The room smelled like cheap air freshener and stale cigarettes. She sat on the edge of the motel bed, knees pressed together, counting the twenties already crumpled in her fist.
He was already half-undressed, heavy, eyes fixed on her like she was the last meal he d see. How much? he asked, voice thick.
Fifty for the first, she said, Same every time after.
He nodded, laid back, and she got to work. Her movements were mechanical at first—hands and mouth doing what they d learned to do when rent was due and the fridge was empty. But he didn t seem to care about her enthusiasm. He groaned, hips bucking, and finished in her mouth within minutes.
She pulled back, wiped her lip, and held out her palm. He fumbled for his wallet, dropped another bill on her thigh.
You got another in you? she asked, already counting.
He did. Twenty minutes later, slower this time, gritting his teeth like he was trying to win something. When he finally let go, she collected her second payment without a word.
By the third round, her jaw ached and her knees were bruised from the carpet. He was getting desperate, sloppy, paying for a fourth before he was even ready again. She waited, checking her phone, until he managed one last shuddering release that barely counted.
She stood up, smoothing her skirt, three hundred dollars heavier than she d been an hour ago. He lay there spent, sweating through the sheets, already looking regretful. She didn t say goodbye. The door clicked shut behind her, and she walked to the bus stop with the cash tucked deep in her bra, already thinking about which bills to pay first.
