Crossblood - Completed

Crossblood

All Rights Reserved. Like my cover? iWantUnionJ did it and did a lovely job!

THIS STORY CONTAINS SCENES AND TOPICS THAT MAY BE TRIGGERING (I.E brief (and non brief) accounts of rape/molestation, paedophilia, eating disorders, self harm, sex work)

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It's strange how we can forget where we are by focusing on something small. The slight creases of the sheets and how the light reflects off it distracts me enough to ignore the girl underneath me. Her moans hiccup to keep time with her short-of-breath gasps. Trying harder to look her in the eye (the pay is better that way) I try my echoing trick on her. Gasping the way that she does, copying it in a lower octave and touching her where she touches me.

Her back arches up to greet my sweaty chest with hers, slamming back to the bed only to crumble in the same way stale bread might. She lays panting and soaked against the once white sheets, straggly strands of hair plastering to her perspiring forehead. The way her muddy eye glistens has me frozen mid grab for my calculator, her expression tingling my insides. Like real lovers.

I shake my ragged coal hair in an attempt to rid myself of the thoughts. "You chose to pay for the hour and have extras so..." I calculate my services in my mind deciding to get straight to business. "twenty for kissing, fifty for licking, ten for biting, you broke the whip for an extra sixty, by the hour for two hundred, and having a little take out for eighty." I give her a slight wink at the word take out, being as flirtatious as possible even though my mind screams to hide, attack, get away. "You owe exactly four twenty."

Slipping under the bed she draws a gold purse, it's metal clips clanging as she bounces it and her breasts back to where I stand. "Four Twenty with a tip my dear sir." I fold the money into my jeans and shoo her out the door to prepare myself, physically and mentally, for my next client.

•••

The air is crisper than normal, burning my lungs as it leaves my rugged body while slicing my throat to enter it. The grass crunches under my boots, a layer of compacted frost blanketing the ground with a green-white moldy appearance. I wander aimlessly into the forgotten woods, twirling on the heel of my shoes at the few slick spots of ice I find.

I draw my coat closer to my body, refusing to use my 'gift' and instead attempting to trap in heat the human way. Thailand was never this unbearably cold. There were white sand beaches surrounded by jungle, a scene mimicking that of a safari children's book. The street carts filled with fruit, the monkeys clambering from tree to tree. It was beautiful, even if the memories weren't.

I'm forcefully brought out of my reverie when I notice that the brothel is already painfully in view, it's Coca-Cola sign worn from wind and old age. The windows are broken and bodily fluids are spread by rowdy clientele across the aging glass. I can see my window at the top since it's the only one with a coke stain bleaching it a muddy blackish brown.

Being the only male under Madam's employment I bring in both female and male business, something our competition doesn't have. It's the trick up our sleeve you could say, that nudge that puts us, her, above the rest.

There are, of course, policies that forbid male clients from doing certain things to me that their female counterparts can (and will) do. It mostly applies to rough housing and the likes with men generally being stronger and less sensitive to other's. However, observing me as I shower is a gender neutral favorite that everyone can enjoy.

Showering is the best part of the day in my opinion for I get to wash the filth and shame of my job away, focusing on the individual pellets of scalding water messaging my back. The rhythm of controlled rain drowns out the world and leaves me in my own hushed and reserved thoughts. Frowning at the one way glass, my hands guide the ripped cloth down my exposed self trying to be as sensual and sexual as possible. It's enough to make me want to dry-heave.