WHORE: A novella of extreme sex and violence Read online

  ***WARNING***

  The following book contains scenes and descriptions which some people may find upsetting. Please be aware this is an extreme novel intended for a mature audience.

  ***

  Copyright©2014 by Matt Shaw

  Matt Shaw Publications

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

  Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  www.mattshawpublications.co.uk

  B E F O R E

  Monster

  A little eight year old girl laid in her bed clutching onto her teddy bear in the hope it could keep her safe from the monsters that visited during the dark hours. She knew it couldn’t. It couldn’t even keep them from her room although she wished it would.

  It wasn’t every night it happened but it occurred more than it should have done and she didn’t understand why.

  The door would slowly open and he’d stand there, in the doorway, looking at her lying in her bed across the room. She’d pretend to sleep in the hope he’d leave but he never did. He’d walk in and push the door to before walking over to her bed. He’d sit on the edge of it and move the teddy bear from the little girl’s tight grasp before setting it to the side on the floor. She’d open her eyes - this little child - and look at him with a look of fear that he didn’t seem to register. If he did - he didn’t care.

  “Don’t need this in our way, do we?” he’d tell her.

  She’d pull the blankets up under her chin but she knew it wouldn’t stop him from pulling them away if he chose to - and most nights he’d do just that. She’d want to scream. She’d want to cry but he told her that if she said anything, or did anything, he didn’t like then he’d tell her mummy and she’d kick her from the house because she was dirty.

  “You don’t need all these blankets tonight,” he’d say. “It’s so warm.”

  He’d pull them off her and look at her pyjamas; a cartoon mouse in a dress on the front of them. He’d look at her and smile.

  “I like your pyjamas.” he’d say.

  The little girl wouldn’t reply to him. She’d just lay there, scared. He’d reach out with one hand and gently stroke her face. He’d tell her that, if she did what he asked, she wouldn’t have anything to fear from him and that they would have some fun together. She always did what he said. The same hand that stroked her face would work its way down her covered body to her pyjama bottoms. There it would linger a moment before sliding its way between skin and cloth as his other hand did the same with the bottoms he was wearing. As the man’s hand moved further down, the little girl couldn’t help but flinch at the unwanted touch. She’d never scream - not out loud. Not on nights that went like this… Only on the other nights would she cry out.

  The nights didn’t follow a similar pattern each time. Sometimes they seemed more tender as if her feelings were being taken into consideration. Other times - when the house was otherwise empty - the actions were more forceful as feelings were damned and sexual needs fulfilled with no fear of being disturbed by anyone.

  When mornings came around - and they always did - the little girl would complain to her mother that she didn’t feel well but her mother would rarely listen. She’d get her dressed and pack her off to school so she could go to work herself. As the little girl wailed about her health, the monster would just sit there at the breakfast table without a care in the world. His eyes not on his nighttime toy but rather the broadsheet paper laid out before him.

  “Is it just me or is the world filled only with doom and gloom these days?” he’d take a sip of his morning coffee. “I swear the whole world is going to hell.”

  WHORE

  MATT SHAW

  P A R T O N E

  22 Years Later

  The Appointment

  Standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom applying lipstick for the fourth time today. It has been a busy one for sure, not that I am complaining after yesterday. Yesterday had been deathly quiet with my phone ringing only a couple of times compared to the usual dozen, or so, phone calls I receive in my working hours.

  There are many names for what I do for a living; prostitute, lady of the night, working girl, escort, sex worker and whore. My personal preference being ‘prostitute’ a word which derives from the Latin word prostituta. The term prostitute hides nothing. I like that. No dressing it up as anything more than what it is - and that’s taking money in exchange for sexual services.

  There are many people out there - in society - who look down their noses at girls such as me and yet my job is the oldest profession in the world. And did you know that estimates place the annual revenue generated by prostitution to be over one hundred billion dollars. Goes to show that no matter how many people out there who frown upon what we do, there are many more who are willing to seek us out for their own gratification. Although experience has also taught me that even some of those who look down upon us, when they’re out in the real world, are also the ones who sneak into our arms and vaginas when their friends and co-workers, or even wives, sleep.

  I set the lipstick to one side, next to my make-up bag, and took a second to admire myself in the mirror. I look good, just as I should for my clients. Long blonde hair, a healthy size twelve figure with large breasts accentuated by my choice of uplifting bra underneath my short, shiny black dress. Stockings held up by suspenders which disappear underneath said dress giving a tease as to the classy lingerie hidden beneath the outer layer. I look both classy and slutty; the latter being important as I need to win over the man’s primal instinct as soon as I open the door to them. Once they’re thinking ‘sex’ - they’re like putty in my hands.

