The Rent Boy (EDITING)

Chapter One: The Rent-

    Many boys my age were usually still stuck inside the walls of school, studying for their finals and planning their glorious future. The only thing they needed to worry about was failing. If they did fail, what happened next? They studied some more and re-sat them. Simple. But that was the easy life, and who wanted that?

    Well, I wouldn't mind it.

    Being a rent boy wasn't exactly the most breathtaking job there was––to put it lightly––but was I ashamed of it? No. Should I have been? Probably. Thing is, it definitely wasn't something I could have seen myself doing two years ago. Being groped by older men and horny cougars...no, definitely not something I'd have chosen as a career.

    And shit, it was always the same questions with every customer, before they turned into controlling dicks: what's a fine lad like you doin' on a street corner? Shouldn' you be in school? at that point they usually snorted, picked their nose or itched their arse. Such a turn on, right?

    By then I'd be fighting an urge to reel away, but instead I usually answered with: nah, wasn't my thing, which they'd reply with a laugh, and then ask me how much it'd cost them.

    If I had the choice, I wouldn't ever do what inevitably happened after the little exchange of words. Sure, I said I wasn't ashamed of it but if you had the choice, would you get down on your knees and blow a guy who looked like a rat and smelled like a sewer?

    Not to mention the fact that, more often than not, it was done in an alley so my knees were pressed against the hard concrete floor, barely having enough money to buy decent clothes, so I was stuck on a cold night, chilly breeze, with my fucking hands around some guy's dick and shaking like a fucking vibrator.

    I was then having to keep the temptation of dropping them to the floor and kicking their heads in, until they were close to death, at bay after hearing them mutter things like: fuckin' dirty lad, aren't you? Mouth was just made for cock-sucking, because seriously? Fuck you. They were getting off on this, while I was having to maintain a steady pace so I could actually get paid after the abuse my mouth took.

    But anyway, enough about that. Let's talk about how I was in the middle of giving head to a fairly decent man in a hotel room, who didn't come at me with an annoying one-liner, or mention anything about my age, and simply threw me a quick, how you doing? and a sly, up for earning a bit'a cash? before we headed to the nearest, cheapest hotel.

    These guys were rare, but they weren't always the preferred clients. These types of guys tended to want more than they were willing to pay for. If anything, I stuck by rules.

    He told me he was willing to pay as much as twenty quid for a blow and a little something more, in a hotel room. I told him the prices, and twenty wasn't about to get him anything extra. They were set amounts for set allowances. It was forty for a blow-job in a hotel, or a hundred for the whole ride. There was no half way points, no exceptions.

    That never pleased them to hear, but damn if they weren't persistent.

    You'd think they'd be a little more appreciative after throwing in a couple of deep-throats and swallowing their load––especially considering the risks of me catching something from the pricks, god knows where their dicks have been––but they never were.

    It was always the same with these men. You get up to leave and they'd follow you to the door, waiting until you were just near enough to the wall so they could corner you. Somehow they had your back pressed up against the pasty-yellow paint work as their hand bolted towards your crotch.

    I'd been in these situations enough times to see it coming, grabbing his wrist and telling him that it wasn't going to happen unless he was willing to pay the fixed price.