by Matt Shaw
WARNING:
This is an EXTREME HORROR SHORT STORY.
It is intended for the readers who are subscribed to Kindle Unlimited.
It is designed to give you a short jolt of‘disturbing’before bedtime.
If you are looking for a longer piece, please do NOT purchase any of the‘F*cked-Up Shorts’range.
There are many longer stories available HERE
TED features heavily in the Matt Shaw book“Rotting Dead F*cks”.
You do not need to have read R.D.F.
This is a standalone SHORT offering more from the character.
The following book contains scenes and descriptions which some people may find upsetting. Please be aware this is an extreme story intended for a mature audience.
TED is an EXTREME CHARACTER. He is a racist, ignorant piece of shit. The views he expresses within this story DO NOT reflect the views of the author. And fear not, he gets what he deserves in Rotting Dead F*cks.
***
Copyright©2015 by Matt Shaw
Matt Shaw Publications
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters in this book are purely fictitious.
Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
F*cked-up Shorts
T E D
M A T T S H A W
1.
“It is always the same. The man needs to approach the woman. The man needs to initiate conversation. The man needs to dip his hand in his pocket and pull out the notes with which to purchase the first round of drinks. The man then needs to do the talking to keep the woman engaged in conversation.
The woman just waits for the man to approach. Half the time, when the man does so, they do not even smile. They pretend as though it’s a big drama, an embarrassment, that someone has noticed them. They begrudgingly accept the drink. They answer the man’s questions with short answers, closing all further avenues of conversation on that particular topic. They drink their drink with a speed that shocks most men.
The men expected them to sip gingerly at the chosen brand of (usually) wine. The men expected a few more questions thrown back their way, in the art of mutual conversation but it never works that way.
Usually anyway.
I will accept that there are random times when a man and a woman, in that sort of environment, do make it to a second drink. Sometimes, maybe, even a third. But they are few and far between and never witnessed by myself. To me it is always the same; you buy the drink, you ask the questions, they down their drink, they fuck off. It is frustrating and - if you’re new to the game - a real kick to your confidence.
This is why I usually prefer hookers.
Today is no exception.
I go through a range of emotions when choosing a hooker to book. I start off excited. The thought of getting my hands on a beautiful woman to do with as I please. The thought of getting my end away. Why wouldn’t I be excited? Once you’ve chosen your woman, and made contact, you then start going through all the different things you’re going to do to them. This one, a pretty blonde with a size eight frame and tits that seem to be glued on, is going to get it. I’m going to break her. She’ll suck my cock. I’ll eat her out. I’ll fuck her. We will not make love. Love will not come into the equation. If it does, this is the wrong hobby for you to partake in. At this stage, I also think about how and when I will cum. When paying for sex you need to make sure you get your monies worth. Some girls are clever. They know a man will only shoot his load once and will then make a hasty retreat from the apartment, suddenly overcome with guilt. These men are the pathetic ones. The women spot them a mile off and play it to their advantage, using all sorts of tricks to get them to shoot their load quicker. For example - when in missionary, the lady might reach down and grab the base of the cock. The guy will be fucking her and she’ll be stroking his dick at the same time. She’ll usually increase the volume of her sighs, moans, grunts… Pretend she is really into it and that the man is some kind of stud.
I do not fall for such tricks.
Some whore does that to me? I pull her hand away and pin both above her head. I go at my speed. She starts faking an orgasm - another method to excite me - and I clamp my hand over her mouth and hold it there. I will ejaculate when I am ready. I will last the full amount of time I have paid for and I expect them to be thankful.
I hate shooting my load into a rubber. It feels constrictive. Like your cock is being swallowed by a fucking snake. I want it free. But a rubber is a necessary evil for this game. Only a fool would fuck a whore without bagging it up first. A fool or one of those weird fuckers I’ve heard about who actually wants to catch a case of the nob-rot. So - yes - to fuck them, you wrap it up before you slap it up. But it doesn’t mean you need to cum like that.
When I am close to like to pull out and yank the rubber off. I throw it across the room and position myself over their chest. That’s where I want to cum. That’s where I want to finish. Right over her tits or, if she allows it, on her face.
It’s a power feeling. Them lying there coated in your semen… It shows you fucking own them. They’re yours. You know what I mean? After that I don’t give a shit what they do. They usually jump up straight away and reach for a towel or they disappear into the bathroom and you hear them cleaning themselves. I just lie on the bed, knackered. Money well spent; both for real and metaphorically speaking.
