by Matt Shaw
“I don’t want to hear it! Get out!”
An over-reaction from a distraught parent who knew she’d not only been betrayed but also that she had failed her daughter. Out of sight, out of mind. Try and move on, try and pick up the pieces. Her head was all over the place. A banging sensation to the side of her temples. She needed to lie down. Needed a nap. Knew she wouldn’t sleep. Never sleep again. Her daughter’s face a reminder as to what she’d been blind to. For how long? How long had it been going on? Under her own roof.
“Get out!” she screamed again.
A mother turned her back on her daughter.
The young lady crawled from her bed and started to put some clothes on. Her hands shaking. Tears streaming down her face. Vagina aching from the monsters thrust. No one cared. She held out a hand to touch her mother’s back; let her know she was there. Her mother shrugged it off.
“I want you out of here!” she hissed.
“I have no money. Where will I go?”
The mother tugged at the rings on her finger; one wedding band and one diamond engagement. She threw them at her daughter and spat that she should sell them.
“I don’t want to go!” the young lady wept.
The mother shoved her hard. She fell backwards and out of the room. Her back slammed against the landing wall.
“Get out!” the mother yelled again.
“But where?”
“I want you to leave.”
The young lady didn’t move. She stormed over to her and grabbed her by the arm before leading her down the stairs towards the front door. The girl screamed that she didn’t want to go anywhere, she had nowhere to go. She yelled that it wasn’t her fault. She begged for forgiveness. Pleaded to be allowed to stay. The front door was opened and she was shoved out into the cold night. Before she could say anything else - the door was slammed in her face. She fell to her knees and screamed for her mum. Her mum didn’t respond.
The monster did though, lurking in the shadows.
P A R T T H R E E
15 Years Later
Happy Endings for Some
Jon’s question caught me by surprise. My customers had asked me many things during their visits but this was the first time anyone had ever brought my family into the appointment with them. Talking of them was as unwelcome to me as my general presence was to them. I tried to close my mind to the barrage of memories trying to flood their way back to the forefront of my mind with little success. Just answer his question and move on. Simple.
“I haven’t spoken to anyone in my family for a number of years,” I told Jon.
My answer surprised me just as much as the initial question itself. The first time I think I have ever been one hundred percent honest with a client. But was he a client? I’d taken his money - yes - but we hadn’t done anything other than talk. Not really fair to label him the same as the others.
“Must be hard,” he said.
He sounded genuinely sympathetic to my situation. I didn’t ask for his sympathy though. I don’t want to be seen as a victim. I chose this path for myself. I could have got out a long time ago but I felt as though it was my duty to do what I do. I’m not the victim. Maybe once but definitely not anymore. I refuse to be. The only victims around here are some of the men who come to see me. The ones who don’t leave.
* *
I couldn’t believe how many men opted for this position; lying on his back with his cock pushed right to the back of my throat. Me sitting down on his face, his tongue buried deep within my vagina. His nose pushed up against my puckered asshole. I’d press all of my weight down on him and hold myself there, whilst he squirmed beneath me, until I felt he needed some more air. Then I’d sit up, long enough for him to gulp down some more oxygen, before pushing back down. All the punters loved it and never seemed to last long.
I felt the client’s tongue slip from my ass as I moved off his face.
“So fucking good,” he sighed, as I continued to suck him off. “I should pay you to teach my wife…”
I paused what I was doing for a split second.
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“Keep the ring in my pocket when I see ladies. Believe it or not, some of you actually have a fucking conscience. Not many, mind you. But some. Forget I said anything, slip of the tongue. Come on, don’t stop.”
He grabbed my hips and pulled me back down onto his face. As soon as he let go, I climbed off.
“What are you doing? Come on. I was enjoying that.”
I turned round so that we were face to face and held my finger up to him. I waved it from side to side.
“Uh uh, I’m the one in charge here.”
I jumped off the bed a moment and fetched a scarf from the cupboard.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
I answered him with actions and tied his hands - by the wrists - to the headboard.
“Kinky,” he laughed.
“I told you,” I said, “I’m the one in charge here.”
I climbed back onto the bed and straddled his face once more.
“Yes, ma’am.”
His voice muffled as I lowered myself back onto his face. Immediately he started lapping at me with his wet tongue, enjoying the taste of what he believed to be my juices. Despite his best efforts, I was as dry as a bone. Only appeared wet thanks to the lubricant I applied before the appointment. I pressed down hard as I put him back into my mouth and resumed sucking.
The usual pattern was suck and toss for twenty seconds and then sit up for five. Sit back down again and suck and toss for another twenty. Another five off the face and back down again. I would continue with that pattern until I felt the sperm either hit the back of my throat or fill the condom - depending on whether I made them wear one or not. Always for penetration, sometimes for oral. Depended on the level of stink.
This was different though.
