The Whore

Yeah, a drink. Why not? That time of day.

Pre-text.

That’s what he needed. A pre-text for the alcohol, a lot of alcohol.

Alone, at home, alone.

My Ooh La La

Cheaper. Cheaper, but prying eyes were still ever so keen. Even as her body rots, the eyes glow red and hunt down his shame.

No, a pre-text. And all good pre-texts must begin with a text. So he sent one, two, three… I forget, perhaps more… better odds, better chance of pre-text…

A veil whisper thin and draped vainly over the knowing eyes of friends. Transparent and never-fooled no more. A sigh and a much worn shake of the head. A party long since over. The replies, the resignation, the excuses. A veil of equal dull delicacy cast back in his direction.

Except….one. A maybe. A pre-text? A pre-text enough, certainly.

To the cupboard, the finery, the garb- a mask of black-eyed malcontent, both shield and warning. Enough, usually, only the shallow do not judge by appearances. A dead Irish paradox, a forgotten whispered truth.

With a bellow he sated the red-eyed beast, his keeper and kept, fleeing before it could rise from its drowning slumber, and into the cool autumn night. A gruelling and begrudged walk in mancle-like boots. Heavy leather. A cross borne like a thick fog. Then to the ash stained chariot, all human life contained within, animals marched on, obediently to the slaughter. Not this time, but soon, and they will have their celebration on a chalice serving soggy chips. Piss-stinking of vinegar.

Dusk lands with his feet on gummed concrete. A cursory glance at the obsolete phone reveals the rejection he knew was coming. Pre-text gone? No matter. It was only a pre-text, after all. As he mounted the dusty steps and drank in the tavern’s sickly glow, he knew oblivion awaited.

Three hours later he was spat forth into the darkness, a little unsteady, but forced out by the guilt of squandering his feeble fortunes. That and the banality of those who made them his company. And fear that he now mirrored their vacuity.

Marginally unsteady of foot, numbness had largely brushed aside the discomfort of the early evening, as he strode into the ever chilled wind of the night, in pursuit of his rusted chariot.

A voice. Familiar, or maybe not, a face- bearded- could be one of any number.
A gaudy card boasting of negligible prices for sub-standard ale, for a nightclub doomed to failure.

Why not?

Exploit their predictable desperation. Time is short, and a fool and his money are the most tragic caprice.

He mounted the stairs, clumsily, before being subsumed by the swamp-like dirge of the music. An unexpectedly familiar face, one far more inebriated than his own- too many sickly smiles- he wanted to drink alone, but no matter, no matter.

Women friends, of course. One for himself, the pliant, wobbling flesh of the other for the interloper. Desolation breeds priapism on a sea of gin. Floating sickeningly, surrounded by voracious sharks.

Kisses. Vulgar tongue lashed kisses, neither had heard the other’s name. No matter. Touches, gropes, fluids. Rancid sticky flavours. But time is short, and lust must be satisfied.

A hand thrust up a stockinged leg, seizing a gusseted vagina. Gasps, effrontery, then insouciance from the perpetrator. A a stinging slap and, then, in an instant, she is thrown off her chair in his drunken rage. The furious hunger of his cock, the brain addled by budget alcohol- he is pulled away ‘midst friend screams and she weeps upon the floor.

Before the somnambulant doormen are fully roused by the incident, he heads for the exit. Apoplectic. Determined to fight or fuck something.

Gay bar? A gaudy temple of the preening? To drink of Hellenic affections in philistines robes? So be it.

Fight? Fuck? Both.

Angry stumbles through the streets. Through dark dim-lit alleys where tramps lie, sickly-moist in their own excreta, to the long decaying High Street. The lurid lights beckon him to the door where inverts, drenched in sweat and cloying products, rejoiced in the mythology of their freedom.

-What’s this? An empty bar?

“Shut, I’m afraid.”

Very well, I’ll have no quarrel with you, my man, not this time. Later than he thought.

Shrieks, and cackles and vomit were swept upon the breeze as he struggled to make sense of the digits on his phone.

