Isaac Byrne - Tolerance

“Later, girls,” he said, patting asses and tits farewell.

“Get bent, DJ,” Lauren bit back, shoving her moaning, quivering friends off of her.

“Oh, and of course I expect to get a weekly pic with Brianne’s ass, Jody’s tits and Lauren’s pussy—or you’ll get to see how Taylor feels, having the whole school see you being a little slut with your little slut friends.”

She scowled, though the effect was diminished by the blobs of his jizz still clinging to her face. In any case, he didn’t care enough to stick around and hear her complaints. He turned to Brittney. “You ready babe?”

“Ready!” She smiled adoringly at him.

He took her hand. “Let’s go home.”

As the music came to a close, Sydney snatched the $20 out of the man’s hand with her mouth, her big tits so thoroughly mesmerizing him he didn’t even notice it. She tucked it into her g-string with the rest of her huge wad of cash; once again, it was getting to the point where she had so many bills tucked in there that it bulged out her g-string to the point where it may as well not have been on except to keep the all the dough in place. She’d had to be extra attentive to her bikini line.

She made her way off-stage to the sounds of her loyal fans demanding an encore. Again. Ever since that crazy night a couple weeks ago when that guy had come in and auctioned her body and dignity, she’d been completely swamped with admirers. They were a mix of lonely losers, neglected husbands and boyfriends, and of course a good many flat-out perverts keen for a slice of the action that had netted her so much press. “College Co-Ed Really WILL Do Anything For Cash,” one headline had read. She hadn’t even known pervs and creepers had their own media before this.

Of course, publicity was a double-edged sword for someone in her line of work. Having some loyal clientele you could count on for a steady stream of tips was handy; having a bunch of pictures of you floating around on the internet posing with clients’ smudgy signatures and grubby hands all over you, however… that made things more interesting than Sydney liked.

She’d lost count now of how many letters and messages she’d gotten. A classic hottie, she had always used her social media fairly casually, happy to let guys get a few pics of some cleavage, a bikini shot at the beach, a selfie when she was dolled up for a night at a club. It was easy popularity, and she’d always liked being popular. She’d had fourteen-hundred-some followers before that debacle; fast forward two weeks and she had twelve thousand, as lonely wankers all over the country were keen to jack off to the unintended publicity shots.

Sydney brought up the app on her phone. Make that just over thirteen thousand.

She slipped one of the bouncers a hundred bucks to escort her out to her car and the two set out. (They’d been doing it for $20, but after some sumbag hid behind her car and tried to jump her Saturday and dealt a good hard bite to Blake as he fended the guy off, they’d demanded more.)

She considered what might have happened if Blake hadn’t been there, and figured $100 was a small price to pay.

Of course, even with the money flowing in heavier than ever, there had been more expenses that came with it. A home security system (after some fucker had shared her home address with the internet), bars for the windows, a new paint job for her car after someone spray-painted “WHORE” on both sides. She suspected it was one of the girls she worked with, who were livid with jealousy at how much attention (and money) she was getting. Cries were being raised to pool tips; Sydney had had to blow the manager to keep him from enacting the policy. From the looks she’d gotten leaving his office, she was pretty sure the other girls understood the arrangement, and it was a matter of time before she’d be competing with the desperate ones, willing to more than suck a little dick for their share of Sydney’s tips.

Happily, tonight there was no one lurking, and no further damage to her ride. (She’d also had the tires popped with a knife two days ago. Maybe another dancer; maybe Blake.) If only there had been some way to put a stop to that auction! Still, she knew there hadn’t been. Her alternatives were to be sold like a piece of meat, or… well, nothing. Like she was going to be a total cunt in front of God and everyone by refusing him. She didn’t even like that prick, even if he’d been a good lay.

Some things, she just had to tolerate.

Sydney locked the doors on her car, looked in the back seat to make sure no one was hiding again, and set out for home.

Fall break had been a long time coming for Dr. Missy Restrepo, after the most trying two weeks of her professional life. The total loss of her students’ respect, the dressing-down from the dean of her department over her wardrobe and the subsequent meeting in which he told her there’d been accusations she’d had inappropriate relations with a student… She’d denied it—after all, it would have been radically more inappropriate to refuse DJ Swanson his request. Still, they were investigating the matter, and she suspected it was a matter of time before she was called in again, this time to be fired.

She’d been looking forward to fall break as a chance to get away from campus, not have to parade around in those disgustingly slutty outfits she was now required to wear. Better still, her fiance Mark had come to visit from where he was doing his own adjunct professorship six hundred miles away. He’d gotten in that afternoon and they’d gone out to dinner at their favorite restaurant. She asked a lot of questions, too ashamed to talk about her own life.

Back home, however, he’d carried her directly into the bedroom, and even though she’d been careful to keep the lights out in the bedroom, Mark had seen the new tattoo.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked as he turned on the light on the night stand, perplexed by the intricate cursive scrawled across her lower back like a billboard.

Missy, on her hands and knees, looked back at him. “It’s nothing—just keep going, OK?”

He shook his head and pulled out of her with a wet plop. “Is this real?”

She sighed, having hoped she might somehow keep him from noticing, but on some level, glad she didn’t have to keep hiding it from him. “It’s real.”

“You always said you hated tattoos—I remember trying to convince you we should get matching ones, those little opposite half hearts, just on our ankles, and you acted like I was asking you to give me your ear, van Gogh style.” He dropped to his side, facing away from her, clearly wounded.

“No, I still hate tattoos—I just did it because of this twerpy little student of mine.” She put a hand on his shoulder consolingly, but he shrugged it off.

“You got it for one of your students?! You don’t even like these kids, Missy! You complain about them all the time!”

“It’s not like that—he just took me by the hand and dragged me into the parlor and told them what he wanted. There was nothing I could do!”

He rolled to face her, incredulous at how feeble her excuse sounded. “Nothing you could do? How about saying no! ‘No, I don’t want this horrible tat taking up half my lower back!’”

“No!” she cried. “I just… he’s a special case. I couldn’t say no—it’s just one of those things you have to deal with as a professor.”

“What?” he said, taking to his feet in anger. “I’m in the same business as you, and that’s definitely NOT something I have to deal with! Does this kid have dirt on you somehow? Is he part of this ethics inquiry thing you were so afraid to talk about?”

She hesitated, then nodded. How could she make him understand? She didn’t like being DJ’s plaything, of course, but what was the alternative? Letting everyone think she was completely prejudiced against him? It was unthinkable. “Yes,” she said softly. “He’s a big part of it.”