Gifts From The Street


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The street was an inhospitable place at best. At worst it held punishment and abuse and inclement weather in a casual mix of brutality. Tonight it was breezy enough to sweep the odor of oil and burnt gasoline from the pavement, but not enough to swing the streetlights dangling on the wires.

She pulled at the short skirt and sighed at the pinch of her tight boots. She had size 9 feet shoved into a size 7 1/2. Susan told her that men preferred women who had dainty feet not her paddle sized ones.

“As if they even looked below boobs and crotches anyway,” she said to no one.

This was not the life she ever thought she would live, but time and circumstances had robbed her chances. Now she sold the only thing she had left to make ends meet in the oldest profession of all … prostitution.

And she barely survived. Her body wasn’t in demand. She was too short. Too much hip and thigh. Too little breasts. She badly needed a real haircut instead of the makeshift one she could afford in front of her own mirror. Her clothes were cast-off from other whores who had already squeezed every bit of allure out of them.

Another car passed her corner by.

And another, despite her waving and whistling at the driver. She let the false cheeriness fade off her face. She hated her life. If she had any strength, she would end it. There was not a single knife sharp enough in her dinky two room flat to do the job … and there was Maddie to think of, too.

Ironic that the Hospital with it’s sturdy brick façade and bright clean hallways was right down her block. A place where they saved lives--and all she wanted some days was to end hers. She walked past it every day, looking in the floor to ceiling windows at all the people who worked there in their crisp uniforms.

She inquired once about the Nursing Assistant class there. They always needed help, but the students had to pay for the course themselves. She simply could not afford the two hundred dollars and the time commitment to be trained. How could she pay rent and buy groceries if she didn’t work the street at night? And how could she be in class all day and be awake enough to snag a few ‘Johns’ when evening came? It was a hopeless spiral.

Food stamps picked up some of the slack and cheap housing did the rest. But even a burger flipping job put her over the line monetarily to receive those things. She desperately needed a job that paid more than minimum wage and didn’t cost so much up front. But without any schooling or training, she was trapped in a box and unable to get out.

A car slowed at the curb for the traffic light and she angrily realized that she had been thinking instead of trying to find her next trick. How many autos had passed her while she stood like a lump here?

It was a nice car. Some fancy model she knew immediately, but since she wasn’t a car watcher and knew better then to dream of such impossibilities, she couldn’t even tell what kind. She put on her best face and rotated her hips suggestively at the driver, catching his attention.

Young face. Shaggy hair hanging to his collar. Very intense eyes that brooded under a prominent forehead. He glanced her up and down, almost casually.

“Hey, boy, you want to have some fun?”

“What did you have in mind?” he returned. The car engine purred under his soft voice.

“Anything you want. Twenty for a quick job, thirty for a hole.” She flinched at the words somewhere internally. She couldn’t afford to be choosy and wasn’t pretty enough to really be paid well for this. Cheap body, cheap fuck. Her soul died every night. All night.

“Get in.”

Get in? she thought. Most ‘Johns’ just took her in the nearest alley amongst the refuse for their brief burst of pleasure. Why would he take her somewhere in his nice little car?

She got in.

He drove her to a hotel not far away. It was simple and plain, the room very standard. She didn’t even ask how many hours he’d rented the place for. It wasn’t like if he decided not to pay her for her time that she would have any recourse about it. One of the added traumas of whoring for a living … they could take what they wanted and pay you with a slap or two. The unlucky found themselves beaten so badly that they couldn’t work the streets for a few days.

As soon as he locked the door and turned around she went to her knees and began to unfasten his jeans. She had only been doing this for a year, but she knew they always wanted to start with a good head job. This one wasn’t much different. She could feel his erection through the denim already.

Surprisingly, he stopped her hands and pulled her up by her wrists. For the first time, in the naked light, she really looked at him.

He had a hard look about him. Scruffy like he hadn’t shaved today. His eyes were blue – no, green. Maybe a shade of each. His face wasn’t lined with age, but there was an aura about him of weariness and time. His hands were hot and the fingers wrapped clear around her small wrists, holding gently.

