13 Men Who Bought Me: C3: The One Who Bought What He Already Owned.

Note: This is a series. The prologue can be found here and the catalogue of all the posts is here. These pieces can be read as standalone pieces but you will get the best out of them if you read them as a series. In the end, the series will be compiled into a book and all Patrons can have a kindle-copy of it for free. 

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Chapter 3: The One Who Bought What He Already Owned. 

My name means morning. Savera. Unlike most women in my profession, I never changed my name, I never gave anyone a fake name. Part of that is because it isn't necessary, even if I tell them my real name, every one assumes it is fake and no one would ever think to look for me under my own name. The other part is that I'm not sure from whom I am trying to hide. I have never thought to hide, from anyone, what I did for a living, and there were times when my relationships suffered for it. There were times when a little more deception on my part and perhaps a little willingness to hide would have benefitted everyone in the picture, but I couldn't do it. I have to be performatively honest. It's not entirely about integrity, it's partly also about identity, I find something rewarding in being an honest person, and it's not limited to the internal joy of it, I like being known and seen as the problematically honest person. Principles that get you external validation are harder to betray. For instance, I didn't have to tell my family what I wanted to do for a living, and it is possible to hide it. I didn't want to emancipate myself from my family, but I didn't really want them to accept it either. I wanted them to see me as the person who is problematically honest, and be adequately befuddled by my behaviour. I wish I could say that my honesty in this scenario had to do with taking a stand for the dignity of sex work, but it didn't, I knew they weren't going to accept it nor change their minds about the field of work. I knew that. I didn't want them to change their minds. I didn't want them to see my truth as much as I wanted to show it. It's an aggressive form of honesty, it doesn't always have the most noble intentions and it's not always for the best.

But, it's the best I've got.

Ultimately a belief system is not always about the most rational choice, not when being rational as a human being should rationally involve catering to human emotion as part of the equation and modern rationality has nothing to do with that. It's about trying our best to be what we think robots should be. The robot's choice is not always the best one for the human being. My choice doesn't always seen perfectly rational, but it's the right one for me, because I am certain life isn't meant to make the most effective and efficient decisions, not when it offers the potential for so much mystery and magic. That's part of why I use my real name, I think it's beautiful. My mother stole the name from her best friend because she said that since her friend had had a boy, she no longer needed the girl-name. I still think it's morally-ambiguous, but I like wearing a stolen name. I also love the mornings. A lot of people assume I am a person of the night, and it's not to say that I don't like the night, the morning just has an edge. The night is when you make the stories, but morning is when you read them. Night is when you discover who you are and morning is when you accept it. They both need each other, but the morning has an edge. Everyone always talks about the morning being fresh and new, but I think it's a falsehood; when you wake up you don't leave the night behind, you don't erase yesterday, while you sleep you imbibe it. It becomes part of you. So each morning is only as fresh as the night before, and only as new as you are (which, unless you're a child, is not at all). Morning is truth, and I like that. It's all I've got. No one ever made me regret opting for the truth as much as Guru.

Guru. His name means teacher. It's apt, for he taught me things that no school nor philosopher could have. I met him when I was nineteen. I was running the route I ran early each morning and one day he was just there, running it as well. It wasn't creepy, it was a park, many people came there to workout in the morning. Then the next day he was there again. And then again. When we had gotten used to expecting each other every morning, we started competing on our runs. I won, of course, and he insisted that it was because I was 15-years younger and knew the route better, but sore losers make pathetic excuses. I could beat him even today. I wouldn't know where to find him, but if I did, I could beat him. Eventually, after a few weeks of running together, he asked if we could go get a smoothie after our run. At that point in my life, I had stopped completely dating, I stopped immediately after I started working as an escort because I had always figured there would be a bit of an issue there. I don't know many heterosexual men who want to fall in love with whores except the ones who want to rescue us, and here's the thing, that rescue fantasy is deeply unattractive. I know there are many women who actually need to be rescued from the exploitation of men, but that's not a romantic thing, that's a failure of society and all our public institutions. In my case though, there is no exploitation, and men who feel like they must rescue me are just white knights who want the glory of fixing and cleansing me. Still, I was tempted to accept Guru's offer to have a smoothie, and I explained to myself that it wasn't a date, it was just a refreshing beverage picked up on the walk home. So, I went with him.