I mentioned earlier a range of emotions when booking a prostitute but realise I’ve only really spoken of the positive. Well after I’ve cum - and sometimes for a split second after the appointment is confirmed - I can feel guilt. None of this bullshit that I’m about to use these women as nothing but a sex toy. Fuck that. They know what they’re doing. They chose this industry. They chose this career. My guilt stems from the money side of it. You know, could I really afford what I’ve just done, or am about to do? My jobs aren’t the highest of paying, you know? Never seem to hold them down long. Lost count the amount I’ve had now…”
“You say it’s the girls’ choice…” my psychiatrist interrupted me. Dr. Platt. Even with the filthy look I gave her she continued as though it were acceptable behaviour. And they say I am the one with… issues. “You are aware some of these girls are shipped over from other countries and forced into the industry against their will, aren’t you? How do you know you haven’t unwittingly ordered one of these ladies for your entertainment? They didn’t choose the career. They were made to do it to pay back the supposed debt of bringing them over.”
“They don’t have to do it,” I told her. I made no attempts at hiding the fact I was pissed at her for interrupting me. That’s the problem with these so-called professionals. They go to school for a few years, get a piece of paper with their name on it and some made-up qualification, which means shit to the rest of the world, and they instantly believe they have more rights than any other cunt. It does my head in and - on more than one occasion - I’ve contemplated bashing her fucking head in because of the attitude she carries.
“They’re forced to do it. What other choice do they have?”
“No one is forced to do anything. I am not forced to come here. I am not forced to live my life or do the jobs I choose to do, or end up in. You’re not forced to sit there and listen to cunts like me banging on about this and that… We control what we want to do. We are in charge of our own lives. If they don’t like it, they can fucking kill themselves, right? Just as - if I get fucked off being me - I can kil
l myself. Or maybe, one day, you’ll snap and decide you’ve had enough and write yourself a prescription only to neck the lot. Don’t go telling me they have no choice. That is bullshit…”
“So you’re saying they should just kill themselves if they don’t like it?”
“Yes.”
She did that irritating noise from the back of her throat. Hmmmm. It pisses me off. She only ever does it when I say something she doesn’t quite agree with. So, as you can probably guess, it’s something she tends to do a lot and then, as always, she leans forward in her chair and scribbles down some notes on the pad of paper on her desk. Of course I try and see what she has put but she’s a doctor and - like all doctors - her handwriting is fucking shit. These cunts, they’re meant to be clever but… Least I know how to write properly.
Dr. Platt put the pen down and looked at me with an eyebrow raised, as though she expected me to continue my story even though she’d ruined the flow of it and made me completely forget where I was at. So fucking rude.
“That’s it,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“Hmmm.” She hesitated a moment, “And how has your mood been recently? Have you got into any more fights?”
She asked the question as though it were a frequent occurrence. That pisses me off too. I got into one little fight and now I am considered violent. Sure, I have violent thoughts but who doesn’t? I don’t tend to act upon them. I don’t tend to go out of my way to cause trouble. It was just one of those things. I was sitting in a pub, at the bar, minding my own business when this asshole started causing trouble. He was mouthing off to his girlfriend. I’m not sure what it was about. I did know, at the time, but it was over a week ago now and it wasn’t important enough to remember. I told him to quieten down. Said that he should take his little domestic home and away from the bar where the adults were hanging around. He started getting in my face, threatening me so I did the sensible thing and glassed the cunt.
A waste of a beer.
The girlfriend wasn’t even grateful when I plastered him in the face either. There I was, standing her corner in my own kind of way and - as soon as the glass cracked in her partner’s skull - she was there shouting at me too. I would have thought I at least deserved a fresh beer for the one I wouldn’t get to drink but - no - apparently not.
I reminded my psychiatrist, “That wasn’t my fault.”
It’s hardly ever my fault.
It’s everyone else.
2.
The rest of the appointment with my psychiatrist, a weekly thing, went the same as it always did. I would say something I’ve done, she would look at me with that concerned look and scribble some notes down and then urge me to continue my story just for her to repeat the process until she’d chirpily tell me that time was up and was the same time next week okay? It irritated me no end.
I was there because my GP referred me after I showed aggressive tendencies and thoughts deemed dark by ‘normal’ society. I went along because I felt like it might do me some good. Some days I did wake up feeling like shit and hating myself, the reason I saw the GP in the first place, so I thought it might be good to talk things through with a so-called professional.
I don’t know, I just thought they would fix me. I thought they would listen to what I had to say and then tell me how not to be like that. I guess I was stupid to think like that but, I don’t know. I prefer to think I was being hopeful.
Whatever I thought, I was wrong.
Every week they make me talk. I talk about what I have been up to. I talk about my feelings (if there are any to talk about). I talk about everything. They don’t. They just sit there listening to me, nodding and making irritating noises from the backs of their throats as though clearing away some phlegm. They rarely give advice, they never tell me what to do… In fact, the way I see it, it is a complete waste of time. I feel the same way every week. After every session I promise it’s my last and yet - like a fool - I go back.
