Taking His Money

Taking His Money

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica


Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica


A young woman is tempted into an evening of sex by the lure of lashings of money. Warning: The climax of this story contains descriptions of a sexual nature that some may find distasteful.


A young woman is tempted into an evening of sex by the lure of lashings of money.

Warning: The climax of this story contains descriptions of a sexual nature that some may find distasteful.


Submitted: July 13, 2017

A A A | A A A


Submitted: July 13, 2017



It's my birthday soon. My fiftieth. With a landmark like that on the horizon, I’ve been thinking a lot about my life, the good times and the mistakes. You know, taking stock of how I became the person I am today. 

When I say thinking about things, really I mean one big thing: the thing I did when I’d just turned twenty. These last few weeks I’ve lain awake in the early hours remembering, going over everything again.

I know if I write about it I’ll get it out of my system. Writing has worked for me in the past, dispelled obsessive thoughts. Catholics have got it right with confession. 

And of course, as well as being an exorcism for me, I will do my best, just for you dear reader, to make things as titillating and salacious as the real events allow.

I have changed some stuff to protect myself. My husband of fifteen years knows nothing about this episode in my life.

Here goes.

When I was twenty, I worked as a receptionist at small hotel in Birmingham, England. To start with I liked the job a lot. I was a friendly and outgoing young woman who really enjoyed meeting new people. 

After I had worked there a few months, one the regular male guests began to show me more attention than was usual, taking the time to chat, ask stuff about in my life.  

In his mid-fifties and time hadn’t been kind. On the whole, men keep their looks longer than us girls.  Think George Clooney. A man can continue to make the best of himself well into late middle age. This guy had the air of someone who had gone to seed years before. 

If he booked in and found me on the desk and alone he would tell me how good I looked, how if he were twenty years younger he would ask me out on a date.  Each time he came to the hotel, his remarks got increasingly suggestive. Once, when no one else was around, he asked if I spat or swallowed; said it just like that. It must have been the expression on my face that made him laugh out loud. To have him say something like that to my face when I was at work made my flesh crawl.  

The next time he visited, he actually asked me to go out with him on a date. He was quite straight-faced about it, said it earnestly. I thought it ridiculous a man his age asking a girl like me out. I politely said no. Probably too politely because it did not put him off one bit, my adamant refusal water off a duck.

 After that, every time he stayed with us he would ask me if I would go for a meal with him at one of the better restaurants in town. I tried to laugh it off, make believe he was just trying to be nice by complimenting me. Eventually, I told him I had a boyfriend and that I loved him very much.  His response, “Why is having a boyfriend a problem? Everyone cheats, don't you know. What the eye doesn’t see . . .”

His insistence began to unnerve me. I wondered how long I could remain professional in the face of his badgering. I  knew one day I would not be able to help myself, I would just have to tell him to fuck-off, even if it meant losing my job. I even told my manager, Chris, about him. All he said was, “You’re a beautiful young woman, Flory, and he’s a bloke. What do you expect?” That was what it was like back then. Women just had to put up with unwanted sexual advances, handle it the best they could.

Then came the offer of money. I never saw that coming.

It was about nine months after his first visit. I was on my own behind the reception desk when he came up and offered me two hundred pounds for two hours with him up in his room. Later I learned this was the going for a decent upmarket escort at the time. The look I gave him should have killed that idea in an instant.

It Didn’t.

Three weeks later, after my third refusal, he came to me when I was on my own and, while looking at me intently, told me he’d just had a bad diagnosis and that he didn’t have long to live. He went on to say, all his money would be no use to him when he was dead and please would I reconsider if he upped the amount to two thousand pounds. That was equivalent of five thousand in today’s money. I was completely taken back. It was a hell lot of money for me back then, 

He even reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bundle of twenty-pound notes and began to flick through, ostentatiously counting out two-thousand pounds on the reception desk. I just stood and watched, shocked into silence, occasionally looking around hoping no one would see.

