Hips slapped hard against his rear, forcing the stiff swollen cock into his tight unwilling body. His knees dug into the carpet where he lay half upon the mattress, hands bound tight at the wrist and elbow behind his back. His voice grunted out pained cries around the ball gag resting between his teeth. A hand pressed hard on his head, holding it down against the bed while the other kept a tight bruising grip on his hip, restraining him as he struggled beneath the man violating him.

To any witness it would have looked like a typical rape in the dark basement room of a strip club, but what the casual voyeur would have seen was not the actuality. In truth, the one being 'raped' was doing nothing more than his job. The illusion of rape was the kind of sex his paying patron had wanted, so he gave enough resistance to give the one thrusting into him his desired predatory pleasure. It took practice to act so well in the midst of the heat and pain of such an intimate moment, but time and exposure had forced him to become a master. As long as he was in debt, he had to do his job.

There were other jobs, ones that didn't require him to humiliate himself, let him keep his clothes on, would occasionally make the smile he offered a customer sincere and real and not a carefully crafted mask. But those jobs didn't pay the kind of money he needed. Not like this job did. Some claimed that violation of the body, death, robbery, and personal attack were some of the greatest fears one would face in the present day and age. Debt could be scary as well. One missed payment, and the whole world a person built could fall apart, leaving them on the street, without a penny to their name that wasn't snatched up instantly for the interest charges.

That had been him once. People had looked at him, calling him a homeless bum. Throwing mere coins in the can he'd sit out, hoping it would be enough for the next cheeseburger. Sometimes holding "Will Work For Food" helped, but most of the people shouted for him to get a job if they even looked at him at all. He wondered if they ever realized how hard it was to get a job when the last shower you had was from a bathroom sink in the McDonalds that had frowned at your pennies when you went to buy that one burger you would get to eat that day.

The strip club/brothel had been different. They hadn't turned him away, though they didn't give him the bartender position he had hoped for, instead making him one of the guys gyrating his hips both on the dance floor and in the private basement rooms. It was another debt, them cleaning him up, teaching him the moves, but it was paying off. He was out of debt with the club, and was slowly paying back what he owed. The job wouldn't be forever, but until he was free, he had to submit to it, accept money down his pants, and let those pants be pulled down.

It was all a part of his job.

The man using him so violently was his first partner of the night, and the evening had begun as normal prior to the beginning of their private session. He had sat on the bed with a layered black and white robes spread out around him. He had been told the man was a first time with another man, so he had made himself as feminine as he dared without losing the tiny piece of pride he still held to define himself as a truly heterosexual male. Just because he slept with men for money didn't mean that was what he preferred.

So he had arranged his brown hair to frame his face perfectly while his painted mouth smiled a smile that didn't reach his dark brown eyes when he greeted the patron, saying, "Good evening, Sir, and thank you for purchasing time with me. How would you like me to act for your pleasure?"

This client had said nothing after those soft, husky words. Instead, He had strode forward with restrained violence, reaching under the sheer feathery layers of cloth to yank the butt plug keeping the prostitute prepared free. He quickly understood his patron's wordless answer as the man began binding his arms behind his back with the sashes from his robes. If resistance was what the man wanted, then that was what he would give. After all, he had asked how the customer wanted him to act, and while wordless, he had been answered. It was all just another part of his job.

Now, later, after several minutes of painful thrusts that hinted at pleasure but were too harsh to give it properly the hips smacking against his rear were starting to get faster. With that increase in strength his muffled shouts grew louder and sharper with each jab of pain that disguised the spark of more base gratifications. His partner was closing in, and it brought him new agony that he knew from many other such times that he must endure until the moment the man came.

Finally he did. His patron leaned over him, freezing into position with an almost pained gasp, hips trembling. Heat flowed into him, his client pressing hard between his shoulders to forcefully arch his back up against the pelvis resting flush against him. Yet again, another mark was left inside his body, another unseen symbol of the shame he had resorted to with the faded hope of getting what had been his life back.

Shaky fingers ran one last time through his sweat soaked hair before the now flaccid organ withdrew. He didn't hear much else except the door opening then closing as their time together was concluded. He had stopped feeling empty long after entering this line of work, but without the emptiness he wasn't sure how he felt about his job. It had been so long he doubted the emotions he felt during these sessions were his at all, much less real.

He lay there for a moment before sliding off the bed. His arms were still tied so he couldn't take the gag out. He would have to wait for the attendant to come and release him. Already he could feel the hot seed leaking out of his sphincter.

He rested his head against the side of the bed. His eyes cast down at his partially raised cock and he felt a saddened smile form around his mouth restraint. After over a year, he was finally learning to enjoy his job.