players: Alfred F. Jones/America, disposable original character
word count: 2,000
warnings: character death, language, sexual themes, torture
summary: A man finds out prostitution isn't the only shady business in New York.
a/n: I wrote the speaker here with no one in mind. Fill him in as you please or leave him faceless. Since I wrote in the first person, present tense, it was somewhat very awkward to do… I had to channel my inner pervy man.
Of all the places I should be, this particular street in the slums of New York, barely outside one of this country’s many Chinatowns, is not one of them. I slow my car to a stop beneath a dim streetlight, letting the engine idle and exhaust fumes cloud the chilly evening air. The last ribbons of a blood red sunset have just disappeared, replaced by hazy dark blue clouds that cover any starlight. Even the moon is hiding.
In this place, this red-light district, no one is ever safe. There is always some danger—temptation. I just got back from Afghanistan, but I know the deep history of secrets and sex this place boasts, showing it off in the way the buildings watched over the streets and its suspicious stains that rain never seems to wash away.
Maybe they’re just that fresh. I dunno.
I wonder if I have the most to fear, though; soldiers visit in these districts in in droves, released from their duties for the evening or for a week’s break, seeking pleasure and release in the men and women who offer it to them. I never was one to know when to say “No” when sex was involved, particularly when the other party was younger and innocent.
It’s a familiar street; I remember the broken and dying streetlights and forgotten trash cans in shadowed alleys and the peeling billboards on the rooftops, faded and sun-bleached beyond recognition. I haven’t been here for a while, and the scenery is probably only so clear in my mind because it’s right in front of me. The most distinct thing in my mind is a boy, not even a man.
The clock on my dash reads 11:14 in broken numbers. It’s early in the evening for the whores working in the district, the time they first begin strutting about the cracked sidewalks in heavy make-up and tall heels. Most of the whores around here are men; apparently there are different streets for different interests. They all advertised, by word of mouth, that they cater to the “unique interests” of men or women or both. It is a subtle way of saying they were open to any kink, which is great for me. If my personal interests were made public, I’d be booted out of the Army.
Not a pleasant thing; I enjoy Army life and its benefits.
At 11:16, I see my blond boy walking towards my his car, wiping red from his mouth. He’s easy to distinguish because of his goofy cowlick and muscular build. His hair, still damp from either really sweaty sex or a shower, is pushed back off his face. It leaves his face open and brings attention to his eyes, which I remember from the many times I had him pinned beneath me as a very clear blue. He struts down the walk with more confidence than any whore should have. It’s an attitude that speaks volumes about his personality, challenging anyone and everyone, but tempting at the same time with promises of some hardcore exercise. His pink mini dress shows off strong arms and legs in stockings held up by visible garters. One of his arms arm holds a brown leather jacket that clashes horribly with the pink of his dress, if I am any judge of fashion, but it suits him. I rather like him in any kind of leather.
Hitting a button on the driver’s door, I roll down the passenger window and whistle as the boy walks passed. He stops and looks, a big smile already on his boyish face, and he comes to my car like a dog being heeled. “Looking for me?”
“Door’s open; hop in.”
He has a graceful, unguarded way of entering the car, now. He steps back onto the curb to open the door, then steps inside first with his left leg, dress hem riding up and offering me a good, long look at satin underwear, then his body, and finally his right leg. His messenger bag, which I assume holds the toys and goodies for his clients, is settled between his ankles along with his shoes, which had been dangling by their straps from his fingers. Why he wears heels, I’ll never know. The kid’s already taller than me when he’s barefoot.
He shuts the door and presses his shoulders into his seat, lifting his hips to tug his dress back down his thighs, although it does little good, and I’m pleased to oggle the slight chub that he’s yet to work off those already impressively shaped thighs.
I give him a full once-over once he’s finally settled. He looks around my car as he tries to adjust is dress but finally looked at me. “Where to?”
The boy drops his butt back to the seat and looks at me. “I take cash up front.” So blunt. He still can’t read read the atmosphere.
This is the same thing he said when I first bought him, and I already have a roll of rubber-banded bills in my pocket. I hold them just out of his reach, baiting him for our game, and he catches on much faster than the first time, leaning forward and catching my bottom lip with his top lip.
His breath is warm on my chin. I don’t touch him anywhere but where our faces touch, but I deftly lift the hem of his dress with the roll of bills, slithering my hand up over his thigh to tuck the money into the crotch of his underwear.
He smiles and chuckles lowly, kissing my lips chastely but lightly dragging his mouth across my cheek to my ear to murmur an address.
