Chapter Fourteen
The Standard Session
I tried to pull my shit together when W scheduled a session for that weekend. He told Henry he wanted to meet me at The Standard, a hotel in the Meatpacking District known for its floor-to-ceiling windows and unobstructed views.
Voyeurs congregated outside at night, to watch the exhibitionists have sex with the curtains thrown open and the lights on. I hoped that wasn’t what W had in mind. The Standard was for people who wanted to be seen, and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for exposure. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for W and his shenanigans either, but a job was a job.
And I was a whore, as he was so fond of saying. So I straightened my dress—nothing fancy, I was done dressing up for him—and knocked on the door.
He opened it and motioned me in. He looked handsomely businesslike, in summer slacks and a button up, with a light blue tie. He didn’t look irritated like last time, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Take off your clothes,” he said by way of greeting. “Take off everything and sit on the bed.”
I stripped and sat where he indicated. It was seven in the evening, our usual meeting time, and summer sun still streamed in the windows. I felt like I was under a spotlight, but at least it was too bright for anyone to be peeping in from outside.
“How have you been?” he asked, peering down at me.
“All right.”
He handed over a paper. A clean STD test, with all his identifying information redacted, as promised. Stupid, so stupid. I shrugged. “Fine. Oral only, though.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied me. When I ducked my chin, he raised it again and scrutinized me in the evening light. His voice, when he spoke, was low and even. “What happened to you?”
I hesitated a second too long. “Nothing happened to me.”
His fingers tightened on my chin. “You look guilty. You look beaten.” His eyes moved over my body, but all the bruises were on the inside. “What happened to you?” he said, giving my face a little shake. “What the fuck did he do to you?”
I tried to push his hand away. “Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sit on your hands and open your fucking mouth.”
He unzipped himself with jerky movements, drawing out his cock. My head was pulled into position while my hands curled into fists beneath my thighs. I hated being treated like this, but my rebellious body still responded to the passion and violence of being forced. My nipples hardened and ached, and a pulse bloomed between my legs. His cock was granite-hard, and yet it felt smooth and warm in my mouth without the latex barrier. It had been so long since I’d sucked a bare cock.
I lifted my hands to caress his length, to make it sexy and civilized, but of course he wasn’t interested in my efforts. He jammed my face on his cock until I choked.
“I told you to sit on your hands, bitch. I don’t want your hands. I want the wet, hot, lying little hole in your face. Just suck me.”
I glared up at him, taking him deep, gagging myself on his length. Like this, you asshole? He undid his tie and yanked my arms behind my back, and cinched them together above my elbows.
That made it easier somehow, this force and degradation. I was tied up, and W had taught me there was solace in surrender. I grunted as he used my hair to pull me off the bed and onto my knees.
I’d given many blowjobs in my life, but those blowjobs were different. Those men allowed me control. W allowed me zero control over my balance, my swallowing, even the angle of my throat. He shoved his cock in as far as he liked, and withdrew when he felt like it.
“Please,” I choked when he let me come up for air. “Why are you like this?”
“Why are you a liar?”
He plunged back in again and drove deep, in, out, in, out. Tears squeezed from my eyes and my scalp hurt where he held my hair bunched in his fist. I cycled between wanting to breathe, and trying not to gag up puke.
“Stop with the retching,” he scolded. “Don’t be a drama queen. Just blow me. That’s your job, you whore. Suck me off until I manage to empty myself in your worthless little throat.”
I knew this was his thing. The insults, the humiliation, the roughness. I knew he’d hold me afterward and make me feel better again, but that didn’t help me handle this now. I gagged hard and really almost vomited. He pulled away and slapped my face.
“I said cut it out. Look at me.”
