A Hundred Bucks

Albanian mobsters and a prostitute with a secret.

The car pulled over. The guy behind the wheel looked barely out of his teens. He didn't ask a question; he just smirked at me, waiting for me to name my price.
"One hundred," I muttered, my voice drained.
He nodded, leaning over to throw the passenger door wide open. "Well? You getting in or what?" he snapped, impatient.
I took him in. He had a faint shadow of stubble, but a soft face. His casual style was deceiving—the jeans were high-end, the shirt sported a Brooksfield logo, and a Rolex caught the light on his left wrist.
I slid into the lead-gray Dodge Charger. As soon as the door clicked shut, he peeled away. He drove with one hand, his eyes scanning me like he was appraising a piece of merchandise. His gaze tracked from my face down to my legs, left nearly bare by a miniskirt that had hiked up as I sat. He didn't say a word, just fixed his eyes back on the road.
Maybe he’s just shy, I thought. I tried to break the silence. "Hey, I’m Roxanne."
Roxanne was the name I’d picked for this new life. It wasn't a coincidence, of course—I’d always loved the song, and it fit the job.
He just huffed. I was about to ask where he was headed and suggest a few spots when he swerved into the deserted lot of a suburban supermarket, pulling up alongside a massive SUV.
An uncontrollable shiver spiked down my spine. This wasn't the plan. I scanned the darkness outside, but I couldn't see past the shadows. The driver turned to me, his smirk twisting into a look that was almost apologetic, like he hated what he was about to do. My door swung open, and a hulking, bald man with a vertical scar under his left eye climbed in.
The newcomer reached over and dropped a small foil packet onto the dashboard. The kid grabbed it, offering a sheepish grin before the big man practically hauled me out of my seat, forcing me onto the asphalt.
I couldn't get a word out. My stomach was in knots, my throat tight. I’d told myself I was ready for this, but I was kidding myself. It’s one thing to know what you're getting into; it's another to live it. The giant didn't offer a shred of comfort. He shoved me toward the black SUV idling beside us.
I tried to twist away, knowing it was useless. "Let me go!" I shrieked.
The sound of my own voice—thin, shrill, jagged with terror—shocked me. Every bit of confidence I’d built up turned to dust.
"What do you want?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "Who are you?"
"Shut up, bitch," the man said, sounding bored as he yanked the heavy black door open. His accent was thick, distinctly Albanian. "Someone wants to see you. Get in."
Ecco una riscrittura che adotta uno stile più naturale e crudo, tipico dei thriller moderni in lingua inglese. Ho rimosso le strutture sintattiche "da traduzione" (come l'uso di aggettivi pesanti o descrizioni troppo accademiche) in favore di un ritmo più incalzante.
He shoved me into the back seat. The interior was pitch black, but I could just make out a silhouette sitting beside me before the door slammed shut. I let out a scream, pressing myself against the opposite door, desperate to put any distance between us.
The stranger reached up. A click, and the interior light flooded the car. I squinted, blinded, my heart hammering. As my vision cleared, I saw him.
He was a hulking guy, hair cropped short, with a manicured beard and a white shirt untucked over black slacks. Just another guy in his forties—except for the eyes. Dark, piercing, predatory. That gaze hit me like a physical blow, stripping away my defenses and leaving me feeling small, exposed.
His expression shifted into a cold, predatory smirk. The silence stretched until it felt like the air had been sucked out of the cabin.
My voice came out as a brittle, high-pitched crack I barely recognized. "Who are you? What do you want? Let me out!"
I lunged for the door handle, clawing at it. Clack. Clack. The metal rattled frantically, but the door wouldn't budge. I stared out into the pitch-black night, then back at him.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Panic spiraled into madness. I kept jerking the handle, but he didn't even flinch. He just watched me, his expression fixed and unreadable, mirrored in the window glass. I finally slumped back, drained, the futility of it all settling in. The silence returned, heavy and suffocating.
I forced myself to meet his eyes, trying to claw back some scrap of control. "What do you want from me?" I repeated, my voice steadier this time.
He didn't blink. Slowly, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded hundred-dollar bill. He ran it across his nose, sniffing it, then flicked it at me with a lazy motion. It bounced off my chin and landed in my lap.
"One hundred, right?" His voice was a low, jagged gravel. The accent was thick, same as the one with the scar.
He held my gaze as his hands moved to his belt. He unbuttoned his pants, one by one, and pushed down his black boxers. He was already fully aroused. He settled back into the leather seat, spreading his arms wide. His cock, vein-pulsing and angry red, poked through the opening of his white shirt, twitching with a rhythmic, impatient life of its own.
