Brenda Kuchinsky
Time's Harlot
First published by Brenda Kuchinsky in 2017
Copyright © Brenda Kuchinsky, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
A Letter to my readers
The past is never where you think you left it.
Katherine Anne Porter
Nihil humanum mihi alienum est.
(Nothing human is alien to me).
Terence
Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere.
Mae West
One
Rivulets of tears soaked her back. She hoped snot wouldn’t follow.
Sophia, wearing a becoming emerald green teddy, which complimented her sparkling green eyes and mahogany red curly mop, was kneeling doggy style on the vast gold bed heaped with velvet pillows, while the young man, helpless in the face of a flaccid penis, gripping her futilely from behind, was crying her a river, sobbing, moaning, and sighing. Broken hearted.
“Okay, Donald. Are you ready for your milk and homemade cookies? Mommy baked them just for you,” she consoled, turning around and taking him in her motherly arms.
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I want to make love to you so much it hurts. I just can’t today,” he stuttered out in between pitiful gasps.
Sophia handed him a tissue box, appraising his nakedness with a cool clinical eye.
Nice cock. Not too big. Not too small. Great body. Hard and muscular. No spare flesh or flab. But then again, he’s twenty-five to my forty-three.
These Mamma’s Boys. It’s all in their heads of course. I never thought they would be so difficult. What do I know? I’m only a shrink with a twenty year old daughter.
Donald was happily munching away, unself consciously naked with a creamy milk mustache adorning his face. His tears all dried up now that he didn’t have to perform.
“Now Donald I’m going to level with you. I didn’t thinking providing sexual services to you boys would be so difficult. This Mommy hang up is quite a stinker.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. Now can I sit on your lap?”
She hugged him tightly, naked on her strong supporting thighs, getting a tiny bit aroused, unlike Donald. He just wanted to be loved like a son right now.
This felt like the Pieta tableaux gone awry. Maybe this would make great performance art. An irreverent scantily clad Madonna clasping a naked Son who was thinking incestuous thoughts. It wouldn’t pay as well as sexual services. She needed the money or she wouldn’t be bending over for these snotty nosed kids.
He came over and handed her the five hundred dollars in five crisp, satisfyingly crackling one hundred dollar bills after he dressed.
“Two weeks. Same time?”
“Yes, Donald. You can count on it. Be a good boy. The full hour?” she asked, pecking him on the cheek.
“Yes. Of course.”
She closed the door, leaning against it with a long, drawn out sigh, surveying the spacious bedroom, which had started out with standard whore’s décor, lots of red and black velvet, and ended up with a more Eastern flavor, Indian and Thai silks, elephants, teak, gold and brown. Much better. She didn’t want to be a cliché. One more tonight. This was the thousand dollar trick. A Momma’s Boy who liked to be punished. Corporal punishment.
There was actually less sex than she had imagined involved in her latest business venture. When she started OEDIPUS INC. a year ago, she assumed she’d be exhausted from screwing not from either coddling or punishing these boys. They wanted forbidden sex with Mommy and they could afford to pay for it. But it was a lot more complicated than that. This was becoming more psychologically demanding than her day job as a psychotherapist.
Just enough time for a quick shower, a Johnny Walker Double Black, and a new teddy. Or, did this one want her in black robes with Enigma booming in the background?
Two
A famished and fatigued Sophia emerged from the nondescript two story building smack in the middle of Lincoln Road. She was hiding in plain sight on the second floor behind the bustling offices of Miami Models, where she had renovated a long forgotten small office suite into a haven for rich boys, who hankered after a piece of Mommy’s ass.
Three boys a night. Three nights a week. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Therapy on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Kurt was complaining about not seeing her on weekends. But then again, Kurt was always complaining about something.
What mattered was that she could pay the mortgage and keep Lili in school. Morton, that no good bastard, had left her destitute and in debt. Even though he had been murdered, it was a stretch feeling sorry for him. That scoundrel jumped into bed with anything that moved. It had been his undoing. Call it Karma. Call it poetic justice.
I’m turning tricks. I can dress it up and plead that it’s a private boys’ club or specialized services or, however I want to fancy it up. Of course, it’s sex therapy if I ever get caught. I’m still fucking or flogging, or attempting to fuck half-baked Momma’s Boys with more money than sense and it’s wearing me out. Six more months. If the money continues to be this good, I’ll pack it in. Or, I’ll have to start laundering money. My day job should support me by then. I’ll be way out of the hole.