As soon as I looked up at him, he slapped my face again. I was fucking over it. I tried to crawl away on my knees, tried to lunge myself away from him even as he tightened his grip in my hair. Big mistake. Nothing thrilled him more than a fight. That was the whole point of this. If I’d just gone limp and collapsed on the floor, he would have walked away and abandoned everything. But I couldn’t not fight, and he couldn’t resist controlling me, and I was choking and spitting and gagging with both his hands on my head now. My chest was covered in drool.
I made crying sounds in my throat, and I did start collapsing, because you can only get hammered so many times in the throat before you can’t take it anymore. He merely lifted me up again and made me continue. He was so good at this force, this terror. If he’d been wearing a condom, I probably would have broken it with my teeth by now, and choked on the latex when I accidentally sucked it into my mouth.
See, Chere, be grateful you aren’t literally dying.
No, I was just emotionally dying, because he was using me so brutally, and I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t be sexy, and I had no control.
“Look at me,” he barked. “Look up at me.”
I stared up as well as I could through the tears and the trauma. His hard blue gaze riveted onto mine as if to say I own you. I own this hole in your face. Deal with it. I tried to shake my head, but I think that only turned him on more.
“Jesus Christ,” he growled, low and rasping. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
I sucked. I shuddered. I hunched forward and stared up at him, begging for that cum, because I wanted this to be over. I felt his fingers tighten and tremble against my scalp, and I braced as he thrust in me hard, over and over. He finally came in my throat, too far back to taste. All I tasted was him, his skin and his scent and his heat.
His fingers loosened, but I didn’t dare move. When he finally withdrew, I swallowed convulsively and took halting breaths. He let me go and I crumpled to the floor.
“No. We’re not done. Sit up.”
I couldn’t. I didn’t want to, but he reached down and grabbed the tie that bound my arms behind my back, and forced me to sit up again.
“What did he do to you?” he asked, standing over me. His cock still glistened with my saliva.
“What? Who?”
“Your boyfriend. Tell me the fucking truth, Chere.”
“Nothing. It wasn’t…” I clamped my lips shut. Too late.
“It wasn’t your boyfriend? How interesting.” He yanked the tie tighter when I tried to turn away. “Who?”
“No one.”
“We’re supposed to be exclusive,” he barked.
“We only went to dinner!”
The fury in his face hardened to disgust. “Fucking liar.”
“It’s not a lie.”
He walked away from me, zipped up his pants and stalked across the room like he couldn’t stand to be near me. I wiped my face on the edge of the bed and tugged at the tie holding my elbows. I hoped to ruin it, like I’d ruined the last one.
“Cheating on your boyfriend?” he asked from the window.
“It wasn’t a date. He didn’t even stay for the whole dinner.”
“A client?” He turned back to me, his brow dangerously arched. “Taking a little work on the side?”
“He wasn’t a client! He was just someone I met, nothing to do with work.”
“What’s his name? What’s this fucker’s name?”
My lips trembled in indignation. “I’m not telling you.”
He came at me and I shied away, panicked. I tried to get to my feet and failed. He ignored my flailing, lifted me and set me forcefully on the edge of the bed.
“I’m not telling you his name,” I insisted, doubling down. What could he do to me that was worse than the violent blowjob? “It doesn’t matter anyway, because nothing happened. I met this guy, okay? He was friendly and nice, and he lived close to me, so we went to dinner. As soon as he learned what I do for a living, he said he had to go to the bathroom and he never came back. He ditched me there in the restaurant and left me with the bill. Does that make you happy? Once he found out the truth about me, that I was an escort—”
“The truth about you?” W scoffed, interrupting my tearful tirade. “There’s no truth about you, Chere. Just girly, emotional shit, and a bunch of lies holding it all together.”
I turned my face away from him. “Please close the window. My eyes…”
“Is the sun bothering you? Too much exposure? How about some darkness?”
He yanked the drapes closed with a snap. In the dim light bleeding from beneath the edges, he seemed a menacing shadow standing over me.
“Better?” he asked.
He walked away again. I felt relief, but at the same time I was afraid of the dark, and the darkness in him.