My mind went blank. He wasn't smiling anymore; his face had turned mask-like, cold. "What are you waiting for?" he hissed. "A written invitation? Get on with it, bitch."
The way he spat the word—the sheer contempt in his eyes—hit harder than a slap. To him, I wasn't even a person. I was a hundred-dollar transaction. A piece of meat. I had never felt so small, so utterly discarded.
But before I could even process the shame, his hand shot out. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked, slamming my face into his lap. I couldn't help the gasp that escaped me. I was pressed against him, smelling the raw, musky scent of a man on the edge, underscored by a faint, jarring hint of orange and cinnamon—a shower gel, maybe.
He kept his grip on my hair, pulling back just enough to force my mouth open. He shoved forward. He wasn't huge, but he was rock-hard. He pushed past my lips, his skin sliding against my tongue. I started to suck, desperation overriding my instincts—just get it over with. I tried to reach down to help, but he slammed my wrist against the seat, pinning me.
I had no choice. I let my mouth do the work. I was good at this—I knew how to tease, how to flick my tongue against the sensitive head, how to use just enough pressure. His cock tightened in my mouth. I moved in long, rhythmic pulls, my jaw aching. In that moment, he was the ship, and my mouth was the storm, my tongue the waves crashing against him, driving him harder and higher, until he was shaking with every thrust. He wasn't just being blown; he was fucking my mouth.
Ecco una riscrittura che adotta un inglese molto più naturale e idiomatico (stile hard-boiled), mantenendo intatti tutti i contenuti, le azioni e la trama originale.
He was relentless—damn, he was. Most men would have finished by now, but he seemed to savor every second, dragging it out as if he wanted it to last forever. His breathing grew heavy, ragged, punctuated by low, strained moans. His left hand never wavered from my wrist, and his right hand, still tangled in my hair, had softened its grip, following the rhythm of my head.
His taste, his scent, the sheer hardness of him—it was intoxicating. I could feel myself getting slick, my intimate lips rubbing against the lace of my thong, and I was getting worked up. I wanted to fuck him, dammit. I was still paralyzed by fear, but that terror was slowly giving way to a dark, twisted excitement.
His breathing turned frantic, and the intense throbbing of his cock told me he was hitting his limit. My mouth was aching; I had no idea how long I’d been at it. I sped up, head bobbing, tongue darting out to tease him.
Suddenly, his hand clamped down on my hair again. His voice dropped—hoarse, jagged, menacing: "If you mess me up, I'll kill you!"
I flinched, but his grip forced me back into the rhythm. A few seconds later, he exploded inside me, a hot, thick rush filling my mouth. I focused on drinking it all down, keeping my lips tight around him so not a drop would spill. I slowed down, but kept licking—I knew how much guys loved that moment of peak sensitivity. I didn't stop until I was sure I’d taken every last bit of his seed. Even then, he stayed rock-hard, pulsing against my lips, seemingly ready for more.
When I finally pulled back, I met his cold, predatory stare. "Good work, Roxanne," he murmured, his hand still tight in my hair. "You’re definitely better at sucking than you are at thinking. Now strip. Show me what else you’ve got."
His tone was final. He shoved my head back against the seat with his palm. I peeled off my jacket, pulled the sequined top over my head, and stepped out of my miniskirt. I was left in nothing but a black lace thong, fishnets, and heels.
I looked up at him. He had that faint, sarcastic smirk again, but his eyes were pure steel. I arched an eyebrow, and he made it clear: it wasn't enough. I kicked off my heels, stripped off my stockings, and finally, peeled away the thong. I was completely naked; he was fully dressed. Only then did I notice he’d zipped his pants back up.
The cold leather seat clung to my bare skin. I was twisting my hands together, vibrating with nerves. He reached out and rapped his knuckles against the window twice. A mechanical click echoed as the doors unlocked, and the scarred guy stepped out, leaving the door ajar.
"Get out," the man in the car ordered.
I reached for my clothes, but he caught my wrist in a flash, lifting it. One sharp shake of his head told me: don't even think about it. He dropped my hand. "Get out."
I hit the handle. Clack. The door swung open. The night air was freezing, biting at my skin under the sliver of a crescent moon.
The gravel crunched painfully under my bare feet. I hugged myself, feeling smaller, more insignificant than I’d ever imagined—like the cold wasn't just hitting my skin, but erasing me entirely. My name, my past, the person I used to be—it all felt a million miles away. I was just an empty, shivering shell in the dark.