  I walked through to the bedroom and checked everything was in its place; condoms on the side, next to the bed. Next to the condoms a bottle of strawberry flavoured lubricant - a handful of which has already been applied to my pussy. Equally as important as getting the client to start thinking about sex as soon as they walk through the door is getting them to think they’ve made you wet. Those two factors alone are enough to get a man close to the edge. The quicker they’re spent, the quicker they leave - if you’re looking to do the job with minimal effort and fuss.

  Some girls offer a service which affords the man multiple orgasms. As long as they can achieve it they can ejaculate as many times as they want. Experience has taught me, unless they’ve booked in for a few hours, they’re usually happy with the one orgasm and even then, with some of the more nervous of punters, this can be difficult to reach.

  Thankfully we don’t just have to rely on our hands, mouths and cunts - and, in the case of some girls, assholes. We have the luxury of many toys at our disposal to bring into the bedroom; butt-plugs, vibrators, eggs, whips, blindfolds, gags, clamps, strap-ons, dildos to name but a few that I keep in a plastic box underneath my bed within easy reach with a duplicate collection, although maybe not quite as big, in a large over the shoulder bag for appointments sought on an out-call basis.

  In-call appointments are run from home, out-call appointments from the customer’s home or hotel.

  Over the years I have learned many skills to aid me with my job and help me stand out amongst the ever-growing surge of new girls coming in from overseas with only a basic grasp of the English language but a thirst for money and cock. My list of services provided is detailed on my per
sonal page on one of the many escorting sites on the world wide web and runs as follows: BDSM, CIM (cum in mouth), Deep Throat, Dinner Dates, Disabled Clients, Domination, Face Sitting, Facials, Fetish, FFM 3Somes, Sploshing (food sex), French Kissing (at my discretion), hand relief, humiliation (giving), lapdancing, massage, oral, period play, pole dancing, prostate massage, receiving oral, rimming, role play and fantasy, smoking (fetish), spanking (giving), strap on, striptease, sub games, swallow, tie and tease, toys, travel companion, uniforms, water sports (giving). Sometimes I have no choice but to offer them whatever they want but wherever possible I like to offer a different kind of service to the other girls out there working their way in the industry. This service isn’t aimed at the men who come to see me. It’s aimed at the women who tolerate them out there in the real-world. It’s a service I offer the wives and girlfriends, long-term partners. It’s a service for the women who aren’t aware their partners are cheating on them with a string of sexual encounters with ladies of the night. It’s a service offered to eliminate the hurt they feel when they find out about the secret life their partner is leading…

  It’s a service whereby I end the lives of the miserable fucks who come to see me.

  I have two bags that I can take to my appointments.

  The first bag is for the appointments that I have to go through with - usually the ones in the hotels which are done with eyes closed and cunt well-lubed. I like to think of them as my ‘keeping up appearances’ sessions. The ones which lead the men to go home and - on the promise of a discount the next time they see me - write a field report (like a feedback form) for other men to see and read. Field reports are good. They help prove to men that they can trust that I am good at my job and safe to book. So many bad girls out there with bad feedback, offering sub-par sessions at still high prices. If I do see a punter and the appointment leads to them leaving with a smile on their face as opposed to a gash across their throat, I offer them money off if they come back and see me again. The discount offered to the punters who I don’t kill on their appointment; a lure to bring them back for a second session. One which they don’t tend to walk away from.

  The second bag is for the appointments that do not end in the client’s happy ending. It’s for the appointments which end in nothing but their pain, misery and - ultimately - death. The sessions which give their partners some much deserved freedom. Freedom with which they can go out and find a real man who actually gives a damn about them.

  No prizes for guessing which is my favourite kind of appointment.

  Right on cue there was a heavy knock on the front door of my otherwise quiet home. An in-call appointment. My personal favourite as it means there are no maids to interrupt us (as has happened in a hotel before now) and no nosy neighbours who might raise the alarm upon hearing the screams - be they screams of pleasure or screams of terror. No need to gag the appointment. Get to let this one scream.

  I quickly put some high heels on as the appointment knocked on the door again. He can wait a moment, he knows I am in, having already answered his text message with the exact location of my house. I always get them to park a few roads away before giving them the address. Saves them knocking on the door any earlier when I’m trying to get ready. It’s funny how a man can often run late for things he has no interest in but the moment he is onto a promise - he shows up early with nothing more than an erection and a smile.

  With the high heels on, accentuating my long legs, I walked down the stairs and to the front door. I opened it up and revealed a dark haired man who looked to be in his late twenties - around the age I liked to tell the clients I was at. He could have been a little younger. As he smiled and said hello, stepping into the house, all I could think was that he wouldn’t be getting any older.

  I closed the door.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I asked my client as I walked him through to the living room.

