by Glen Frost
"Which way?"
"Hands and knees. Do it now."
Anya obliged, rising gracefully to her feet. She positioned herself at the foot of the bed, legs slightly apart, presenting him with her ass and a clear view of her pussy, which was neatly trimmed down into a landing strip pattern. All being well, this should be over in no more than five minutes, ten tops, and then she could pocket the hundred bucks and freshen up before taking on her next client of the night.
She wasn't particularly wet, and the priest wasn't particularly gentle, but at least his cock was still slick from the head she had given him. They both grunted as he entered her, parting her lips and driving himself inside her. Anya shuffled her knees apart to give him a little more room to enter, resting her head in the cradle made by her forearms and raising her ass higher into the air and giving it a suggestive wiggle. The john responded by gripping her buttocks tightly, and burying himself deep inside her with a single, brutal thrust that forced her to stifle a cry of pain. There was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had hurt her.
Using his grip for leverage, anchoring her hips in place, he began to pound her harder and harder, his balls slapping against her taint with each successive thrust. Anya could feel his unkempt pubic hair scratching at her every time it made contact with her skin, and she allowed herself to drift away into her happy place, allowing thoughts of her beloved Darya to supplant the reality of what was happening to her body. She thought about all of the things they would do together once they were so joyfully reunited: a trip to Elitch Gardens, Denver's biggest amusement park, where she would buy her daughter a hot dog and take her on whatever rides she wished; regular trips to the movie theater, to see the latest animated feature films or superhero movies; and camping trips up into the mountains. Anya didn't currently own a car, because they were so expensive to purchase and run, and it was much less of a priority than paying for Darya's passage was. But that didn't stop her from fantasizing about owning a small, efficient little runabout, one that would give them both the freedom to escape into the hills and mountains outside the city whenever they felt like it. Perhaps they'd even get a dog for company too. Darya would like that, she knew. What little girl wouldn't?
So utterly intoxicating were these daydreams that Anya didn't feel the fingers closing around her neck at first. It was only when they began to close around her throat like a steel vice, cutting off the flow of air through her windpipe, that she realized what was going on. The priest was obviously a choker, in addition to being a spanker, getting his rocks off by choking girls while he fucked them. Well, she wasn't going to put up with that shit. There were stories of chokers who had gone too far, accidentally killing the girl they were suffocating, or even worse, causing irreparable brain damage because they had cut off the blood supply to the brain for too long. There was no way that Anya would allow herself to end up in a hospital bed for life, being fed through a tube, just so this sick fuck could get himself off. None of the girls working Colfax allowed themselves to be strangled or choked, not even a little. Having a bruised neck was bad for business. It put most of the regular johns off.
She struggled, trying frantically to prise his fingers away from her throat, but the priest was too strong. His grip was locked down tight. Dimly, as though from very far away, she could hear him talking.
"Whore. Slut. Harlot. Filthy sodomite."
Vaguely, Anya wondered what her attacker was talking about. Why had he suddenly flipped, become enraged? Bright flashes exploded in front of her eyes, thousands upon thousands of luminous starbursts that blotted out her field of vision.
She couldn't breathe. Her windpipe was totally constricted, and her attempts to pry the priest's grip away from her throat were growing weaker with every passing second. Anya felt light-headed, the lack of oxygen and build-up of carbon dioxide in her brain making her feel dizzy and sick.
Anya tried to scream, but the best that she could manage was a muffled groan. As her consciousness began to fade for what she knew with gut-wrenching terror was going to be the final time in her life, a face suddenly appeared, floating in the forefront of her mind. It was the face of a young girl, so pretty and innocent that the merest sight of her nearly broke Anya's heart.
Darya.
If you do not fight back...if you allow this fat, sweating pig to take your life here in this squalid place, then you will never see her face again...