He was the kind of guy who orders your drink for you without asking you what you want, and then thinks he's so suave for getting it right. As if anyone really gets a smoothie right. We drink them for an unspecified reason, and every month there's a different insane ingredient that we absolutely must add to our drinks or we shall all drop dead for sure. They're just fruits, sweeteners and vegetables, it's not so groundbreaking that we're putting food into our mouths in liquid form. I don't understand the allure of smoothies, but coffee though, now that's a beverage. Rich, beautiful, flavourful, unnecessary for the survival of your body. I was fantasizing about the cup of coffee waiting for me at home when he handed me something vile and green in a fun cup with a paper straw. It was horrible, but I took sips intermittently as we sat down on the bench outside, and pretended it was just what I wanted. We made small-talk — where are you from, how long have you run, where do you live — but I was distracted by the smell of his sweat. I had the overwhelming desire to bury my nose in his armpit and inhale deeply.

"You don't want to drink that, do you?" He asked, breaking what felt like a long silence between us.

I looked at the green drink in my hands and suddenly the prospect of finishing it made my stomach turn.

"Not really," I said to him.

"No, you don't," he said taking it from me and tossing it in the dustbin next to him, "You want coffee, don't you?"

His question, even though it made perfect statistical sense to ask someone early in the morning, hit me like a slap in the face.

"I really, really do," I told him, almost unable to hide that I was pleased and impressed.

"I can make you some coffee," he said standing up, and looking back at me, "You want to come home with me?"

Fifteen minutes after that, before I had even gotten that coffee, I slept with him. I don't know what came over me, although later I would learn just how much I was willing to do because of his irresistible charm. We walked to his place, it was only two streets over from mine, and much bigger than a man his age should be able to afford, but for once I wasn't concerned about doing a financial audit on the man with whom I was going home. From the moment we entered through the gates, I felt like I could breathe. He held my hand, and I felt like he was dragging me into a lion's cage, but also like I was the lion. The moment he leaned over me to close the door, my fate was sealed. He reached over and undid my hair, they were still wet from the sweat, and felt cold against my back. He didn't seem to mind as he grabbed them turned my head up to face him in their grip. He was eight-inches taller than I am, and eight-inches never before felt like such a great distance.

"Tell me you want this," he said to me, still holding my hair in a rapidly tightening grip.

"I do," I said, trying to reach up to his face to kiss him, but he held me still and I couldn't move my neck at all.

"I'm going to be rough with you," he stated with painful clarity, "If you don't want that, speak now, and I'll make you that coffee."

I didn't speak. I didn't even know how much I wanted what this man was intent on giving me.

"If you want me to stop, say stop," he said pulling me closer and wrapping his other hand around my neck, "If you don't say stop, I won't stop."

I didn't ask him to stop. Not when he pushed me straight to the floor and tilted my head with his foot to look at me. Not when he tore off my clothes and bit every part of me that he saw. Not even when he slapped me right across the face and kissed me right after. No man had ever slapped me before. In fact, no one had ever slapped me before, and I couldn't understand, in that moment, how I had lived so long without it. It still takes my breath away to think about that morning. It still makes me lightheaded and scared. It still makes me want to grip my palm so hard it starts to bleed.

I did bleed that morning.

He had a huge cock. I have no idea how to say this without sounding crass, but it was huge. It wasn't just the biggest cock I had seen at that point in my life, I knew it would be one of the biggest I saw ever in my entire life. It came as a surprise but it explained his entire personality somehow. He was too confident for a man. I'm usually the confident one and that role-reversal was too much for me until I saw his cock. Somehow that justified it. It made sense that he destroy me. It was clearly what he was made to do. The moment he started fucking me it felt like the whole world started to make sense. My life started to make sense to me. I must have started to visibly bleed as he fucked me because he flipped me over stared at me for a moment with slight concern.

"Are you a virgin?" He asked holding up a sample of my blood, clearly not wanting an answer, just reassurance for how much he was hurting me.

"You ask that to all the girls who bleed on your massive cock?" I asked, pulling him back inside me, "I'm not a virgin, I'm a fucking prostitute."

I don't know why I picked that moment, it just came out. He didn't react in any way I expected, he barely reacted at all.

"Then be a good fucking whore and bend over," he said.

I did. I couldn't wait to do it. He fucked me harder after that, and at a certain point, I started to cry. They were just tears, not emotional, just physical and they felt good. I finally figured out what sex had been missing all my life.

A little bit of pain.

A little bit of tragedy.

Afterwards, he brought me ice and coffee. He held me in his arms and asked me if I was doing okay. I wasn't, but I couldn't tell him that, I was sure I had fallen in love, and the euphoria was spilling out of me like blood. I couldn't be seen like that.

"Would you like me to drive you home?" He asked, perhaps sensing that I needed to process something.

