Woman Named Red

by Stasia Black

  Bo rips his shirt off over his head.

  Or…not.

  Okay, okay, we’re gonna salvage this. All right. I smile. Yeah, I’ll just tell Madame Liu I could tell the john needed a little humiliation, that he responded to that kind of play. Wow, Bo’s chest is just as defined as it seemed, but it’s even more impressive with his shirt off.

  God, don’t get distracted now, we’re almost to the home stretch.

  I reach to the side table and grab one of the condom packets. Bo’s undoing his belt buckle. All right, he’s with the program. Let’s get this show on the road.

  I get on my hands and knees. “Do you want it like this? Do you want to fuck me like I’m a dog?”

  Looking behind me, I see his eyes darken right as he shoves his pants down.

  And.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  The man does not have size issues. I mean, we’re not talking horse dimensions, but he’s hung with, God, is that nine inches? Ten? My mouth goes dry even as my hand automatically slips between my legs.

  But Bo reaches between my legs and bats my hands away. I frown at him but he only shades his head no.

  Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay. We’re doing silent communication now? I hand him the condom. He takes it but sets it down on the bed beside him. And then he starts stroking himself up and down. An after-spasm of my previous orgasm hits my thighs at the sight.

  It’s glorious. There’s just no other way to put it. He’s a perfect specimen of man. Everywhere so cut and then tugging on his shaft like that, up and down. He’s not gentle about it either. No, he pulls on it with angry tugs. His eyes are on me the entire time, flicking back and forth between my face and my ass.

  I’m just left there on my hands and knees, staring at him over my shoulder, so fucking turned on but unable to do a goddamned thing about it. I can’t help the noise of frustration that comes from my throat as he continues getting himself off in front of me.

  At my vocalization, a hint of his earlier smile comes back.

  For the first time since my mini-tirade earlier, he moves closer on the bed toward me. Finally, his naked skin makes contact as his chest presses flush up against me. And oh God, there’s his cock. He touches it to the small of my back, right at the very top of my ass crack. Then he tugs me so that I’m lying on the bed sideways and he’s spooning me, one of his heavy legs thrown over mine, his left arm underneath my head as a pillow.

  My eyes search the wall in front of me. What is he—? I mean, what is this—?

  With his right hand, he moves my hair off my neck and then he starts to kiss and nip and bite. The next second, his hand is wrapping around my waist and burying in my moist center. I let out a startled gasp when he dips one of his large fingers inside me up to the knuckle. His cock thrusts against the top of my ass in the same rhythm as he fingers me—first one finger, then another, and then, oh God, a third.

  And then his thumb starts strumming at my clit like a base guitar string and oh, do I feel the tempo building. But even as it rises, I shift in his arms. This isn’t how I do things. He’s not even fucking me. It’s all wrong. And sure I’ve done men from this position before…well, not exactly this position. Doggie style, yeah, it’s pretty standard. Dude’s love seeing their cock disappear in between a chick’s ass from what I hear.

  But, like, spooning sex?

  And he’s holding me tight. So much of our bodies are touching all at once. I might fuck people for a living, but you’d be surprised at how little actual contact you can get away with. But this. I shift again, trying to, I don’t know, maybe move us to missionary at least?

  But Bo’s not having it. His leg locks even more firmly around mine and those goddamned talented fingers of his are so fucking relentless.

  This orgasm has taken far longer to build than the usually do and I can’t fight it anymore. Bo sucks on my neck right below my earlobe and my climax hits with a shock of white light that zings through my body like a crack of lightning.

  I scream in pleasure as all of my limbs go rigid. Holy shit, it’s still going, fuck, I can feel it in my hair follicles, oh my God, God, shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit—

  “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Bo speaks low into my ear. His fingers intertwine with mine and his body moves against mine as I ride out the last bit of my climax. I feel him press and hold his body against mine. I turn my head just in time to see the pained look of pleasure lock his features.

  And I don’t know why, but a tear slips out of my eye. He’s watching me and he sees it and I haven’t felt so naked in… I don’t know how long.

