WHORE: A novella of extreme sex and violence

by Matt Shaw

  The young girl faced forward and nodded. Even if she hadn’t liked them, she wouldn’t have said. She preferred the monster’s low growl to his deep roar - or even his sharp bite.

  “Turn around,” he ordered her.

  The young girl turned on the spot. Her back to the monster. Facing the wall, she couldn’t see him lick his lips.

  “So fucking sexy,” he growled.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Touch the floor.”

  Young body so flexible. The young girl touched the floor with no problems.

  “Stay there.”

  She stayed, arse pointing towards the monster. The skirt rode up, revealing her white knickers previously hidden beneath. She kept her eyes closed as the monster dropped the towel to the floor and started to stroke himself. She heard what he was doing; the sound of his hand rubbing his own dick, the sound of his now-heavy breathing. A few more tugs and he stood up and walked across the small room of their shared apartment before dropping to his knees just behind the young lady. He put his face against her arse and breathed in her scent as he continued to rub himself.

  “So fucking sexy, he repeated himself. The low growl considerably more breathy.

  The young lady moved away from the monster, just a touch, and the low growl turned to a roar.

  “Don’t fucking move!”

  He pulled her back towards him and held her arse close against his face, pressing his nose between her buttocks. He breathed in deeply again, refusing to let go. Another deep breath and the monster moved one hand from her waist back down to his penis. The stroking resumed, as did the heavy breathing.

  “Don’t fucking move again,” he warned her.

  The monster’s other hand moved from the young girl’s waist down to his scrotum. A few gentle, teasing squeezes as he continued wanking. The young girl took the opportunity to stand up and run towards the front door, just a little way down the hallway. The monster was quick to his feet and right behind her.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he roared.

  His voice echoed throughout the small apartment.

  The young lady reached the front door and pulled it open only for the monster to reach over her and slam it shut again. He grabbed her by the hair and spun her around before slamming her back against the very same door she had tried to leave from.

  “You shouldn’t have done that!” he roared. A piece of spit flew from his mouth, hitting her on the cheek. “You shouldn’t have done that!”

  “I’m sorry!” she screamed.

  “Where would you go? What would you do?”

  The young girl wept, “I want to go home!”

  “This is your home now! Your mother’s dead because of what you did with me. You killed your mother. This is your home now,” he said again.

  He released the young lady’s hair and she dropped to the floor into a small ball. Her weeping getting louder. The monster took a hold of her head and pulled her close, forcing his penis into her mouth.

  “Earn your keep…”

  The young lady didn’t have a choice but to swallow the load - a moment that was nearly ruined by a knocking at the door.

  P A R T F I V E

  15 Years Later

  Guilt

  Jon was slamming his fist into the wooden floor out of - I guess - frustration. The banging echoing throughout the room.

  “We shouldn’t have done that!”

  I didn’t correct him as there was no need but I had had every right to have done what we did. It was my job. He was the one who shouldn’t have done it. He was the one in the wrong. Not me.

  “I’m really sorry,” he continued.

  “You’re sorry?”

  Was his apology aimed at me or was he just making a general statement? I tried to look him in the face but he pulled me close as though he didn’t want the eye contact. Bigger problem with that, though, was that I couldn’t reach the knife on the side all the time he kept me close to him.

  I’ve been nice to him this long. A little longer won’t kill me, I guess.

  “We shouldn’t have done that,” he said again.

  “Because of your girlfriend?” I asked him.

  He hesitated a moment before agreeing.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re feeling guilty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well - as you said - that’s good. It means you do love her.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “That was your logic,” I continued, “if you went with someone such as me and you felt guilty afterwards - it meant you loved your partner. If you didn’t feel anything, it meant you didn’t love her…”

  I still wasn’t convinced with his line of thinking. All I knew was that he was a cheat.

  “You feel guilty?”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Well - thanks…”

  “No. Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just…” he started to cry. “Shouldn’t have done it…”

  He loosened his other arm from me and I managed to pull away. As soon as he realised I had pulled away, he turned his head to continue avoiding my eye-contact.

  I kept my voice low and soothing, “I see a lot of people like you,” I told him.

  I want to reassure him. I want him to believe everything is going to be okay. I want to make it as such because I want to see the change in his face - the relief through to the panic when I plunge the knife into him. For me to feel fulfilled I need to see that moment. I need it just as he needs to die and his partner needs to be freed from him.

  “I doubt it,” he said.

  His voice - whimpering. Pathetic.

  “Look at me,” I told him. A sterner voice when he ignored my first instruction, “I said look at me.”

  He looked at me.

  “I’ve seen many men who feel the way you do after an appointment. The guilt hits them hard - for whatever reason. You’re not the only one and you won’t be the last either.”

  I sat up slightly and he slipped out of me, along with a pool of his semen. He cringed as it was another reminder of the sin he thought he had committed.

  “I wish you didn’t feel like this,” I told him.