“What do you care about any of this?” I asked, raising my voice. “You said last time that you didn’t care about me at all, that we’re just escort and client. So why do you care if I lie? Why do you care what I do when we’re not together?”
He stripped off his clothes, his shirt and pants thrown across the same chair as my dress. “I care because I just had my bare dick in your mouth. I care because I’m paying you to be exclusive with me. Do you understand what that means? No one else, Chere. No one gets a shot at your pussy but me.”
I scoffed at that ridiculous assertion. “As you pointed out earlier, I have a boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend?” He gave a mocking laugh. “That fucked-up, narcotic-addicted failed artist you live with? If he can get it up with the amount of chemicals in his system, I’d be amazed.”
Fucked-up. Narcotic-addicted. Failed artist. I stared in shock at his dark silhouette. “How could you know all those things?”
“You think I don’t investigate the whore I’m sleeping with? You got your fucking STD test. I’m allowed to get my information too.”
“You had me investigated? You had people spy on me? Is that even legal?”
“It’s as legal as prostitution.” The darkness hid his expression, but his voice dripped with contempt. “Are you going to file a police report? Because I can file those too.”
“You’re an asshole,” I said in a fury. “You get to investigate me, but I don’t get to know anything about you, not even your name? That’s not fair.”
“You know what’s not fair? Paying for a whore to be exclusive to you—”
“I’m an escort, not a whore,” I yelled, as he went around turning on lights.
“And then finding out your exclusive whore is going to dinner with some fucking jackass.”
I blinked as the bright bedside lamps illuminated his irritated expression. “Nothing happened.”
“You think he didn’t want to get into your panties, Chere? Men only want one thing from women who look like you.”
“Shut up.”
“If you think otherwise, you’re a fucking idiot.”
“Shut up!”
“I’m not going to shut up,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “You didn’t only break our agreement. You also cheated on your shitty-ass loser boyfriend.” He went to his briefcase and unzipped it. “And why? What came out of it, but a lot of fucking hurt?”
“My life and my boyfriend are none of your business.”
“Maybe not. But I have you for another hour and fifteen minutes, and you’ve been a bad girl. A lying, conniving, two-timing bad girl.” He came at me with a pair of black clamps. “You have no integrity. That sucks. But maybe I can teach you the error of your ways.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, shrinking back.
He took one of my tethered arms and held up the first of the intricate looking clamps, and worked it open and closed a few times in front of my eyes.
“No,” I said. “Please. No.”
I tried to get up but he had me by the arm. When I started fighting in earnest, he pushed me back on the bed and straddled my hips. My arms were crushed behind my back and my legs weren’t going anywhere. I watched helplessly as he tugged at my right nipple and opened the clamp’s jaw.
I didn’t scream when he applied it. It hurt too much for a scream. The sharp, biting pain went beyond screaming right to gasping for breath.
“Take it off,” I said shrilly.
“Hush.”
I bucked and flailed under him, but he was heavy and he had me pinned, and the second clamp went on, more painful than the first. When I cried out, he tugged the chain so they cinched even tighter, and jammed it up between my teeth.
“Bite this,” he ordered.
“No.” The pain was worse when I moved, so I’d gone still. My nipples felt like they were being gnawed off.
My refusal to cooperate earned me a slap to one of my aching breasts. “Bite the fucking chain. Keep it in your mouth. Otherwise I’ll keep hold of the chain, and you won’t like that.”
I snarled at him—and I’d never snarled at anyone in my life. The pain was that bad. But I opened my teeth and let him shove the cold metal chain between them.
“Good girl,” he said in a silky voice, staring down at me with elegant severity. I hated that my body responded to the approval in his gaze. Even through the pain and the helplessness, I felt some fleeting stab of joy. Which was quickly replaced by a fleeting stab of pain as I lifted my chin.
I dropped it back down and stared as he rose from the bed and returned to his briefcase. He reached inside and drew out a braided whip. It was only about the length of his forearm, but it looked sturdy enough to fuck me up.
