WHORE: A novella of extreme sex and violence

by Matt Shaw

  I took hold of his other hand and placed it onto my other tit. He took a deep breath in and held it.

  “It’s okay. Relax. This is what you wanted. This is why you booked me.”

  He squirmed where he lay. I repositioned myself so that I was straddling him. He wasn’t getting away this time. I felt his hands relax. I did the same with mine. I was relieved that he didn’t try and pull away from me. Feeling more confident, I moved my hands away completely. Didn’t touch him. Let him get used to this first. Let him get comfortable with this. One slow step at a time.

  “Do most men do this?” he asked.

  * *

  I told the man - a polite man in his late forties - to lie down in the bath. He didn’t need telling twice. The excitement on his face amazed me. I waited a moment for him to get comfortable before I climbed in. I didn’t lie down. I remained in a squat position above his face. I felt his tongue against my pussy. The way it flicked across my clit - clearly a man who knew what he was doing.

  “Wait a minute,” I told him.

  I couldn’t do it whilst he was licking me. I needed to concentrate. Everything about what we were doing felt unnatural to me. It felt wrong. A little bit exciting but definitely wrong. Couldn’t let him down. It was on the list of services I offered so I couldn’t let him down. It would invariably lead to negative feedback. They ask for it, they get it. Those were my own rules - so long as what is wanted is on my list of services anyway.

  “Do it,” he murmured.

  He sounded desperate but try as I might - I couldn’t do what was being asked of me. I leaned across and took a hold of his cock in my hands. I couldn’t believe how hard it was and I hadn’t even started yet. The anticipation for what was to come, no doubt. He sighed as I started to wank him. I leaned further forward and put him in my mouth. I closed my eyes and continued to concentrate and then it happened. A trickle first and then a steady stream. I felt his tongue against me as I continued to urinate over his face as he had asked in his initial booking request. A Golden Shower, he called it. The money was good; an extra fifty pounds. And I told him we’d have to do it in the bath which he was fine with.

  “Give it to me!” he begged between each sodden flick of his tongue.

  He sighed out loud and I felt that familiar twitch from his penis between my lips. Before I had a chance to react he was shooting jet after jet of hot semen to the back of my throat where I expertly swallowed it down.

  He had paid for an hour, plus the additional fifty pounds.

  We had been fifteen minutes.

  * *

  “That’s another question.”

  I undid his belt buckle and pulled at his belt until it came free from his trousers. I threw it over my shoulder where it fell to the floor.

  “Not all men need as much encouragement as you,” I told him. “Some can’t wait to get started. Some have even started before we’re out of the hallway, despite the fact they haven’t paid for the session yet.”

  All the time I was talking to him I noticed that he couldn’t keep his eyes off my breasts - which he still held on to, gently squeezing periodically. I took the opportunity to try and get him in the mood for more than just a grope.

  “Most men like similar things though. They like to feel my lips around their cocks. They like to feel me gently sucking on them. The feel of my tongue flicking against their heads. My hands running over their bodies. Caressing their balls, stroking their inner thighs. The feel of my wet, tight cunt sliding down their hard erections or rubbing over their faces as they greedily lap my tasty juices. Some men like to be tied down so that they’re completely helpless. My prisoner to do with as I see fit…”

  I put my hands on his chest and started rocking backwards and forward with each suggestion as to what previous clients liked. Jon closed his eyes and tilted his head back and I could feel him harden beneath me. He sighed with pleasure.

  “What are you thinking about?” I purred as I continued rocking. “Are you wondering what it’s like to slide inside of me? Are you wondering what it feels like? The tightness of it? The wetness?”

  I started to moan as though it were already inside me as I continued rocking on top of him. I never usually feel the need to moan when having sex. I’d breathe heavily but rarely moan. The men that pay for it though - they like to hear the moans and groans. The porn-star noises, as I like to refer to them. It makes them feel as though they’re doing a good job when - nine times out of ten - they’re not even close to hitting the right spot. Jon started to moan too as I worked his cock through his jeans.

  “Or maybe you’d rather I took you in your mouth? Suck you nice and deep. Slowly…”

  I sighed as I continued to writhe on top of him.

  “Wait!”

  He sat up and pushed me off him with a strong shove. I fell to the side and he jumped up off the bed and onto his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  I got off the bed too as he started to gather up the clothes he had taken off; belt and shirt. He put his shirt on first.

  “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here. I really am sorry.”

  “What are you talking about? It looked like you were enjoying it from where I was sitting.”

  He started to put his belt on.

  “Just wait a minute,” I said.

  I blocked the doorway to stop him from leaving. If he really didn’t want an appointment with me then I’d let him leave. I certainly wasn’t about to force him to do something he didn’t want to do but I needed to know what his problem was. I needed to know why he kept stopping himself from just going with the flow and allowing himself the joy on offer.

  “What did I do that was so wrong?” I asked him. “One minute you seemed to be getting into it and the next - this. What happened? I mean, if you don’t want the appointment, that is fine but at least let me know why.”

