by Glen Frost
Contents
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
For my friends Shannon and David Byers,
The nicest sick and twisted people you could ever wish to meet!
CHAPTER ONE
Dear Reader,
Thank you for handing over your hard-earned money for this book. If this is first of my horror novels that you’ve read, hopefully you’re well aware of the type of story this is. For the uninitiated, this is a novel of extreme horror, with very graphic scenes of sex and violence. If you are squeamish, easily offended (or even moderately offended, come to think of it) then please stop reading now and return the book for a refund. On the other hand, if you enjoy the book — as I very much hope that you will — then please consider rating it on Amazon. I would very much appreciate it.
Obviously this is a work of fiction, and I in no way endorse, advocate, or approve of the kind of behavior that is depicted in the book.
Alright, now that’s settled, let’s go.
— GF
CHAPTER TWO
There were no two ways about it, Anya thought sourly: This place was the shithole of all shitholes.
Her gaze took in the peeling beige wallpaper, stained and marked. The only thing dirtier was the threadbare lime green carpet, which looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in God knew how long. In fact, based upon some of the suspiciously matted sticky patches, what it really needed was a damned good scraping.
Then again, nobody ever checked into the Lucky Star motel for the decor. Situated on Colfax Avenue, right in the heart of Denver's seediest district, it was the kind of place that rented out rooms by the hour. Hookers and the johns that hired them were the Star's core clientele. Neither type generally gave much of a shit about the cleanliness of their carpet; after all, their feet rarely tended to touch the ground for more than a few seconds before they got right down to business.
Not that she was judging. She was a working girl herself, and very well acquainted with the steady stream of overweight middle-aged men that came down to Colfax in order to get their rocks off. Fat or thin, young or old, it made no difference to Anya. She took their money, allowing them to use her body for a short period of time in exchange. They might have penetrated her body, but they never got inside her mind. Not even close. She prided herself on being one hell of an actress. While the johns groaned and sweated and strained, whether on top of her, beneath her, or thrusting from behind, Anya put on a performance that would have convinced even the most demanding critic. She would toss her head, flinging her long, lustrous dark hair in all directions, moaning in her native Russian. As the client's strokes grew faster and more urgent, so too did Anya's cries become more plaintive and wanton.
It was simply good customer service, and a satisfied customer was more likely to seek her out the next time.
Yet while her body writhed and bucked, Anya's mind was elsewhere. It focused with laser-like precision on the one thing in all the world that was truly important, the only thing that mattered: Her daughter, Darya. The seven year old lived in Khabarovsk with Anya's parents. She had remained there when Anya had come to America illegally, with the hopes of starting a new life. Back then, Anya had been foolish enough to believe the shallow promises made by Piotr...promises that she could work hard in the United States and make a success of herself in the so-called 'land of opportunity,' could save up enough money after just a short time to allow her to afford Darya's passage to America too.
That had been nine months ago. The luster had long since worn off those false promises. She now saw Piotr and his kind for what they really were: The worst kind of human traffickers, traders in sex, drugs, and human misery.
"Stop right there."
The motel room door closed behind her with a soft click, shutting out the falling snow and icy wind that was only to be expected this close to Christmas. She obeyed the instruction, halting just a few steps from the bed and turning to face her latest client. Although he wasn't dressed for the part, Anya knew that this one was what the Americans called a pastor...basically a priest, one that was supposed to expiate sin rather than indulge in it. Inwardly, she shrugged. Hypocrisy was nothing new, and she cared for little beyond the fact that the priest could pay for the pleasure he was about to receive.
From the room next door came the sound of loud, throbbing bass music, coupled with drunken laughter. They were going to be undisturbed, it seemed.
She watched the priest run his eyes up and down her body, drinking her in with sparkling eyes. There was nothing unusual about that; in fact, most men did it as soon as they saw her under proper lighting. Anya's curvy five foot, nine inch frame had been carefully dressed to emphasize and accentuate her natural assets: A black micro-skirt that exposed so much of her pale thighs that it was more of a belt; a plain white shirt with the lowest two and top three buttons undone, showing off her ample cleavage; and lastly the knee-high, faux leather black 'fuck me boots,' as the other working girls called them, completed the ensemble. Anya had placed the small red purse she always carried when working on the room's single, tatty armchair when she had walked in. It contained her phone, the key to her apartment, and a few necessities for working the streets, including an evening's supply of lube and rubbers.
When Anya had left her small apartment before starting the night's work, she had appraised herself critically, brushing her shoulder-length brown hair out until it was just so. She had gone a little lighter on the lipstick, but compensated by putting on more of the dark eyeshadow that she favored. Anya had been told more than once that she had 'come to bed eyes' (whatever the hell that meant) but she preferred to think of them as being merely expressive and soulful. They truly were the window to the soul, which was probably why hers so often appeared sad, she reflected bitterly.