There was something about the sight of all that money, though; suddenly it was real, a doorway opening to more money than I'd dreamed of. If I only had the courage to step over the threshold of my fear. 

But I did not believe a word of his story about being ill.

 It became a temptation that I had to stamp on before it went any further. I tried to wrangle my shifts so that my days off fell on Thursdays, the day he usually booked in, and Fridays when he checked out. I needed to put temptation behind me; I’d started to daydream about what I could do with all that cash,

 But I couldn’t always get the shifts I wanted. Inevitably I had to face him. As usual, he'd wait until I was alone, come over and up his offer, usually by a hundred pounds. After a couple more months it stood at three thousand pounds.

It was then I began to think half-seriously about doing it.

At the time, I was a living with a bloke named Dave. He was a year older than me and worked as a warehouse operative. Back then we really were very much in love, and I wanted to tell him about the offer. In my heart, I wanted Dave to be the sort of partner I could confess anything to and have him understand, but he wasn’t that type of man and never would be. In fact, looking back I realise that even though he affected an indie, counter-culture, vibe, deep down he was very traditional in his attitude to sex.

 When it came to sitting him down and talking him through what I was planning, I could not pluck up enough courage. Even though we could have used the money, I knew Dave would never have gone along with the idea. He used to get irrationally jealous if blokes showed me too much interest. He was my first real boyfriend. I had never been with anyone else.

Perhaps it was Dave’s latent jealousy that prompted me to do what I did. I mean, it was not because I fancied my admirer, -- who I will call Mike. It was not just the cash. Something much deer compelled me. And that is what still puzzles to this day. Why did I do what I went and did?

After weeks of agonising, I decided the chance of that much money was too good to pass over.  All week I psyched myself up so that when Mike asked again -- as he invariably would -- I could look him in the eye and say, Yeah,  I’d do it.” 

Making that decision was such a relief. No more agonising.  

 Dave and I argued.  No, I did not tell him what I intended to do, but he must have sensed something was in the air. He said I was acting differently than usual, that there must be someone else. He demanded to know who I was carrying on with behind his back. I managed to reassure him, lie without qualms.  After that, everything he said was a prod in the ribs. He began to irritate me, felt he was watching every move I made. Guilt on my part? Who knows.

The Thursday afternoon Mike booked in at the Hotel, and I was face to face with him, confronted once more with his unpleasant reality, I lost all the misplaced enthusiasm I’d raised during the preceding week. Looking into his weary eyes, seeing his podgy face and over-ripe lips, I just couldn’t get the words to come out. At that moment I was convinced I never would.

Mike might have been a handsome bloke thirty years before he propositioned me, but by this time his pot belly was struggling to break free of his suit jacket, his hair too long at the sides for the amount he still had. His face was red and blotchy, which I guessed was because drank too much of an evening. He probably ate all the wrong food. But somewhere beneath the flab of his face, a hint of his fine bone structure still fought a brave rear-guard beneath heavy jowls. In his favour, he was always immaculately turned out. His clothes and shoes looked expensive.

Later that that same evening Dave phoned me at work, to say sorry about the blazing row we’d had just before I left the house. Even though he was sweet, I was so pissed with him for phoning me while I was on the desk. He knew I was not allowed to take personal calls. I told him he was an idiot.

 Was it because I was annoyed with Dave the reason for what now happened later that night when Mike came in and asked for his keys. A side of me I'd never known before was stirring into life, wanting to come out and play. I really don’t know, but out of the blue I found myself saying,  “Mike . . . You know your offer -- the one you made last time? Does it still stand?”

There was no need for him to answer. His face said it all. He asked what time I finished. Could I come up to his room?