And with that, a surge of almost superhuman strength surged up, seemingly out of nowhere. Anya's face had turned purple, the eyes bulging out of their sockets due to the strain of being choked. What in other circumstances would have been an outraged roar or bellow sounded more like a hoarse croak by the time it exited her tortured throat, but it was an outward sign of her abject fury.
Taking all of her weight on the left arm, she swung her right arm backward. It was a completely blind swing, but it smacked meatily into what she felt sure was the priest's belly. Although she couldn't hear it because of the ringing in her ears, he uttered a grunt of surprise. But his grip remained as strong as ever, the fingers slowly but methodically strangling the life out of her.
Desperately, Anya tried again. This time she let her arm swing lower, and was rewarded for her efforts when she felt something soft and squidgy at the end of the arc. The priest shrieked, letting go of the struggling hooker's throat so that he could cup his wounded balls with both hands.
CHAPTER FOUR
Anya wasn't about to waste even a second of her good fortune. The instant that the death grip on her throat was released, she gulped down lungfuls of sweet, sweet air, taking a series of deep and rapid pants. She must have caught the pastor just perfectly, because the naked fat man was mewing, rocking backward and forward on the edge of the bed with his balls in his hands and a look of abject agony plastered across his face.
"You fucking bitch—!" Anya shut him up using one of her stiletto heels, driving it angrily into his belly. The black plastic stiletto disappeared between two glistening rolls of flab, eliciting another howl from the priest that seemed equal parts rage and pain. She followed it up with a kick from the other boot, which scraped a red trail across his bloated white abdomen.
"You are the fucking bitch, bitch!" Anya roared, her voice raspy and hoarse. Shaking her head in an attempt to clear the fog, she swung herself off the bed, tottering unsteadily on the revolting carpet. The priest was coming for her now, one hand still guarding his shriveled junk, while the other was balled into a trembling fist. He sidled crab-wise around the side of the bed, plainly expecting her to either beg or to flee.
She would do neither. Despite the fact that she could act the submissive with the very best of them, she had inherited her mother's volatile Russian temperament. The nightstand was cheap and flimsy, made of light wood and plastic. Anya scooped it up and swung it like a baseball bat. The priest threw up both hands to ward off the blow, taking most of the force on his outer forearms. It had been a feint, and Anya followed through with a perfectly-aimed kick to the crotch that sent the air whooshing out of the fat man's lungs and dropped him to his knees.
She had felt something squish when the boot went in, and it had felt good.
"I'll kill you, you god-damned whore!" The pastor was apoplectic, his face cherry-red and contorted into a grimace.
"I think you will not," Anya muttered, darting across the room with arms outstretched. Her prize: The handbag that still rested upon the armchair. She snatched it up triumphantly, her fingers questing for the phone. Keying in the six digit passcode (easy to remember, as it was Darya's birthday) she cycled through her recent calls. There it was, at the very top of the list. She hit the phone number that was entered under Piotr.
Tears were running down her attacker's livid face now. Anya kept a watchful eye on him, waiting for another assault, but she appeared to have knocked the wind out of his sails. He simply rocked backwards and forwards, cradling his battered cock and balls with his hands and
sobbing.
The phone rang for a few seconds before it was picked up. "Hello?" asked a thickly-accented voice at the other end.
"Room 14. The Lucky Star. Please hurry, Piotr."
"Da." The line went dead.
That was it. He was coming. Now all she had to do was survive until he got here.
After taking out the apartment key, Anya stuffed the phone back into her purse and zipped it up. The pain must be wearing off a little, she saw, because with a groan the pastor was slowly heaving himself to his feet, using the mattress and bed frame for leverage.
We'll see about that...
Anya tucked the apartment key into the space between her pointer and middle fingers, leaving a good inch and a half of serrated metal sticking out. Then she balled her right hand into a fist, clenching it as hard as possible and dropping it down to her side. Taking six quick steps across the carpet, she arrived in front of the pastor just as he began to straighten up, his own fists coming up into a laughable imitation of a fighting stance.
