You can get so stupid and desperate sometimes. Like tonight, for instance, although it didn’t have to be tonight, it could have been last night or last week or last year. You can never tell when things will finally reach a pitch and spill over into action, when the only way to deal with all the days and nights of your imaginings and hesitations is to abandon them, to simply let them go, to give in to that which has haunted you for so long, to finally jump on the ghost train and see where it takes you, see what horrors and thrills it shows you.

It’s been raining for three days straight but it doesn’t put you off. You realise, with that wistful romanticism you’ve held onto for far too long, that the constant rain has created a certain mood, a cinematic atmosphere that seems appropriate to the moment. It mirrors your insides. You wallow in the fact that it’s raining.

So you’ve switched off the TV and you’re on the phone and the receptionist tells you about the three girls: Petra, 32, blonde, blue eyes, size 10; Zena, 21, brunette, dark brown eyes, size 4; and Nicole, 27, brunette, hazel eyes, size 8. You like the sound of the receptionist’s voice, so pleasant and accommodating, as if she were a sales assistant in a clothes shop. You can tell by her voice that she’s a woman in her thirties or early forties, but it’s the fact that her voice is warm and human that sways you.

You shower, put on a pair of jeans and a decent shirt, and all the while, now that you’ve been moved to action, there’s a buzz in your stomach, an exquisite knot. You sense the blood circulating in your body, gathering, racing, and you like that feeling because it’s a feeling that’s so rare for you. Precious, even. And you want to hang onto the deliciousness of that feeling for as long as you can.

It’s not a long drive, although it’s made a few minutes longer because you have to stop at the cash machine on the way. Shadowy clumps of people rush past you on the street but they barely register in your peripheral vision. You insert your card into the slot and punch the buttons on the panel, wondering if there are other men doing the same thing tonight, withdrawing cash in the rain.

You drive carefully, switching the wipers to full speed. Having made the decision, you’re anxious, now, to get there but you savour the slow drive and the way the streetlights appear haloed through the wet windscreen.

In this part of town the streets are suitably deserted and so is the small parking lot when you pull in. The place doesn’t look like much although you figure it probably looks better than it would during the day. The illuminated sign over the front door tries hard to project an image of glamour but doesn’t quite make it. Years of weathering have taken their toll. But this is what you expected, isn’t it? This is what you actually want. You don’t want real glamour, you want the pretence of glamour because it’s somehow more real than the real thing. You want it to be a bit rundown. It goes with the rain.

There’s a doorbell, so you press it. There is little fear, or anxiety, because after all, it’s not like you’ve never done this sort of thing before, the underworld has never been that far below you, and besides, action is always easier to deal with than inaction. You’re shocked, though, in a small way, at how comfortable you feel, as if you were pressing the doorbell of a friend’s house.

Some empty seconds pass and then the door opens. You were right; the receptionist appears to be in her late thirties. You recognise her voice as she welcomes you. She doesn’t mention her name, or if she did, you didn’t pay attention. She leads you inside and ushers you past the front desk to a waiting room with dark red velvet curtains at its entrance. You like the curtains, the colour of them, the air they exude of mysteries concealed and revealed. The room is small but manages to house two sofas and a side table. You sit down on the sofa closest to the velvet curtains and look around. Your gaze wanders over the cheap furnishings, the wood panelled walls, the faux antique lamp that looks like something from the ’70s. You knew it would look like this. This is what it’s supposed to look like, and even though it’s quite dreadful, in a homely sort of way, you like it. You soak it up. The other thing you like is that this is the room in which you will be offered a choice. You like that, being able to choose.

It’s not long before the curtains part and a girl enters. Her name is Nicole, she says, and just as the receptionist described, she looks to be in her late twenties. She sits down next to you and puts her hand on your knee. Her face looks uncannily like that of a woman who works at your office, which disturbs you a little, but you let that feeling pass. Like the receptionist, Nicole is warm and friendly. She seems to be a genuinely nice person, which is a comfort to you. She is dressed in a tight miniskirt and a black low-cut top with a push-up bra underneath that exposes the tops of her breasts. Her fingers constantly stroke your knee and inner thigh. You like that and you like it too when she says it’s all good, I’ll look after you.

Nicole doesn’t stay long. She leaves the room and a few moments later, Petra enters. You know it’s Petra even before she introduces herself because she, too, looks exactly as the receptionist had described. She doesn’t sit down but, strangely, offers her hand instead. You lean forward a little but remain seated as you reach up and shake Petra’s hand. Dressed, like Nicole, in a short tight skirt, her looks are Scandinavian, her frame strong and solid, almost Wagnerian. She seems to know right away that she’s not for you, she just knows, and so do you, and after a brief, awkward and forgettable conversation she smiles pleasantly and leaves. As she exits the room, you glance at the back of her thick thighs.

A third girl opens the red velvet curtains, a petite girl, younger than Nicole and Petra. It’s Zena. And just like the other girls, she’s wearing a tight short skirt and a push-up bra under her low-cut top. She sits next to you, without touching. Her face is attractive but not classically beautiful, although there are remnants of beauty there, suggesting that she may have been beautiful once, perhaps when she was in her early teens. Zena’s appearance now, though, announces quite clearly what she has become, what she is. She looks exactly like what you imagined you wanted. She is what you never had when you were her age.

