My heart was going mental as Monica turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The only light in the hallway was a dim yellow glow coming from a room to the left. I knew that room – the bedroom – right down to the last detail. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d been in this flat. These days, Monica was the only prostitute I would ever fuck. There was a time when I’d screw any of them. I realised how easy it was, and I just went for it. It didn’t matter what they looked like as long as they opened their legs. Nowadays, though, things were different. I’d known Monica for a while now. She was good at what she did and she wasn’t bad looking, so I didn’t mess with the others anymore.

 

We went straight to the bedroom. The light was coming from a small lamp on the floor next to the bed. There was a stained tea towel draped over the shade to subdue the light. As usual there was a faint smell of damp in the air. The walls were bare, stained plaster, save for a few sorry scraps of wallpaper, which still clung desperately on in one corner of the room. A ragged blanket hanging over the curtain rail covered the window.

I looked at Monica as she climbed onto the bed and removed her coat. She looked pretty good tonight, more of the sexy bitch and less of the crack whore, in a low-cut white blouse and a short black skirt. Poking up from the blouse I could make out the suggestive edges of a black bra. My cock started to tingle, as I looked her up and down. I told her to take her clothes off as I started to remove mine, shirt first, then shoes, socks, jeans. Finally I slipped out of my underwear and stood before her with my prick hard in my hand. She was naked now except for a pair of black stockings and a lacy suspender belt.

“Do you want a blowjob?” she said, speaking for the first time since we’d entered the flat. I nodded. As I clambered onto the bed she knelt before me on her hands and knees and took me into her mouth. I let out a heavy breath and gently closed my eyes as her tongue worked the length of my cock. I laid back and let myself disappear into limbo until I was throbbing so much I thought I might come in her mouth if she didn’t stop. I told her I needed to fuck her.

“Let me get a rubber,” she said, reaching under the bed and producing a box of Durex. She quickly tore one out of its packet and passed it to me.

“Lay down,” I said, rolling the condom down over my penis. I climbed between her legs and slid into her. I slipped in easily, not because she was aroused but because she would have slathered lubricate up there in advance – I knew that from experience. She closed her eyes as I started to move in and out of her pussy. Her eyes could have been closed from pleasure, but it was more likely to be disgust, and she didn’t seem to want to look at me. I grabbed one of Monica’s breasts and looked down at her as I moved steadily faster and harder. She was moaning softly, probably faking it but doing a good job of it at least, and her bottom lip was clasped between her teeth. The breast I wasn’t holding jiggled up and down as I pounded into her. Along both her arms I could see bruises and lesions where she had been jacking up over the years, injecting the heroin that kept her on the game; ever the junkie, ever the whore.

She cried out as I came, panting and grunting like an animal that was fucking in the street and knew no better. As my orgasm subsided I quickly rolled off Monica and slipped the condom off my cock. I always felt a brief pang of shame at this point, when I’d just screwed her, and the blindness of lust had gone. Things always look different when you’ve just come. Suddenly, fucking a prostitute no longer seems exciting or daring; just sordid and desperate. There’s no getting away from it.

I went to flush the condom down the toilet and when I came back Monica was already dressed. I pulled my own clothes on. Somehow she looked a lot less attractive now.

“So Monica,” I said, “Time to make me really happy.”

Monica didn’t waste time. She rooted around in her handbag and produced a scruffy bundle of notes, mostly tens and twenties, and passed them to me. Sometimes with the other girls I’d have to search their flats or their bags or their bras to see if they’d kept any extra money for themselves. Once or twice I’d found girls with money in small plastic bags hidden up their cunts, and I’d had to take what I was owed whether they liked it or not. Monica knew better than to take the piss, so I rarely checked on her. Maybe just occasionally – I couldn’t afford to relax completely or they’d run fucking riot.

“Good girl,” I said to Monica, and pulled fifty quid off the roll of cash to give to her.

“And here’s a bit extra,” I added. I reached in my pocket and then passed her a small wrap of heroin. She snatched it from my fingers and ran out of the room.

I saw myself out. I had to go and see my other girls, make sure all of them had been working hard, and make sure each one of them got a little something to keep their spirits up. The smack keeps them happy you see – it keeps them motivated, gives them something to work for.

I don’t want them jacking up any old shit. Overdoses are bad for business. I look after them, make sure they’re getting good quality gear, make sure none of the punters get clever – and if they do, they soon wish they fucking hadn’t. It’s the least I can do for my girls.

 

Nick Boldock is a 30-something writer from East Yorkshire. He can also be found masquerading as a performance poet from time to time but is never happier than when creating nasty little stories that cause his nearest and dearest to have grave concerns about the state of his mind.

Or something like that…