Harvard barely had time to resume the grind after spring break before Easter hit. I had hoped to get a few days off, jump on a plane, and fuck Sander, but the institution wouldn’t allow it. Too many assignments, too many papers, too many theses to argue.

I had too much shit to sort, as well. The voyeur. The whore. The mindfuck of Grossbaum. The girl who peed herself in a bathroom and called it empathy. Oh, and the student. I almost forgot her.

My body still hadn’t caught up with the road, and my mind kept folding in on itself like flawed theory—beautiful on the first read but cracked under the weight of proofreading. I ached to be fucked slow by a cock stripped of anything but the notion of expected privilege. Alicia lingered in my sheets like residue. Shavonne spoke in riddles I wasn’t ready to unravel. I’d tasted too many girls and swallowed too many cocks to remember what virginity was supposed to protect. And I longed for something utterly real.

Real, Hannah?

Dr. Reed sat in the chair by my bed and judged my slick fingers as they left a trail from crotch to lips, not as the Voyeur but as the judge, flipping through my notes and comparing them to her own.

Baudrillard says nothing is real; you underlined it and left a note in the margin. You quoted Lacan’s words on how desire only exists because the Real is unreachable. When you cite Lorde, you say it as a warning. The erotic is not always pleasure but power. So Hannah, what is left to believe?

“My orgasms, Dr. Reed. They’re real.”

Your brother? she asked.

“Yes, doctor. Yes.”

So, Sander came up to Boston instead.

Shavonne asked me about my weekend plans, and I deflected. Alicia stood half-naked and beautiful in her doorway—not an invitation, precisely, but definitely an offer. I sighed as I refused the urge.

Mark Grossbaum lingered on the pathway to the library, but I only offered him a hello. He tried to haul me in, but I still denied him.

Spring was in the air; to my peers, it meant one thing; to me, it meant my brother was in Boston. And I had no time to debate sin versus sin, or whether I deserved my gangbangs or if I was going to cum like fucking art. My mind glitched between watching and taking, Anna and Hannah.

I didn’t pack a bag. Just a tube of lipstick, lube, and the perfume I only wear when I want to forget what I smell like. I offered no apologies, not to Shavonne, not to Alicia. Not to myself.

The bus ride had become a habit. I counted the stops, tapped my foot, and pretended every girl felt like me when meeting her brother for the first time in months. I tried to remember a single lecture from the week. I wasn’t sure I’d attended one. Surely someone had explained why whoredom came so easily to me? Surely? Or maybe it had just been my own voice.

When I arrived, he sat deliciously lounged in the hotel lobby, like someone I’d fuck on a first date and forget, but stood like a gentleman.

We kissed like lovers, not client and whore, and that felt important. He asked if I was hungry.

“I could use a drink,” I said.

“You’re eighteen,” he argued.

I pitied him a little.

“Almost twenty-two,” I said.

We ordered and found a small table by the window.

“How’s Mom and Dad?” I asked, sipping whisky because that’s what I felt like.

Sander was more of a beer guy, and he let his gaze drift to the street outside.

“They miss you,” he said.

“I bet they do,” I said, “or is it just the memory of what I am?”

He stopped his thread and gazed onto the street.

“Always this busy? Boston?”

I followed his gaze. Boston was Boston. It was a Friday night, the Bruins were clinging to a playoff spot, and the Toronto Maple Leafs were in town.

“Hockey,” I said. “Bear cubs against the most hated team in the league.”

I drained my drink and waved for another.

“I want to get real drunk,” I said.

He turned to me, slow. “What?”

“First time you fucked me, I was pissed out of my mind,” I said. “I just want to feel that again.”

Sander was used to me, even after a few months of absence.

“I wish you were more blunt,” he grinned.

By the third whisky, I felt the comfortable heat cling around my spine. I emptied it, and our waiter soon brought another.

I twirled the glass between my fingers before leaning in.

“You ever fucked a whore?”

Sander wasn’t a guy who needed to pay for sex, but that didn’t mean he’d be above it. He flinched—caught somewhere between honesty and a lie. That was more than I needed.

