Page 114 of Trailer Trash

Smack!

Smack!

It’s too much. Too painful. I relent and arch my spine to make him stop. My hips lift into the air.

His big hand grips the flesh, and his other holds his shaft in place. Slowly, he presses in.

I hold my breath, the pressure enormous.

Then—

The muscle finally yields, stretching wide enough for the head to slip through. My ass closes tightly around his shaft as he pushes deeper.

My eyes squeeze shut and my molars bite down on the wad of paper jammed into my mouth. I take him inch-by-inch, each one a challenge.

Halfway in, I squirm more, whimpering into the paper.

“Shhh,” he orders low.

Then his hips touch mine. I am trembling and full.

Really full.

“So damn tight,” he groans and exhales a long breath. “I finally get to fuck this stubborn, virgin ass.”

My cheek sticks to the cold granite as I look back at his towering form, tall and ominous. He moves, giving me his first thrust. Every nerve in my body responds to the intrusion. He doesn’t have to touch my clit, yet it’s engorged.

I hate it. I love it. I bear it.

He keeps going, careful and steady. He folds over me and gives me slow, grinding strokes, seating himself to the base every time.

“You like that, lowly CNA?” he rasps.

A broken little moan is stuck behind the paper, but I don’t think he cares because he suddenly grips my hair tightly, messing up my beautiful hairdo.

With his other hand, he clutches the money sticking out of my mouth. He doesn’t remove it — just holds it there.

“Who’s been texting you tonight, baby?”

My eyes widen. He can’t know. He just can’t.

“Keysha,” I say, but the word is indiscernible.

His hips snap, jolting me.

I grunt.

“I know you’re not telling me the truth,” he murmurs, his face close to mine.

He forces the money further into my mouth, then retracts a little. The bills are crinkled against my tongue.

“Suck it like it’s a filthy cock.” He slams into me hard once more, and I gasp. With my mouth opened wider, he rams the money deeper. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes. “Go on, suck, or I’ll make you hurt for a week.”

Every time I try to speak, he stuffs the money deeper, hitting my gag reflex. With my lips trembling, I relent once more and suck. Spit collects in my mouth, and I use my tongue to coat it against the paper’s dry surface, desperate to make it slide easier. It’s dirty. All money is, but at least the spit lessens the musty, stagnant taste. He keeps the cash held in place as I rock my chin, feeding the money in and out.

He chuckles darkly. “Look at you. You’re a whore for money, aren’t you, baby? You can’t help it. Trash is born hungry for it.”

The word trash lands harder than his palm. He called me trailer trash when we met, and it hurts more now that he knows me. It must be role-playing. Otherwise, he’s furious. Shame burns through me, yet my body tightens around him anyway. I hate that it wants what hurts me.