  “It’s not you, it’s me…” he said.

  “Really?!”

  I couldn’t believe he was using that line on me. Especially given the fact we weren’t even a couple that were breaking up. I was the whore, he was the client. Nothing more and nothing less.

  I pushed him, “I’m not letting you go until you talk to me. You need to leave me knowing what is going on. Do that - and you can have your money back and leave. We’ll say no more about it. But if you go - without telling me - I’m keeping the money and I promise you this, I will not see you again. No more apologies via email, no more repeat bookings… Honey, I’m the best in the area and I’m offering you the time of your life for an appointment you have already paid for. What’s the problem?”

  I knew I was ranting but I couldn’t help myself. Years in the profession and this was the first time I had been in this position. It felt weird. Alien. Horrible.

  “I’m just nervous,” he said, “it feels strange to be standing here with you.”

  * *

  “I’ve never been with a girl before.”

  “You’re a virgin? That’s fine, sweetie…”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I’ve never been with a hooker before. Hooker. Is that even the right term? That’s not offensive, is it?”

  The man standing with me in the bedroom was a bumbling wreck of nerves. It was both sweet and pathetic at the same time. Not used to seeing men like this but I didn’t show my real feelings. I show an understanding. The money part had been taken care of already. Just as I had done so on all my appointments, I had taken care of it downstairs in the hallway before leading the man up here.

  “Hooker is fine,” I reassured him.

  I had offered him a drink, downstairs, but he had declined. I offered him a seat on the edge of the bed which he accepted. I sat with him. Our bodies were touching. An early trick I learned; touch makes people feel more comfortable.

  “So I’m your first working girl then?” I asked.

  “Working girl? Is that the term you prefer?”

  �
�Honestly, I don’t mind what you call me. It’s fine. Well - within reason,” I laughed. “What made you choose me?” I asked him.

  He blushed, “You looked pretty.”

  “Thank you. Not so bad yourself.”

  A cliche of a line but it works nevertheless.

  “Well look - we’ll take things nice and slowly. How about we start with a nice massage?”

  “Sure,” he smiled.

  Ryan was his name. A man in his fifties, if I had to guess. I found it hard to believe I was his first working girl. Usually guys start off young and just continue seeing them throughout their lives. It was rare just to find someone who woke up one day and decided to book a lady of the night.

  “Take your clothes off,” I instructed him.

  “Really?” he seemed nervous.

  “Relax. You’re in good hands. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  I gave him a cheeky wink.

  “If it makes you feel better, I’ll even turn around.”

  I stood up and turned my back on him. I listened as he took the opportunity to stand up too before he started to undress. Less than a couple of minutes later and I heard the bed springs squeak as he climbed into the bed.

  “Am I safe to turn around?” I asked.

  I didn’t wait for an answer.

  Ryan was lying on his front. I straddled him so that I could give him a nice back massage.

  “You realise these are going to have to come off at some point!” I said.

  He was still wearing his underwear. He wasn’t the first man to leave them on until the last possible minute - almost as though they were embarrassed to be completely naked in front of me. Funny really. I’m not sure how they think these appointments work. They could stay on for now whilst I give him a little back rub; just a little something to help him relax into the session.

  “You’re good at this,” he said, enjoying my touch as I rubbed his shoulders.

  “Well don’t get too comfortable,” I told him, “your turn next!”

  I give them a nice massage to make them feel more relaxed. I then strip off and allow them to massage me. It’s not long before their mind turns to a more intimate of touches. They usually start by rubbing my shoulders but soon their hands are all over my arse and then - before you know it - I’m told to roll onto my back and their hands are running over my breasts and between my legs. It’s at that moment I reach down to touch them too and we move onto the next stage; the blow job. Yes the massage relaxes them but - more importantly - it moves things along.

  * *

  “I promise you, you’re in good hands. Just sit with me. We don’t have to do anything. We can just talk if that’s what you really want. You’ve paid for my time, you might as well use it up.”

  Jon froze.

  “We can just talk?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay.”

  “And then - if you feel like it - I can give you a nice massage.”

  Moment of truth. I moved away from the doorway. I half expected him to make a run for the door but he didn’t. I slid my dressing gown over my shoulders, having taken it from the door, and walked back over to the bed and sat on the edge of it. He didn’t move. He just stood there. I patted the edge of the mattress next to where I was sitting. He came over and sat with me.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?” I asked.

  “Maybe a water?”

  “Coming right up! And when I get back - you can tell me what’s going on.”

  I climbed off the bed and left the room, leaving him to it. As I headed down the stairs I couldn’t help but wonder if he was turning into the type of client I had seen so many times before; the ones who believed they could save me from what I do. It would certainly explain all the questions; my relationship status, whether I feel safe, what I have to do for the money… Soon he’d be telling me I could stop what I was doing and that he’d be there to support me. It was all starting to make perfect sense. He doesn’t want to touch me as a prostitute because he wants to touch me as a partner.