But there was something different about this john, she realized, watching him closely as he let his gaze wander all over her body. This wasn't just lust, it was...something else, though she couldn't exactly say what. There was something in his eyes, something that defied proper description, yet it was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable. The look in those eyes was almost predatory.
The man was perhaps forty years of age and was obviously no stranger to the drive-thru, based upon the paunch that stuck out over the belt of his tan pants. His sandy hair was thinning on top, which was doing the jowly red face absolutely no favors at all. Nor was the striped maroon shirt, whose horizontal stripes made him look even fatter. Anya frowned. The man wore a plain gold band on his left ring finger, yet she would have expected any wife who cared for her husband's appearance to tell him (diplomatically, but firmly) that vertical stripes were far more slimming.
"Do you like what you see?" Anya asked, striking a well-practiced pose. She placed one hand lightly on her hip and let her left knee bend just a little. Her Russian accent was thickened, and deliberately so, because a lot of the men she fucked for money said afterwards that they found it a real turn-on. Too many bad James Bond movies, she thought to he
rself wryly. Well, as the Americans like to say, 'whatever floats your boat...'
"Take off your shirt," the fat man ordered, ignoring her question. "Slowly."
"Money first," she pouted, crossing her arms at just the right angle to push her tits up. The priest's eyes darted downward toward her cleavage, then back up to hold her gaze once more. Nervously, his tongue flicked from one corner of his mouth to the other. She thought for a moment that he would argue, but then he reached into the hip pocket of his pants and pulled out a crumpled roll of money. He counted out five twenties, one by one, held them up for her to see, and then tossed the bills casually onto the nightstand beside the bed.
"One hundred. Now. Take. Off. Your. Shirt." The words were spoken quietly, but there was no mistaking the underlying air of menace that lurked just beneath them. Anya hoped that she didn't have a crazy one here, what the American girls liked to call a psycho. If he was, well...she was pretty sure that she could handle herself, especially against an overweight middle-aged man such as this.
She worked on the three remaining buttons slowly, working her way down towards the last one, which was buttoned just above her navel. When it had been released, the white shirt fell open on either side of her chest. The buttons at the end of each sleeve had never been fastened.The pastor watched her every move like a hawk, following Anya with rapt attention as she adroitly released first the right and then the left arm from its sleeve, allowing the shirt to fall to the ground at her feet.
"Good," he grunted. "Now the bra."
Reaching behind her with both hands, Anya unclipped the black lace bra and sent it to join the shirt. The priest's gaze dropped to take in her tits. They may not have been spectacular, Anya had to admit, but that was because they were real. Some of the girls she knew spent thousands on boob jobs (often with both the encouragement and financial support of their pimps) because they knew that gravity-defying tits were one of the few things that could offset an aging face. But Anya was still young, her tits were naturally pert enough, and besides, she was saving every last dime that she could for the all important prize: Bringing her beautiful Darya to America. Piotr insisted that it would cost her twenty thousand American dollars, an outrageous sum, and yet one that she would gladly pay a hundred times over if it would reunite her with her sweet, sweet daughter. So far, she had managed to put away close to half that. If she was careful, and if she kept making money at the rate she was currently bringing in, then she would have the twenty thousand by summer, even when Piotr's cut was skimmed off the top.
Pimps. The lowest of the low. They make me want to puke.
"You like?" she repeated, spreading her arms out wide and thrusting her breasts forward for him to admire. The only answer was another animalistic grunt, which she took to be a sign of the priest's approval.
Anya turned her back on him, facing the bed. She reached down for the waistband of her skirt, and slowly began to slide it downward, revealing a blood-red lace thong that bisected her toned buttocks. Letting the underwear fall to the ground, she stepped out of it without getting her feet tangled up in it — no mean feat.
The slap came as a complete surprise, making her flinch. The priest must have crossed the motel room in complete silence, because suddenly he delivered a hard smack upon her left butt cheek. Unable to help it, Anya yelped. The priest ignored her, reaching down instead to cup her buttocks and squeeze them firmly between his harsh, unyielding fingers.
"Very nice," he grunted approvingly, kneading and working the tender flesh. Now that the initial shock of impact was over, Anya slowly relaxed and let him play with her ass. She knew from experience that a lot of men were squeezers; they seemed to take an almost perverse delight in testing the mixture of softness and firmness of boobs and buttocks alike. She tried to prevent herself from grimacing at the smell of rank body odor that her john was putting off in waves. It smelled as though he hadn't taken a bath in days, if ever. The palms of his hands felt greasy against her smooth, pale skin, but Anya was a good enough actress not to make her distaste apparent to a customer.
