Filthy Lucre - Ryden

1

Brendon's face was buried in the pillow.

He concentrated on the dull bang of the headboard against the wall and let it play through his ears like a litany. Behind him, a stranger held tight onto his hips, his palm rubbing over Brendon's ass tenderly as if he'd somehow earned that right to intimacy. Brendon tried to ignore it – the way the stranger grunted his name; not his name, just a name and called him baby.

He turned his head to blink in his surroundings. This was a high-class hotel. Brendon could tell by the quality of the bedding. He inhaled the familiar scent of hotel laundry detergent and bit a silent cry into the pillow. This trick was getting rough. Biting his lip, he looked out across the room; a mess of clothes littered the floor, all of them his, none of them belonged to the stranger. The TV was on mute behind them, some crappy laugh-track sitcom rolling across the screen and he could hear the hum of the bathroom vent over the stranger's moans. Brendon's mind started to wander...

It was his mother's birthday next week; he'd have to remember to send her a card – and a little bit more cash than usual. She'd been struggling with the bills. Again. She'd called him last month, reminding him that his father's medical bills were due and Brendon didn't work just so he could help his parents out, but it was one of the reasons. His parents had no idea how he actually was able to help fund his father's treatment but they sure as hell wouldn't be nagging him to send checks every few months if they did.

He'd come into some good money recently and perhaps if he made the conscious effort to put a couple of hundred dollars of it to one side, he could afford to go back to Las Vegas to visit his family at the end of the month. Perhaps even take Jon along too. It was high time that they all met.

The stranger was slowing down behind him. Brendon inhaled deeply. The smell of freshly laundered bedding was almost intoxicating to him.

"It's been almost an hour. It's sixty bucks for every fifteen minutes if you go over," Brendon warned, biting the inside of his lip and screwing his eyes closed as he felt the stranger's hips buck forward into him again and again and again, another three minutes of relentless pressure gripping his hips. The man's hand pushed at the back of Brendon's head, forcing him down into the pillow. His hair was too short at the back for the stranger to get a grip on it; that was no mistake on Brendon's part, but it was long enough on top. He gripped the pillow as his head was yanked back, his hair held tight in the stranger's fist.

Brendon hated these sort of tricks, the rough assholes that got a kick out of paying to fuck someone. He hated the hair pulling and the ugly bruises that were left behind long after the deed was over. He hated the words that slipped out of their mouths between moans, words like dirty and slut and bitch.

Brendon felt the stranger's hips snap forward one final time and then he spasmed to climax, a string of derogatory expletives leaving his mouth as he came. The man's grip tightened impossibly hard around Brendon's hips, all nails and sweat and bone.

He pulled away when he felt the man's chest against his back and shivered at the hands that slid around his chest to stroke down his stomach. They brushed against his flaccid cock and gave it a quick jerk. "You didn't come," the stranger noted.

Brendon wasn't being paid to enjoy it – and neither was he being paid for post-coital bonding. He swung his legs off the bed and winced as he sat on the edge of the mattress. He was going to be hurting later; his muscles were already burning. He heard the stranger pull the condom off his cock and stood to pick through his clothes silently. Pulling his pants on and slipping his creased t-shirt over his head, he grazed a hand through his dark hair and looked back towards the bed at the man sat on top of it, red dick still bobbing against his stomach, a fine sheen on sweat collected on his neck and chest. He was actually quite handsome for an older man, Brendon realized – he had a fit body anyway. He was in his fifties, but he wasn't gross. Brendon toed his feet into his shoes.