It’s close; it doesn’t take long to get there. In that short time the boy fidgeted. I imagine a roll of fifties nestled by your junk is somewhat uncomfortable. The apartment building not the place I remember, but whatever. The boy takes my wrists and pulls me behind him up the short flight of steps into the apartment building, guiding me up another short flight of rickety stairs to a hall of open doors. They are all open and empty, from the sound of things, but the blond makes a bee-line for a door in the middle of the hall. He yanks me in behind him, spins me around, and kicks the door shut with his heel as he drops his bag and shoes and kisses me full on the mouth.
There’s no hesitation on my part to kiss him back. Once he gives his consent once, it’s given. There’s no “Oops, I didn’t mean that,” like some female whores try to pull. This bastard goes all out when horny, and it doesn’t take much to get him aroused. His tongue is in my mouth, exploring along my teeth and pushing against my own tongue in a battle of sexual dominance. I move my hands down his back, taking the zipper between my fingers as I go, and grip his ass. He jolts and gasps into my mouth, then grabs the front of my shirt in both fists, pulling us together at the chest and groin.
His leg presses between mine, but I’m not going to let him take total control so fast. Digging my nails beneath his cheeks, I step back and lift him. I feel his smile on my lips; he hops a bit to get a better grip around me with his thighs. Our kiss turns breathless and sloppy. I’ve had enough of sucking face, anyway, and want him to either ride me or blow me so I can see his cherubic face when he completely loses himself.
The backs of my knees hit the edge of a queen-sized bed draped with a dark red comforter, and I land on my back with a bounce. The blond unbuttons my slacks and tugs them down my thighs, grabbing my legs and pulling me forcibly closer to the edge of the mattress so he could wedge himself between my thighs. He’s stronger than he looks, although maybe it’s just adrenaline from being horny. Difficult to tell, although he does have an excellent body, all muscle and hints of baby fat.
“What’s your name?” He plants open-mouth kisses on my inner thigh, teasing the skin pink with his teeth.
“You can call me Matthew.” He sucks some flesh in-between his teeth, painfully close but not close enough to my balls. I groan and grab a fistful of his hair hair, manoeuvring the hooker to my cock.
“That’s not your real name, though.” There’s no reason he’d give his name to me, and, right now, I honestly don’t give a damn.
He looks up at me through short lashes, taking all of me at once into his mouth.
Something bites the back of my knee.
The room moves. Everything tilts forward until the ceiling is in front of me. I cannot feel my body to move it at all; there was only the vague pins and needles feeling, as if all my muscles are asleep. “What did you…” I’m gagged, something shoved into my mouth. I hear my tie being whipped from beneath my collar, and it’s tied over my mouth, wrapping around my head twice. There isn’t much room for my tongue, then, and I gag.
I situate the thing in my mouth as much as I can, so I’m at least able to breathe normally. The room moves again, then; I look down my nose and see the blond—stripped completely—taking my calves and pulling me off the mattress. I hear my head hit the floor, but there is no pain. There’s crinkling of something being stepped on around me, but I cannot turn my head to see what it is. I should be tense as fuck, but everything’s relaxed.
My heartbeat is pounding in my ears so loud it’s as if I can feel it pulsating in my ear drums. Something moved in my peripheral vision, and I look down my nose to see the door to the bathroom opening slowly. It stops, then opens a bit more. A cat, by the sound of its purrs and jingle of a tiny bell, was in the bathroom while the bitch and I were getting it on.
The whore comes out of nowhere, walking silently barefoot, and is still completely naked except for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a face shield like for welding, but it’s all clear plastic. He drops to his knees and pulls a large bag from beneath the bed beside my shoulder, shoving it next to his messenger bag.
Power tools and sheathed knives are removed and set aside one-by-one. He never says a word, although he offers me a shark-like smile as he sits up and straddles my thighs. He uncaps a small black pencil, eyeliner, but he doesn’t bring it to his face. The tip touches my shoulder, and he draws a intermittent lines diagonally across my chest to my sternum, mirroring the line on my left side and finishing with a line from my sternum down my navel, making a dotted Y. He makes lines over my biceps and just above my knees and finally across my throat.
I recognise the pattern from a hospital drama my mom used to watch. More familiar still are the battery-powered saw and stainless steel scalpel. What surprises me the most is when he removes a chainsaw from the bag. It’s smaller than average, just like the one I use at my parents’ house to cut firewood. Out of all the tools he pulls out of that bag, the chainsaw is freaking me out the most. Chainsaws make noise, and noise brings people.
This sick fuck doesn’t even care.
He sits back, capping the pencil and tossing it aside. “This only looks like it’ll hurt," he chirps. He spins the blade of the round saw, obviously taking perverted delight in the smoothness of the spin and glint of overly clean metal. “You won’t feel a thing."
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