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[Alice's POV]

Inga seems to be in a good mood. She is humming to herself some sort of romantic tune, not any that you're familiar with, as she casually fondles the girls one by one, checking their overall quality - not that this kind of examination would actually provide her with insight into their marketability. It's just a formality. You adjust your clothes and take a sit on the couch, done with your turn. It might be just your imagination, but she barely even touched you this time. As if she didn't want to bother you?.. But no, of course that couldn't be the case. Just wishful thinking on your part.

Candy - to this day, you still cringe every time her name is being brought up, - plops down at the opposite side of the couch and lights up a cigarette, not even taking time enough to tuck her breasts back into her bra or at least pull the top up to cover them, and her skirt hardly hides anything with how far apart her knees are. You give her a nasty look, which she ignores, as usual. Girl has no shame and no consideration - for others as well as herself. It's the latter that bugs you the most. She isn't that far gone yet, why does she keep acting like an animal with no decency? At least she showers - Inga wouldn't let her get away with being filthy, thank fuck.

One after another, girls are being dismissed to occupy the free spaces on the furniture around the room or just awkwardly hang around and wait. Finally, the pimp is done with the physical and begins summarising the overall performance whis week. You tune out for the most part, untill...

"...And, of course, Alice is being her usual productive self with just barely meeting her quota this week. Maybe I should do something about that resting bitch face of yours, hmm? Cut a permanent smile into it, like that Victor Hugo's character? I don't think you'll look any worse than you do right now."

You're well aware you are not the most companionable or pretty or fun-loving... but she could have been a little more tactful about commenting on that! Bitch. As if she'd actually do that. She doens't have the guts. On the other hand, she could always order one of the twisted fucks who work for her to carry out the task. Shit! And she is the one to talk! As if her own mug doesn't look like someone's failed attempt at replicating a BJD's face.

"Has it occurred to you that the face I'm showing your hounds isn't the same that the customers see?"

"Has it occurred to you that not all of your customers are actually customers? I know what your working face is, love."

Double shit. Of course you suspected that, but keeping your pimp happy isn't worth the effort or the psychological strain of maintaining a happy-go-lucky facade. Even if failing to do so results in threats like this. You sigh, defeated:

"If you are set on doing something about it, then just do it."

Inga looks at you, expressionless as always, her face creepy as always and eyes devoid of any sign of emotion. It's unnerving, you aren't going to deny it. But you still have a pretty solid reason to hope that she isn't about to go all Mirabelle on you. You shudder at the thought. Good timing with that lovely reminder, brain. No, no-no-no. Not Inga. She is not the type. Keep telling yourself that, and maybe she won't ever become one. Just stay positive and manifest yourself a nice pimp. If only everything in life was as easy as that...

Inga snaps you out or your reverie by scribbling something on a piece of paper and handing it to you. It's an address with a name written under. 'Bob'. Really? Effing Bob? Who in this day and age names their son Bob?

You meet Inga's eyes, and she smirks, probably having guessed what you're thinking.

"There is no mistaking him, he's probably the only Bob in the building. Go pay the man a visit. Do everything he says. *Everything*. And don't forget to tell him it's a gift from me. You'll come back and tell me exactly what he wanted from you. In detail."

Now that doesn't sound ominous at all.

"Will do." Because what else is there to say at this point?

***

Bob looks nothing like his name. A little above average height, tan, broad and stocky, bleached white hair cropped short at the top and shaved at the sides - probably due to the old-looking wriggly scar crawling across his scalp, starting at his right cheekbone. He is shirtless, and you pause in the doorway to take him in, noting the nicely defined abs and muscular arms with noticeable veins. Ripped jeans sitting low on his hips - you sneak a peek at his crotch and conclude that he is packing - and a silver chain necklace finish the look.

"Can I help you?" He sounds perplexed. Deep baritone. Your weakness. Oof. You'd think Inga was treating you with this one if it wasn't for your gut wisely reminding you about free cheese and the ultimate law of good versus shitty things in life balancing each other out. Meaning that there is bound to be something about this guy that you aren't going to like. Most likely something very nasty.

Oh well. You're about to find out, one way or another. You invite yourself in and, giving him your best customer service smile, explain about Inga sending you here as a favour. He looks even more confused now, but apparently decides to go along with it and shows you to the living room. Your attention is immediately drawn to a big black leather sofa that takes up almost the entire lengh of one wall. You think one could probably host an orgy of four to six people using it as the sole piece of furniture available for banging.