  He had called himself Jon in the original email booking he sent me. Whether that was his real name or not I’ll never know. Truth be told, I don’t care anyway. It’s not as though I give them my true identity so why should they give me theirs?

  “I’m okay, thank you.”

  There are two types of client. The clients who bring their own bottle of drink - always alcoholic despite having driven to the appointment - and the ones who bring nothing and refuse everything; no doubt worried the drinking time will be coming out of their allotted booking time.

  In the living room he took a seat. He looked nervous. I remembered the message he had sent me on his initial approach. He had wanted to do this for a while - by ‘this’ I guessed he meant having sex with a working girl as opposed to him calling me ‘this’ - but he hadn’t had the bottle to do so. He had told me he felt awkward, embarrassed almost. It’s funny. In this line of work you hear that a lot, even from people you wouldn’t expect to hear it from; the ones who show up in the fancy Aston Martins and expensive suits - people who appear to be in a position of power out there in the real world.

  “Oh,” the man suddenly remembered the money. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes.

  “In your message you said you weren’t sure whether you wanted an hour or two,” I reminded him. Need to make it clear now. Don’t want to get towards the end of the hour only for him to point out he had wanted two. I know what you’re thinking: Why does it matter if I’m going to kill him? It doesn’t matter. I can kill him in as little or long a time as I want but it is important to stay in practice for how a real appointment goes. The last thing I want to do is get stuck with a client I have to service properly and fall into a trap of being there for longer than they had paid or something equally as frustrating. It’s always best to stay on the ball, so to speak. I didn’t need him to answer. I could feel from the money that it was one hour.

  “If it’s okay can we see how things go today with one hour and then - maybe - I could see you again another day?”

  “Sure,” I lied.

  I set the money to one side and sat down next to him and crossed my legs with them pointed in his direction. My hand rested on his leg as I broke out the small chat. He squirmed at my touch. This is the ‘putting the client at ease’ part of the appointment. If they’re not at ease then it will be harder for them to get an erection when the time comes which, in turn, means I have to put in more of an effort. I literally have a couple of minutes to make these people feel at home. More than that - I have a couple of minutes to make them feel as though they’re with a partner. At the very least someone who likes them.

  “Sorry, I’m a little nervous,” he said. “Never done this before.”

  “Relax. It’s fine. I promise I don’t bite.”

  No biting; an easy promise to keep but the same can’t be said for ‘maiming’.

  “So what kind of thing do you like? Your message didn’t give me much to go on,” I purred. Again he shifted in his seat in clear discomfort. I couldn’t help but laugh, “You really have done nothing like this before, have you?”

  He shook his head and smiled nervously, “No. Never. First time.”

  “Just relax. It’ll be fine. And once you get into the swing of things, you won’t remember why you were so nervous to begin with. Trust me. Just tell me what you like and I’ll take it from there,” I offered.

  “Do you mind if we just talk a little while?” he asked.

  I was a little taken aback by his request. Usually the men I seemed to attract from the website were keen to skip conversation completely and just get down to business. Some even tried putting their stinking tongues down my throat before I had even the chance to put the money to one side. I’d be standing there with the notes in my hands, a surprised look on my face and they’d be standing there with an erection between their legs, their tongue forcing its way into my closed mouth and a hand on my arse. And people say romance is dead.

  “What would you like to talk about?” I asked.

  All thoughts of servicing the man dissipated from my mind
as I realised there was a good chance I was about to become more of a counsellor than a sex therapist.

  “You,” he said.

  Again, his answer took me by surprise.

  “Well, okay.”

  Luckily I had a back-story to the character I pretended to be when clients asked me questions I deemed as being too personal to answer with the truth. It’s hard remembering all the little facts when you first start in the business but once you get into it and you’ve been doing it for a few years - it soon becomes second nature. If anything it gets trickier remembering what the truth is. Well, I say that, but I’ll never forget what started me off on this path. It’s impossible to put that from my mind. God knows I have tried.

  His first question, “Of all the things you could be in life, why'd you choose to do this job?”

  He wasn’t the first person to ask the question and I’m sure he won’t be the last. I find it amusing that these men pay for the services I offer them behind closed doors, away from their girlfriends and wives, and yet they’re always puzzled as to why I do it. It’s almost as though they’re saying it is perfectly acceptable for them to pay for sex but it’s wrong for someone to want to take money for it.

  I sighed as the lie started formulating in my mind.

  Not all girls in this industry are damaged. I’m sure there are some who genuinely do it for the love of the sex and the addiction to the money available; the story I was about to give my client was that I had started doing it to pay my way through university and that one thing had lead to another and here I was - five years later, with a degree, still offering the services to the men who sought them. He looked suitably impressed by my lie - at least the part about the degree anyway. Men are more likely to want to sleep with women who appear intelligent as opposed to those who were continually raped by their own father from the age of eight years old.