“Once,” he finally said. “Just to try it.”

“Want to do it again? A good one this time?”

I told him about Delacourte. About being paraded through Montréal in a red dress and nothing underneath. About men old enough for the Presidency who made me crawl to their shoes. The leash and how it made me feel complete and purposeful, how I drank absinthe with two fingers inside me while Shavonne negotiated the price of my obedience. How I came around a cock in my ass so big it made the gag in my mouth taste like bubble gum. The kind you used to get from a vending machine at the convenience store. How being the centerpiece of a cum shower felt like a reward for a job well done.

“Hannah…” he started.

“Don’t Hannah me,” I said. “Just let me know if you’re turned on—or disgusted.”

He sipped his beer. Then downed it.

“You’re my sister,” he said, “and I don’t always want to know.”

I kissed him.

“Don’t be jealous,” I whispered. “Just take me upstairs and fuck me. If you want—you can pay me for it.”

Men are easily corrupted, and I’d corrupted Sander for nearly a year. He couldn’t keep his hands off me in the elevator, and I didn’t pretend I wanted him to. His hand was inside my blouse, and I realized how much I missed his touch. I wanted to press the stop button, sink to my knees, and suck his cock like a filthy little whore—but I had some restraint left in me.

His room was on the twelfth floor. I counted the dings in my head. It was a proper elevator, restored and kept, because modern didn’t fit this hotel. His leg slid between my thighs, his hand groped my tits, and his breath warmed my lips.

“How much for a blowjob?” he whispered, pressing the stop button.

“Fifty,” I panted against his breath. “But if you cum before the elevator arrives at our floor, I’ll do it for thirty.”

He didn’t say yes. He didn’t have to.

His zipper came down with the soft rasp of consent disguised as urgency. I was already on my knees before he could breathe out my name. The carpet pressed against my shins, the elevator lights warm on my back, and his cock heavy in my hand.

I licked the head slowly—just once—watching him, waiting for recognition and that moan of approval. Then I wrapped my lips around him like I’d missed the taste, because I had. I took him deep, no teasing, no buildup, just a filthy slide down my throat.

His hand found the back of my head, but he didn’t push. He didn’t need to.

I sucked like I had something to prove. Like I was on a timer.

Because I was.

There was a voice on the intercom. Assuring us the elevator was being reset.

We were caught somewhere between the sixth and seventh floors. I didn’t care. Not even when the lights flickered, and the elevator jolted back to life—it only made me work with more urgency. Intent. Professionalism.

A soft ding in the distance. Seventh floor, but I didn’t count them anymore—I just moaned around him, let the sound vibrate through his shaft. His breath hitched. His hips twitched.

“You’re going to make me cum,” he groaned.

I pulled back just far enough to grin up at him. “Then hurry. Or the price goes up.”

He came with a grunt. Silent, then not. I swallowed; of course I did. That wasn’t the job. That was the pleasure. That was us. That was the bonus he’d receive for letting me know what orgasm meant.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand as I stood. Smoothed my skirt like I was decent.

Floor eleven. One more to go.

“How long do you need to go again?” I asked.

Another ding. The doors slid open.

A retired couple stepped aside to let us out. She smiled politely—but her eyes said everything.

“Depends,” Sander said as the elevator closed behind us.

“On what?”

He glanced sideways, not quite smiling.

“What do you charge for anal?”

“Lube or dry?” I smirked.

He laughed.

“You’ve never been dry, Hannah.”

He used the key card with a flick of his wrist. He pretended it was the kind of move he’d used a hundred times—hotel to hotel, city to city—not my brother, a stranger in the night.

The door clicked open.

We stepped into a room designed to feel expensive: crisp sheets, clean lines, and empty promises. I let my coat drop to the floor.

Boston shimmered outside—glass, brick, and history trying to shine under sodium lights. A city with too many ghosts to name.

He shut the door behind us but didn’t move closer.

“So,” I said, fingers tracing the sill. “Are we negotiating?”

Sander leaned back against the door.

“I thought we already did.”