I shook my head and moaned at the resulting nipple torture as he approached the bed. He grabbed my legs when I tried to kick him, and wrapped an arm around them, yanking them in the air. This, of course, left all my ass and pussy exposed, as well as the backs of my thighs. The marks from the bamboo rod had faded, but I remembered the pain.
“Don’t,” I begged through the chain. “Don’t. Don’t.” It sounded like duh, duh, duh, which was appropriate, because only a very stupid person would keep returning, week after week, to be tortured by this madman.
“Don’t lose your shit,” he said, looking down at me. “I can only leave those clamps on you for ten minutes or so before you start to suffer permanent damage. Your beating will be over before then.”
As he said it, he brought the whip down across the area where my ass met my thighs. I don’t know why it still shocked me every time, how much he could hurt me. My entire body arched in a panic. I jerked my hips and tried to escape his grip on my legs, but I only ended up hurting my nipples. Before I could come to terms with the slicing agony of the first stroke, he drew his arm back and hit me again, and again.
I started to keen against the chain, pathetic crying even as I fought to escape. He took such lazy pleasure in torturing me. He could have hit me harder, yes. He could have sliced me to ribbons, until I was a bloody mess, but he wasn’t a psychopath. No, just a pervert. He wanted my squirming and my panicked sounds and he knew this was how to get them. He wanted my features contorted in agony and my legs straining against his grip, and so he toyed with me, pausing between strokes, alternating hard ones and less hard ones. There were no soft ones with an implement like that.
After a couple dozen blows, I knew I couldn’t take it anymore. I spit out the chain and tried to explain it to him. No, oh, no, you can’t, no more, no more, no more, please, please. His response was to tug the chain until I screeched, and shove it back between my lips. I decided I’d better not do that again. How much longer until ten minutes? I felt the tip of the whip prod against my pussy.
“No,” I whined against the metal links.
“Yes. You need it, bad girl.”
He started flicking the whip’s tip right along the center of my pussy. I cried. I bawled. No, no, no. It hurt so bad, and I was so wet, and I hated him for reducing me to this groaning, terrified, needy creature. As I fought and strained, he started alternating his method of depravity. First I’d feel the hot, hard licks across the backs of my thighs, and then the thwack on my pussy.
“Do you want the clamps off?” he asked. “Listen to me.” I could barely focus through the haze of my agony. “Do you want the clamps off?”
I nodded frantically. Yes, yes, please, off!
He put my legs down, spread them wide, and forced me back with his hands when I tried to sit up.
“Don’t,” he said in his evil voice. “Don’t you dare move. Don’t you dare get up. Keep your legs open for me. Show me how bad you’ve been, how badly you deserve to be punished.”
My arms ached from being tied behind me. My nipples felt like they were going to fall off, and my pussy and thighs throbbed from the damn whip, but I lay back, my eyes locked on his, and opened my legs, baring myself to whatever horrible thing he might do next. My chest rose and fell in frantic pants, and a noise leached out of me, a warbling, fearsome sound I couldn’t control.
“Jesus,” he whispered, staring down at me. “You’re magnificent like this.”
I expected him to whip my pussy the way he’d done earlier. I lay there waiting for him to whip it to shreds, but instead he reached out and started to stroke me. I was so wet. I think that’s why he did it, to show me how wet I was.
He fucked me with one finger, two fingers, three fingers, and it hurt and felt good, two feelings at once. He half knelt, down on one knee, and shoved my legs so wide open that my muscles strained. His fingers dug into my inner thighs, each fingertip a point of domination. As soon as his tongue touched my clit, I knew his goal was to make me die.
I thought he would be rough, like his fingers were rough, and his whip was rough, but he ate me out with the delicacy of an expert. He used the perfect pressure, the perfect teasing variation of taps and strokes and fluttering caresses. I wasn’t groaning and crying from pain now, but from pleasure.