It had already been longer than twenty seconds and I was still pushing down hard on his face. His flicking tongue had definitely slowed. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he realised he was suffocating yet or whether he simply didn’t care; having far too much fun licking me out. All I could think about was the wife he had waiting for him at home. I wondered whether she knew what her partner was doing or whether she was blind to it. If she didn’t know - what would she have thought had she found out? The guy was scum. Reminded me of my own father and how he destroyed my mother. How he destroyed me. Can’t bear to think of this asshole doing the same thing to the woman he was supposed to love. The way I saw it - I was doing her a favour.
The client started banging on the headboard - no doubt trying to get my attention.
I looked back and saw that he was trying to pull at the scarf which had him bound. I had tied the knot pretty well but wasn’t one hundred percent comfortable that it would hold. I took hold of his testicles and squeezed them as hard as I could. His hands clenched together as the pain became unbearable for him. I pushed down harder. I could feel him trying to get air from beneath me. No chance. I pushed down harder again, still crushing his balls. The more pain he was in - the less he fought against me. And then - with no warning - his body seemed to go limp beneath me. I looked back at his hands and they were motionless and seemingly relaxed. I didn’t move. I stayed where I was. Didn’t let off any pressure either. Kept it just the same. Had to be sure he was gone. I sat up - staying firmly pressed down where I was seated - and pressed my hand against his chest to see if I could feel his heart beating. I kept it there for about a minute. There was nothing. He was gone. Before I even realised what was happening, I found myself crying.
* *
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I wiped a lone tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. All the thoughts buzzing around my head and it’s the one of my parents that sticks. I wiped my hand on the duvet. I felt stupid. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t remember the last time someone saw my emotions. My real emotions, that is.
“I should go.”
Jon went to get off the bed. I stopped him.
“It’s fine. I was just being stupid.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Come on,” I pushed him, “what other questions do you have?”
He sat there a moment, staring into my eyes. He looked as though he was trying to work me out. He needed a lot more appointments before he’d come close to that.
“What do you do after your appointments?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The rest of your days - what do you do when you’re not servicing your clients?”
* *
I waited a moment more. Scared to get off. Scared to see what I had done. Can’t delay it any longer though. I sat up and moved further down the bed. I sat on the edge, too nervous to look back at the corpse behind me. Can’t delay though. Need to get up. Need to fix what I’ve done.
Fix what I’ve done? How do you fix something like this?
I slowly turned back around. The man was lying there. His face was staring up at the ceiling. His mouth was agape. His tongue hanging from the side. He was blue. I took hold of his foot and gave it a shake. Part of me hoped he’d suddenly take a breath and all would be okay in the world. He didn’t. Dead as a doornail. I did this.
I got off the bed and walked to the other side of the room. I kept my back to him. I don’t want to go to jail and yet that’s exactly where I am going. You can’t get away with murder. They lock you in a cell and throw away the key. Doesn’t matter if you do think you were doing their partners a favour. Oh God, his wife. He has a wife. Children? A whole family or just a wife?
I looked around to his pile of clothes on the floor. I hurried towards them; picking up his trousers. A quick feel of his pockets and I found which one contained his wallet. Reaching in, I took it out and dropped the clothing back onto the floor. A medium sized gold band fell from one of the pockets and rolled under the bed. Ignore it. Turned my attention back to the wallet. Brown wallet. Leather. Stuffed with cash and card. Flipping it open revealed no family pictures. None of his wife, none of any potential children. I took the cash out and put it to the side before tossing the wallet onto the pile of clothes crumpled on the floor. Gaze went back to the body.
“Shit.”
* *
“You’re a nosy one, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologising. It’s fine. Can’t remember the last time someone wanted to know about me. Usually I’m nothing but a walking, talking fuck toy.”
“Don’t say that…”
“It’s true. It’s fine. It’s what I chose.”
“Why did you choose it?” he asked.
A question that hit from out of the blue. Another question too personal to answer with the truth. I had answered him the previous day: Told him I had gotten used to the money despite only initially getting into the industry to pay my way through my degree. Was he testing me or did he forget we’d already spoken about that? I diverted back to his previous question.
“After an appointment I strip the bed down and have a bath. I’ll check my emails for further bookings and I’ll start to get some dinner ready, I guess.”
The truth.
Sort of.
Other appointments saw me dragging the bodies from bedroom to bathroom. I’d have to keep stopping on the way because I’d get tired. Some of the men were light, some were heavy. I remember the first client - the one who suggested hiring me to teach his wife - he was definitely on the heavy side. I wouldn’t quit though. I couldn’t. I got him - and the others - into the bathroom and I managed to get them into the bath itself. Easiest way to contain the mess. Not that there was any mess when I killed the first man. Not for the first few days anyway. I left him in the bath for a while whilst I plucked up the courage to do what needed to be done. Didn’t see any clients. I just shut myself in the house for a few days convinced I was going to go to prison. That the police were going to come for me at any moment.