“Slow,” he said, voice blended with accents. “I like it slow.”

“Oh,” she returned. What did he want? For her to seduce him? Like he meant something to her? She wanted to hit him … but of course, there was the money to be made. And more often than not, she was the one who ended up getting beaten.

She unbuttoned his shirt and left it hanging on his shoulders. He watched her with those hooded eyes.

She traced one nipple and then the other. He shied very slightly under her touch, as if it had been a while since he had been with a woman. She made herself kiss him on the collarbone, then the neck, sliding her lips upwards and gathering her willpower to neck with a perfect stranger.

Slow indeed, she grumbled mentally as he abruptly pushed her back down on the floor and pressed his groin against her face.

Even when they tried to pretend they were different, they always failed. She was a prostitute and was here simply to be used. It didn’t matter if she was tired or hungry. It didn’t matter if they were clean or nice. She was here to do a job--that was all.

He wasn’t wearing any jockeys and the erect penis sprang out as soon as she unzipped his pants. Nice size for sex, strangle size for fellatio … uncircumcised and sprouting out of nest of brown curls. She hoped he was clean under that hood. There wasn’t much time to wonder, for he pulled her near without preamble and slid his member into her mouth with a barely audible groan.

Surprisingly, he didn’t thrust all the way in. Just inserted the glans and held her by the sides of her face without moving. He was breathing hard with his body bent towards her.

She didn’t even have his jeans off yet and it was impossible to do so with him settling his feet wider for balance. Obligingly, she swirled her tongue around him and prepared for the abandoned thrusting and the strangle of bitter semen that certainly would follow.

None of that happened.

And he didn’t stink like most of the men who cruised the street picking up girls. He was freshly bathed and smelled like cologne. Nothing but the faint tang of pre-ejaculate in her mouth and even under the foreskin he was clean.

She could feel his breath gusting in her hair and the way he shifted his stance slightly, flexing at the knees. The motion produced the barest penetration and then he drew back, fine movements that left her room to breath -- almost as if he was balancing his passion against strength, drawing it out, afraid to lose his place. Savoring the pleasure.

She tipped her head up under the insistence of his fingers, letting him go with more than a touch of surprise. Why was he stopping?

His head was thrown back. The tendons strained in his neck and lent him a thicker appearance than she knew was true of his slender body type. For a moment she just looked up at him, this man exercising such powerful mastery over himself. It took a minute for him to pull his face back down and his eyes had gone to black, wildly dilated in desire.

He took her clothes off and discarded them on the floor, never seeming to look anywhere but in her face. He was out of shirt and shoes and jeans in another moment and pushed her down on the bed. He turned her on one side and lay down behind her, pressing his body close.

One of those kind. She braced herself mentally. Sex for cash was bad enough without the kinky types who thought every hole of her body was for pleasure. This always hurt. They never took any time and lost control as soon as they penetrated, stabbing her apart in their ecstasy.

But he did nothing to hurt her, just lifted her leg and placed his engorged penis between the warmth of her thighs and buried his face against the back of her neck. She could feel the hammer of his heart and the touch of his flanks against her back as he took each breath. For a long moment, she just rested against him wonderingly.

Who was he? Why was he lingering at this task when it was so obvious that he wanted release? He didn’t seem to belong here. His accent was hard to place. What did he want from her?

His heart rate slowed gradually, but the strong erection never flagged. When he rolled her over on her face and leaned over her back, it pressed against her privates, throbbing and hot. Still, he waited, rubbing circles on her back with his fingers.

“Do you have any oil?” he asked softly.

“Uh, in my bag,” she offered, surprised and still wary.

His weight disappeared and returned. The baby oil was for her customer’s pleasure and for lubricant when they wanted to be invasive … it wasn’t suppose to be drizzled over her back and massaged in. His hands were strangely gentle. He seemed to be in no hurry, but he trembled very slightly whenever his penis brushed against her.