  Pretty Woman Syndrome before he even had me?

  That one was new.

  * *

  I poured out two glasses of the red wine the client had brought with him and walked with them through to the bedroom where he was waiting for me. He had already taken his clothes off and made himself comfortable on the bed. A younger gentleman of about twenty-three years old. Richard. He had come to the house with a stack of money, a large bouquet of flowers and - so he says - one of the best bottles of red money can buy. The flowers looked as though they came from a petrol station and the bottle of red was the kind you’d usually find in a supermarket deal offering three bottles for a tenner. I acted suitably impressed and even pretended the drink was nice when I took a swig from it.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” he asked as he took a swig too.

  He swirled the liquid around his mouth, as though at a fancy wine tasting event, and swallowed it loudly. I knew what he was trying to do. I had seen it before. Little did he know - though - was that I had seen it done so much better than he was trying. The ‘pricey’ flowers, the ‘expensive’ bottle of red - the fact he showed up in a ‘posh’ suit - he was pretending to be something he wasn’t. He handed the money over as though it were nothing to him but I’d wager that it was a lot more than he could realistically afford.

  “If this goes well,” he said after another mouthful, “fancy making this a daily appointment?”

  I had a bet with myself that if I were to root through his wallet I’d find a student id card.

  “Mmmm. That would be nice.”

  Soon he’d be asking for discount, next he’d be expecting freebies. Before you know it - he’d be wanting to call me his girlfriend, make me stop seeing other men and fabricate some wedding plans. It was always the same from clients who came here looking to impress me. They wanted more than a prostitute. They wanted a trophy. Like it’s some kind of conquest to win the ‘love’ of a whore. We see so many men, yet this one man was good enough to make us love them out of all others. It was pathetic but it was also a common occurrence - at least once a month. I much preferred the clients who came here just looking to have an orgasm. They were simple.

  “Of course we’ll negotiate the rates, yeah?”

  Bingo.

  First comes discount, then comes freebies.

  I took his drink off him and put it to the side with my own glass. Before he had a chance to ask what I was doing I started to french kiss him. My tongue tenderly stroking his. Anything to shut him up.

  * *

  “What are you doing?” I asked Jon.

  I was standing in the bedroom doorway with his glass of water that he’d requested. I had been there for a couple of minutes, watching him as he went through my drawers. He jumped at the sound of my voice.

  “I said, what are you doing?”

  I set his glass to one side.

  “I think you should leave,” I told him.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he said.

  He looked embarrassed and shifted awkwardly.

  “It looks like you were going through my stuff.”

  “Okay, it’s a little like it looks.”

  “There’s nothing in here to rob.”

  “I wasn’t robbing you.”

  “You were going through my stuff. If you weren’t robbing me, what the hell were you doing?”

  “I was just trying to get to know you.”

  “By going through my things?”

  He didn’t say anything. He was just standing there with a sheepish expression on his face. The funny thing was - I actually believed what he was saying. I had had people try and rob me in the past - one of them even succeeded in getting away with it - and when I confronted them they all got aggressive in their defiance. He was just looking stupid.

  “Asking questions isn’t enough for you?” I asked him.

  I picked the glass of water up and handed it over to him. He took it with thanks.
I walked around him and sat on the edge of the bed. I don’t know what it is about him which makes me feel sorry for him - protective almost. The first client to get under my skin and I barely knew him.

  “I’m sorry. I really wasn’t trying to steal anything.”

  “So you want to get to know me?” I asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Find you interesting. What you do.”

  “Writing a story on prostitutes?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No. Promise.”

  “Do this with other girls?”

  He shook his head again.

  “I’ve asked a lot of questions. Want me to start taking items of clothing off?” I asked, a smile on my face.

  He shook his head.

  “May I sit down?”

  I moved over on the bed making room for him to sit there with me. I didn’t touch him. We sat there in silence for a moment. Neither one of us knew what to say.

  “So what else do you want to know about me then?” I asked him.

  “Does your family know what you do?”

  B E F O R E

  Three more years have passed. A young girl has turned into a young woman. Fifteen years old now and fully aware of what was happening. The innocent party yet on the receiving end of her mother’s blows. Slap after slap hitting her face. The taste of semen still fresh in her mouth. Called all the names under the sun except her own. Whore. Cunt. Slut. Of course the monster had vanished into the night air leaving nothing behind but a few personal possessions, a sticky residue and a promise to get someone to collect the rest of its stuff.

  The mother stopped hitting the young lady long enough to grab the girl’s school rucksack from where it hung over the back of the chair.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” the young woman cried.

  The mother wasn’t hearing her and - if she was - she was ignoring her as she started to throw socks and knickers into the bag, along with a few items of clothes she could squeeze in there. She zipped it shut and tossed it to her naked daughter.

  “Get the fuck out of my house.”

  “What? No. Please. It wasn’t my fault, mum! He made me do it!”