"No, it's very close," I said, attempting to get off the bed without keeling over with the cramping in my abdomen, "I'll just walk."

He laughed and watched me attempt to locate my clothes for a moment.

"No you won't," he said as if it were obvious, "You really even can't."

He was right but I hated that he was right. It was like I had finally lost the race with him and he knew how much it was bothering me. I had no choice, I needed some help, I was too disoriented to do it on my own and too vulnerable not to break into tears on the way home. I let him drive me home. It was only four minutes but I wished every second that I could jump out of the window. As he pulled over through the gates of my building, he looked over at me.

"Don't worry," he said, "I won't come upstairs."

"Oh," I said, maybe even disappointed, but the drive had given me some time to recover and I felt more like myself, and I remembered who I actually was.

"Nice building," he said, unlocking the door and getting out to open mine.

Such a gentleman that it hurt, as if he hadn't just kicked me in my thigh and thrown me against a wall.

"Can I ask you a question?" He said opening the door and looking at me.

I nodded my head, but I knew what was coming.

"Did you really mean it when you said you're a prostitute?" He asked.

"I did," I told him, a little disappointed that I had opted for the truth, "That's what I do."

"Do you believe in serendipity?" He asked.

I laughed for a long moment. The ridiculous question broke the spell and I wondered if he was an idiot.

"No," I told him, still laughing, and getting out of the car.

"But you're going to," he said getting back in his car.

He drove away without explaining that odd statement, but I expected to hear from him soon. I had given him my number back in his house because he had asked, and I was relieved because I had to see him again. I knew I would. I may have gotten overwhelmed and lost my bearing for a little bit but I know what I'm about. My spell is as strong as his, even on my worst day, and when it isn't, I always have my body. I heard from him in less than two hours.

"I hope you didn't have any work scheduled today, I don't think you'll make it."

He was not wrong, but it was uncomfortable to learn that he knew as much as he knew. I could barely walk without wincing and my body felt like it had been put through the dryer. I had never been happier, and I couldn't believe that all of it had come to pass at the hands of a man I barely knew. I wanted to say that to him, instead I just told him I didn't have any work that day. I went about my day, hoping my phone would buzz even as I made some meals, cleaned, sent out the drycleaning and put the laundry in order. In the evening, I ran myself a bath and sat in the water explaining to myself that I had let my emotions get the best of me. He didn't want to date a prostitute, why would he? For the first time, it hurt my heart a little to do what I do. Before I had gotten out of the tub, the doorbell rang, I always panic when that happens if I am not expecting someone. I always expect it is the cops, I guess, or something of that sort. A stalker, a vindictive lover, a guard come to murder me. I wondered why no one had called from the front desk to inform me that I had a visitor, I paid a shit tonne in rent because I was young, I had (what I thought was) a lot of money and I was not at the point where I realised I needed to launder my income and invest it for my future. I was nineteen and living my dream life, I was free of my oppressive, stuffy family, I had my own place far, far away from any home I had, I loved my job, I did not care about how much I spent. And honestly, that's okay. I never cared for baubles or trinkets, I bought nice clothes but that was an investment, I liked to spend my money on having a beautiful house, a nice bathroom, great coffee, the best apricot jam, beautiful sheets because that's the part of living with my family I actually liked. The luxury. I never cared for the statement bags or the diamonds, I want the luxury embedded into my life. Woven. I want to walk on a pillow of fine chocolate and sleep on clouds of silk. There was never any dust in my parents' home, and I never saw it get removed either. I wanted that. Which is why I was miffed that the doorbell had rung without my permission, and also why I was convinced a guard had come to murder me. I looked through the keyhole but, I have to confess, I can never make out who I am seeing, I don't believe keyholes work, so when I was opening the door I was creeping it open a millimeter at a time and because I wasn't expecting who I was about to see, I let out a little scream the moment I saw him.

It was him.

Guru.

"I'm not that scary," he said, letting himself in, past me.

I laughed. I *laughed*. If any other man had shown up at my door unannounced, I would have gotten mad immediately. I didn't get mad. I laughed. If any other man had taken advantage of knowing where I lived, I would have been livid, I wasn't livid, I was impressed. How stupid one can be. I wish I could blame youth, but I already knew better than to encourage that type of behavior. Even in a man who wouldn't take advantage of it, behaving like that is already taking advantage.

"You were taking a shower?" He asked, "I'm sorry to interrupt."

Then why did you interrupt? It was entirely your choice, but that's not what I said at all.

"It's alright," I told him, "I was just surprised, that's all, I don't usually scream."

"I noticed," he said.