  A strange feeling. There’s something bugging me. It’s not that I wish he didn’t just feel this guilt now but rather - I wish he hadn’t had a partner. I wish I didn’t have to kill him. Up until that point - he seemed like a nice person. Quiet, yes. But nice. Pleasant. Friendly. Attentive. It’s strange - and hard to explain - but I felt closer to him than I had felt to anyone for a long, long time and I’m not sure why. No sense dwelling on it. He’s a cheat. Leopards don’t change their spots.

  “I shouldn’t have come here…”

  He tried to push me off. No doubt so he could get up and run back to his partner at home. A quick wash in their bathroom before pretending to be the perfect boyfriend. She’d ask if he had had a good day. He’d say he had. They might even share a kiss. Nothing heavy - just a peck. I wonder - when that happens - can the other half taste me on their boyfriends? Can they smell any trace of perfume which may linger on their skin? Do they sleep with their girlfriends when they get home too? Fuck them just after they’ve had me? Show off some of the new skills I could have taught them? The thought of them playing happy families, especially knowing I’m not the only woman they’ve probably gone with… It makes me fucking sick.

  “No. You shouldn’t have.”

  The anger was taking hold of me. It was evident in my tone.

  “What?”

  He looked at me - shocked by the change in tone.

  “Your excuse to come and see me? Testing yourself to see if you truly love your partner? It’s pathetic. If I’m going to be honest - probably the worst I have heard yet.”

  “I… I don’t understand.”

  “You came to see me because you wanted to get your end away. Nothing more, nothing less. You wanted a fuck. Woke up horny, thought you’d sample something new. Chickened out yesterday because
you knew it was wrong to cheat on your partner but today - showed your true colour…”

  “No, that’s not it…”

  “No? Then what is it? Enlighten me…”

  “I just shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.”

  I stood up, leaving him on the floor. I leaned back against the kitchen worktop. My hand close to the knife, ready to grab it when I needed to.

  “So what do you plan to do with the rest of your day then?”

  He sat up, “I don’t know…”

  “Maybe go home to your girlfriend? Maybe go and hold her? Perhaps you could tell her how much you love her?”

  He hesitated. His mind clearly troubled.

  “I guess,” he said.

  “You guess.”

  “And then - in a few weeks - you’ll start to crave my pussy again…”

  “What? No.”

  “You’ll wish I was touching you.”

  “No.”

  “You’ll wish I was riding you. Fucking you.”

  “Please…”

  “You’ll be wishing I was kissing you…”

  “No. I won’t…”

  “Because you’re all the same.”

  I grabbed him by his spent penis, and squeezed. He grimaced in pain.

  “You’re hurting me…”

  “You all just think with this.”

  “That’s not what I was doing…”

  “But I can help…”

  He grabbed my wrist and tried to ease my hand from his dick. I didn’t fight him. He was so busy struggling with my hand he didn’t notice my other hand grab for the knife. In the blink of an eye I swiped down to his member. He screamed in pain as the blade slice through skin. With wide eyes, he looked down. I already knew I had cut him. I could feel the blood spurting onto my hand. Warm. I looked down too. The knife wasn’t sharp enough to cut right the way through but it had sliced it wide open. I let go and he dropped to the floor holding his junk - as though trying to stop it from falling off completely, or stopping the blood from pumping out. He was breathing heavy. Hard. Panic set in. That won’t help him.

  “Without those, you might all start behaving properly. Like gentlemen should.”

  He was gasping like a fish out of water. Between gasps, begging me to call for help… I didn’t tell him I wouldn't be making the call. I don’t think I needed to.

  “Hurts doesn’t it? Well, don’t worry, I’m pretty sure it won’t hurt for long. That’s a lot of blood you’re losing… But remember this - you brought this all onto yourself… You cheated on your girlfriend. You cheated, this is the cost. As I’ve said before - you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”

  He was shaking his head as he gasped.

  “No girlfriend… no girlfriend…” he kept saying the same thing again and again.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  Did he mean he didn’t have a girlfriend?

  “No girlfriend…” - still gasping. Weak voice. Pale face.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I wanted to scream at him so that he’d explain himself but I knew it would do no good. His eyes were shut now as he continued to writhe around on the kitchen floor due to the substantial pain he was in. I looked down and noticed his blood was inching closer and closer to my bare feet. I stepped back, still with the knife in hand.

  “No girlfriend…”

  “Stop saying that!” I screamed.

  I lunged forward at him with the knife and plunged it into his throat until my hand (still on the handle) was touching his skin. His eyes were so wide I thought they were going to pop directly from his skull. I pulled the blade out, with a little struggle, and was hit in the face by a jet of blood. I stepped back again, wiping my face. He closed his eyes and his head tilted to one side. The blood now nothing more than a trickle. I’m not sure why he kept repeating himself again and again and I didn’t want to know. He must have had a girlfriend at home. He wouldn’t have been the first person to try and tell me there wasn’t one - just to try and save himself…

  * *

  “Please. I didn’t mean it. I don’t have a girlfriend at home. I don’t. I just… I said it because I didn’t want you thinking I was a loser… Please…”

  The client looked weak as he struggled against the restraints as I gently pressed the tip of the knife’s blade against his chest, ready to pierce the chest and heart.

