rough work with me three or four more times—i lost count—before he stopped. i didn’t cry. i shook and struggled to catch my breath—to stop coughing and choking on my own spit. my eyes and face were wet from spit and tears.

he reached down and rubbed his hand over my face and gently pushed his thumb in my eye, pulling a false eyelash off—“you looked really attractive with your make-up, but it doesn’t looks so good anymore.”

he told me i was “doing good,” i was “a good girl,” i was “a good little whore.” he repeated these words soothingly, like a proud father. we took a break while he stripped off his clothes. he handed me an open bottle of water and i said “thank you.” my voice was hoarse, words still catching on the thick spit in my mouth. i felt better as i swallowed the water.

he told me to kneel at the foot of the bed facing him. he came up close to me and he took my hair in his hand. his cock was still hard. “here’s what we’re doing next, little whore—it’s your turn to fuck me—you’re going to fuck my ass with your tongue and jerk me off until i’m ready to cum in your mouth.” then he gently slapped my face and turned around and i was his good little whore—i did what he told me and ended up with a mouthful of cum. it was the easiest thing i did that night.

he seemed languorous for awhile after he came, but i sensed that he was planning our next activity. he told me to get on the bed and relax. he filled a glass with bourbon for himself and handed me a glass of straight, cold vodka and told me to drink it. the vodka burned in my throat, warmed me and confused my senses. i felt mindless and disconnected as i lay naked on the bed, but i remembered and still felt everything he did to me before that moment.

“is it okay if i hurt you a little, kacey?” this was the first time all night he used my name. he held his belt now and looked at me. i hesitated a moment, as if i was confused about his question or where i was, but then i managed hoarsely to whisper the word, “yes.” i knew before i arrived that this was probably on the menu—i knew it when i took the gig.

he told me to stand up and asked me if i ever had a ball gag. my answer didn’t matter—he held one in his hand and quickly secured the leather straps around my head so my open mouth was plugged with black rubber, my blonde hair tangled in the straps.

he told me to get on my stomach on the bed with my feet at the foot of the bed. he came around to the window-side of the bed so i saw him. he slid a pillow down under my head and adjusted me so i was facing out the window. he picked up his belt from the bed and looked at me—into my eyes. he told me to lie still and relax and not worry about all the drool from the gag. his instructions were very precise.

he stepped away from me and suddenly there was music in the room—heavy metal music—led zeppelin—whole lotta love. he turned up the volume so everything now was different. he came back to the window-side of the bed and leaned down close to my face—“don’t be scared, kacey, i won’t hurt you too much.” i looked out the window as he went around to the other side of the bed—i saw his reflection in the window. i closed my eyes and listened to the music.

he whipped me with the belt. he whipped me across my back and the back of my thighs, but half of the strokes were across my ass. each stroke of his belt on my back and legs hit me in a different place but he landed stroke upon stroke on my ass. he took his time between each stroke. that way, he said, i had more time to enjoy the pain.

i cried and struggled to breathe. my body shook. sometimes, when the leather belt hit me, my body moved—jerked up sometimes so another stroke hit near my cunt. he told me to keep still, to relax, but i couldn’t always help how i reacted when he hit me. when i tried to turn a little or roll to avoid some of the pain, he grabbed me by my hair or my arm or my leg to keep me on my stomach.

the ball gag and the music muffled my cries—all the noises i made. he stopped a couple times to let me catch my breath—the ball gag made it hard to breathe.

i don’t know how many times he hit me with the belt—maybe thirty times. i counted at least a dozen red welts that night in my room when i looked at my back in the mirror. my ass cheeks were completely swollen and bruised. he hit me very hard. each stroke hurt. i let him do that to me—i wanted it. i was a mess for awhile. i felt throbbing pain and tenderness, and the bruise marks remained, several days afterwards. it hurt whenever i moved or sat down. i’ve drank almost every day since that night. but i feel better now, just in time to go home to my mom for thanksgiving, and to three or four married men i know.

he stopped and lowered the music and came around to the window-side of the bed. he ran his hand down my cheek and then down my back and ass and legs. he admired his work. as he leaned over me i saw that his cock was hard.

he told me to sit up and he loosened the ball gag so i could breathe easier and wipe my face. i was coughing and choking. i was trying to regain my senses. i was dazed and drunk and i hurt—especially my ass when i sat up. that’s where he placed most of the strokes, sometimes one on top of another—those were the most painful.

he told me i was okay. he told me that whipping me—seeing me cry and struggle—made his cock hard. he took my hand then and wrapped it around his cock. he said, “see what you did to me, kacey?”

