“Well?” she asks.
“Take your pants off,” the union representative demands.
Katherine unhooks a stocking, but the guy interrupts:
“No, keep your stockings on.”
She bends and pulls the knickers down, slipping the thin fabric across the nylon and over her flat shoes. She leaves the garment on the hotel room floor and straightens up again.
Her pubic curls lie flattened against her damp skin. He gazes at her lower stomach, all traces of his smile now disappearing as he drinks in the sight of her nudity.
“Come here,” he says. She moves closer to him, her cunt facing his eyes, as he remains in the chair.
His fingers invade her thatch, spreading the dark curls. He slips a finger into her gash. Probes.
“You’re not very wet, are you?”
Katherine stays silent.
He withdraws his finger from her sex. Brings it up to his nose, sniffs. Grunts.
“Suck my cock.”
He unzips his fly.
Katherine kneels by the chair. He pulls his penis out. It’s semi-erect, pinker than others she has come across. Not that she’s encountered that many. A handful of clumsy groping sessions and fucking in the darkness at University, following alcoholic parties, and then her husband, uncircumcized and reliably sturdy, and five years later the damn lover, circumcized, thicker, darker, pulsating, veined like a tender tree. Life as an uninterrupted parade of male members!
She takes the man’s cock between her fingers, pulls on the foreskin and the glans emerges, reddish, the colour of fever. She lowers her head, opens her lips and takes the member into her moist insides. He’s not too big. She hates it when it makes her choke. Her tongue slowly makes contact with the swelling penis, circles its extremity; he tastes different, a slightly acrid, sweaty odour, musk and urine. Suddenly, she feels his hand on her head, fingers burrowing into her thick curls, pressuring her mouth to go deeper and swallow his cock up to its hairy hilt. The tip of her tongue dallies over the cock’s small hole. When she touches him there, there’s a trembling, a nervous shudder that courses through his whole body. She senses he is about to come and sucks harder on his now fully-grown member. He tries to hold back but she stimulates the base of his cock with her fingers while her tongue relentlessly keeps on teasing his opening.
“You bitch,” he sighs, aware that she is trying to finish him off. Expediting the job.
But the surge can’t be halted, and within a few seconds his whole body spasms. As this happens, Katherine opens her mouth wide to disengage herself from his throbbing cock, but he viciously holds her head down even harder and comes inside her mouth. She gags on the hot stream of come and has no other choice than to swallow the stuff. Bastard, she mutters under her breath. It sticks in her throat. She feels like being sick. Finally, he releases his hold on her head and she is allowed to pull her mouth back. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, to eliminate the lingering taste of his seed.
His quickly shrivelling penis still dangling like a marionette from his open trousers, he gets out of the chair before she has time to stand up again and signals her to the bed. She sits on the edge, and he forces her down so that her long legs dangle over the side. He lowers himself down to the carpet, and sticks two fingers into her cunt.
“Still dry, hey?” he says, forcing his way past her labia.
She looks down at him, his face cunt-level, thinning hair bobbing up and down between her thighs. She distractedly notices there’s a ladder near the knee of her left stocking. How did that happen, she wonders?
His fingers slip in and out of her sex. She has no feeling of excitement. This is what being an object is, she reckons.
“Your cunt hair is too long,” he tells her, parting the curls around her opening.
“I don’t go to the barbers very often,” she attempts a feeble joke.
“Wait there. Don’t move,” he says, rising and moving over to the settee where a battered attaché-case lies. He opens it and pulls out a nail kit and a small pair of scissors.
He pulls on her pubic curls, untangling the longer ones and trims the extremities along a straight line. It feels funny. She looks down after he has completed the work. Her bush is now distinctly thinner, and the lips of her sex are plainly visible behind the growth.
“There, that’s nicer, isn’t it?” he remarks. “Now you can see the merchandise.”
She doesn’t answer.
“I want to see inside,” he says. “Use your own fingers. Open up.”
She obeys.
He peers inside her, his eyes piercing her innards.
Her lover used to say that her insides were the colour of coral. She closes her eyes.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” Adam says. “Where do you keep your condoms? In your handbag?”
“I don’t have any,” Katherine replies. “I’ve already told you, I’m not a whore.”
“Bloody hell,” the man says. “Shit. You don’t think I’m gonna put my cock inside there; I don’t know where you’ve been before.”
“You didn’t mind my mouth,” she says, a tad angrily. “That was good enough for you, wasn’t it?”
Only five cocks before, she thinks. A bloody woman of experience… No, not even, the first two she never gave head to.
She looks at this man, and finds him ridiculous. Overweight, standing there with his small cock peering out between the curtains of his half-open trousers.
She giggles.
He reacts badly and slaps her across the cheek.
“Don’t…”
“I’ve paid. I’ll do exactly what I want to do, woman.”
“Bastard.”
He slides his belt out of the trouser top, and she’s totally unprepared for this, as he grabs both her wrists and binds them together. Tight. She’s too slow to react. Vulnerable, obscenely undressed in front of this stranger with her cunt wide open, her black stockings in disarray, her small breasts feeling heavy inside the cups of her bustier, her cheek still on fire from the blow. Adam pulls her by her bound wrists towards the bathroom, pushes the door open with his foot.
Katherine is frightened. What now? She has read too many serial killer novels. For Christ’s sake, she edits them. In her bag over at the bed and breakfast, there’s even a manuscript for one that takes place in Arizona. Fiction editor found slaughtered in Brighton hotel. Will he slit my throat and arrange my mutilated body in a pornographic vision that goes beyond obscenity? Will he carve off the tips of my breasts, insert the carving knife in my cunt and slit me all the way up like a chicken? Will he cut my labia off and display them partly chewed inside my open mouth?
She shudders.
He pushes her down on the toilet.
“There,” he says.
“Yes?” she enquires.
“I want you to pee, and I want to watch. Come on, open those legs wide, wider, now. Come on. Show me that piss squirting out of you.”
“No,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Undo my hands, then maybe. If I can manage it.”
He does. She tries.
Katherine has never peed in front of a man, of any one. She blushes intensely. Closes her eyes and concentrates. He fills a toothbrush mug with water and forces her to swallow. And again. She can feel the warmth inside her stomach, the muscles tensing. He keeps on standing there, silent now, watching entranced the quivering, moist entrance to her cunt.
Finally, the flow is unleashed. The odorous liquid flows.
It feels both painful, like a particularly strong period bursting from her and rupturing some remote part of her body, but also pleasurable, like a fourth division orgasm, a satisfying but unremarkable feeding of the lust inside, not unlike the routine lovemaking she had been having for ages with her husband.
Adam watches as the thin stream of pee first dribbles out, then streams arc-like into the bowl, emerging from the thin opening between her cunt lips. As she tightens her throat, he approaches a finger, allows the liquid to pearl over it like a cascade, and inserts it suddenly into her pouring aperture. Then another finger, yet another and savagely stretching the muscles inserts his whole fist into her. Katherine screams in agony. But the windows of the hotel room are closed and Brighton doesn’t hear.