Suddenly, I felt very scared. I realised that I had entertained a fantasy based on the encounter I had with him earlier that morning but when he stood in front of me, the second time, wearing the intention to cash out the fantasy, I was terrified. And when I am scared, or uncomfortable, I approach with sudden bursts of honesty.

"Why are you here?" I asked him.

When you're immersed in the spell of lustful magic for too long, you're at risk of becoming totally stupid, and I couldn't do that. I still cannot do that. I cannot fly for too long, I have to land, set up camp and reassess my supplies for the flight tomorrow. That's how I live.

"I wanted to see you," he asked, walking towards the couch in the living room, "Beautiful place you have, may I sit down?"

"Of course," I said, following him to sit down as well, "Do you want some water?"

"I can suck it out of your hair," he said.

That's not what he was supposed to say. That's not what anyone is supposed to say and despite my resolve to take charge of the situation, he kept making me laugh, and melt.

"What do you want?" I asked him, "Do you want to fuck me again? Is that what this is? You could have texted. This is creepy."

"I agree," he said, immediately, "I'm sorry, I didn't come here to fuck you, I wanted to see you, I cannot stop thinking about you."

I pointed demonstrably to my phone.

"I know," he said, "You know... I run an escort service."

I should have been shocked. It should have been one of those drop-the-platter moments they have in soap operas. But no. I laughed.

"No you don't," I said, still laughing, "This is some elaborate joke to you? Get out of here, man."

His face got really serious, and my insides shrank. Never before had a facial expression had such a serious impact on me. I physically felt myself shrink and become that tiny woman who lay underneath him in the morning as held me down and fucked me.

"I'm not here to joke, Savera," he said, and I felt like a little child all of a sudden, being told off my the principal for playing a silly prank.

"You must... Please, understand my reaction, this is too much," I told him, in a different tone, "It's too shocking to be true, it's..."

".. serendipitous?" He finished with a word I was definitely not going for.

"No," I told him, "It's just..I know the men who run escort services and they don't, look or talk like you."

He sat there in silence for a few seconds while I looked at him suspiciously.

"And I know a lot of whores and while many of them look like you, no offence, all this is very impressive," he said, dismissively gesturing to my body, "None of them talk or think like you."

"So to you this is.. serendipity?" I asked, laughing again.

"Serendipity." He said seriously.

"It's not you trying to hire me for your business?" I really didn't know how to have such conversations back then.

"I can't," he said, very quickly, "You're clearly too expensive for our clientele."

That pleased me. He knew how to please me.
“So what do you even want then?" I asked him.

He shook his head, exasperated, it was adorable and would soon become my favourite face to watch him make. He got up and came over to where I was sitting, sitting down beside me before turning my head to him and kissing me.

"I want to take you to dinner," he said, comically defeated, "And then I want to bring you back home, take off all your clothes and teach you how to scream."

That's how Guru and I got together. He took me to dinner, brought me back to teach me how to scream, and then woke me up at 5 AM and told me we were going running. I was in love with him and he was in love with me. We saw each other almost everyday and even when I was out with other men he's all I thought about. I did something I had never done before, I compared how other men felt inside me to how he felt inside me. Guru taught me how much I loved the pain. He showed me all the convoluted and elaborate ways in which I could be hurt. For a minute, he overwhelmed me so much I was actually distracted from what I wanted to do in my life. With regard to that though, we adopted a policy of honesty from my end and silence from his. He never talked about his work and I talked about mine as much as I could, because performative honesty. I felt better with him knowing everything, and for a while it all seemed great.

For a while.  

Things started to unravel when he fucked my ass. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it wasn't like that. Obviously, in my line of work, anal is often a given. A lot of men fucked my ass but Guru didn't, his dick was just way too big to fit in there, and anytime he brought it up, my insides churned and I wanted to disappear. He mostly brought it up only to scare me but he never followed through on his threats, he just made them, watched me squirm and then laughed it off. Until early one morning when I came to his house after spending the night with a client who was really into anal, he'd been up there three times in the same night and the gnarly reality of this job is that sometimes you have to ice your asshole because most often people who pay you don't care about ensuring the amount of arousal and foreplay that is necessary to enjoying anal. That is what I was doing, I was icing my asshole when Guru walked into the bathroom and asked me what the fuck I was doing. I explained and instead of laughing at my very clever quip of my job being a literal pain in the ass, he walked out of the bathroom and slammed the door shut. I was perturbed, so I followed him, and I found him sitting on the chair in his bedroom.

"Why are you mad at me?" I asked him, sitting down on his lap.