The priest's hands hooked around to her front, drifting lightly across the softness of her flat abdomen before tracing their way up to cup her firm breasts. After encircling the nipples with his fingertips, he set to work on squeezing them too; not painfully, but firmly enough to be just a little uncomfortable. Anya could feel something hard and unyielding pressing into her from behind. Dutifully, she reached down and began to massage the bulge in his crotch through the front of his pants, feeling it stiffen and grow beneath her fingertips.
"That's it," he breathed heavily in her ear. "Work it…"
CHAPTER THREE
Anya obliged, slipping her hand beneath the waistband and encircling the engorged organ. She worked it expertly, gripping not too lightly nor too firmly, sliding her hand up and down the shaft in just the right way to make him harden even further. She knew from the groans being elicited that she was doing good work. The pastor squeezed her tits in time with her strokes, falling into a rhythm that began to steadily pick up speed as he began to get more excited.
As she felt him approaching climax, Anya slowed down a little. She didn't want him going off in his pants. After all, no man paid a hundred dollars American just for a hand job. He would want to be blown at the very least, and probably some reverse cowgirl or doggy style after that, in order to feel that he had gotten his money's worth. Much as she hated to agree with that weasel Piotr, the little fucker was right when he said that a happy customer was a repeat customer, and repeat business (particularly well-paying repeat business) would bring her Darya here all the sooner.
"Wait," she said, reaching up to remove his hands from her breasts. "I have protection." Anya went over to retrieve her purse from the chair, extracting a single Trojan condom and offering it to the pastor. He shook his head.
"I want you to put it on," the man said petulantly, in the manner of a sulking child.
Stifling a sigh of annoyance, Anya sank slowly to her knees in front of him. She began to unbuckle his belt, taking great care not to break any of her perfectly manicured red nails, then unbuttoned the pants and slowly unzipped the fly. The john's dick was standing at full attention. He was circumcised, and Anya noted with distaste that there were small flecks of white where the bell-shaped head met the shaft.
Yes, this one definitely needs instruction in personal hygiene...
Tearing the wrapper with a deft twist of her fingers, Anya removed the condom and placed it on the tip of his cock, then unrolled the plastic ring centimeter by centimeter until it sat snugly at the base, just above the man's balls. With a protective barrier in place between her and God knew just what nastiness lurked upon the man's dick, Anya was now a little more willing to fellate him. She flicked the tip of his glans lightly with her tongue. At the same time, she ran the tips of two fingers slowly up and down the length of the shaft.
Letting loose a moan of pure pleasure, the pastor balled his fists and raised his arms out to either side, like a gladiator standing triumphant over the body of a vanquished opponent. Anya took the head of his dick fully into her mouth and began to suck gently, transferring her hand away from stroking the shaft to cupping his balls instead and giving them the slightest of squeezes.
The warm, plasticky taste had never bothered Anya. It made the whole experience impersonal, sterile, almost clinical in nature. She had only ever had one lover in her entire life (that was Darya's father) and had performed such acts shyly and reluctantly, primarily because there was genuine emotion involved during their acts of lovemaking. Whereas this, on the other hand...this was work, plain and simple. Nothing more than a business transaction. She had long since learned to divorce both her mind and her heart from what men paid her to do in the motel rooms along Colfax.
The john began to rock his hips backwards and forwards. She felt his fingers wrap themselves up in her long hair, gripping it into a tight bunch which he used as leverage to fuck her mouth fas
ter and harder. Anya tried to pull back, because the bastard's eager thrusts were starting to trigger her gag reflex, but he held her head firmly in place and wouldn't let go. A strangled choking noise rose up involuntarily from the back of her throat, and it took every ounce of self-control that she possessed for her not to gag and puke the contents of her stomach up all over the selfish fat bastard's dick.
Instead, she grabbed the shaft and jerked the swollen organ out of her mouth. A long trail of saliva still connected the bulbous purple head to Anya's lower lip. It swung back and forth, glistening in the light of the room's single bare bulb.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" demanded the pastor, his face flushing red with anger. "You got your money. Now it's time to earn it. Get back to blowing on Gabriel's horn!"
"You’re choking me!" Anya yelled back hotly. It was a response born of anger, and she quickly suppressed it, choosing to try a different tack instead. Flattery almost always worked on small-minded men such as this. "I can only take so much," she purred, fluttering her eyes at him, "and you are big, yes? Veeerrrry big. You must give a girl time to adjust..."
The john seemed mollified, loving the stroking of his ego every bit as much as the stroking of his cock. He took it in one hand and brought it up to her face, but much to her surprise he did not force it into her mouth; rather, he simply waited for her to accept it, which she did, resuming the mechanical process of giving him head with even less feigned enthusiasm than she had before.
Anya ran her hands up and down the back of his bare thighs, making him shiver. He was at least letting her set the pace now, and she obliged by taking as much of him into her mouth as she could manage.
After a couple of minutes, he withdrew himself voluntarily. "Up onto the bed," was the only explanation he gave.