I turned, slowly. Met his gaze. No games now.

“Two hundred,” I said. “Lube included. No cuddling after. No kissing.”

“One-fifty,” he said. “And I’ll pretend to be gentle.”

I walked to the bed, sat down, and spread my legs just enough to make the invitation feel like a purchase.

“Two hundred, three holes,” I negotiated.

“Deal,” he said.

So transactional it felt hot.

“You going to undress me,” I asked, “or just push my skirt up and pretend we’re strangers?”

He sauntered over, slow and sure.

“Get up,” he said. “Lean over the bed.”

I obeyed.

He pulled my skirt up. Pulled my panties down.

“I don’t have to pretend,” he said. “I never really know who you are.”

He ground against my aching pussy, spat in my butt crack, and pushed inside. He moved like he’d been waiting all spring—slow, then not. The kind of pressure that made my hands clutch the blanket, made my mouth fall open without a sound. He filled me with the same lazy confidence he’d had since high school—the kind of fucking that came from familiarity, not love.

And fuck, I needed that.

My ass stretched around him, and I winced—just enough for him to notice, not enough to stop him. I didn’t want him to stop. He grabbed my hips with a bruising grip, the kind that lingers in mirrors and under long sleeves.

“Tight,” he said.

A fucking miracle, I thought, all things considered.

“Big,” I answered, breathless, half-laughing, my face pressed into the mattress.

He grunted and thrust again. He fucked me like it was just sex—because that’s what we said it was. No kiss. No hand on my back. Just hips slamming into mine, spit for lube, and a cock that felt like history. The bed creaked beneath us, headboard tapping the wall in a steady rhythm. Somewhere in the hallway, someone laughed. Doors opened and closed. None of it mattered.

He pulled out of me, and I looked over my shoulder—half in surprise, half in need.

“Turn around,” he said.

I paused between sisterhood and the whore. But he paid for it; he owned it.

I flipped onto my back. He pulled my panties off my legs and stared.

“Wider,” he ordered.

I split myself open for him. I moaned when he hit deep—low and guttural. I didn’t want to be quiet anymore.

“Fuck that pussy,” I whispered. “You’re paying for it. Might as well make it cum.”

He felt so good inside me. So familiar. So needed. I’m not sure whores are supposed to cum, but maybe the good ones do. And I was good. Deliriously good.

I didn’t whimper like Anna; I held on to air like myself.

He leaned forward, body draped over mine, and whispered into my hair.

“Whore.”

I smiled against his neck.

“Paid whore,” I whispered back. “No talk. Fuck that pussy.”

He pounded me with intent, didn’t care if I came or not. He’d paid for the luxury—I couldn’t complain. He thrust, deep, hard… so fucking intent. I saw it in his face, that pull just before the break.

“Make my pussy cum,” I pleaded.

But he pulled out, grabbed my hair, dragged me down to the floor, and shoved his cock into my mouth. Pinched my nose. Pumped his load down my throat.

He pulled out slowly, carefully. I stayed where I was, cum still in my mouth.

“Swallow,” he said.

I held up five fingers.

He nodded.

And I swallowed.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That was different, Hannah.”

I tilted my head and looked up at him, a slick drop of cum still clinging to his cock.

“My money,” I said.

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He reached for his wallet, counted, then dropped the bills on the floor before me.

“You’re short,” I said.

“Two hundred,” he argued.

I sighed. “Thirty for the blowjob. Two hundred for the fuck. Another fifty to swallow.”

He shook his head and dropped another hundred on the floor.

“Keep the change.”

Beautiful.

I was almost impressed with Sander’s ability to play the role.

He took off his clothes and went into the bathroom, and soon after, I heard the shower. I counted my money, then pulled on my panties, straightened my skirt, and slipped my coat around my shoulders.

The door clicked shut behind me. The carpet felt sinful under my feet. I pushed the elevator button, tiptoed slightly, shrunk myself a little. There was a soft ding as the door opened.

I stepped inside, pressed the button for the lobby, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall. Smeared eyeliner—not vulgar, just worn. A drop of cum on my chin. I wiped it with a finger and sucked it clean.