  He presses his forehead against my tear-stained cheek while he catches his breath after he’s come. I just lay there. My mind is a total blank.

  My mind is never blank. There’s always a million thoughts going through it. What I’m going to do next. What’s going on with the drama of the girls in the house. If I’m going to try to cook something for dinner or just grab a slice of bread and call it a night. How the fuck I’m going to get myself out of this entire predicament I’ve been caught in the past five years ever since my asshole gambler father lost at that particularly unlucky hand of cards.

  But for a moment it’s just blessedly…empty. My heart beating. Inhaling Bo. He smells like clean laundry detergent and sweat and that certain scent of sex. Our recovering breathing is the only thing I can hear even though there’s music playing in the background.

  But like anything even remotely good or nice in my life, the moment quickly comes to an end.

  Bo pulls away and gets off the bed. He turns his back to me and gathers his boxers and jeans from the ground, sliding them up his lean, muscular legs in two short tugs. He doesn’t bother pulling on his shirt. No, it’s quite apparent he can’t get out of this room fast enough. He leans over only long enough to tag his t-shirt, shoes and socks from the ground.

  I think that’s it, that he’s just going to leave without a single by your leave. Well fuck that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last four years, it’s the importance of having the last word.

  “I’ll see you soon, cowboy.”

  He opens the door but stops on the threshold. I’ve become a master of the little subtleties of the human animal. I’ve had to. It’s ironic, because if my stupid asshole of a father had put this much study into the human condition as he did into the bottom of a bottle of Jack, maybe he would have been a good enough poker player that I wouldn’t be in this fucking position right now.

  But alas.

  I’m a high-paid prostitute, daddy-dearest is six-feet under, and my acute powers of observation allow me to notice that Bo’s holding the door handle with a white-knuckled grip, he’s standing so straight he has an almost military-like posture, and the boots in his hands aren’t torn-up and worn like almost everyone else’s shoes in the complex. No, like only those of Yang himself, Bo’s boots are polished to such a smooth surface they almost shine. Now what the hell kind of man who does the kind of work I assume this man does for Yang takes care to shine his shoes like that?

  Maybe he washes and shines them regularly to get the blood off, huh, ever think of that?

  The thought doesn’t send a shiver down my spine like it might have even a couple years ago.

  “No, you won’t see me soon,” he says calmly in a clipped voice.

  I simply arch an eyebrow at him.

  “I don’t fuck prostitutes.”

  He stares me down so cold, dead in the eye as he says it. The same eyes that burned with connection not ten minutes ago. Maybe that’s why, of all the assholes that have come through here trying to steal little bits of me, I feel a rushing stab of pain and then fury that this bastard might just have succeeded.

  He didn’t take much. But he took something, and I vowed that would never happen again. And to think I tried to help him by warning him about the cameras.

  I let out a loud laugh and I force it to come from deep in my belly. Really, there are so many absurdities in my li
fe, it’s not hard to make the laughter real instead of forced.

  Bo was turning to leave but he looks over his shoulder back at me, a frown in his eyebrows. Oh it’s so cute to see them all fresh and naïve like little puppies. Adorable and rambunctious and you just know they’re about to shit the rug. He really doesn’t know the rules of the game he’s playing. He thinks he has a choice in what happens to him here in Yang’s kingdom?

  “Let me know how that goes for you, cowboy.”

  I stand up from the bed, not bothering to cover any of my nudity. I have a beautiful body. It’s been a blessing and a curse to me here. Some days I can’t decide which. Yang makes the men wear condoms with his best and most beautiful whores because he needs us to last longer.

  But then we last longer.

  Bo’s eyes stay zeroed in on my face, never once dropping to my ample C cups or my still hardened nipples pointing straight at him.

  I pause, but just for a second. No, I won’t give him another drop of me. I’m conscious to make all of my movements fluid as I walk to the vanity on the far side of the room. Picking up the brush from the table, I start to comb out my long, black hair, root to tip, root to tip. I hum to myself as I brush, counting in my head the whole time.

  One-one-hundred, two-one-hundred, three-one-hundred.

  By the time I get to twenty and look over my shoulder, Bo is gone.