That was impossible, of course. There is no way I could be seen coming and going in and out of a guest’s room. And besides, Dave would be expecting me home at the usual time after my shift. So I told him no, that he would have to make other arrangements for us if it was going to happen. I told him that on his next visit he could perhaps stay at the Regency instead of here. I could visit him there. He said he would arrange it and phone me when he was settled in. Straight away I said I was not allowed to have personal calls at work. He said that he was a regular customer, why would it be a problem. I said, okay then, told him to watch what he said if any other staff answered. 

It was only after he’d gone to his room that it dawned on me how hard it was going to be for me to get to over to see Mike at the Regency.  Because of how things were between Mike and me,  I knew that saying I was going out for a night on my own would raise his suspicion, even if I told him it was with girlfriends. My assignation would have to be in works time. I would have to pull a sicky.

The following Thursday evening, five-thirty, Mike phoned. I had been anticipating the moment all day. All he said was, “Come over now. I have your money.” 

Pretending to be ill was not hard. A flock of moths and butterflies had set up a rave down the dark cellar that was my belly. I felt sick to my core.  I told my manager, Chris, I’d developed severe menstrual cramps and could not function. He was so sweet, straight away called me a cab. I felt vile lying even to Chris, let alone my Dave.

 I had to travel over town to the Regency in my work uniform, white blouse, tailored trousers, jacket and sensible shoes. Not the most alluring look. I think deep down I would have liked to have dressed up for the occasion, mainly for myself, really. Just to get into the scenario, become the person the role demanded. In my mind, I’d been imagining myself turning up in suspenders and stockings underneath something outrageously low-cut and seductive. But I did not even own any stockings, let alone a suspender-belt, tights not being quite the same thing.  So I told myself that Mike liked me enough in my working clothes to offer me three thousand pounds to spend a couple of hours with him so would be happy enough with me as I was.
I can’t describe how nervous I was by the time I stepped out of the cab at the Regency -- Sorry, that should be: I cannot tell you how terrified I was when I got out of the cab. For any amount less than what I was expecting to walk away with for a few hours work, I would have told the cab driver to carry on and take me home. All I wanted at that moment was to be back home in Dave’s muscular arms holding me, loving me.

Walking through the Regency lobby. I imagined all eyes on me, the words “whore” stamped in bright letters on my forehead plain for all to see. Of course, no one paid me the slightest attention, especially dressed how I was. Just another generic corporate female. As I passed reception, she looked up and smiled. I smiled too, thought her eyes unusually alluring. I wondered if she had been on duty when Mike booked in earlier, and that perhaps he would proposition her after he’d done with me. 

Outside his room, my nerves failed. I stood wringing my hands, nearly went back to the lift. But the thought of all that money fortified my resolve, and I knocked on the door of his room with feigned confidence.

To begin with, he was the perfect gentleman. Perhaps I was a little too eager when I took up his offer of a drink, but I really needed one to calm my nerves. He handed me a scotch on the rocks. It made me choke when I swallowed, but the alcohol slowly untangled my twisted nerves.

He was without his usual jacket, in just his shirtsleeves. I had not previously seen him without a jacket or coat. The size of his belly was a shock. Enormous! All that flab spilling over the belt of his trousers. For a moment the thought of him mounting me naked sent a cold chill through my nerves and something unholy stirred deep in my belly.

 I asked for another drink.

“When you’ve finished it,”  he said handing over the glass, “take a shower. I want to lick you everywhere.” He looked at me intently and said, “And I mean, everywhere.”

I’d brought along condoms for him to use. Now I took the box out of my bag and laid it on the bedside table.

“What-the-fuck are they for?” he asked.

“For you.”

“You can forget about those, young lady.”

“Well you can forget about tonight,” I said. “No condoms, no me.”

He looked devastated. “I’ll pay double what we agreed.”

I had to sit and think. I was on the pill so that was not the issue. I’d hardly given a thought to disease, but I suppose it was the back of my mind.  This was really before all the hoo-ha about aids, though I had an inkling of it being out there somewhere. We all believed it was only gay males who it struck down. The fact is, I just did not want his raw cock inside me, did not want to have his sperm on my skin, in my womb. 