The elevator stopped on the eighth floor. A man in his fifties stepped in. He nodded. I nodded back. Between the fifth and fourth floors, he hesitated. Just a breath. Just long enough to rethink.

Somewhere between the first and ground floor, he turned to me.

“How much?” he asked.

I still needed to cum.

The door opened, and the lobby spilled with life—bright, clean, full of people with dinner plans and luggage.

“Sorry, honey,” I said. “I’m off the clock.”

He caught my arm before I stepped out.

“Three hundred,” he said.

“Three fifty,” I answered.

He pushed the button. The door closed behind me.

Why not.

I sat on the bus. He’d used a condom—not for me, but for himself. He’d been pounding hookers for decades. I was just another one. No need for drinks. No need for a street corner. He saw me for who I was that day and offered generous cash to do me.

I almost came. Almost. But not quite.

I noticed the wedding band on the bathroom sink as I went to pee. I could’ve stolen it, but I didn’t.

He’d asked me to ride him. So I did.

And now I was sitting on a plastic seat, bus humming beneath me, wondering where I’d get my orgasm.

I’d read Kristeva until she was ingrained in my bones.

The abject confronts us with those fragile states where meaning collapses.

Abject. I tasted it on my tongue, but all I tasted was Sander. I was supposed to be the collapse, wasn’t I?

Incest. A cruel word, really. But swap it with love, and watch your inherited panic make your cock hard or your pussy wet… And shut the fuck up until you’ve fucked blood.

Whore? Trading body for money—why the trauma? Most men would fuck and take the money. But because I was a woman, there was supposed to be trauma? Just because men wrote the rules? 

Annie Ernaux writes about raw, stripped-down obsession of sex. Of needing someone not for romance but to be reduced and inhabited. Fuck Annie. Perhaps I abandoned myself mid-gangbang, possibly when I made someone’s business trip slightly more interesting, but only to honestly watch myself.

To watch them. To find out why we fuck.

Rarely for lust. Never for reproduction. Certainly not for love. Sometimes, maybe, out of empathy. But never love alone.

Love is just empathy stretched too far.

Sex is the power that morals bestow upon you. Money is the power to bend morality. An orgasm is the remuneration that lingers on the other side of everything.

Maybe I was fucking myself into social death, moral obliteration, and even academic ruin. Bataille reincarnated with a pussy.

My phone buzzed. Sander.

“You left?”

“Writing feminist thesis,”  I answered.

Then a little later, “See you tomorrow.”

I curled my leg under my butt and stared at the screen. Typed one last message.

“Might bring a friend.”

I stepped out of the bus, and Cambridge felt colder than Boston. I walked by the library and saw Mark sitting there, the sole survivor of a Friday study. He still intrigued me. I dropped in and lingered around Audre Lorde—just what I needed to get through the weekend.

I made it look like an accident when I stumbled upon him.

“Oh, hi, Mark,” I said.

He turned and smiled when he saw me.

“Care to join me?” he said.

“No,” I answered.

He shook his head—just gently—before nodding to the book in my hand.

“Lorde? Erotic power and fuel?”

“Hush,” I said. “Don’t spoil the ending.”

I turned to leave, but he wouldn’t let me go.

“Still chasing extremes?” he asked. “Pleasure. Ruin. Shame? Still not seeking balance—just the endless drift between whore and scholar?”

I paused.

“You don’t believe in balance,” I said. “You believe in weight. In leverage.”

“Same thing,” he said. “But I think you’re becoming unmeasurable.”

I had no time for this. I felt almost balanced—if you count a cunt full of need and pockets full of cash as opposing forces. But the missing orgasm was tilting me too far on the wrong side of control.

“Still don’t want to fuck me?” I asked.

“No,” he laughed.

“You need to work on that. Really,” I said and left.

It was a Friday, and spring was relentlessly hammering away at Queen Winter like a horny seventeen year old boy. She’d been taking it balls deep up her ass all day, but now she was fighting back. The girls who’d ventured out into...