What am I doing?
Why am I even thinking about it?
Just forget about it.
Every week is the same.
The appointment is over and yet I find myself stressing about it for hours afterwards. Funnily enough, this was the main reason I ended up arranging another kind of appointment for after. Something to take my mind from the morning’s appointment.
I was in the bathroom now. I had just had a shower to ensure I was nice and clean for my lady. Sometimes I don’t bother depending on how they look on the site. If they look to be high class, I’ll shower. If they look to be… Less than high class… They can take me as I am and be thankful I’m not covered in warts.
I never, never see the same girl twice. I am not with them to form a relationship or get to know them. I simply want a fuck. No strings, no emotions, just sex. The moment you start forming a relationship with them, on a friend level, it ruins everything. Each session becomes the same as the last and that’s no good. I like mixing it up with the different girls. Different faces to look at when I fuck them, different sounds, different techniques they employ.
Tonight I’ve chosen a fit looking blonde from my preferred website which lists all the girls in the local area. She is part of an agency. I gave her name when I called through and they said she was available. They confirmed the price - one hundred and fifty pounds - and took my address, advising me she’d be there at the set time. The phone calls are short and to the point, which is something I like. Nothing worse than getting tied up discussing the little details. You can do that with the girl in question when she arrives.
Having dried myself off I put a clean, white dressing gown on. I figured there was little point in dressing again in shorts, socks, jeans and a tee shirt when the girl is only going to order me to strip as soon as I’ve handed over the cash.
They always take the cash first.
Dressed, all that was left to do was quickly spray around the place with a can of deodorant to hide the stink of musk that tended to hang in the air from where I’d failed to clean properly. Spray enough and the house will appear fresh long enough to last until the end of the session by which time the place will, instead, smell of lubrications, sweat and latex.
There is nothing romantic about fucking a prostitute.
The doorbell rung, causing my heart to skip a beat. It is ten to seven. She is ten minutes early, unless of course it is some Jehovah Witnesses come to preach word of The Good Book to me? Ha. The Good Book? Clearly they’ve never read Lee Child.
I grabbed the can of deodorant and quickly sprayed both around the room and into my armpits before tossing it into the bathroom and heading down the stairs to greet my date.
All afternoon I had been getting on with bits that I needed to do yet I couldn’t help but go back to looking at her pictures on the website. Unlike most girls, she had pages of photos to scroll through. Most ladies had about ten pictures showing their features. Most of the time their faces were blurred and, if you read the comments, you’d see that’s because they apparently value their privacy…
That’s bullshit.
It’s because they’re dog rough.
Think about it, they have nothing to worry about with their friends or relatives seeing them on the site. The friend, or relative, wouldn’t say anything. After all, how can they? If they admit to seeing the girl’s photo on the escort site, they have to admit to looking in the first place. Anyway, that’s by the by…
My little tip to newbies looking to dally in the industry; no face shot, no booking.
This girl had lots of face shots, among others, and her cheeky grin was enough to get me semi-erect. The size of her tits, and the tiny waist, sealed the deal. A whole afternoon of trying to concentrate and do what I needed to do, yet going off for a sneaky look at the girl I’d be fucking within a few hours. The temptation to touch myself was great and now - as I headed for the front door - I wished I had. Going into the appointment with a loaded gun was a mistake. I was about to pay for an hour of this hotties’ t
ime and yet I’d most likely last five minutes.
If that.
Well if that happens it will be a lesson for next time and I’d still make her work to give me a second orgasm so, no great problem.
I got to the front door and reached for the handle. A quick twist and I pulled the door open with a beaming, welcoming smile on my face… What the fuck?
My smile dropped.
“Hello,” she said.
I had to double check, “Are you my seven o’clock appointment?”
“Yes. My name is Chantal,” she said as she stepped into the house.
I closed the door and turned to her, confused.
The girl standing before me was a similar age to the one I’d ordered but that was where the similarities ended. It was only because she was dressed like a stereotypical tart that I even questioned whether she were my appointment as opposed to tell her I wasn’t buying today and to slam the door in her face. The girl I wanted was a size eight. The girl here was a size twelve. My girl had long blonde hair. This girl had short black hair. My girl had blue eyes. This woman had brown.
But above all else, my girl was white…
“I’m sorry but I think there has been some sort of mistake,” I told her, trying to remain calm. I don’t handle unexpected change to my plans very well. If I make a plan - or, in this case, a booking - then I expect it to stay as I’d originally intended. I didn’t expect it to be changed and especially without my permission.
“The agency didn’t call you?” Chantal asked.
“No.”
She sighed heavily, “I’m sorry. They’re always doing this…”
Always doing what exactly? Promising a client one thing and delivering something else entirely? It’s like ordering a shirt from Gucci and having Primark deliver.