Lost in self-confessional thought, Sophia didn’t notice a gesticulating black clad angular figure fast approaching her from across the street.
“Mommy, Mommy,” he shouted amidst the bustling midnight throng milling about. He stopped short, inches from her and locked onto her arm.
She began involuntarily pulling on her left ear with her other hand, an unconscious habit when she was stressed.
“It’s Bernie. Your best boy. You must remember me fr
om two nights ago. You rocked my world. I can’t wait for our next session,” he enthused, leaning into her, sweeping his loose black hair out of his glacial blue eyes so he could fix her with them, searching for something from her. She felt like a butterfly impaled on a lepidopterist’s cardboard, paralyzed by his penetrating gaze.
“Oh, Bernie. I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on. Nice to see you.” She flashed on his skinny, flabby white ass under her. He loved having his buttocks kneaded.
“I have to run and grab a bite. See you later. I believe we set up our next session. Don’t tell me. Mommy on top followed by brownies and hot chocolate. Brownies just the way Mommy makes them. With hazelnuts.”
“Hold on, hold on, Doc. I’d love to treat you. Let me buy you dinner. Van Dyke’s is still serving upstairs,” he said, waving in the general direction of her favorite jazz café’s bulk, a block down the road. A six story behemoth on a street of one and two story buildings.
“Why are you calling me Doc?” she asked. Her antenna was up. This guy knew about her day job.
“You’re the love doctor, aren’t you?” he asked, an electric current illuminating his eyes. The reek of desperation was assaulting her senses. This guy stunk of neediness.
He had seemed tame enough in bed. Her traditional dominant position. His crying about how great it was to be with Mommy while Daddy was out of town. She had stopped listening after a while. The talking, buttocks’ kneading, and hazelnut brownies were more important than the uninspired sex.
“Come on. One meal can’t hurt. I’ll pay for your time,” he urged, his handsome features overlaid with something…
Against her better judgment, she relented. This wasn’t like therapy where her boundary maintenance was impeccable. He had worn her down. Her body was thrumming with anxiety, but her stomach was growling and she couldn’t utter another word without some food and drink in her.
She let him steer her across the road, past the pleasure seeking crowds, seated at the outdoor café, into the cool enveloping arms of the familiar dim interior, and up the stairs to the jazz. They found a tiny spot jammed into a gloomy corner in the steamy room heaving with the jazz-loving crowd clapping, flirting, eating, and drinking. The smell of countless colognes, booze, and sweat was curiously comforting.
Sophia sat back in her seat, sighing deeply and relaxing into a semi-stupor.
“Let’s have steaks and scotch,” Bernie, big man on campus, commandeered, peering at her considerable cleavage possessively.
“I’m a vegetarian. How about pasta and champagne?” she countered.
Bernie happily took charge, taking her suggestion and ordering pasta primavera for both of them. He followed that up with an order for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. He was like a slobbering puppy, ears at attention, tail wagging furiously, drooling to please his mistress.
This kid has money to burn. He can throw some of it my way. I don’t mind. She smiled tightly at him, too exhausted to speak. His sharp, woodsy cologne, competing with all the other aromas, was wafting her way. Vetiver, she registered appreciatively. Just like Kurt.
A couple of glasses of the bubbly animated her, dissolving the numbness that had crept over her entire body and soul. By the second bottle, alcohol’s resuscitating hands chafed her cheeks to life. She began to stir her legs.
The crooning Brazilian singer, wearing a clingy red dress well, just a few feet from them, was charging up the room with Astrid Gilberto favorites, which she was stringing out sexily for maximum effect.
As Bernie talked and she ate and drank, he began to look appealing. Downright desirable. The bland handsomeness and feral longing had magically transformed into disarming winsomeness. She was shocked when she realized she wanted him right now.
She leaned over to tip her breasts into his gaping stare while taking his hand and thrusting it between her thighs, where, when reaching her mound, he began pushing her silky panty crotch aside, scrabbling like a mouse working to attain a prized piece of cheese stashed in a difficult corner. After a few sure strokes right on the bullseye, he withdrew his glistening fingers, threw some bills on the table, and proceeded to hustle her out of the place.
Once they reached his virginal white hump-backed Porsche, crammed into the overflowing lot behind the place, he flung her into the passenger seat, unzipping and thrusting, coming with a bellowing leonine roar in no time.
