“How much do you charge? All that married woman crap doesn’t cut much ice, you know. I don’t care, I’ll pay the going rate.” He takes a thick black leather wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. Opens it and pulls out two fifty pound notes. Katherine notices there are quite a lot more where they came from.
He hands her the cash. “Okay,” she says, taking it.
She stands to begin undressing.
He smiles.
She unzips the dress where it cinches her waist and pulls it up above her head. And off. All she is wearing is her underwear. The black bustier and knickers set and the matching suspender belt and dark stockings. What she always wore for the assignments with her lover. Her skin is pale, her tummy flat like a marble table, her thighs full, the tight suspender belt biting in to the skin above her hips.
She moves to unhook the bustier but Adam interjects: “No, keep your top on. You haven’t got much up there. I’d rather you didn’t.”
She stands there, legs apart, wondering what to do next. Thinking, why am I so passive? I know what I’m doing. Fleetingly, she remembers how, one night, in the thrall of rapture, he had whispered in her ear: “One day, Kate, you will walk all the sexual stations of the Cross, you see.” At the time, she hadn’t quite understood, but had found it sexy, him saying things like that, it fired her lust up even more. Now, she was beginning to understand.
He gulps down the contents of his glass. She obliges, doing the same. He pours more bourbon.
“Well?” she asks.
“Take your pants off,” the union representative demands.
Katherine unhooks a stocking, but the guy interrupts:
“No, keep your stockings on.”
She bends and pulls the knickers down, slipping the thin fabric across the nylon and over her flat shoes. She leaves the garment on the hotel room floor and straightens up again.
Her pubic curls lie flattened against her damp skin. He gazes at her lower stomach, all traces of his smile now disappearing as he drinks in the sight of her nudity.
“Come here,” he says. She moves closer to him, her cunt facing his eyes, as he remains in the chair.
His fingers invade her thatch, spreading the dark curls. He slips a finger into her gash. Probes.
“You’re not very wet, are you?”
Katherine stays silent.
He withdraws his finger from her sex. Brings it up to his nose, sniffs. Grunts.
“Suck my cock.”
He unzips his fly.
Katherine kneels by the chair. He pulls his penis out. It’s semi-erect, pinker than others she has come across. Not that she’s encountered that many. A handful of clumsy groping sessions and fucking in the darkness at University, following alcoholic parties, and then her husband, uncircumcized and reliably sturdy, and five years later the damn lover, circumcized, thicker, darker, pulsating, veined like a tender tree. Life as an uninterrupted parade of male members!
She takes the man’s cock between her fingers, pulls on the foreskin and the glans emerges, reddish, the colour of fever. She lowers her head, opens her lips and takes the member into her moist insides. He’s not too big. She hates it when it makes her choke. Her tongue slowly makes contact with the swelling penis, circles its extremity; he tastes different, a slightly acrid, sweaty odour, musk and urine. Suddenly, she feels his hand on her head, fingers burrowing into her thick curls, pressuring her mouth to go deeper and swallow his cock up to its hairy hilt. The tip of her tongue dallies over the cock’s small hole. When she touches him there, there’s a trembling, a nervous shudder that courses through his whole body. She senses he is about to come and sucks harder on his now fully-grown member. He tries to hold back but she stimulates the base of his cock with her fingers while her tongue relentlessly keeps on teasing his opening.
“You bitch,” he sighs, aware that she is trying to finish him off. Expediting the job.
But the surge can’t be halted, and within a few seconds his whole body spasms. As this happens, Katherine opens her mouth wide to disengage herself from his throbbing cock, but he viciously holds her head down even harder and comes inside her mouth. She gags on the hot stream of come and has no other choice than to swallow the stuff. Bastard, she mutters under her breath. It sticks in her throat. She feels like being sick. Finally, he releases his hold on her head and she is allowed to pull her mouth back. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, to eliminate the lingering taste of his seed.
His quickly shrivelling penis still dangling like a marionette from his open trousers, he gets out of the chair before she has time to stand up again and signals her to the bed. She sits on the edge, and he forces her down so that her long legs dangle over the side. He lowers himself down to the carpet, and sticks two fingers into her cunt.
“Still dry, hey?” he says, forcing his way past her labia.
She looks down at him, his face cunt-level, thinning hair bobbing up and down between her thighs. She distractedly notices there’s a ladder near the knee of her left stocking. How did that happen, she wonders?
His fingers slip in and out of her sex. She has no feeling of excitement. This is what being an object is, she reckons.
“Your cunt hair is too long,” he tells her, parting the curls around her opening.
“I don’t go to the barbers very often,” she attempts a feeble joke.
“Wait there. Don’t move,” he says, rising and moving over to the settee where a battered attache-case lies. He opens it and pulls out a nail kit and a small pair of scissors.
He pulls on her pubic curls, untangling the longer ones and trims the extremities along a straight line. It feels funny. She looks down after he has completed the work. Her bush is now distinctly thinner, and the lips of her sex are plainly visible behind the growth.
“There, that’s nicer, isn’t it?” he remarks. “Now you can see the merchandise.”
She doesn’t answer.
“I want to see inside,” he says. “Use your own fingers. Open up.”
She obeys.
He peers inside her, his eyes piercing her innards.
Her lover used to say that her insides were the colour of coral. She closes her eyes.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” Adam says. “Where do you keep your condoms? In your handbag?”
“I don’t have any,” Katherine replies. “I’ve already told you, I’m not a whore.”
“Bloody hell,” the man says. “Shit. You don’t think I’m gonna put my cock inside there; I don’t know where you’ve been before.”
“You didn’t mind my mouth,” she says, a tad angrily. “That was good enough for you, wasn’t it?”
Only five cocks before, she thinks. A bloody woman of experience… No, not even, the first two she never gave head to.
She looks at this man, and finds him ridiculous. Overweight, standing there with his small cock peering out between the curtains of his half-open trousers.
She giggles.
He reacts badly and slaps her across the cheek.
“Don’t…”
“I’ve paid. I’ll do exactly what I want to do, woman.”
“Bastard.”
He slides his belt out of the trouser top, and she’s totally unprepared for this, as he grabs both her wrists and binds them together. Tight. She’s too slow to react. Vulnerable, obscenely undressed in front of this stranger with her cunt wide open, her black stockings in disarray, her small breasts feeling heavy inside the cups of her bustier, her cheek still on fire from the blow. Adam pulls her by her bound wrists towards the bathroom, pushes the door open with his foot.
Katherine is frightened. What now? She has read too many serial killer novels. For Christ’s sake, she edits them. In her bag over at the bed and breakfast, there’s even a manuscript for one that takes place in Arizona.