-”Oh, mate?”

A harsh voice cut through the white noise and brought him back to the present.

What’s this? He thought. Girl, late teens, or so he thought. Pale, slim, not offensively unattractive.

But something of the gauntness about the eyes which hinted at her membership of the dragon hunt. Young for that, perhaps. Too young- they’re always too young- a little familiar…… he couldn’t say. Never the less, he instinctively thrust his phone into his pocket- better not risk a chase- not in this footwear, not at this time.

-”Have you got some cash you can lend me?”

Little whore.

Worthless bitch. All of them. The girl…the thing at the club…all with their little hands out, all wanting a little more than they’ve earnt. Well not this time. If she wanted to feed her addiction, she would have to feed his, and she had better do a good job. Without anticipating anything other than a hostile response, he offered bluntly,

“I’ll give you £20 if you suck my cock.”

Rather than a volley of abuse, she looked around quickly and ,then, back at his glaze-eyed, faintly sneering expression.

“Alright then, come on.”

And with that she took his hand and led him to the gloom of a nearby alleyway. She settled on her knees behind a skip in a deep-set back door. He fondled at the buckle of his belt.

Drunkenly, angrily, desperately, until his three quarter hard cock hit the cold air. And, then, the burning heat of her mouth consumed him.

A moan, almost a roar, released into the night. A mountain lion mourning a lost world.

He looked back down. Insistent, methodical, professional- 19? How many times had she performed this act? On how many men? How expertly she judged the the pressure and timing….

Then he realised, she was enjoying this.

Good whore, obedient whore. Men will open their wallet in tribute to the sensual ecstasy of her mouth.

Stopping, briefly, and with a bedeviled smile, she whispered,

“Have you got the money?”

Wordlessly he pulled a £20 note from his shirt and handed it to her. She whisked it away into her pocket.

He hung his head back again in reverie at her attentions.

Then something changed, still warm, still delicious. But duller.

Less human.

He looked down and realised she had slipped a condom onto his penis without, seemingly, breaking rhythm.

Condom? Prissy little whore. Shares a needle, but won’t swallow a load. Well trained clearly- no babies, no weaning on to methadone. Just false of habit- or just false self esteem…

“Are you going to cum soon?”

Asking questions of me? Setting times? My money, my decision when this party ends.

Too much had turned. Power assumed. Attitude all wrong. A lesson about to be learnt.

“It takes me a while to cum with condom- hang on.”

He masturbated furiously, trying to offset the synthetic numbness with sheer brute force…

“Ready? Here we go…”

As the whore dropped her mouth back around the sheathed phallus, he seized the back of her head, and thrust it as far down her throat as he could.

She gagged and tried to pull away, but he clamped his hands upon her head like a vice. Tears filled her eyes, but her screams were muffled as again and again he assaulted her mouth with his manhood.

Now she would learn. His money, his choice. No smiles now- lost in the realisation in her worth:

£20, and her mouth was his until he was finished with it.

She wanted to bite down angrily upon him in protest, but he, like her, had done this before. And timed his furious lunges so expertly that she had just enough air to retain consciousness, but not enough time to do anything but gasp and gag.
Tears streamed down the gauntness of her face, until he hollered angrily into the night.

“YES, YES, FUCKING YES!

And with that, he gave one final thrust which took his cock as far down her throat as it would go.

Spray, twitching, into rubber. Sated.

He released her head and she fell back onto the cold concrete of the street coughing and spluttering.

He looked down. Smirked. Then threw the soiled condom at her.

Blocked with hands. Scowled. Not her worst indignity- not nearly. But still a scowl…

She was thinking of the high coming….

“Twat”.

She stated bluntly, and with little drama. She ran away into the night, to serve her real master- the poppy.

He fumbled at his trousers ag………………………………….

His eyes opened. In bed, at home. Don’t know how. Flashes…

A dream? No.

He didn’t dream, not anymore.

He cried.

there were no tears……

Bryon Leopold