Finally, it was Diego's turn.
He stepped into the room slow, shut the door with this calm that made the air feel thicker, hotter. He locked eyes with me, that predator stare I knew inside out, the one that sinks right through your skin and dives straight to your pussy, leaving everything pulsing before he even lays a finger on you.
"Now it's my turn, you slut."
His voice came out low, thick, almost a growl that vibrated in my chest and made my nipples harden even more. I couldn't even respond. He grabbed my arm hard, fingers digging into the flesh, flipped me onto my stomach and dragged me to the edge of the bed. My legs dangled off, ass up in the air, skin still stinging from the earlier slaps, pussy throbbing and slick with other guys' cum.
"On all fours. Now."
He gripped my hair tight, wrapped it around his fist like reins, yanked my head back until my neck arched, a sweet ache that sent a hot shiver down my whole spine. I felt the fat head of his cock brushing my swollen entrance, hot, slippery from everything it'd already taken. His heat, everything dripping and priming me without him saying a word.
He didn't ask permission. He slammed it all in at once, deep, brutal, forcing his way with raw power. The wet smack exploded in the room, flesh slapping flesh, and I let out a hoarse moan that tore from my throat. Every thrust was like an internal slap, pounding with anger, with grip, like he wanted to erase any trace of the others and remind me that in the end, I was his. My whole body rocked, tits rubbing against the rough sheets and sending jolts of pleasure mixed with the burn. My pussy clenched around him anyway, betraying any exhaustion, fresh honey dripping down my thighs.
I moaned hoarse, drool leaking from the corner of my mouth, eyes welling with hot tears that rolled slow down my face. He yanked my hair harder, using me like a toy, every pull making my body arch more, my ass clenching around him, the pleasure surging violent even through the pain.
"You slut, whore, prostitute. That's what you are now:
A PROSTITUTE!"
He came growling my name, shooting hot and thick deep inside, pulsing hard, filling everything until it overflowed. When he pulled out slow, I felt the liquid running down my thighs, thick, warm, dripping onto the sheets in slow strands that marked my skin and the fabric.
Diego got up. Grabbed his boxers from the floor and, without even looking at me, said:
"I'm gonna say bye to the guys and take a shower. Stay right there, quiet, slut."
The door slammed.
I stayed face-down on the bed, legs spread, body limp like I'd taken a real beating. My pussy throbbed hard, pulsing, swollen, burning from being used so much. The whole room reeked of fresh cum, sour man sweat, and a lingering whiff of weed hanging heavy in the air, nauseating. My heart pounded out of control, so strong I felt it in my throat, my temples, my fingertips. Every beat echoed what had gone down: the moans, the slaps, the cocks sliding in and out, the cum dripping.
After a while, I dragged myself up slow to sit on the edge of the bed. My thighs stuck together, honey and cum mixed and glued to my skin. I grabbed the wad of bills from the nightstand. Counted them slow, bill by bill, the rough paper brushing my still-trembling fingers. A thousand reais. Exactly a thousand.
When he came back from the bathroom, naked, wet hair dripping drops on his broad chest, smelling like cheap hotel soap, I was already on my feet. Naked. Shaking with rage, humiliation, everything boiling in my chest.
"Don't you ever do that again, Diego. Never sell me off to your friends without me knowing. I'm not a whore, fuck."
He let out this mocking laugh, loud, cutting through the air like a knife. He walked slow toward me, stopped too close, his body heat invading my space. Grabbed my chin hard, fingers squeezing, forcing my face up.
"Oh, Rafaella... my pretty little slut..." he whispered, almost laughing, his eyes drifting slow down my body, lingering on my wrecked pussy, red and swollen. "Admit it, fuck. Admit you came like a bitch in heat. That you loved being treated like a cheap two-hundred-real hooker."
I slapped his hand away hard, ripping it from my face. My skin burned where he'd gripped.
"Let me go, fuck!"
He didn't even flinch. Just grinned even wider, teeth gleaming.
"Fuck, Diego, you know Petrópolis is a small town! Everybody knows everybody, everybody talks. If anyone finds out... you wanna ruin my life?"
He went quiet for a second, looking at me like I was a kid throwing a tantrum. Then he snatched the wad of cash from my hand without asking. Peeled off four fifty-real bills, real slow, one by one.
"Here. Keep eight hundred. I'll take two hundred commission."
My blood boiled. My chest heaved fast, hot.
"Commission?! That's my money! I gave up my fucking pussy, fuck!"
He shrugged, still chuckling low.
"Yeah, but I closed the deal. I'm your pimp now, right?"
I yanked the rest of the money from his hand in a rage, fingers shaking so bad I almost dropped it.
"Go fuck yourself! It's all mine!"
He raised his hands, pretending to surrender, but his eyes were pure poison, cold and sharp.
"Fine... keep it all, you little prostitute. 'Cause that's what you are now, Rafa. Pros-ti-tute" — he said it slow, dragging out each syllable, spitting the word in my face, letting it stick to my skin.
"It wasn't free. It was paid for. And you accepted. You took the money. You counted every damn bill."
He stepped back, eyeing me up and down, lingering on my sweaty tits, my swollen pussy, my sticky thighs.
"Look at you... all drippy, all fucked out... and still mad at me? How cute."
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to cry. I wanted to disappear, bury myself under the ground and never be seen again.
But he just turned his back, grabbed his pants from the floor and said over his shoulder, like he was commenting on the weather:
"Next time I'll warn you. Or not. And come to think of it, two hundred was even too much. You deserve to be treated like a hundred-real whore, fifty bucks a pop."
And he walked out of the room laughing low, the chuckle echoing down the hall. The door clicked shut soft, almost gentle. The silence crashed down heavy, suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside and my heart hammering in my chest.
After all of it, I always felt used and dirty, but today? Today it hurt more than ever—it was Valentine's Day. My chest squeezed so tight I could barely breathe.
He already had his official girlfriend—the one who got gifts and sweet words. And me? What was I to him? Just a little slut, like he loved to point out. The whore he used and loaned out to his buddies.
What a shitshow! I did everything to please him. Everything he asked, everything he ordered, shit I didn't even know if I really liked—just did it to see that spark of satisfaction on his face. Stuff I'd never do for anyone else.
Deep down, I just wanted a normal relationship. 'Cause no matter how twisted it was, I felt like he liked me in some way.
I'd even be down to keep up the crazy shit, 'cause—gotta be honest—a part of me got off on it. Got off on being wanted by a bunch of guys.
But what I really needed was what he gave his girlfriend: holding hands in public, cute little gifts, hearing an "I love you."
Instead? I got a thousand dirty reais and the word "prostitute" pounding in my head like a slap that wouldn't stop stinging.