  “Please… You’re my first… I promise… I’ll go… Never come back… Not to you or any other girl… Please…”

  It’s funny listening to the excuses come out when they know what’s coming. Reminds me that - when all is said and done - men really are the weaker of the species.

  * *

  My first impression of Jon had been that he could well have been a virgin but I can’t think of him as such. I need to think of him as having a girlfriend at home; a partner who he cheated on. If I start thinking of him as being single - having lied to me… Doesn’t even bear thinking about it. He was a cheat. That’s it. He was an asshole and I saved his girlfriend.

  I dropped the knife to the floor and surveyed the mess before me. He’s gone now. Out of his misery. He was lucky. He got off light. Deserved more for what he was putting his girlfriend through. If she existed. Stop thinking like that. She existed. She’s real. He wasn’t lying to me - not at the start anyway. He just wanted to try and save himself. Fuck him. He got what he deserved.

  So much blood all over the floor. Shouldn’t have done this here. Should have done it upstairs on the bed. Easier to clean than down here and certainly easier to get him to the bathroom for the cutting.

  I looked towards the hallway. No sense dragging him down there and trying to get him up the stairs. Probably won’t be able to get him up there even if I wanted to. And if I could - it’d just spread the gore further through the house. So much blood in here, so much mess… I may as well keep it contained to the one room. Can have a good bleach throughout when I am done.

  I reached down to his ankles and lifted his feet from the bloodied floor. With hands on his trousers, I pulled them from his body spilling the contents of his pockets onto the tiles. Worry about those bits later. Get him dealt with first. As soon as the trousers slipped off his body, his legs thudded back onto the floor, splashing more of the pooling blood up the kitchen sides. Ignore it. Worry about that later too.

  I straddled his cooling corpse and pulled him up by his neck. After a bit of a struggle I managed to get his shirt off so that he was naked. Again, I let go and he fell back against the floor hard. Another splash. God damn it. Should have been prepared for this. Should have seen it coming… Should always be prepared.

  * *

  I climbed off both the bed and client, onto the floor. I reached under the bed and pulled on a plastic roll of sheeting, stretching it out over the length of the bedroom floor until not a piece of carpet remained uncovered. I headed back over to the bed and walked around the other side before rolling the client onto the floor (and plastic sheeting).

  A bit of blood spilled from body to floor but I wasn’t worried; plastic sheeting caught it.

  * *

  More blood up the sides of the cupboard as I started hacking away at limbs, having fetched the bag of tools from under the bed where I stored them. I tried not to think about it. There was already so much mess, what’s a little more?

  This was the part of the process I hated. Not because I am squeamish. I had been when I had done it the first time but now I was used to it; the smell, the sight - everything about it. I wished there was another way of dealing with the ex-clients but there wasn’t. At least, not one that I could see. Besides - this was by far the safest way I could think of to keep them from being found; cut them up into little pieces and put them in small holes in the garden. Hopefully I’ll be long gone before anyone else comes to rent this place and then I could always try and blame a previous occupant if the body parts were discovered. Deny all knowledge. Act dumb and flash a bit of cleavage? Ho
pe that the investigators are male?

  * *

  I pulled my car to the side of the road. The blue flashing lights from the silent siren behind me illuminated the night air. I checked in the rear-view mirror and saw the officer climbing from his car. A stupid speed trap. I turned to watch him from the side mirror on the car. Quickly, I leaned forward and undid the seat-belt. A second later - and just in the nick of time - I undid the two buttons of my blouse showing more cleavage than I usually dared (when away from paying clients at least).

  The officer knocked on the car window with his torch and motioned for me to wind it down - which I did.

  “Good evening,” he said as he crouched down to eye level.

  I was good enough to look into his eyes and show him a level of respect I thought an officer deserved. He stared down at my cleavage.

  “Is there a problem, officer?”

  His face reddened when he realised what he was doing. His gaze turned from breast to eye.

  “Do you know how fast you were going?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry. No.”

  “38mph… Do you know what the speed limit is here?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  I fidgeted in my seat, successfully pushing up my cleavage in a move which would have otherwise been viewed as innocent. His eyes slipped down again.

  “Can I see your driving licence?” he asked.

  I reached into my purse and pulled out my plastic identification. I handed it over to him and he looked at it with the help of his torch. A glance at my face to confirm I was the same person. He smiled at me and handed the I.D back.

  “Well - just slow it down,” he said.

  He licked his lips.

  “I will. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t want you having an accident.”

  He smiled at me.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Have a good evening,” he said.

  Another quick look down at my ample cleavage.

  “You too.”

  I wound the window back up as he walked back towards his waiting automobile.

  * *

  I wondered whether the cleavage trick would work if they did dig the garden up. I’d better not count on it. I put his arm to one side and placed the blade against his neck. The first few cuts are easy. Similar to how a knife slices through a thin piece of ham as it rips the skin. The next cuts - the deeper ones - are harder as you come across the muscles. Not pleasant either. Probably the worst part for me, in fact.