he gave me a bottle of water and let me sit up for a few minutes. it was like i was in another place. he stood in front of the window and watched me. he poured me another mouthful of vodka and handed me the glass—“drink it,” he said, “then we can finish.”

i saw the new york city lights outside and the reflection of my naked body in the dark window. i was the girl on the bed—the girl with the sore throat and messed-up face and hair—the girl with painful red stripes on her body and swollen nipples and puffy red eyes.

he threw a dark pink bottle on the bed. i recognized it—hello cake lubricant. he threw a silicone butt plug on the bed. he came back to the window-side of the bed, pulled me up close by my hair and put the ball gag on me again. he told me to get back on my stomach.

he walked away and the music started again. the led zeppelin.

he pulled me by my legs down the bed. then he pulled my g-string down and pulled my legs off the bed so my black-sneakered-feet barely touched the floor—the g-string tangled around my ankles. he arranged me at the foot of the bed so he could fuck me.

he roughly moved his hands on my back and my ass and my legs to arrange me now for his every need. he spread my ass and squirted lube down between my swollen bruised cheeks and pushed the butt plug into my tight asshole. he didn’t care if he hurt me. then he slowly rubbed the head of his hard cock up and down my cunt. he made me squirm. his hands hurt when he grabbed my bruised ass.

he lifted me up a little and spread my legs apart. when he pushed his cock into me, i whimpered and drooled from my gagged mouth. everything he did to me before he started to fuck me me made me a docile receptacle for his pleasure. he knew that. he pushed his big, thick, hard cock into me slowly—again and again—so i felt each penetration. the butt plug made things tighter and painful.

then he thrust harder and rougher and faster. he made my body bounce forward on the bed with every thrust. his cock hurt me now. he pressed his hand down on my bruised back and pushed his cock all the way inside me and held me down like that—so i felt all of him inside me—skewered. he grabbed my hair and pulled my head back—“you like how i fuck you, don’t you, you little whore?” my body answered his question.

he pulled his cock out. he slapped my ass hard making me cry out in pain. “we’re almost finished, little whore.” as he said this, he pulled the butt plug out and squirted more lubricant down into my ass. he pushed a thick finger into my asshole and moved it in and out and around. i squirmed on the bed.

he lifted me up so i was kneeling now crouched up on the end of the bed. my ass was up and pushed out and my head was down low on the bed.

he slowly rubbed his cock up and down between my ass cheeks. then he pressed the head of his cock up against the slick tight entryway and slowly, painfully pushed his hard cock into my ass.

he kept pushing more and more of his cock into me—deeper. his cock was thick and hard and made me feel full. he forced me to take it. he squirted more lube and held my hips and ass now—he was deep inside me—and fucked me with slow short thrusts so he stayed inside me.

he leaned over my back so his penetration was more downward. everything hurt now. he started to thrust harder ignoring my pain—pressing down on me until i knew—until he grew louder—“feel me, you little whore, i’m cumming.” he buried his cock painfully in my ass when he ejaculated. he stayed like that awhile until he slid back and off the bed.

i collapsed on the bed sobbing when he removed the gag. i reached back and put my fingers there and felt the sticky residue of anal sex. i felt torn and saw my blood mixed with cum on my fingers.

he told me to lie on the bed awhile. he was in no hurry. he told me i was good. he gave me another bottle of water. he turned the music off.

eventually i got off the bed and went into the bathroom and wiped all the make-up off my face. i rinsed my mouth with a little bottle of hotel mouthwash. i tried to see my back and ass and legs in the mirror because i hurt everywhere. i kept feeling the welts. i tried to sit on the toilet seat but it was very painful because of the belt and the anal sex. i showered. the hot water stung but i soaped my entire body and washed my hair. he let me clean myself up alone. he didn’t come into the bathroom and say he needed to piss. he didn’t use me or degrade me anymore that night. he was finished with me.

he watched me dress. he told me to leave the g-string. he told me he’d like to see me again the next time he came to new york. he handed me a hundred dollar bill and told me to put antiseptic on all the bruises. he said it would help.

i walked back to my dorm. i walked from hudson yards to east 14th street in the dark, early hours of a sunday morning like i was returning from a midnight mass. every step was painful. my hair was still wet when i got to my dorm but i didn’t care. i only cared about crawling into my bed alone with a bottle of vodka—and staying there.

i was paid $400 for the date plus the tip he gave me. i probably should have been paid more. as it turns out, the man is a porn producer who wants to see me again on his next visit to new york city.

kacey ~ ❤️

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