Languid heat suffused her, starting in the middle of her back and drifting clear to her fingers and toes. It had been so long since any hands touched her with more than just carnal intent that it took a long time to relax into his touch.

Up and down the long muscles of her back and around her shoulders, he stroked the oil in. Wonderfully light kisses touched her, never lingering anywhere. He spent a long time on her hands. It stunned her how erotic the feel of his fingers working through each of hers was. Desire conjured out of nowhere crept softly into her bones. He stayed away from any sexual zones entirely at first … running his hands around every other part of her until she wanted to scream at him in frustration.

He turned her face up and trailed oil up her center line, letting it pool in her navel and then rubbing it in. She wanted to apologize for her lack of physical beauty, the small breasts that sagged already from nursing Maddie. Somehow, the words wouldn’t come through her hazy brain. Her thinking was muddled.

Even more so when he leaned to nuzzle her neck and then rubbed the side of his head against her, possessively, as if he were a great cat. He worked his way down, skirting her nipples and kissing the underside of each breast, lingering there as if enchanted by the curve of flesh away from her chest wall. Then he was back at her nipples again, biting gently and blowing his breath across the tips. His hands never ceased roving over her skin, roaming sensuously and soothingly, gliding in and out of her contours.

Down, down, down … she mentally chanted it as he went, spreading her thighs with the press of his hands. There was a savage ache at her core that she had not felt for years and when he finally reached her genitals, she moaned. One hand spread her labia and the other pressed fingers into her heat, rubbing firmly against the anterior wall.

The overwhelming intensity spread her arms to the sides in sudden dizzying ecstasy. She cried aloud, gasping, as his mouth found that sweet tender spot and suckled her, spinning her instantly into climax. It washed her incoherent, orgasms skipping along the top like a stone, one after the other without any troughs, leaving her spent and exhausted in the wake. It took a while to gather her scattered thoughts and come back into focus.

God, she felt good. He could ask her for anything and she would give it. He could have anything he desired; front, back, she would drink him alive if he wanted. One small ‘thank you’ for feeling anything for the first time in more than a year.

“What do you want?” she softly asked.

“Just you.”

He came hungrily into her embrace, settling between her thighs comfortably--no longer the stranger at the door of her body. She opened her mouth to his kiss and sweetly undid all of the control he had. Instantly he lunged into her, rock hard, thick and hot and urgent, gasping with need. It set all her instincts humming and she curled under him, clasping legs around his narrow waist.

He plunged swiftly and deeply, driving straight from his knees, holding her tight across the shoulders to pin them both in place. His breaths were ragged, punctuated with a deep grunt of effort with each thrust. He was as wild and savage as a tiger.

It didn’t last for long. The orgasm was explosive and he snapped his head back and rotated his shoulders clockwise, pouring his seed into her. It took a full minute for him to ride the climax down and he never took a breath the whole time. He collapsed, spent and boneless across her body when it was over. Fine tremors raced through him like lightning.

It took all night to wring the lust out of him.

She was astonished at his recovery rate and even more astonished at the knowledge in his hands and body that dragged her back into orgasm over and over again. She wondered blissfully at one point if she shouldn’t properly pay him for services rendered.

She performed fellatio on him. Stunningly, he preferred to stand up. It was a perfect height for her. He never controlled her head, but left her free to move whichever way she desired. Without any constraints, it was a delight to systematically destroy every rational thought in him and she loved every minute of it, every sound she evoked from his quietness.

She watched him in the mirror on the wall to see what he was doing with his hands since they weren’t on her. It was sensual and erotic. He pulled at his hair and gestured widely and gracefully, like some elegant dancer in the throes of his pleasure. He balanced expertly on the balls of his feet, head thrown back and groaning from deep in his chest.

He had impeccable restraint, enduring all the torment she could dish out, but he would not let her finish him orally. No matter how hard she drove him, he was stronger, always pulling away at the last and sweeping her down to penetrate instead. She wonderingly asked him why he wouldn’t let her finish him, since most men loved that.

