by Lily Harlem
My knees were dirty, my hair scruffy and my lipstick smudged. I must have looked a sight scrambling from the alley and dashing into my building. There was even my own juices dripping down my leg as I’d stood in the elevator. But I didn’t care. My brain was buzzing with more ways to get my client’s attention.
By that evening I’d come up with yet another way to feed my foul needs. It would require an unusual photo of myself.
* * * * *
Saturday afternoon was again bright. The birds flitted through the trees and New Yorkers were enjoying their freedom from the office. I too was glad not to be smiley receptionist Karen sorting out everyone’s ophthalmology appointments.
He was there, in the park, had been for an hour. I donned my slutty clothes and scrawled my mobile number on the back of a photograph I’d taken and printed off the evening before.
The photo was of my pussy. He’d called it pretty so I figured it would be the best thing to offer him.
The shocking image was lewd and in your face. I’d shaved off my pubic hair completely, using a magnifying mirror to ensure no stray curl was missed. Rubbed an expensive moisturizer into my folds; gotten carried away as I’d spread it around and ended up masturbating—again. But the result was very pleasing. The extra rush of blood ensured my vulva was thick and swollen, the skin shiny and flushed, as if it was an open mouth waiting to be kissed deep and hard.
Clutching my shocking photo, I headed for the park. My insides were alive at the thought of offering him more of my services, and I prayed he’d take the bait, call me, thrill me, set up another whore-client transaction.
This time he looked up when I sat on his bench. His eyes held no surprise at seeing me. It was as if he’d been expecting my visit. But there was detachment too. He wasn’t bothered either way.
Good, I wasn’t supposed to mean anything to him.
“I’ve brought you a business card,” I said.
He plucked a roll-up from his top pocket and lit it with a snap of a silver lighter. “Oh yeah.”
“Yes. If you need a whore, call me.” I held out the photograph, pussy-side up.
He took it, surveyed it, then glanced at me. “You shaved.”
I swallowed a tight lump. Had shaving been a mistake? Was he a guy who preferred the forest look?
“I like it.” The right side of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile but it was something.
Exhaling, I twisted my hands on my lap. “So call me. My business number is on the back.”
He flipped it over and sucked on his cigarette. “I might just do that if I’m feeling flush and horny at the same time.”
Words tumbled through my brain. I wanted to scream at him that he must call me and the sooner the better. Leaving me dangling was unfair. I was his whore. My crude needs were focused solely on him. No one else would do. If he didn’t call me, I would die of frustration.
Standing, I reached for his roll-up and plucked it from his fingers. I held it to my lips and inhaled deeply, letting the dense smoke fill my throat and lungs. After I’d blown the smoke out, a fraction to the right of his face, I smiled. “Make sure you do,” I said, passing back the cigarette. “Soon.”
I turned and walked away with my chin in the air, rolling my hips and wiggling my ass. Trying my best to look wanton rather than desperate.
After ten paces I heard the trill of a phone behind me, then his gruff voice. “Yep, this is Jovica.”
Jovica. His name was Jovica. My body tensed at the knowledge and I played with the word in my head. I’d never heard it before but it was beautiful in a hard-cut, foreign kind of way. And it suited him. Had he been Stephen or Edward or John I would have been hugely disappointed. I wanted my rough client to be different, not to mold to the norm, because let’s face it, whatever this was we, I, were doing, it was anything but normal.
Surprisingly I didn’t have to wait long to get a call from Jovica. Early evening, just as I’d poured myself a gin and tonic, my mobile blasted out the latest Lady GaGa song.
“Hello,” I said, not recognizing the number but feeling sure it wouldn’t be him. Not yet.
“Hello, whore.”
My heart tripped over itself. Oh God, it was him. I took a slug of my drink and sat heavily on the couch. It was a hot, muggy evening and my window was wide open. A pleasant breeze filtered in, flapping the net curtain and cooling my suddenly flushed skin.