"Bathroom is that way, if you need it. Want a glass of something first? I have... beer. Or water."

Seriously? You look at him wide-eyed for a second before catching yourself and sliding back into work mode:

"No need, I'm good, thanks. So, shall we? How do you want me?"

He sits at the edge of the sofa and points to the floor between his legs.

"Here." That's it. That's all he says. Not much for small talk, then. Are all his instructions going to be so vague? No matter. You know what to do. Dropping to your knees in front of him, you swiftly unzip his jeans and discover that there is no underwear. And yes, you were right that he is packing. It may not be the biggest tool you've handled in your life, but still way more impressive than most. This is going to go either very good or very bad for you.

Eh, you're going to be fine. Not your first rodeo.

Easy. Easy. Throat relaxed and a low hum building inside your chest. Breathing steady. Things are looking good. You're salivating like nobody's business already, and he's only just reached the back of your throat. Messy, but you've never had anyone complain. Let's see if he will take advantage and rail you while his shaft is well-lubricated or just let you finish him off like this. Based on your expericence, the probablility is about 70:30 on railing. But who knows.

He buries his fingers in your hair in an unhurried caressing motion and tugs at it - not yanks painfully like they usually do, but gently pulls, lets go and pulls again, massaging your scalp. You eyes flutter closed and the satisfied hum you've been building up gets loud enough for him to hear - enough so that vibrations the sound causes add to the suckling sensation, making him moan. At last. You smile around his dick, feeling a little smug. He's been almost insultingly quiet since you started. It's nice to finally get a responce.

You take a break to lick at his balls, and he patiently lets you play around with the smooth hairless skin for a while before firmly guiding your head back to his dick. You hum in agreement and get to work, setting up a slightly livelier rhythm this time, coaxing more and more flattering sounds out of him. Vocal affirmation always does wonders for you, and this time is no exception. The man himself is helping, too. He is attractive enough and smells of soap and just a little bit of sweat, with a hint of beer and dope smoke. He doesn't talk much, so there is no distraction. And he hasn't been treating you like a piece of meat, so far. You're rapidly heating up, and as your pulse quickens, you feel blood rush to your cunt. Reaching down to tease yourself a bit, you slide your fingers between the already slightly puffed-up labia, spreading the lubrication around the opening and along the folds, absentmindedly taking note of how weird it feels without any hair. Maybe you should let it grow back...

"Close." He suddenly says, lightly tapping at your cheek to get your attention, so you tighten the seal of your lips, intent to help him along, and wonder if he is going to finish in your mouth.

"There." He suddenly breathes out and pushes you, urgently but not too forcefully. You let go of his dick and prop yourself up with your hands on the floor behind you, leaning away and watching him. Your back protests the position, but it's not so bad that you can't ignore it. He wastes no time spraying all over your face - luckily you close your eyes just in time so no spunk gets into them. You grimace and sharply exhale, annoyed. Way to spoil a perfectly pleasant blowjob. Now you're a mess.

"I could have swallowed, you know."

There is no immediate answer, so you wipe at your eyes so you can open them, curious about what he is thinking. He looks almost sheepish when you meet his gaze, but only for a second, his face instantly losing all expression.

"That's not what I wanted."

All right, fair enough. You roll your eyes at him regardless and use the hem of your top to wipe your face properly, but he has other plans. Grabbing you by the arms, he pulls you up and set you on the sofa, pushing your knees apart and diving between them to get real close and personal with your lady bits. You yelp in surprise and then giggle, feeling his hot breath on the sensitive skin, immediately followed by a swipe of a tongue urgently burrowing where your fingers were just minutes ago. Oh, he is good at surprising you. When is the other shoe going to drop, you wonder? It must drop at some point, you just know it. You can't just have a good customer without any reprecussions. That's not how the world works.

Damn, but the slurping noises and heavy breathing are really setting you off. It shouldn't be long for you if he keeps it up...

As if having read your mind, he abruptly stops, drags you closer to the seat's edge and grabs you under the knees to fold you nearly in two. Next second you feel his hard dick pushing inside with urgency that you didn't expect form a guy who has literally just came. Who would have thought he'd get so excited so soon?

At least this pose is okay for your back. It's almost as if your spine is resting, curved like this. You moan because you feel like it, not for show, which is a rare thing for you. It's marvellous. You close your eyes and focus on the sensation of being breached over and over.