“You don’t,” was his gentle reply. She wanted to ask him how he knew her private aversion, but he was kissing her again, probing deeply into her mouth and pulling her back across his lap where he sat.

From every position imaginable, he made love. Sitting up against the headboard, in a chair, in the shower, braced against the wall, leaning over her back and gasping in her ears. He was powerful and dynamic and never repeated his pattern of seduction twice, energized with something unfathomable.

In the early morning, she was nearing physical exhaustion and her thighs trembled almost continuously. The bed was torn apart.

“Sleep,” he said gently into her face. “You don’t have to be awake. It won’t bother me.”

And she honestly tried to stay with him … but sleeping during the day was usually touch and go. And on her best nights, there were hours to nod off leaning against a wall on the street corner. There wasn’t any way to meet this insatiable young man in her bed. Her spirit was willing but the coin of her body was long spent.

She slept. Some dim portion of her mind registered that he continued on without her.

At one point she woke and found him thrusting so gently into her that it was like being adrift on some boat on a lake, soothing and rhythmic. He stabbed deep for the climax and froze, just the pulse of his penis throbbing inside. She held him while the sweat on his back cooled.


In the morning it was all business.

She knew it would be, but some foolishness wished for something, anything, more. He paid her, kissed her on the brow, and shut the door of the cab he had flagged down. She didn’t even know his name and hadn’t told him hers. Not that it mattered.

“Take her where she wants to go.” He tossed a bill at the driver and waved them away from the curb.

Maddie was up when she got home, lifting chubby hands and squealing.

“You’re late,” said Susan, tossing her an empty bottle. “Long night?”

“Yeah, thanks again,” she called after her. Even her friends were whores. She put her “nights pay” in her hiding place for safety and changed into comfortable clothes.

“Mama, mama, kiss?” said the little girl.

“Kiss, kiss,” she returned. Maddie loved lipstick kisses on her cheeks. She wore them all day, giggling in every mirror she could find. Where was her lipstick? She rummaged in her bag and a white envelope caught her eye.

What was this? A hotel room envelope with no name on it?

She opened it and green bills fell out on the floor. One hundred dollar bills. Ten of them.

Maddie chortled and said “geen, geen, mama!”

A simple note in elegant script was tucked inside:

”You only had your body to give and that was all I needed. I can’t give you myself, but what I can give, I will. Connor.”

She sat down staring at the bills and the note. Her daughter prattled on. Slowly she picked the money up and put it back in the envelope. The smell of his cologne scented it faintly.

“Kiss, mama, kiss,” reminded Maddie.

“Yes, baby-boo,” she returned. She found and donned her lipstick, kissed her daughter on one cheek and swooped her up and onto one hip. “Come on, chick pea. We need to visit the Hospital.”

“Pital? Pital?” she chirped merrily.

Enough to pay for a class and hold off hunger and rent until she was employed. Enough money to let her see the light of day instead of streetlights and to play with her child. Never had there been such a night followed by such a morning. And tonight, she would sleep holding her baby girl instead of sour strangers.

She felt like singing and she did, all the way down the block to the crisp building that held a sudden future.

MacNair 9/14/00

Author’s note: This story was written quite a while ago as you can see by the date. It was a direct result of someone asking me to alter her image associated with a certain photo of Christopher Lambert. It was never intended to receive wide circulation … hence, just about everything about Connor’s “bedside manner” is put into one story. So no lobbing cyber fruit at me in the future if you see a similarity in another story! I keep telling Connor he must get better with every encounter and he just gives me this … this … incredible expression and says “How do you improve perfection?” I remind him that it is his duty to try.

By the way: Breasts do NOT sag due to breastfeeding children. The elasticity of the breasts change due to the hormonal influence of pregnancy and can be worsened by the lack of a good support bra. The character portrayed in this story is ignorant of these basic facts.

Thank you to my marvelous Beta, Sharz.

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