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She makes the softest grumbling sound, and I can't be sure if it's because I've just eased the washcloth over the back of her thigh where I paddled her or if it's because I called her an asset – or because I've said she isn't an asset.
"I'm a popular and attractive man," I tell her. "I don't say this to brag, only to help you understand. I'm also a private man with neither the time nor the interest in dating. I don't have the patience for sluts"–she flinches at that word–"who throw themselves at me, especially now that I have enough money I can't tell them apart from gold diggers. I'm not desperate enough I'm buying prostitutes, either. Stay still."
I've cleaned her up as well as I can, although cum still trickles from her. I have the bottle of ointment – or lotion, I'm about to find out – in my hand as she says in probably the gentlest baby lamb voice she's ever used in her life, "Can you please not use those terms?"
"My daughters used to say–"
"You have daughters?"
"Yes, and they used to say–"
"Used to? How old are they?"
"That's not important."
She tips onto her side as though to face me even though she can't see me, but then she squeaks weakly and settles back down. "I just wanna know," she whines.
I don't want to indulge her, not if she's starting to get bratty again, but I know she couldn't roll over because her backside is still raw, so I answer her. "My oldest is twenty-four," I say cryptically, not about to divulge more than I need to to get the point across.
"Fuck," she curses. "How old are you?"
"Absolutely none of your business," I snap, preferring her to think I'm pushing fifty if it keeps from having to explain that I have a son who’s only fourteen years younger than me because none of my kids are biologically mine. "Anyway, they loved saying that sticks and stones break bones but words can't hurt, and that may not be true, but I also don't care if you're offended by my words. I don't want sluts and I don't need prostitutes, but I'll happily pay a small fortune for the right whore."
"What is even the difference!" she cries out in the most petulantwhy-can't-I-go-to-Coachella-with-Ryder-I'm-not-a-child-I'm-sixteenvoice I've ever heard. And true to form, the consequences of her actions follow close behind. In her dramatic pouting, she flops onto her back, forgetting that her ass is on fire right now. "Ow ow ow owow!"
"The difference," I say as I help her back onto her stomach, "is a prostitute is just getting money however she can. Maybe she likes the sex work, maybe she doesn't, but that's not why she's there. She's there for the money. A slut? She doesn't put any value on herself. She loves sex, and that's great, but she devalues it. She devalues herself. Not in sleeping with a lot of men, mind you, I don't care how many guys you've fucked. She devalues herself by giving her best commodity away for free."
I finally get the ointment open and spread it over my hands, noting the strong eucalyptus scent and the gentle tingle on my palms. This is definitely the right bottle. I plant both hands on her ass carefully enough, but she hisses through her teeth as her muscles clench.
And roll.
And a hum dances over her vocal cords.
And the eucalyptus is muddied slightly by the scent of her arousal.
"And then there's whores," I murmur, noticing she doesn't flinch this time, but damn if my cock does. I won't fuck her again, not tonight, but she makes it tempting. "Whores love sex and appreciate the value in it. They use it to get what they need, and they love every second of it."
I can't resist dropping one hand down to swipe some of the ointment on her clit. It's meant to soothe the burn from the spankings, but against such sensitive flesh, I'm sure it's overwhelming.
Baylee lifts a knee onto the mattress as though to get away from me, but it only spreads her better.
"You loved every second of today, you bratty little whore, didn't you?"
"Stop!" she whines, but I've barely touched her and can tell she's already on the edge of gushing again.
"You don't need to hide who you are with me. If you were a slut, you'd know how to take a dick in the throat. And if you were a prostitute selling your sex and your womb, you wouldn't have been grinding all over me after we nearly suffocated you."
"I didn't," she protests, but she's gripping the sheets so tight they're pulling from the mattress, which she's practically fucking, her pelvis is bouncing so much.
"You did. Not only do you love fucking, you love it rough. I bet there's nothing I could do that wouldn't leave you begging for more."
"I'm not a whore!" she cries out into the bedsheets as she makes a mess all over again.
And I'm both a good guy and a mature adult, so I wipe her down once again, gather her up in the clean duvet, and plop her down into a chair while I strip the mess away in the pitch black.
Once I settle her back down, I say, "If you give me a baby, remind me and I'll hook you up with someone who will pay more money than you can imagine for a young woman who likes it rough."
I can hear her leery tone as she says, "Do you mean yourself?"