“What do you want?” I asked in as smooth a voice as I could muster.
“Your services.”
“Be more specific.”
There was a long silence then finally, “At first I didn’t want to fuck a whore’s squalid pussy. One that’s been used a thousand times by a thousand guys, stretched and made saggy, worn and diseased. But there’s something very appealing about your cunt—and your asshole too. That looks tight, good and tight. I might wanna ram my dick into that until you scream in agony. Fuck your ass and come inside your slutty body deep, so deep. And you’ll love it, won’t you, filthy fucking whore that you are? You’ll love me fucking your stinky cunt and then your tight, hot ass.”
We were both quiet for a moment. What he’d just said was absolutely foul and had slid from his foreign tongue as smoothly as a beautiful poem might.
“How do you know?” I asked, my throat in knots.
He let out a huff of amusement. “How do I know what?”
“How do you know that you can say that stuff to me and I won’t slam down the phone?”
“You’re easy to read.”
Was I really? Had I been an open book? From what he’d just said it seemed that I had. Either that or he was a fucking body language expert of some sort. “So what do you see? Tell me and I’ll let you know if you’ve got it right.”
“I would guess an easy childhood with kind parents, reasonable grades and now you’re holding down a dull, law-abiding job, which makes you independent. You’re all blonde curls and blue eyes and everyone thinks you’re sweet and nice.” He paused and I heard him suck then blow, probably on a cigarette. “Except that’s not enough, is it? You don’t want sweet and nice when it comes to men, when it comes to sex. Dashing Paul from the office or happy Henry just don’t do it for you, do they?”
I said nothing.
“Do they?” His voice was stern.
“No.”
“Because beneath that perfect veneer, you’re a horny little bitch and you want to see how the other half lives. The women who are not as fortunate as you, the ones who have to offer their bodies to men for money. The whores who are abused and humiliated every day of their lives just to put food on the table or feed their drug habits.”
I hunched one shoulder and wedged the phone to my ear, sipped my drink. “Go on.”
“It thrills you, doesn’t it, being used as an object rather than a lover?”
“Yes,” I whispered, setting my drink on a nearby table, spreading my legs and tugging up my skirt. I ran my fingers over the damp gusset of my panties. “It does.”
His voice lowered. “And did I get it just right for you the other day, in the alley? Did I treat you how you wanted to be treated?”
“Yes.” I dipped my fingers under the elastic of my panties and slid them into my damp folds. Oh, the memory of the alley, that was going to be fodder for masturbating for years to come, and hearing him talk about it was double the pleasure.
He sucked on his cigarette again and blew. “You took my cock into your mouth like the perfect whore, all submissive and willing. Doing it exactly how I told you to.”
“I did it because you paid me. I needed the money.”
A deep rumble of mirth came down the line. “You don’t need the money. The only reason you did it was because it got you off as much as it did me.”
I was silent.
“I’ve made you horny just talking about it, haven’t I?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered, poking my finger into my entrance and smoothing over wet flesh.
“Are you touching your
self now?”
“Yes.”
“Good, keep doing it.”
I flopped my knees wide, penetrated with two fingers and thrust my pelvis onto them. The way he was talking about my innermost fantasies so accurately was alarming but also deeply exciting.
“What do you think of when you shove into your cunt and make yourself come?” he asked.
Now I felt inhibited, because saying the words, admitting it for the first time was somehow worse than acting it out. It was irrational, I knew, but it was how I felt. I’d often worried that I had some deep primeval guilt about sex that made me want to surrender control and take payment. I couldn’t analyze it, even though I’d tried. It was just who I was.
“Come on. Tell me.”
“Okay,” I said breathily, staring out the window at the building opposite. My net curtain had shifted completely in the breeze. Neighbors opposite would be able to see me spread-eagled on the sofa touching myself if they looked in. “I think of sleazy clubs full of men I don’t know. Rough men, men who are there for one thing only. Sex.”
“Go on.”
