Red Lights, Black Hearts
Fabiola Francisco
Copyright © 2016 Fabiola Francisco
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Fabiola Francisco
For my brother, Jose,
who planned my first trip to Amsterdam where I stood awkwardly in the Red Light District.
Nothing beats real-life experience.
Thanks, bro.
One day you open your eyes and you realize the dream you had as a little girl is lost. The thoughts that swirled around in your head are nothing but faded memories in the keepsake that is your mind. The heart that was full of love and happiness is bleak. One day you realize that the little girl inside was naïve and blind to the truths of the world. You also wake up one day and become aware that little girl is gone. Missing altogether in a world that is no longer the one you remember.
That person that ran freely with the wind in her hair, soaking up the sun is the same person you see now as you walk rain-stained streets. She seems in control, moving to her own flow behind a glass that exposes her completely—at least her physical side. She is comfortable exposing that side so long as you don’t reach past that layer. And if you dare do so, she’ll stop you without mercy. She doesn’t care about feelings or what people think. If she did, she wouldn’t be where she is right now, showing her assets in the reflection of the red lights that shine off the street. Her own dollhouse in the center of a city that others love and she feels forced to be in.
I see that person looking back at me now, eyes black as the night she works, hair as wild as her heart. She’s familiar in a distant way. Someone I used to know trying to crawl out of her, but she drags that self back into the depths of her soul, locking her away so no one finds her.
A knock at my door distracts me from my reflection. I turn to see Bale standing at the entrance of my small haven, his size taking up the entire entrance.
“You got a new one, baby,” he says in his perfect English despite being an Amsterdam native. I cringe at hearing him call me baby. I hate that nickname.
“Send him in,” I look back out at my reflection in the glass window. I take a few steps towards it and close the drapes. I live for this moment. The moment right before you come face-to-face with your next captive knowing that you lured him in.
I hear a throat being cleared and I slowly turn around, the latex lingerie sticking to my body and the knee high boots clicking against the wood floor. I run my hand through my hair, combing it to the side as I assess my latest temptation. He’s good-looking, strong jaw, firm hands, and toned legs. Perfect.
Silently, I approach him and run my hand down his chest, reaching his cock and squeezing it lightly over his trousers. There’s no need to make small talk or give our names, he is here for one thing, and I’m the perfect person to service him. He pays, I perform.
“Nice,” I whisper seductively and step back. “Shirt off.” His eyes are hooded as he undoes each button.
Damn tourists come to the city thinking they are in control when in reality the drugs and booze control them. My pussy and tits control them. We are creatures of habit. The same way you train a dog to sit, you teach a human to fetch.
“Faster. You’re not here to seduce me. That job was already done by my dancing at the window.”
He may be good-looking, but his movements are slow.
“I like to take me time,” he says in broken English. My guess is that he’s French.
“You’ll get what you came for and leave satisfied, but this goes at my pace.” I lean him back onto the red chaise and finish the job for him, removing his shirt and pleased to find a lean torso underneath.
After years of doing this, men just become bodies, but the one thing I haven’t lost that others in my field have, is getting my own pleasure on the job. I hear the other women say it’s just a fuck or they blow the guys to get them off and finish. They have become numb to their own pleasure. They want the money, to speed up the process to get a new one right after. Not me, I take my time. People have alcohol and drugs as their release and escape; I have sex. My sensuality and desire are my drug.
I grab my riding crop and run it down his chest. My new toy’s eyes darken and his pants become snug around his lap. I laugh wickedly and turn to a table. Grabbing the blindfold, I place it around his head and whisper into his ear, “My game, my rules.”
I take control the best way I know how, giving him a show that will heighten his other senses, mysterious and arousing as I dance over him, feeling his body and my own. Allowing him to run his hands over my body and moaning at the right time, his breathing speeds up.
I unzip his pants, releasing his heavy cock and covering it with a rubber before licking from the base to his tip, teasing him before taking all of him to the back of my throat and sucking him. This stranger groans with encouragement and seeks my body in the darkness behind his eyes. I let him please me all he wants despite him being the one paying.
I remove my corset, the latex peeling off my tanned skin and sit on his lap, guiding his mouth to my nipple and his hand to my other breast. He greedily sucks and bites my tender skin and finds my other nipple to please. Once I’ve had enough, I stop him and stand, the latex thong too much of a barrier. I remove the blindfold so he can enjoy the last bit of the show and let him remove my underwear. He rubs is fingers against my clit bravely. He’s definitely a confident one. Many times, the men I deal with are too intimidated to make a move, forcing me to guide them. As much as I love being in control, it’s nice to have someone who knows what he’s doing.