“Triple it and I might re-consider.” I blurted out. Just another day to day transaction, as if I were at wholesalers doing a deal for produce. I could hardly believe what I was saying even as words leapt from my tongue. 

“Okay,” he said, without so much as a blink. 

Immediately I felt I’d sold myself too cheap and I wondered how high he might have gone.

I took a long time showering, trying to put off the inevitable. While I soaped myself I thought about his cock, how would he get it inside me with all that flab in the way, but more than that I thought about his cum and how he had asked if I spat or swallowed. Back then I hated male sperm. I even found having to swallow Dave’s a chore, a girlfriend’s duty. 

So I scrubbed and scrubbed for as long as I could, trying to make cleanliness a protective barrier. But I had to come out and face him eventually. I dried myself and put on one of the hotel robes that hung on the bathroom door.

He was lying on the bed completely naked and sipping whisky from a tumbler. I eyed him all over, from crown to toes, and thought of a beached, albino whale. His skin so pale, so much of it.

“Come join me,” he said.

I lay down by his side, on my back with my robe pulled tight at the waist by its cord. I rested my head on a pillow, spreading my thick dark hair out like a dead princess. I was terrified, looked blankly up at the ceiling. What I had been dreading for so long now began. He turned to me and opened my robe with hands that were actually trembling. His breath was hot on my face, laden with whisky and nicotine. His ghastly tongue quickly parted my lips and began licking my teeth, prised between them to hunt down my tongue and jostle it into life 

I closed my eyes and allowed him his way. And it wasn't so bad. In fact, sensual in the strangest of ways. I found myself letting down all the psychological barriers I had constructed against the thought of him over the weeks, felt them slowly dissolved by his kisses. As he continued to kiss me, he switched position and pressed his bulk against me. There was so much of him and I felt overwhelmed. But he was soft and fragrant, almost womanly, so different than Dave with his rough workman’s muscularity.

He had me sit up and removed my robe. He stood with it and placed it over the back of a chair. He picked up a glass on the dresser and emptied the contents into his mouth in one gulp. 

He came back over and looked down at me, his eyes scanning every inch of my body, before sitting on the edge of the bed and taking my hand. He began to kiss my fingers, each in turn. Still kissing, he moved his lips over my palm, my wrist, slowly all the way up the soft flesh of my inner arm. He lavished my armpit with his tongue before licking his way to the sides of my breast and under them, slathering the crease beneath each, doing it over and over, then up and on, until he had my nipple between his teeth. A storm of electric shudders surged when he nibbled them. Shivers fizzed and sparked along my nerves. Between my legs, a whirlpool spiralled and twirled. In spite of myself and my revulsion for Mike, I became overwhelmed by his talent to deliver sheer tactile pleasure.

I kept my eyes tightly closed, not wanting the sight of him to spoil this unanticipated sensual enjoyment. I didn’t want to dispel the illusion of a real lover by looking at the actuality of this fat old man. Instead, I imagined I was being treasured by my one true love and was not just the paid whore I'd become.

 And if I am honest, he did treasure me -- absolutely treasured me. But he’d had to pay me more than he would have had to pay any working girl. He coughed up way over the odds for that privilege. Thinking about my worth to him pleased me a lot.

He kissed me everywhere, took his time, licked every inch of my soft, young flesh. His mouth attended to parts of my body I never, ever imagined a lover would take the time to seek out. Each foot was lavished: sole, heel, ball and instep, but especially between my toes, his tongue slithering between each. The pleasure of it almost unbearable, his capacity to produce lubricating saliva unbelievable.