Without breaking stride, she pulled back her right arm and then lashed out, leading with the point of the key.
"Pig!"
As the length of jagged metal swept downward, the pastor brought his hands up to block. Anya was aiming for his right eye, hell-bent on blinding the bastard, but one swinging wrist caught her forearm, managing to deflect the blow and send it slightly wide. The key scraped its way along the priest's right cheek. Blood instantly welled up from the gash and began to streak its way towards his jowly chin. Although she was pissed that she hadn't struck her mark, Anya noted with satisfaction that glimpses of tendon and glistening white bone could be seen each time there was a gap in the red tide.
The fresh wave of pain sent the pastor into another violent rage.
"Jezebel!" he spat. "Whore of Babylon! Cunt!"
Anya brought her fist back for a second attempt, but the priest beat her to the punch, slamming a fist into her face with a sickening thud. Her nose cracked, flattening across the front of her face in a shower of blood as the cartilage ruptured. She saw stars once again, but this time the face of her daughter did not materialize to comfort her; there was only pain, harsh and throbbing, radiating backward from her ruined nose and rippling throughout her skull.
The second punch was every bit as unexpected as the first. This one hit home square in the center of Anya's mouth, splitting her lip open and taking two teeth along with it. She spat them out, along with a gobbet of viscous blood that left a trail dribbling down the front of her chin. Anya staggered backward, falling onto the bed. The worn bed springs twanged and groaned in protest. The pastor was upon her instantly, belly-flopping on top of her and pinning her down with all of his considerable weight.
She slapped him on the side of the head with all of the force she could muster. He retaliated with a vicious backhand swipe that blasted her head to the side and sent out fresh waves of agony. He wasn't bothering to choke her any more; through the haze of pain, Anya felt him slam punch after punch into her unprotected naked body. No part of her was spared. Here, a blow cracked two of her ribs; there, another sank into her soft belly and hammered into her liver.
The air left Anya's lungs in a rush. She wanted to puke, and with the next punch to her gut she did, vomiting explosively in the pastor's face. At least she had the small satisfaction of knowing that his mouth was open at the time, screaming at her in fury. He got a mouthful of her stomach contents, recoiling in disgust when the warm, viscous vomit hit the back of his throat. The sick was streaked with coppery blood from the lacerations to her tongue and lips, and the priest found the sensation to be so awful that it caused him to vomit in turn, splattering Anya's heaving breasts and belly.
Spluttering for air and spitting up chunks of vomit, the pastor felt backwards off the bed. He landed heavily on the floor and lay there groaning.
Where is the key...? Anya realized that she must have lost it somehow during the struggle. Without it, she was effectively weaponless. Well, not exactly. There were always her heels. Weakly, Anya raised herself up on her elbows. Her whole body was a mass of pain. Angry red and purple bruises were already starting to form on her chest, belly, and legs, standing out in stark contrast to the pale white skin.
The Lucky Star had a bad rep. Anya knew that it usually took something more than raised voices to get somebody to call the cops here; if there were neighbors in the rooms next door, they'd be far more inclined to keep on fucking or getting wasted than worry about what was happening in here. Nothing short of shots being fired was going to get a police response.
Fortunately, she got the next best thing. Three heavy thumps sounded on the motel room door in quick succession. Anya was too weak to get up off the bed to open it, but that hardly mattered. Piotr wasn't a man who was known for his patience. One powerful kick against the lock booted the door inward, slamming back against the wall with enough force to shake the room.
Piotr stepped inside, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. The lock was now pretty much worthless, so the door remained cracked open by a couple of inches. The pimp quickly scanned the room, searching out potential threats. Finding none, he returned his attention to the shit show that had brought him here. Piotr's scowl became more severe as he took in the scene: On the floor, what had to be Anya's john was laying in the fetal position, rocking himself backwards and forwards like a big baby. His face was a mask of what looked and smelled suspiciously like puke, and a deep, bloody gash ran along the full length of one cheek.