I let him get his two seconds of control and then push him back until he’s on his back. I kneel on either side of him, my pussy inches from his face and tease him. I’m throbbing for an orgasm and since he’s proven knowledgeable with his body, I’m going to indulge in a little tongue action. I lower my body and hold on to the back of the chaise while his hands roam my body and his tongue devours me.
I tense over his face, orgasm washing over me until he’s sucked and fucked me with his mouth. I lift my body off the lounge chair and raise an eyebrow.
“You definitely know how to us your tongue. Now, let’s see about that dick.” He sits up quickly and removes his pants. “Eager are we?”
“Oui,” he responds. I was right about this French man. Maybe I could visit France one day and find myself a little boy toy to train.
> I pump him a few times, roll on a new condom, and settle down on him, his thickness pulsing against my walls, and I ride him like a fucking cowgirl eager to ride away into the sunset.
“You did good today, Sam.”
“Thanks, Bale. You got the money?”
“I got it.” He hands me my stack of cash and I leave.
Usually, the girls of the Red Light District manage their own clients and money. They are entrepreneurs in a modern world where prostitution is legal and prostitutes now pay taxes despite the stereotype. Well, legal in the Netherlands. Back home this is not the career one would choose, but home is a faraway place I vowed never to return. My home is now the dark streets of this city and the souls that wander throughout them. There are two sides to this place, light and dark—those that have a life ahead of them, and those that have black hearts within them.
Bale and I are a team. He was the first kind person I met here after I hit rock bottom. He understands my black heart and manages my clients and payments. We’ve got each other.
I walk home in the crisp early morning hours, the moon still shining down on me in its final attempt to light the night sky before the sun makes its appearance.
I enter my apartment and leave the lights off, throwing the stash of cash on the entrance table and kicking off my short boots before stripping off my clothes on the way to the bathroom. I turn on the hot water and jump in for a quick shower before crashing on my small bed. Damn Europeans and their small spaces.
Late nights equal late starts to my day. I pound my feet against the concrete and run past bicycles and pedestrians exploring this magical city in the late afternoon. The harder I step, the memories begin to surface, oozing out of my core. I bury them again and run faster, the sweat running down my back chilling me in the fall air. Soon it will be too cold to run outdoors, but I welcome the cold of winter and the darkness that accompanies it.
Fortunately for me, business is always good, snowing or not, men want attention from a woman. I am one of the best on the strip of Amsterdam’s infamous neighborhood, but that means I’m not cheap. I may rent my body to a faceless body, but I’m worth my value. That is why I also get my own fun when I get a client. Some more experienced than others, but they all have a full wallet to satisfy their needs.
After my run, I pick up a few things in the market and walk home. I may be a spectacle to watch at night, but I’m a loner. I don’t need friends or acquaintances to make small talk with. That is just a way for insecure people to fill their time, surrounded by people they think need them to fill an emptiness in their ego. I don’t need anyone to make my life a better place. I have enough with Bale.
In the quiet of my apartment, I unpack my groceries and warm up leftover stew. I eat on the couch, using my laptop to find different outfits for work. I also shop for a few new toys. The distraction welcomed to keep the thoughts that were trying to make their way up to reality earlier at bay. I harden my core, preventing it from cracking and spilling what it holds inside. A truth so ugly that no amount of whips and chains will scare it. No blindfold will be strong enough to hide it.
I slip into my self-preservation, a state of blankness that clears the colors of life, leaving my mind in darkness. Silence to the experiences of life that tore me apart and created a different version. A woman now in control of her body and desire, dominating the gender that tried to destroy her. A woman who can bring any man to his knees and crush him with the simple step of her boot. Never underestimate the power of a woman who has hit rock bottom and isn’t afraid of hell. I’m no saint, but I don’t have a deal with the devil either. He and I are enemies in an endless battle of power.
Keeping my mind in the right place, I shower and choose an outfit for tonight. I have a few things over at my room in the Red Light District, but I like to keep most of my things at home in the privacy of my space. I grab a deep blue lingerie set and pack it along with my black boots. Just like that I’m ready for another night of work.
I leave to go to a coffee shop near my apartment for a drink before beginning a new night of seduction. My body tingles at the possibilities of newcomers getting wrapped up in sensual red lights. I skip over the weed menu and go straight for the liquor. I order a Moscow Mule and sit on the worn couch in the corner. I watch people come in and out, giggling tourists at the possibility of buying drugs legally, and locals sitting together huffing and puffing away.