My palm caught my clit and I jerked over myself faster. “I think of being paid to be naked and available, ordered to give blowjobs and opening my legs to be fucked by anyone with money in their wallet and a dick that’s hard.”
“I have money in my wallet.”
“And your dick?”
“Yeah, whore, that’s hard. Hearing you getting yourself off has made it hard. I can picture you now, lying on a pretty pink sofa, delicately embroidered cushions scattered haphazardly around and your long legs spread wide, so wide.”
“So what do we do next?”
“Make yourself come and I’ll tell you.”
I could hear his breaths, light and fast. “Are you jerking off?”
“No, I’m saving it all for you.”
I didn’t believe him. He was jerking off, all right. I could make out the rub of skin on skin. Jovica was tugging at his cock as he spoke to me. He wanted me again. I knew it. Why else would he be calling me, talking about my fantasies?
The knowledge that I’d found the perfect man to reveal my depraved side to tipped me over the edge and my orgasm raged through me. “Oh God, yes, yes, fuck.” I heaved my hips upward and rammed into my pussy harder, faster, over and over. I could barely breathe as I became a mass of pulsating ecstasy.
He gasped and groaned, the sound long and guttural. It settled in my chest as I continued to ride my hand. I was panting and shaking, coming for an exquisitely extended period. “Oh yes, that’s good, really good, ahh…ahh…”
“Oh, you sound so fucking filthy when you come,” he said in a rasping, breathy voice.
“Yes, yes filthy, that’s right.” Fighting to catch my breath, I felt as if I’d been turned and twisted upside down. My pulse raged in my ears, my heart thudded and my vision blurred. Stunned was a good way of describing my emotions after masturbating over the phone for a stranger.
“So now it’s my turn,” he said eventually.
“For what.”
“To come.”
Ah, so he was still pretending that he hadn’t jacked off. I would bet my life on it that right now he had a silvery glob of cum wrapped in a tissue that he’d just cleaned off his stomach. But I would let him have his secret. “When?” I asked.
“Half an hour.”
Shit, really?
“Where?”
“My place.”
I tugged my fingers from my cunt and looked at them sparkling in the sunlight. It was as though they’d been coated in slick, sticky glitter. “Your place?”
He grunted. “What, you think you won’t be safe? You’re a whore. Women like you get murdered all the time. It’s a risk you have to take.” He paused. “Besides, if I’d wanted to kill you I would have done that in the alley. Much cleaner forensically than in my home.”
My post-climax brain was struggling to function. He wanted me to go to his home. He wasn’t going to murder me. It was his turn to come.
“You still there?”
“I, er, yes.”
“Good, meet me in the park and I’ll take you. It’s just around the corner.”
“Give me the address.”
“No. The park, half an hour.”
The line went dead and I dropped the phone to the sofa. It bounced and landed on the carpet with a soft whump. In half an hour I would return to my whorish state. Anticipation built inside me, along with gratitude for the good fortune I’d had to find a man who understood my nasty needs.
I glanced out the window and met a pair of spectacled eyes. They belonged to the elderly woman who lived opposite. I snapped my legs together but it was too late. I could tell by her expression that she’d been watching me for some time.
* * * * *
I wore my slutty purple skirt and silver stilettos again, but this time I teamed it with a tight bottle-green top, large gold hoop earrings and a short denim jacket. I pulled on a pair of panties, black lace, quite pretty for a whore. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t be on long.
He was waiting for me, standing with his hands deep in his jean pockets. He wore his usual clumpy dark boots and today a faded-at-the-seams black U2 t-shirt. As I approached him, walking sluttily and provocatively, I once again realized how damn tall the man was. He was lean and not overly big built. His long muscles were sinewy and defined, his shoulders wide and angular, and his pants just hugged the top of his thighs. He hadn’t shaved for some time. The stubble on his jaw was dense and shadowed down his neck. It wasn’t much shorter than the closely shorn hair on his head.