"You're... you're good, you know." You think it's worth commenting on - not that it looks like any praise is needed, but it should be nice to hear. His only responce is a grunt of acknowledgement and a slight quickening of pace.

Eventually his movements grow erratic and he starts rubbing your clit, trying to keep it in sync with his thrusts and failing, but that's all right. You're pretty much ready now, and your orgasm's approach can't be hindered by anything at this point. You let it wash over you when it hits, gasping and shaking, only vaguely aware of what he is doing. He is just seconds behind you - letting go of yout legs and yanking his dick out, and before you know what happened, he shoots on your stomach. Does he have some kind of hang-up about finishing inside, or what?

And, shit, it all got on your top. That didn't seem relevant in the heat of the moment, but now you realise that your clothes are going to need a wash. Good thing you came prepared. It pays to always keep a spare top and fishnets. Even shorts, occasionally. Not to mention painkillers, wipes, a sewing and makeup kit, a flick knife and a ton of other small things that are useful to have on hand. And people wonder why your handbag is bigger than a whore is expected to have and so full all the time. You have no idea how others deal with wardrobe emergencies. Some of the girls don't even carry purses. Insanity.

Bob, who is currently busy tucking himself back into his pants, notices your disgruntled expression and once again points towards the door:

"You're welcome to use it. I'm done." Thank fuck, that didn't take too long. You mumble thanks and retrieve your bag before locking yourself up in the bathroom. Ten minutes later you're once again presentable and ready to roll. Bob waits for you by the apartment's entrance, looking uncertain.

"What's your name, again?" You actually never gave it. He probably just forgot to ask.

"Alice." He nods and unlocks the door for you.

"Alice. Nice meeting you." You give him a grin and step outside.

"You too."

He hesitates before adding:

"Tell Inga I said hi."

"Will do."

He looks at you for a couple of seconds longer and closes the door. Slowly. You shrug and turn on your heel to walk down the hallway. That was awkward. And you have a feeling that he is watching you through the peephole as you go. Creepy. Bob surely is not the most social person you've met. Funny how his fucking is way better than his conversation skills. You wonder what Inga's deal with him is. And who he is. What he does. But that's none of your business, at the end of the day. The only thing you should be concerned about is what he thinks of your performance. And whether Inga will want you to see him again.

***

"Well?" Inga seems... livelier than usual. She is smirking, her eyes are twinkling, and her whole demeanor is resemblant of a schoolgirl that is meeting her friend for gossip, rather than an employer awaiting a report. She even poured tea! With muffins! Effing muffins!

You try to school your expression, you really do, but something must have slipped through your mask, because Inga takes one look at your face and starts giggling. Which doesn't help your confusion any. Is she high? She must be high.

"Help yourself, won't you? I made these." She points to the plate of muffins. "I'm sure they are edible and maybe even tasty. You'll probably live."

Still dumbfounded, you pick up the offered teacup and politely take a muffin to nibble on. It's... okay. More than okay, in fact. Either Inga has an unreasonably low opinion of her baking skills or she is just messing with you.

Regardless, you have a tale to tell. Better not keep her waiting. Sighing, you set the cup on the table, clear your throat and begin. Inga's grin grows wider when you supplement the dry retelling of acts performed with your own impressions of the man, and she gives you an encouraging nod when you steer into a deeper analysis of his personality - what you could make of it within such a short period of observation, that is.

"Yep, sounds about right, but more importantly..." She leans forward and lowers her voice to theatrical whisper. "How big?"

With an eyeroll, you use your index fingers to show the approximate length on the table's surface. Inga whistles.

"More than I expected. Interesting..." She reclines in her chair then and goes silent for a minute, just sipping tea and thinking. You finish your second muffin in the meantime, enjoying the quiet and observing her. She looks most approachable when lost in thought, oddly enough. More than when she is smiling.

At last, she seems to remember about your presence.

"All right, love, I think that's all for today. Go laze off. You've earned it. Take some muffins with you if you like." Without waiting for you to leave, she takes out her phone and starts dialing. You hurry out of the room as fast as your heels would let you - Gods forbid she thinks you're sticking around to eavesdrop.

That was bizarre. This entire day was weird from the start. And Inga's antics just then on top of it all... She's never been so friendly - not in an intimidating way, too. What's her deal? And what about that threat of mutilation? Has she already forgotten? No, that can't be right. She never forgets. She's probably just holding this over you for the time being.

Well, at least it seems you are safe, for now. And now apparently have the rest of the day off, too. Whatever should you do with all that free time?..