In the three years I’ve been here, I’ve never involved myself in the city. I work and stay to myself. Funny how no one recognizes you outside that window, an irony I’m grateful for since I would rather keep my anonymity. When I’m out of those red lights, I want to stay as far away from the spotlight as possible. People like me are meant to stay in the dimness of purgatory. I never dig deeper than the physical part of me that I use to excel in what I do. I also am not ashamed of being a Red Light District girl. I wear that badge proud.
Frustrated, I drop my stuff on the small table in my apartment and make a pot of coffee. It’s assholes like the one I encountered tonight that piss me off and make this job difficult. If you’re here to pay for a service and you know you’re going to get what you paid for, don’t fucking cross the line. Don’t become the dominant you’re not because I will not hesitate to cut your balls. Fortunately for him, Bale ran in before I could do anymore damage to the bastard.
Other women had talked about the guys that come in to take advantage of them, try to push themselves on them, which is ironic when they’re paying for sex. That window, that small room, is my castle. No one, I don’t care if you’re the king of Mars coming in for a one-time trip to Earth, will impose himself on me or my space.
Ready to wash this day away, I shower.
To make matters worse, I made less than I would on any given night because the bastard demanded his money back, and Bale, being Bale, returned it to avoid any problems. Then, he suggested I come home early to relax. I was wound up, but a good sex session would have relaxed me and filled my pocket.
But Bale said, “Given your past, it’ll be good for you to rest up and forget tonight.” And I listened to the fool. Now I’m fired up and ready for a fight with no opponent.
Instead, my mind is running on overdrive over what happened, obsessing over the revenge I was forbidden to get, a revenge that runs deep within me towards any being that tries to take what’s not theirs.
I lie in bed, sleep gone from my tense body, and count the specks of light that enter through the window of my bedroom.
Still bitter, I know I’m holding the poison from last night within me, adding a layer of coldness to my already hard heart. I’m a foreign being surviving without the most essential part of us. My heart just lays in my chest, pumping indifference throughout my veins and filling them with more blackness instead of the red that is necessary to move forward in this life.
I squeeze my eyes, which are stinging from the lack of sleep, and push away last night. Tonight I’ll get my satisfaction.
I tie my laces, zip up my jacket, and run down the stairs and out of my building, swerving between bikes that peddle down the streets and escape into myself like a turtle seeking protection from the world.
Times like this remind me I am human. They also remind me of the power I hold within. The anger. The hatred. The indifference. An ironic combination that creates my inner emotions.
And indifference is a dangerous place to be.
I speed up, running across the Van Gogh museum, thinking about the tortured artist and his life. Such a complex person living an extraordinary life without being aware of it.
I continue, focusing on the complexities of someone else’s life to not have to focus on my own. It’s always easier to analyze the source of madness of someone else rather than that of your own.
As I run along the city, the canals bordering me, the history pouring around me, and the perfect Dutch surrounding me, I become more aware of the different sides of this city. The different sides of me. Some parts hidden in the
night, others bright and proud in the sun.
You don’t know what people have gone through in their lives. As much as we think we know a person, we don’t. We never get to know who people really are. Many people go through life not even knowing who they are at the end of it.
Thoughts. More thoughts. Always thoughts that cloud my mind. I refocus on nothing. I like the blank state of my mind that lives in harmony with the darkness behind my lids. Lately, I’ve been thinking more. Remembering more. Caring more.
That piece of me I shoved back into the depths of my being must have lingered a little closer to the surface than I thought. She must have left a crack open, slowly seeping through. I pound harder into the ground, the cold breath entering my lungs and freezing the bit of care left in me.
My newest conquest walks in, hesitant and uncertain. From the looks of him, he’s never done anything like this before. Words left behind, I approach him and give him a sinister smile. Time to play.
I run my hand down his chest but he tenses before I reach his southern region. I cock an eyebrow, widening my grin and wink. His stance is doubtful, dread for coming in here rolling off him. I unbutton his shirt, a delectable body hidden underneath. His hand lands on mine before I remove it, warmth despite the cold temperature outside.
“Sorry, I’ve just never done this before,” he excuses himself.
Annoyed, I look at him and say, “Well, let me show you.” Trying to continue undressing him, he takes a step back.
“No one forced you in here. You entered at your own will. Now, can we do this?”
“It’s impersonal. I was curious about how it worked. Do you talk before?”
I roll my eyes. “If you want to talk, some of the other girls will do that. I don’t talk, I act. So unless you want a blowjob, a good fuck, or to feast on me, you can leave.”
“I came in here for you.”
“Then get undressed.” I reach for my riding crop, slowly running it down the opening of his shirt and hear a slight groan. His eyes catch mine and he steps back.
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