You have to bear that all in mind when I gave him a little shove and unbalanced him, caught him and held him pinned against the wall. “What do you want?” I said, as he stood there palpitating like a field mouse. A mouse’s heart beats five hundred times a minute, I tell myself. That is why their lives are so short.
“You.” He said.
I stared at him. No, I thought, you do not want me. You could not bear it. You do not know when I look into the sunshine I see every bead of light; I feel joy as deep as the ocean and grief as lonely as the North Wind. You could not touch such feelings with the tip of your finger lest they would break you to pieces; overcome you with their magnitude, rip you apart between their polar extremes.
I am not on the menu tonight. But he wants to want me; he wants my body and the vague trace of that-which-I-am that it suggests. I know this because I feel him gasp a little and sense a familiar poking against my thigh.
It feels good to be wanted. Did I mention I was not popular here? I was perfectly happy to fuck for money but I was completely unable to be impressed by it. I was no executive toy. The guests came to Xyro for the whores to be overawed by them, not to stare in wonder at the whores. On the whole, the tricks here found me threatening, pale and cold.
But tonight I am with a boy foolish enough to declare he wants me; so I’ll let him have it. I’ll give him the full Hell Hole treatment, drag him down to the bottom of the earth, spin him round and knock him over so he doesn’t know where or who he is but he knows he is being made love to. I’ll push him out the orbit of the earth so he’ll wonder where he was the night he got that fucking, down in the cellars or dreaming on drugs.
It’s been a while since I had a proper appreciative audience. I show off terribly.
Here we go, down the corridors, black walls and naked light bulbs, cables on the floor. It looks unfinished, it is unfinished. Not all of Xyro has had the chrome and velour treatment yet. These are the back rooms where the whores rest up between night shifts, although soon even they will be rendered and backlit. Hell is being extended due to a surplus of sinners. Come on, follow me. It’s not like you have a choice now. You’d never find your way back to the surface alone.
So I pull him along the corridors until I know, I am sure, we are at the bottom of his mind where the beasties are. Then as quickly as we have been travelling I flick open a door and bundle him through. He doesn’t seem to register we have stopped. I sit down on the bed and he stares at me stupidly. I wonder if he’s mentally retarded.
“Are you real?” He asks.
I laugh and pull his hand inside my shirt. His hand balls up the material and pushes it over my head. He’s a forceful little thing for all his innocence. This is the sort of thing he sings about, nameless encounters in unfurnished rooms. I wouldn’t have known it from that night. I had to bite my tongue not to ask him if he was a virgin.
He’s trying to undress me, he’s trying to undress himself, and he’s not getting very far with either of us. He’s descended into some sort of over aroused squirming, which is quite amusing to watch until it stops stock-still.
I know what the problem is because it’s what the problem always is at this point of the night.
“Do you want me to take it off?” I said.
They never do and he’s no different. He’s blushing a little now. They always do that. Part of it’s fear; they don’t want to see what’s under there, what an arm looks like without a hand on the end. Part of it’s shame; they never think they’re the sort of kinky bugger who gets off on cripples until they meet me.
Give him an hour or two and I’ll be showing him my party piece, I think. Hook jobs. Just be grateful I have a steady arm and try not to twitch too much.
I help him out by sliding out of my boots and trousers and lying back on the bed. He looks a little relieved to have something to stare at other than the hook. He touches me a little shyly, like that too might drop off. I start clawing at his trousers to distract him. I don’t like tricks touching me too much.
“Can I kiss you?”
I pull him on top of me and press my mouth against his in reply. He definitely knows I’m a whore then. No wonder he followed me so serenely. Still it was nice of him to ask I think, as he devours my mouth. I’ve worked his trousers down and am well on my way to getting him readied up. He moans into my mouth and I feel the bed sway under me as he thrusts against my strokes.
He tugs at my hair and I knock his hands away. I feel them again all over my skin. The groping doesn’t matter so much now, I’ve warmed up and Danny boy is almost good to go. Ten more minutes and he’ll be sleeping like the dead.
All tricks want to pull my hair loose. I don’t suppose I exist to them when they don’t have a hard on. It’s no concern of theirs that there’s seven hours worth of braids in here and I have to hire outside help. I’d spend all night on my back and all day in the hair salon.
He twines a plait feverishly in his hands moaning something about it. He sucks at my chin like a man in pain. I’m just about to reach for the lubricant when he gasps, buckles and I suddenly have a very warm and sticky stomach.
Varda Elentari, he is a virgin I think.
((I've had some painkillers and vit c and feel slightly better.))