 When my legs were done, his tongue between my buttock cheeks. He spent longer there than anywhere else apart from my cunt. He became a pig snuffling for truffles, parting my cheeks and burrowing deep, then letting my buttock flesh enfold his own cheeks while the flicker of his tongue in my most intimate spot was almost too much for me. The way it curled and probed made me want to call out, but stifled words under my breath were all I managed. Almost a plea not to please me so much,  “Oh, Mike!  Mike! My god! You’re licking my arse. Oh, please . . .”  But I did not tell him to stop.

All those soft caresses, his licking, nipping, and sucking, were an unappeasable primer for orgasm. In spite of myself, that first hour I succumbed to two orgasms; one when he licked my arse while simultaneously fingering my clit; the other also from his tongue, but this time on my clit while three fingers eased in and out my cunt. I hated the cum my body insisted on lubricating his hand with.

He did not give me time to get my breath back after orgasm, his tongue in my mouth again. Then he was lapping at every inch of my face, my cheeks and nose, chin and throat, over and over, his tongue as slobbery as a mastiff's. He was frantic for me now, licking and groaning over and over.

It seemed an eternity before he actually mounted and fucked me. But during the time before it happened, he lavished with so much tactile and oral attention. I'd never experienced anything like it. After all his licking, caressing and kissing, I was in an inner space I’d never knew existed, a place Dave had never once taken me to. Dave probably never even fantasised about half the stuff Mike did to me. 

At one point Mike was flat on his back and had pulled me upright, from wich position he coaxed me to straddle his face with my legs spread wide. HIs palms on the sides of my hips, he pulled down on to force my cunt his mouth. I remember the feel of his cold chin pressing between my buttocks as he encouraged me to rock my hips back and forth, then, rotate them so that my cunt squelched against his face. Even though he had shaved, the rasp of whisker chaffed my buttock cheeks. 

These are the things he did that stick out in my memory. I spent two hours with him and can't recall everything we did.

 For a while I let myself drift away under his soft caresses, his kisses. I was abruptly brought back to reality when he began manoeuvring to fuck me properly. I lay there waiting for him to get his cock inside me and watched with disbelief as he kind of lifted the great substance of his belly in one hand while guiding his cock into me with the other. When he was in me, pushing deep, he let the bulk of it down unto my abdomen. It kind of overflowed down the sides of my own belly, a mass of gelatinous flab enfolding my torso. I was only a slight thing back then, a real sylph, no more than a size eight.  

 I suppose this was the most horrid bit of it all; looking up at his red face, seeing so much lust for me in his eye. It was if he were searching inside me for something or someone he would never find. Then him kissing me full-on with those over-ripe lips of his, lips that had just given my body so much pleasure. 

 Now slow getting into his rhythm, he blustered and puffed and kept telling me to pinch his nipples. So I did. The harder I pinched the more focused his fucking became. God, those man breasts! As substantial as any woman’s. I pinched them spitefully, rubbed them in circles with both palms and then pinched them again, over and over. This made him almost whimper. His rutting became convulsive and his fat belly undulated in waves over my torso.

Thankfully he only managed about a minute of this inefficient lumbering before ejaculating deep inside me. The way he juddered and moaned, I thought he was in the midst of a coronary. He was utterly breathless when he rolled off me. I think if he had continued any longer I might have been calling for an ambulance. 

God! Now that would have been hard to explain. You hear about such things, though: older men dying in the arms of their young lover -- or a whore’s embrace.

It was getting late. While Mike lay there panting, struggling for breath, I said I had to go. I told him Dave would be expecting me back from work in half an hour. If I were late, he would want to know where I had been. I got off the bed and quickly left the room. I showered in a near scalding torrent, scrubbing his spunk and saliva from me until I was raw. So much of it had got in my hair -- oh yes,  I forgot to tell about sucking his cock and how I had to let him cum on my face.

 Now guilt was kicking in. I dressed in a panic, struggling in a fluster to fasten my bras. When I came back into the bedroom, he handed me the envelope containing a wad of crisp fifty-pound notes. He said I was worth every penny, that I was a natural. I jammed those note into the depths of my bag without a word.