Without stopping, he reached up and undid the nipple clamps. They hung, forgotten, from my mouth. I was too distracted to spit out the chain. Blood rushed to my poor, blood-deprived nipples, resulting in a burning frenzy of feeling. All it meant to me was more of his power, more of his torture. More of him.
His fingers rested on the whip welts, intentionally, I was sure. I hurt and I burned, and his tongue was miraculous. He was a silent, intent predator and I was the prey animal tossing in his grasp. Dying, slowly but surely. My hips jerked in time with his tongue and then the orgasm broke wide, making me tremble with a complete loss of control. The bliss of it felt sharp as a whip stroke. The chain slithered from my lips as I gasped through my open mouth. The death throes, escaping through the lying hole in my head.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. He left and put on a condom, and came back to the bed. He pulled up my limp body and turned me over, and arranged me face down. The tie binding my arms made a nice handle for him to grasp.
He thrust inside me, and even as wet as I was, he felt big and scary. He pounded into me, jerking me back against him. I was still sensitive from the orgasm, not to mention the whip. My nipples hurt from scraping across the comforter, soft and luxurious though it was. The bedside lamps seemed like spotlights, intensifying every humiliation.
Ow, ow, ow. I’d had my pleasure. This excruciating finale was his pleasure. He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me until I chafed, until I started to go dry, and then he finished with even more force than he’d started with.
Somewhere in the middle, I’d started crying. There was a big wet stain under my face, smeared with makeup, foundation and eye shadow and mascara. I blinked down at the stain as he untied my arms. He was still inside me, even now that he’d come. I had this thought that maybe my body would never be mine again.
I had another thought: he wanted me, literally. He wanted my body to be his. Not only had he insisted on an exclusive arrangement, and stalked my personal life. He was also methodically and intentionally ruining me for other men by making sure they could never be as perverted, as passionate, as forceful as he was. He was devouring me with his desire, his charisma. He was taking from me until he had all of me and I had nothing left.
And he gave me none of himself in return.
“Get out of me,” I said when he finished, using my limp arms to push myself up.
“Stop.” He grasped my hips with enough force to still me, and pushed himself deeper. “Stay there.”
“Get out of me,” I said more loudly.
He slapped my ass. Hard. “Don’t fucking order me around. I’ll get out of you when I fucking feel like it.”
Escorting wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be violent and antagonistic.
“I’m not seeing you again,” I said, and this time I meant it.
His fingers moved a little on my hips. “Did you learn anything just now?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
“I learned that we hate each other, and that you’re a stalker.”
He made a gruff noise that sounded like disagreement and pulled out of me, and got up off the bed. He went in the bathroom and started the shower. I stayed where I was, too heavy with self-loathing and depression to ever move again.
“Chere,” he yelled, when I didn’t join him. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spend any more time with him right now.
I heard him get in the shower, heard the change in the patter of the water. I got up and dressed in record time. My eyes fell on his briefcase. What was his name? What did he do?
If I went digging through his briefcase, and he caught me, what would he do to me? I was afraid to find out.
Anyway, I knew he wouldn’t leave any identifying information in there. If there was anything in that briefcase I could use, he wouldn’t have left me unattended with it. His wallet was with his clothes in the bathroom. That might have provided some identifying information, and I could probably go in there and grab it before he could stop me, but then I’d be no better than him. A dishonest, aggressive stalker. I wasn’t sure I cared about his name anymore. I didn’t want to care. I didn’t want to see him again.
I made sure I had all my shit, and then I whipped open the curtains with the same snapping flourish he’d used to draw them closed.
“Chere,” he yelled from the bathroom. “Get your ass in here.”
The water shut off and I ran for the door. I didn’t check to see if our session had timed out. If he didn’t want to pay me because I left early, he didn’t have to.
Sometimes running like hell was more important than money. Sometimes saving yourself was more important than sticking around for the payout, and this qualified as one of those times.