Then the other door opened, and the scarred man stepped out, circling the car.
"Walk," he barked. "Get in front of the car."
I obeyed, wincing at the sharp stones underfoot. Then, the car’s high beams blinded me—blazing, white-hot light that turned the world into nothingness. I heard the man’s voice, mocking, joined by two other laughs from the shadows.
"Turn around. Spin for us. Let us get a good look at what I paid for."
I spun, slowly, dizzy and terrified. It felt like an eternity, though it was probably only seconds.
"All yours, boys."
The words cut right through me. My instinct screamed at me to bolt into the dark, but before I could move, the scarred man had me. He slammed me against the hood while the boss slid into the driver’s seat and locked the doors. A heavy hand pinned my neck against the warm metal, while his other hand shoved between my legs, fingers digging into me, rough and unlubricated.
"This whore loves it," he laughed. "Look at her—soaking wet."
I tried to scream, but the sound died in my throat. I only managed a pained moan as he rummaged through me without a shred of care. When he pulled his fingers out, he didn't wait—he shoved inside. He was massive, disproportionate, but I had no say in it.
He drove into me brutally—hard, deep, violent thrusts. I hated myself for it, but the violence triggered something. It felt electric. Maybe my brain was just looking for a way to survive the pain, or maybe a part of me really was just a piece of meat, built to be used like this.
He finished fast, grunting as he emptied himself inside me. He collapsed, crushing my chest against the metal. I felt hollowed out, humiliated, but I still hadn't come.
I stared at the dark, reflective windshield. I could almost see the boss’s eyes behind the glass, watching me with a twisted hunger. Why wasn't he touching me? Was he getting off on his men using me?
I didn't have time to dwell on it. The weight vanished, and I thought it was over—until smaller, firmer hands began to wander over my body.
He took his time, grazing my back, my thighs, my breasts. He pinched my nipples until they peaked, his mouth trailing fire down my neck, biting behind my ear. My body betrayed me again; my nipples hardened, and I felt his heat pressed against my back.
He teased me for a long time, one hand working my nipple, the other finding my clit. Just as I hit the edge of an orgasm, he slammed my back down. He spat on his hand, lubricated me, and shoved into my ass. It wasn't the monster that had just torn through me, but it was still tight.
He lifted my torso, sodomizing me while I held onto the hood, using my own hand to stimulate my clit. He let me, and I was grateful. Pain bled into pleasure, and I rode that edge until I shattered, just as he filled me up. He gave my ear a gentle, mocking kiss, then pulled away, leaving me shattered and filthy, slumped against the car.
Then, the boss stepped out. He tossed my bag and clothes at my feet, hauled me up by the arms, and shoved something into my hand. In the dim light, I saw two hundred-dollar bills and a business card.
"You’re worth more than a hundred, Roxanne," he said, half-mocking, half-admiring. "Come with me, and the money gets a lot better. Call me tomorrow at noon."
I stood there, dazed, watching them pile into the car. The headlights washed over me, then the taillights flickered and faded into the night, leaving me standing in the dark, shivering on the cold asphalt.

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I checked my watch: a little past eleven. I made my way up the steps of the Detroit precinct, flicking away the half-smoked cigarette I’d been nursing nervously before pushing through the heavy glass doors.
As I walked, I could feel the heat of a dozen stares tracking my every move. I didn't need to look; I knew what they were thinking. I could practically hear the fantasies running wild in their heads as I strode past, my heels clicking sharply against the linoleum. My skirt was conservative—knee-length—but I knew better. I knew exactly how my body moved, and I knew that no matter the hemline, the male gaze always found its way to my ass.
I finally found the right door. A metal plaque read Captain Debiase.
I knocked twice and waited.
"Come in!" a voice called out.
I stepped inside. The Captain was standing with another man in uniform. I gave them both a polite nod.
"Commissioner Foreman, meet Detective Diaz," Debiase said, gesturing toward me. "She’s the one who finally cracked Hoxha’s crew. We’ve been trying to pin them down for years, and now—"
I shook the Commissioner’s hand. He flashed a satisfied smile, but I caught the quick, predatory flicker in his eyes as he raked his gaze over me. Predictable.
"Congratulations, Detective. Outstanding work," he said. "I imagine it wasn't easy."
I gave him a slow, mischievous smile—just enough to let him know I knew exactly where his head was at. "Oh, it was grueling, Commissioner. But you know what they say—we do what we have to for the job."