The whole look was the opposite of vain. He didn’t care, just wore his skin in a way that suggested he had confidence in his ability to take care of himself, no matter what. I guessed it was that self-assured magnetism that had attracted me to him from six floors up. It was dangerously strong and scarily appealing to my depraved antennae.
“You look so cheap,” he said as I approached.
I shrugged and gnawed on my gum. “Yeah, but it’s up to me to name the price.”
He laughed and the sound almost held humor. “We’ll see. Come on, this way.”
For the second time he tucked his hand into the small of my back and urged me forward. We walked out of the park and past the entrance to the alley we’d been down previously.
My nerves were scattering all over the place, but in a good way. Did I look like his whore? Would passersby know I was going off with this dodgy-looking man to have sex for money? What if I saw someone I knew? Would they stop and speak, ask if I was okay and be shocked by my attire?
It was another risk I was willing to take. The end result was too exhilarating to be missed.
I was living my whore dream.
He’d been right when he said he lived around the corner. But it wasn’t an apartment block, it was a shop. An electrical shop with heavily grilled windows and a fat, sweaty guy sitting at the register. I didn’t need to look to know he would have a gun beneath his counter and a length of lead pipe within reach.
Jovica nodded at him and directed me deeper into the shop. At the very back, through a small storeroom with a grubby-looking kettle and cracked mugs was a staircase. It was hidden behind a metal door, and as soon as the door was opened the first step was immediately there.
“Up,” Jovica said in his gratingly commanding voice.
Gripping a smooth wooden handrail, I navigated the narrow spiral staircase. A rush of adrenaline besieged me. This was like climbing to my own sick version of a depraved heaven. The amber carpet was threadbare and the dingy mint-green walls marked black with years of greasy handprints. I was acutely aware of Jovica close behind me. His body heat radiated onto my bare legs and his hand was not far behind mine, sliding up the rail.
Eventually I reached another door. He leaned forward, pressed his chest into my back and shoved a key into the lock. It turned with a heavy clank just as I was inhaling his deeply masculine smell that reminded me of t
he taste of his cock. Involuntarily my mouth watered and I licked my lips. I hoped I would get to suck on him again.
He flattened his palm on the door and pushed it open. It swung wide revealing a medium-sized room with one large window facing a red brick wall. The left pane had a lightning-shaped crack in it.
Stepping in, I glanced around. It was sparse as far as furniture was concerned. A big bed with a khaki duvet twisted in the center, dented pillows and a rumpled bottom sheet. A low burgundy couch faced a small boxy TV and a scattering of DVDs lay on a coffee table. Some of them were porn, the others appeared to be war movies.
To the right was a counter serving as a kitchen. There was a fridge, a kettle and toaster. One lone, chipped Formica cupboard hung on the wall above a sink and the drainer was heaped with dishes. A half-open door opposite revealed a tiny, dark bathroom, to the left of it was a stack of metal boxes, long and deep. Dented and strapped with thick cord.
I breathed in. The whole place smelled stale and heavy, as though it needed a good airing, but what struck me most was the lack of personal possessions. There was nothing that gave a hint to his personality or his lifestyle. I already knew he smoked and liked sex, so porn and several overflowing ashtrays were of little use information-wise.
I shrugged out of my denim jacket, dropped it on the end of the sofa and turned to him. I was about to say something about his oddly anonymous room but then remembered it was not my place to comment on his home.
He stared down at me, a hint of amusement on his face. I remembered his accurate description of me sprawled touching myself on my sofa, surrounded by pretty soft furnishings. He was aware of how different his space was from mine.
But that fact made the situation all the sexier. The dingy scent, the unappealing grubbiness and the lack of homey touches made it suitable for a low-class whore like myself to come and provide services.
Spitting my gum into my palm, I walked to an orange bag hanging on a white plastic hook. As I suspected, it was a make-do garbage can and I dropped the gum into it, spun and placed my hand on my jauntily jutting hip. “So time is money. What do you want?”
