Scream, Fuck, Ghostface

Story two - American trash

TOO WET.

TOO WARM.

The phone kept ringing as she sucked the guy's tip, the shrill sound cutting through the dank, stale air like a knife. She didn't stop. Her lips wrapped around the rubbery flesh, her tongue flicking over the ridges of his dick, wet and desperate, almost mechanical. His groans grew louder, echoing in the small, dirty alley where the act was taking place. The sour stench of trash bins mixed with the cheap cologne he'd sprayed too much of, and the musk of sweat and bodily fluids clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

His erection pulsed, throbbing as his eyes rolled back into his head, a thin film of pleasure turning his gaze into a lifeless stare. Her mouth worked furiously, the bitter taste of his pre-cum and sweat sliding down her throat, blending with the nausea that gnawed at her stomach. She was used to this now. Each time it felt the same: the slick, slimy, disgusting sensation of a man's dick filling her mouth, the involuntary gags she tried to suppress, and the dull ache in her jaw as she sucked.

Then, in seconds, he grunted, his cock twitching, and a wave of warm, thick cum exploded into her mouth. The salty, metallic taste filled her throat, coating her tongue. She choked, trying to swallow it all down but failing as some spilled from her lips, dripping onto her chin, mingling with the saliva that had already pooled around his shaft. The man's face contorted in twisted ecstasy as he pumped his last few spurts into her mouth.

She swallowed, the lump of semen sliding down her throat like poison. Her stomach churned, threatening to revolt, but she forced herself to keep it down. She needed the money. Always needed the money. The man, panting heavily, wiped the sweat from his brow, his satisfaction clear as he pulled up his pants.

"Well, nice doing business with you," he said in a deep, gravelly voice, fishing out a crumpled $20 bill from his pocket. He tossed it toward her like she was nothing more than a piece of trash, disposable. His hands were still shaking from the high of his orgasm as he gave her one last look, a look that said he was done with her, that she was just another hole he'd used and discarded.

"Thanks," she muttered, barely able to summon the energy to feign politeness as she grabbed the bill, cramming it into her torn jacket pocket. She didn't even bother to wipe her mouth clean. The taste of him still lingered, bitter and disgusting, but she was numb to it. She hopped out of the truck and walked toward the run-down motel that she called home.

The neon "No Vacancy" sign flickered above her like a warning from hell itself. The place was decaying—rust clung to the railings, mold crept up the walls, and the smell of damp rot seemed to hang in the air like a curse. The door creaked open with the familiar groan, and she stepped into the dim, sickly yellow light of the hallway.

Her baby was crying again. The sound tore at her ears, piercing through the dull buzz in her head, and igniting a rage that burned through her chest. All she ever heard was the whining, the incessant, pathetic crying that made her want to scream. But instead, she stumbled toward the room, her legs shaky from the cocaine she'd snorted earlier, the numbing effect already beginning to wear off.

"Shut the fuck up!" she hissed under her breath as she fumbled with the key to her room. The moment she entered, the smell hit her—the stench of dirty diapers, spilled booze, and something worse, something rancid that clung to the air. The tiny motel room was a mess of crumpled clothes, food wrappers, and filth. The baby lay in the corner, his face red and tear-streaked, wailing as if the sound was his only defense against the world.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" she screamed, her voice cracking as she grabbed the half-empty bottle of vodka from the dresser and took a long swig, the burning liquid doing little to calm her. Her head swam with dizziness, the room spinning as she slumped down onto the filthy mattress, her mind screaming for an escape.