From her position on the bed, Anya watched her pimp's expression curdle when he assessed the state of her. Naked except for the knee-high boots, her body was covered in bruises. She could see that the puke was already starting to dry and congeal on her tits and chin. It was mixed with a little blood from her open wounds.
She didn't mistake the look of dismay on Piotr's face for one of compassion or concern. Anya had grown to know him far too well for that. No, this was the reaction of a businessman who was dismayed at the state of his merchandise. He was already doing the mental math, she suspected; this particular 'product' was going to be off the market for at least a week, if not two, because nobody wanted to fuck a woman whose face was in such a state.
"What happened?" Piotr grated, his tone one of irritation.
"The...God-damned whore...attacked me..."
The pimp kicked the pastor in the crotch. Hard. The naked fat man contracted in on himself, hands flying to protect his balls, and let out a high-pitched yipe.
"I was talking to her."
"He...choked...me." Anya pointed to her neck, tilting her head back to show off the livid marks that the priest's fingers had left. "Called me...a whore. Other names. He likes to...hurt girls, I think. Piece of shit."
Piotr looked down at the mewling mass of blubber that lay in a state of collapse at his feet. "Well? Is this true?"
"She is a whore," hissed the pastor through gritted teeth. "She needs to be punished."
"I see." Piotr nodded his understanding. He squatted down next to the john, taking great pains not to get any bodily fluids on the soles of his hand-made leather shoes. His tone of voice changed, suddenly becoming entirely more reasonable. Anya had seen that happen before, and braced herself: It was never a good sign, like the calm before the storm.
"I just wanted...to teach her a lesson."
"You are right, my friend," Piotr agreed reasonably. "The girl is a whore, and a damned good one at that. Do you know how much money I have invested in her? To bring her to this country?"
"I—"
"Ssh-ssh-ssh." Piotr raised his pointer finger to his lips, theatrically gesturing for silence. "She is a whore, yes. She is also merchandise. My merchandise. Merchandise that I cannot sell for the next few days, because of the damage that you have inflicted upon it."
The pastor made to retort, but Piotr cut him off by pressing the barrel of a pistol against his temple. From her vantage point on the bed, Anya ha
d watched the pimp slowly withdrawing the .45 Smith & Wesson from the pancake holster that was concealed beneath his leather jacket.
"Give me one good reason not to kill you now."
"I..."
"What? I cannot hear you." Piotr thumbed back the hammer with an ominous click. He pressed the muzzle deeper into the john's temple, making the skin around it blanch white.
"Please..."
"Get up."
"I..."
"I said get up, you miserable fat fuck, or I will shoot you right now..."
CHAPTER FIVE
The pastor was crying now, blubbering and begging for his life as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. He raised one hand toward Piotr beseechingly. Disgusted, the pimp stepped backward, all the time keeping the gun trained on him.
"Kill him, Piotr," Anya hissed. The anger was back now, burning like a flame in her breast. She wanted this sick piece of shit dead for what he'd done to her. In her eyes, he deserved to die a thousand times over.
The priest had both hands up now, palms facing outward in the universal sign for 'don't shoot.' "Please..."
Piotr let him sweat for a good thirty seconds. Finally, he waved toward the door with the Smith & Wesson. "Go. And do not come back."
Letting out a pathetic sob of gratitude, the john lunged for the door.
"WAIT." Piotr's command stopped him dead in his tracks. Hands still raised, he turned slowly around, his whole body shaking and jiggling in fear. "You must not forget those," the pimp smirked, nodding toward the pile of clothes on the carpet. "It is still snowing outside. We do not want you to catch your death of cold, nyet?"
"Uh...yes...thanks...of course not..." The fat man crouched down, frantically picking up his pants and shirt. Clutching them to his chest as though they were a defensive shield, he fled through the doorway and disappeared into the freezing cold night.
Satisfied, Piotr holstered the .45 and turned his attention back to Anya.
