Copyright©2017 by Matt Shaw

Matt Shaw Publications

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The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

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Something

INSIDE

by

MATT SHAW

Table of Contents

About the Story

Part One

Interval

Part Two

Epilogue

About the story

I will admit that this is a weird story. I will put my hand up and openly agree with anyone who thinks it’s strange but - at the same time - I quite like it. Obviously I can’t go into the ins and outs of it too much because I do not want to spoil it for you. But what I will say is - you need to suspend your disbelief. It’s a story. Make-believe. A bit of fun, written after one particularly fucked-up dream for that is where the story originated. You see, I woke up one morning. It was around 5am and I could vividly remember my dream (a rarity as usually I remember pieces). In my dream, I had been the client you’re about to meet called Nick. Admittedly what happened in the dream was not what happens in this story but - well - the dream was just a series of “encounters” so I needed to thread it together with a story, right? Anyway, like I said, I knew it was weird. I am even aware that it might put new readers off my work, what with it being so far out there, yet I still felt compelled to write it. And, you know what? I’m glad I did. I honestly had a blast with this one and - as you read it - I hope you do too!

What I will say though, before leaving you in peace to read, is - stay away from drugs. Drugs are bad, m’kay?

Until next time, kiddies!

Matt Shaw

Part One

1.

Now.

Police-cars piling into this neighbourhood were nothing new. Usually they were after drug dealers on various levels of the food-chain. Anything from street-sellers looking to make a quick quid up to the nasty fuckers who were instrumental in getting the shit into the country in the first place. As the lights on top of the car lit up the night sky and the officers charged into the building, this was far from their normal raid. Tonight, they were after a different kind of monster entirely. A beast who preyed upon school children, taking its fill from them before discarding them in the woodlands on the outskirts of the city. The memo always the same: flesh ripped from their left cheeks, porcelain-like skin battered and bruised and faces ugly in death’s freeze. Contorted beyond recognition. Usually the police left the flat with their prisoner in cuffs, often shouting their innocence. Tonight was definitely different. They wanted him to put up a fight. They wanted him to give them reason to shoot him dead.

‘Stay inside your apartment!’ Detective Andrews called out to one of the apartment’s residents, an unsightly pleb who’d been in cuffs on more than one occasion.

The man had stepped out of his home ready to protest his innocence only to be pushed back in before he’d managed to even utter a word. He watched, relieved, as the officers charged up the flight of stairs towards the next floor.

‘Why can’t you leave them alone?’ He yelled, ‘They haven’t done nothing!’ He’d not shouted out to defend his neighbour’s innocence. He didn’t even know what neighbour they were after but, even so, as a resident in this shit-hole - they stuck together no matter what. They were the good guys and the police were the scum in their eyes and he’d shouted out so that his voice could be heard; a warning to his friends that the filth were on their way up - if they’d somehow managed to miss all of the commotion caused by the cars screeching into the parking lot. It wasn’t a warning that gave a lot of time to hide any wrong doing, such as cutting up coke or bagging pills, but any warning was better than no warning.

The arrival of the police hadn’t gone unnoticed by the two occupants of apartment 2b. They had heard their arrival the moment the cars pulled up outside. The room, otherwise dark, had instantly been illuminated by the flashing lights - red and blue, red and blue, red and blue… Enough to give an epileptic a seizure. They hadn’t tried to run. One couldn’t and the other didn’t want to until they were sure they were finished with what they had come to the apartment for…

*

Tears streamed down Whitley’s face, a mixture of anger and fear, as the police continued pounding on the door - desperate to get in, calling through demanding the door be opened. They weren’t calling to her though. They didn’t even know she was there. They were shouting for him after a squad car had driven by the estate and - by chance - spotted his car. They had run the checks to be double-sure and then called through for back-up.  Then, as they waited for back-up to arrive, they started canvassing the area with the man’s picture in the hope that someone had seen where he’d gone. As luck would have it, a little old lady had seen. This old lady, probably one of the only helpful people on the damned estate with everyone else adopting a “no-snitch” policy. This old lady who knew all of her neighbours’ businesses - be they selling drugs or their bodies to horny men.