Before I had a chance to leave, he took me in his arms and began to kiss me. No longer aroused by his caresses, his tongue made me nauseous.  Standing pressed against him like that only emphasised his bulk in comparison to my own slight frame. I was suddenly utterly overwhelmed with shame for what I had allowed myself to become. When his tongue had finished with mine, he looked into my eyes and thanked me. I now had nothing but contempt for him. I think he saw that. It must have hurt.

It was then that he said he wanted to show me something before I went home to my husband. He asked me to stay for just a moment longer. So I sat on the side of the bed while he went to the wardrobe and pulled out his overnight bag. From it he took a large leather wallet containing twenty large glossy photographs; glamour shots of a girl on a park bench wearing a mini skirt, strappy heels and white silk blouse. She had long chestnut hair, shapely legs, a pleasing if slightly embarrassed smile at being photographed in the way she was. The photographer was keen to get as much leg in the shot as he could. The thing about her was she looked just like me. Could have been my sister, my twin even.

He told me the girl was named Angie, his first wife. She had been just eighteen when they had married, he much old at twenty-eight. He said she had been killed by a drunk driver while walking home from work the Friday before Christmas. Nineteen seventy-four, I think he said it was. I looked at each photo disbelieving what I saw. My likeness to Angie was uncanny. For a moment I was transported back in time to be that person there on that bench smiling back at the photographer as he coaxed me into the pose he wanted me to assume.

“I loved her with every iota of being,” Mike said as he watched me work my way through the images for the second time. “She was so beautiful -- just like you are so beautiful. When I saw you that first time, it all came back to me and I thought my heart would break all over again. Perhaps you can understand now why I wanted you.”

And I did. I leant into him and kissed him gently on the lips. And so we kissed in a way I never imagined I could with someone like Mike. For a moment I was his young wife, Angie.

Afterwards, as I put on my jacket and made for the door, he asked if he could he see me again. He would pay, of course. I said I didn’t know. 

Coming home to Dave was strange. It felt like a part of me had been stolen, left with Mike. Dave asked if I was OK. I told him what I had told Chris, that I was not well. I went up to bed and soon after he came up and got into bed naked and spooned against me, holding my breasts, his cock growing against the crack of my butt. He made me feel safe again, as if he had forgiven my sins. But he never had the chance to forgive me because he never found out about that night.

And the money? It was a problem. How was I going to get it into my life so I could spend it without the need for explanations, and so be able to treat myself to all those the things I hankered after. It became like money laundering. It took months, dribbling it into my life little be little.

Mike didn’t book in at the hotel where I worked for another month. I thought he’d got me out of his system. When he did, he had another offer proposition -- which I’ll maybe write about later.

In those weeks immediately after our first session, my mind was completely screwed up. One side of me was disgusted with what I’d done: another part of me was thrilled by the whole thing. It was a real head-fuck. I did not know if I was coming or going half the time.
At one point in the weeks that followed, I considered going on the game. I told myself if I could do it with Mike I could do it with anyone. We had lots of wealthy guest at the hotel where I worked, it being a five-star place and all. I tried to imagine how I could approach the right kind of man. I soon realised I hadn’t a clue how to go about it. For a start, I did not have the brass nerve. This was before the internet was an everyday utility. It would be so easy today.

Looking back, I think I would have made a good whore. I reckon five years servicing the right type of clients, I could have set myself up financially for the rest of my life.

But I never asked for money for sex with anyone other than Mike. In the months after my first night with him, I did go a bit wild. I Started this thing with my manager Chris. That lasted a few months. Ironic that I ended up getting shagged in one of the hotel bedrooms after my refusal to visit Mike in one. Then there was Chef -- not to forget Lucien, our Maitre d’.

Dave and I divorced a year later. I can hardly blame him. I broke his heart. What a slut I became in my early twenties!


© Copyright 2021 Cassie Cassaba. All rights reserved.

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