The throbbing Sophia was still waiting for closure. She grabbed his mane and pushed his head between her legs where he began sopping up his own liquid as he sucked on her clitoris with all the vacuum power at his command. This did the trick and she bucked vigorously as a tidal wave of delight surged her to an obliterating climax.
When she roused herself, she noticed two people clapping, leering through the windshield. They had enjoyed the performance. The woman bared her tiny breasts to show solidarity before they walked away.
“Let’s get out of here,” she breathed, noticing Bernie collapsed in the driver’s seat, grinning from ear to ear.
Three
“I’m driving you home, Doc. Give me your address,” Bernie insisted.
“Oh what the hell. Bayshore Drive, 4822. About thirty blocks and on the bay. I walk it all the time,” she relented.
“That was much better than that stuff in your office or bedroom or whatever it is. That was off the cuff spontaneous hot stuff,” he babbled. “You might cure me of that Mommy thing I have going on.”
“Bernie, I just got way too excited. And like a nice lad you helped me out. Let’s not get carried away. It’s back to buttocks and brownies and our bimonthly appointments,” Sophia said. “You like the way Mommy gets on top when Daddy’s away. Let’s not spoil that. Forget this ever happened. It was great fun, but it was just one of those things. Turn left here and then the next right,” she said to the pouting Bernie.
They were at her house in no time. The beloved forest green gate was gleaming its bosky welcome.
“How about a nightcap, Doc? I heard that in an old movie. I wonder why they called it a nightcap. I like it, though. It has a nice ring to it.” Bernie gazed at her with pleading eyes.
The allure had fled. The odor of clinging wretchedness assailed her nostrils. It disturbed her that he had replaced Mommy with Doc.
“Darling Bernie. Mommy’s had a long day and needs her beauty sleep. Let’s call it a night.”
She attempted a peck on the cheek. He took her head in both his tense hands and with his proficient tongue pried her lips open, gaining deep entry. After a prolonged wrestling match with her reluctant tongue, he appeared satisfied, withdrew and waved as he watched her unlock the gate and the front door before driving off in a Porsche flurry.
Sophia rushed upstairs, poured herself her scotch, customary on her whoring nights, while struggling out of her clothes. She needed a shower first. Then phone messages.
Wrapped in a crimson kimono, her unwieldy breasts threatening to topple out of the silk, a gift from her kimono- loving mother, Sophia tackled her phone messages. She wanted another scotch, but knew better. Maybe some champagne before bed.
There was the weekly message from her daughter Lili, away in the Big Apple, studying fashion design at Parsons. Lili used to crank out kimonos in a quaint shop’s back room on Lincoln Road, working away in a windowless space like an enslaved nineteenth century seamstress in Lowell, Massachusetts. The shop was aptly named Kimono. Lili eventually woke up, quit, and began creating unique kimonos in her tiny kitchen, tripling her income and enjoying the work.
Sophia would call her tomorrow. It sounded like all was quiet on the Western front. Although, would she ever know if Lili had problems? They kept the relationship superficial, always skirting issues and teetering on the slippery surface. She was spending the summer studying at Parsons before heading for a semester abroad in Paris. Should Sophia take it personally?
Sophia was transmitting what her mother had taught her. Her mother, a survivor of World War II ghettos and a concentration camp, was the mas
ter of the obvious. She was silent about her experiences or her emotions. Caustic remarks would escape her, burning deep, when the obvious became too stale or burdensome.
Her second message was from her mother Ada, reminding her of their visit tomorrow at her apartment on the beach. Sophia, abysmal at small talk, always had to fortify herself. Why was it such a strain sticking to small talk?
The third message was heavy breathing. She started pulling on her left ear.
The final message was from Jack. Jack Ryan, the brother she never had. A true friend. Thirteen years her junior, but she didn’t think he was looking for a mommy. They just had that amicable chemistry.
Jack, a homicide detective at the tender age of twenty- eight, working the case involving her husband Morton’s bizarre murder, and Sophia, putting in more than her two cents as the intuitive wife, drew them very close indeed.
He wanted to meet. He had something to tell her. Would she ever tell him about her shady enterprise? She was tempted.
Then she checked messages on her other cell. The secret cell dedicated to her underground life, pandering to young men in search of Mommy.
Two new potential johns, panting to be with an older woman, a sanctioned mother figure. They would have to wait. She was getting so much business, it was going to be difficult to shut down. She was offering a valuable service, she rationalized to herself.
Time's Harlot: The Perils of Attraction, Seduction, and Desire Page 1