He pushed me off him and to the floor. He did that often but those times were always part of a sexual encounter, and because of that my body was confused, I didn't know what he wanted, and because I could not understand the situation I said the worst possible thing I could have said in that moment.

"Do you want to fuck me?" I asked him, kneeling up to place my hands on his thighs, "Is that what you want?"

He pulled my hair and yelled into my face, telling me he couldn't believe I could be so fucking dumb and oblivious. He had never spoken to me like that before, not when his cock wasn't inside me. I was scared.

"Guru, I am scared," I told him immediately, trying to release my hair from his grip.

"You should be," he said, standing up with my hair still in his grip, and pushing me to the bed, "If you're going to run around letting any man fuck you ass, I see no reason not to do it to you too."

"What are you saying?" I said, starting to get a little annoyed as well, "They're clients! You know what I do for a living! They fucking pay me!"

That wasn't a good thing to say either. It made him much angrier.

"Oh they pay you?" He screamed, picking up his wallet from the nightstand, "I can do that too, how much you want?"

He started throwing notes onto the bed and when he ran out, he threw his entire wallet at my head.

"Now bend the fuck over," he said, grabbing me by the throat and pushing me.

"No," I screamed back at him, "I am not going to do that."

He slapped me. It was a different kind of slap than the ones he usually gave me and it rang in my ear for much longer than I anticipated. It made the fear rise to my throat, and crippled my arms and legs.

"I'm your client now," he said gripping my arms so tight, I could see the bruises forming in real-time, "You have to give me what I want, I pay you too, whore."

I realised my defeat. I could have left, but I calculated that the violence would escalate if I started to walk towards the door.

"Guru, I'm sorry," I begged him, "I didn't mean to upset you, please don't do this to me."

His facial expression did not change at all.

"Bend over, Savera," he told me, through gritted teeth, "Do not test my patience any further."

Terrified as I was, hearing him talk to me like that stirred something inside my chest, and deep inside my cunt. I stepped out of my clothes and bent over. In my head I could hear the music that would play in the movie version of that scene. He put his hand on my back, and presumably fondled himself as he listened to me sob into his sheets. I felt his cock harden as he rubbed it between my ass. For a second, he pushed it into my cunt, and I was so relieved. It had all just been a game! But I was wrong, he pulled out immediately and started pushing himself into my ass. For a couple of inches he went slow, but the moment he got a firm wedge in there, he pushed so hard my screams reverberated through the entire house. First he taught me how much I loved pain, and then he taught me how terrible it could be. He fucked me way too long, way longer than he needed, and he didn't care at all. He didn't care about the screaming, the crying, the bleeding, the complete and total destruction of our love. He didn't even care about putting on a condom. He didn't care. He just kept going until he was done, and at some point, I must have blacked out because the next thing I remember is waking up in his bed, with a wad of cash staring at my face from the nightstand. When he came into the room, he looked like his usual self, he was cheery and loving.

"Sleep well?" He asked sitting down next to me, and I could help but recoil away from him, "What? You don't need to be scared of me."

I didn't? I couldn't believe he could actually say that.

"Guru, can I please go home now?" I asked him.

"Don't be silly," he said, bending down and kissing my forehead, "We're going to lunch, remember?"

I did remember, I just didn't think we were ever going to do anything together ever again.

"I don't think we are," I said

"Of course we are," he said, picking up the cash from the table and handing it to me, "And you can pay since you made so much last night and this morning."

That broke my heart.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked him, horrified at the turn of events.

"You'll learn to like it," he said, putting the cash into my bag.

"I don't want your money, Guru," I told him, with what I thought was vehement fervour.

All he did was look at me. He didn't say anything, he didn't take the money out of my bag, he didn't get angry. He just looked at me and I knew to stop fighting immediately. I also knew I still needed him, and wanted to wake up next to him. Even if he made me feel so sullied.

"Please don't ever do that to me again?" I asked, hopeful that he was sorry.

"I promise," he said, lightening the load in my heart for a moment, "I will always pay you when I do that."

And he did.

We were together for years after that, but every time be fucked my ass I woke up to a wad of cash in my face. Sometimes, later in our relationship, I would see the money in my bank account in the morning, and know what was coming at night. I came to accept it. He was right, I learnt to like it. I came to see two Gurus. Guru, the man who loved me and hurt me till I attained euphoria and Guru, the man who paid me and hurt me till he attained it. In many ways Guru is the client I never lose because every single time I feel something creeping up my ass, he's there, he's there to make me relive the trauma of his love. I just never understood why he felt that he had to buy what he clearly already owned.