No one came though.
I drove his car from my drive and abandoned it miles away on a dirt track I found weaving through a wooded area. Just left it there with the keys in it after wiping down the surfaces with my scarf. I guessed that’s what was supposed to be done. I didn’t know for sure. Didn’t see any harm in following through with the action anyway.
“That’s it?” Jon asked.
I smiled.
“That’s it.”
“Oh.”
“What did you expect?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know. I just thought there might have been a little more to…”
“…My life?”
He nodded.
i was puzzled by what he meant but didn’t ask him to explain further.
“I’m happy,” I told him.
“You are?”
I nodded. He smiled. Seemed genuinely happy by what I said. Without a word he downed his glass of water and stood up. He handed me the glass. I took it from him.
“Thank you.”
“Going somewhere?”
“Been an hour already,” he said.
He actually looked a little disappointed. I patted the side of the bed.
“It’s fine. Sit down.”
“What?”
“I said, sit.”
He did as I told him and sat back down.
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t have anything else planned for the day,” I told him, “and I probably owe you a little extra after yesterday. But don’t tell anyone else.”
I used the previous shortened appointment as an excuse but the truth was - I actually liked him sitting here with me. There was something about him. His presence. It calmed me. It made me feel… Normal. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt such feelings. It was nice.
“Well as long as you’re sure. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“You’re not. I’d say if you were. It’s fine.”
“Well… Thank you. Very generous and unexpected.”
I stood up.
“You know what? I’m hungry. If you don’t want anything else - can I at least offer you a sandwich?” I asked.
He smiled.
“I’d love one. Thank you.”
“You’re very well spoken. Has anyone ever told you that?”
I met a lot of people in this line of work. A lot of them were well spoken but they also carried an air of confidence about them. One which suggested a private education - although not necessarily the case. They weren’t usually this well spoken and this quiet and shy. I didn’t know what to make of it. It was nice, yes, but it also seemed out of place.
“My mum and dad died,” he said. “Foster parents raised me. I guess I picked it up from them.”
I was a little taken aback by his honesty. He could have said anything. He could have even used the private education card - even if it weren’t the truth. I wasn’t sure what to say exactly not that he looked like he needed me to say anything.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mum and dad,” I said after a slight delay.
He shrugged it off and stood up.
“Can I help you with the sandwiches?” he asked.
“Yeah. Sure. You can butter the bread…”
I took his hand and led him down the stairs towards the kitchen, having tightened my dressing gown. Not the first time I had led a client to the kitchen in such a manner - although, slight difference the last time I took a man down… I hadn’t been holding him by his hand.
* *
The client was grinning like an idiot as we made our way down the stairs, me leading him with my hand wrapped around his cock as though it were a leash. Although he wasn’t new to the world of paying for sex, this was completely new to him. Long term fantasy lived - for many years - in his head, finally about to come true. All I could think was thank God this was his house. His house, his mess.
We walked into the kitchen. He had been a bus
y man. The sides were lined with various foods. There were bowls of jelly, custard and even beans swimming in tomato sauce. I also couldn’t help but notice a couple of cream based cakes too. Plastic sheeting covered the floor and nearly tripped me as I entered the kitchen in my high heels.
My first experience of sploshing. An act which would see us get down and dirty with the foods on offer. I turned to the client.
“So where do we start?” I asked him.
He’d already told me in his email that he was happy to take the lead when I replied to him saying I didn’t have experience with this side of the industry.
“Always with something savoury,” he said, still grinning. “End with the sweet stuff.”
“Beans it is.”
* *
“What’s so funny?” Jon asked as we walked through to the kitchen.
“Just smiling,” I said.
There was no need to lie to him. Yes he was a client but he wasn’t like the others. I figured there was no harm in telling him.
“Okay, it’s just the last time I led a client to the kitchen it was for a different kind of act…”
He stopped me, “Is that all I am to you? A client?”
I didn’t know what to say. Did he think, because I had allowed him to stay a little longer, that he was more than just a client? Was it what I was thinking earlier? He was trying to pretend to be something he wasn’t so that he could get close to me and try and ‘win me round’? Become my boyfriend? Pretty Woman Syndrome without even the need to have his cock inside of me? Unusual but possible. It’s just - they normally like to test the wares first.
I corrected myself, “Sorry. I meant to say - the last time I took anyone to the kitchen.”
“What is sploshing?”
He asked the question within a split second of me explaining what I meant - as though the answer wasn’t even that important to him in the first place.
“Throwing food over each other, tipping custard and such down into our underwear and rubbing each other…”
“Sounds weird.”
I laughed, “Sexy to some, weird to others. I have to confess, it wasn’t for me.”