Some small talk, then Zena exits. The receptionist returns and asks which of the girls you want. Not Petra, you say, politely. You remember how you liked Nicole’s warmth, the intimate way she touched you, but you’re not really after warmth, are you? You’d already decided upon Zena, the raunchy young sex kitten, the moment you’d seen her.

The receptionist leads you down a featureless corridor and into a bedroom. You give her most of the cash from your wallet. She closes the door behind her and then you wait. The room and everything in it is old: the bed, the sheets and pillowcases, the faded paint on the walls and ceiling, the chair in the corner, the shower, the little table with the lamp, the carpet. Everything looks dated, used, lived in. You absorb the atmosphere of the room knowing that this, too, was what you’d expected. This is what it’s meant to look like. In silence, you relish it.

You sit down in the chair and a few minutes later Zena enters the room. She prepares the bed simply by throwing a clean sheet over the linen that’s already there. Then she asks you to drop your pants. You do so and Zena inspects your penis. You were anticipating this so you don’t mind. Nor do you mind taking a shower, as instructed, even though you’d already showered at home before you left. When you’re done, you wrap the towel around your waist and sit on the bed. You notice that the light in the room is too bright for your liking. You ask Zena if it would be okay to move the lamp. She says yes, that’s fine, so you put the lamp on the floor, which darkens the room somewhat. You are pleased with the effect. Ambience is important to you.

Zena’s speech is quick, agitated, her movements hyperactive. She sits on the other side of the bed, talking incessantly about this and that while fussing about with various packets of condoms. You don’t say anything but you notice that she seems nervous, more nervous than you, which strikes you as ironic. Still, her manner isn’t cold. She’s friendly, in her way, although she forgets your name at least twice. It doesn’t matter. You enjoy being alone with a woman who is focussing at least some of her attention on you.

The towel falls away from your waist and you lie back on the bed. At this point, Zena tells you about her “extra” services. This is unexpected. Nevertheless, after a moment’s thought, you admit to yourself that three of the extras she offers are really quite vital to you. The additional cost is discussed and agreed upon. At opportune moments throughout this exchange, you casually stroke Zena’s leg.

Zena asks you to lay face down on the bed. She massages your back with lanolin, but only for a couple of minutes because you’re not here for a lengthy back rub. She puts away the lanolin and you turn onto your side. Zena lies close to you, stroking your arm. She kisses you. This is the first of the extras and you’re thankful for it because kissing gets you hard, it always has. Your arms and legs intertwine with hers. You move over her, the kiss building to a short-lived moment of intensity. Zena gently breaks away and removes her skirt, top, bra and G-string. You are secretly shocked at what you see. Without the push-up bra, her breasts are quite small and flat, as if removing the bra had suddenly deflated them, and just above her shaved pubic mound there’s a large patch of wrinkled skin which you recognise as the aftereffect of pregnancy. The reality of her body is not what her clothed appearance had led you to believe. You say nothing, of course.

Using her mouth, Zena puts a condom on your semi-hard cock. She sucks you for a little while, then, with your cock still in her mouth, straddles your upper body. Her pussy small, delicate and perfectly formed is positioned directly over your face. The sight of it excites you because, no matter what else, you love pussy. You open the lips with your fingers and lick her with abandon, another extra you’re glad to have paid for.

Zena changes position and lies on her back. You spread her legs and continue licking because you’ve realised that her pussy is the best thing about her. After a while, you move up and kiss her again. You reach between her legs and insert one finger, then another. The last of the extras. Zena whispers hoarsely in your ear that she wants you to fuck her now. You position yourself between her open thighs and enter her. Zena raises her knees and wraps her legs around your back. The way she fucks is spirited, energetic, more energetic than you ever remember experiencing with a woman. It takes you by surprise. She turns over onto all fours, plants her knees wide apart and presents her pussy to you. You grip the globes of her small boyish buttocks and push your cock inside her. Your thrusts have more than their usual force. After a while, Zena’s moans become louder and the movements of her body coalesce into what seem to be orgasmic shudders. For the briefest of moments you think it might even be real. You sense your own orgasm mounting inside you but you decide to slow down because you don’t want to come too quickly. It’s a decision that you’ll soon regret.

You stop and catch your breath. Zena lights a cigarette and engages you in casual conversation. She tells you that she is 21, has two children and rather enjoys being currently single. She doesn’t tell you anything else about her children and you don’t think to ask. You feel rather sad for her, for her circumstances, although she doesn’t give the impression of feeling the same way about herself. She tells you that she is here every night. You look at Zena and wonder what will become of her in years to come, but you’re unable to think too long or hard about it.

The attempt to resume sex doesn’t work. By now, your erection has gone. You try to fuck Zena from behind again, in the hope that your favourite position will stir some hardness, but your cock remains soft. You sense that the moment has passed and that time is running out. You wish, now, that you’d come when you had the chance. You glance down at your depleted cock, encased in a pink condom, looking like a bizarre species of mollusc squishing uselessly against the opening of Zena’s pussy, and at that moment you loathe your penis for not being able to do what you want it to do.

Zena tries to suck you to hardness but without success. She asks, with a worried tone of voice, if it’s her fault. You assure her it’s not. You kiss her again. You lick her pussy again. And then the time is up.

* * * * *

When you arrive home you can still smell Zena’s pussy on your mouth and fingers. You go to bed without washing your face. In the morning the scent of her pussy still lingers on you. A weak smile flits across your face and you think to yourself: well, that’s something, at least.

© 2010 Nick Nicholson. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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