As the police continued to pound on the door, they were completely unaware that the man they sought was currently face first in Whitley’s blood-soaked pussy. Not her blood. His. Whitley let out another anguished scream as she pulled his face deeper into her drenched gash - her hands gripping the side of his head, refusing to give him any room for movement. He was frantically pushing against the mattress, trying to pull away from her but it was to no avail. She had him right where she wanted him. Her cunt had him. His muffled, pained cries for help drowned out both by the noises she was making and the heavy banging on the wooden door. Whitley looked in the direction of the flat’s entrance - out the main bedroom door where the two of them writhed around on the bed and down the long hallway. The door was starting to give from the constant pounding. A couple more slams and they’d be in. She turned her attention back to the man trapped between her slim-but-toned legs and crushed him harder between her thighs as his face continued getting chewed upon. Flesh ripped and shredded. Blood oozing from fresh wounds. The tip of his nose missing. Chunks of cheek gone.

The front door burst open, splintering at the bronze hinges, and police officers started to pile in. Whitley turned to face them. From where she lay on the bed, she had the perfect view of them just as they had the best line of sight for her. They stopped in their tracks, none of them sure what to say or do as she continued holding their suspect between her naked legs.

‘Get away from us!’ she screamed at them, tears rolling down her cheeks as the warm blood continued to splatter between her legs and his skull started to be crunched upon. His cries had stopped now. The only audible noises were the ones coming from her… Both her mouth and the chomp-chomp-chomping from her vagina. ‘He deserved this!’ she screamed as the officers continued to stand there, dumbstruck. None of them argued with her. None of them knew what to say.

Detective Andrews was the first to step forward even though it was his colleagues who were part of the armed response unit. They had sub-machine guns. He had a badge and an attitude. ‘Let him go, ma’am…’ he said in the most authoritative voice he could muster given the circumstances. His colleagues raised their guns. Their fingers hovered over the triggers. Andrews said again, ‘Let him go…’

‘I can’t.’ Whitley wept.

2.

Before.

The back wall of the elevator was nothing more than a floor to ceiling mirror. As Whitley checked out her appearance in the flattering reflection, she couldn’t help but wonder as to whether the mirror was an addition especially for people such as herself: The hookers here to service the wealthy whilst they stayed in town on business. She pulled her short black dress down a little. The dress hugged her figure perfectly, amplifying her bosom by pushing her breasts together. It also pulled her in at the waist, not that there was anything really to pull in - not that she’d believe you if you were to tell her. The dress was definitely designed to impress the members of the opposite sex (and even some members of the same sex) but it most certainly hadn’t been designed to allow for bending over. Well, not in public anyway. Whitley couldn’t help but to smile as her mind played back a quick montage of the amount of times she’d been bent over, wearing this dress, with a client standing before her. Their erection pressing into her through their pants as she teased them with the sight of no panties.

The elevator pinged and the doors opened. With one final quick check of her appearance, Whitley stepped from the lift and onto the top floor of the hallway. She’d lost count the number of times she had visited this particular hotel - one of the swankiest in town - yet she never came to this floor unless it was this particular client. The others just booked the smaller, cheaper rooms that filled the other floors. This guy though - he liked to live a life that made the most of the money he earned in his day job… As Whitley read the sign on the wall adjacent to the lift, instructing her the direction of the various suites, she paused a moment. She frowned as she tried to recollect what this client did for a living. Moments before knocking on his door it was the worst possible time to forget the little details. Stuff like that made the first few minutes of conversation less awkward: She’d ask for payment and then - as she’d put it away - she would ask him how things were going with his work but not like that, she would actually make reference to what it was he did. It was the little details like that which made the client think the girl cared more than she did. It was the little details that were the most important. The more the girl “cared”, the more chance of a repeat booking. It was how an impromptu fuck, whilst out of business, turned into something much more regular and profitable.

Still straining her brain, she walked up to the client’s room. On the door there was a gold plaque that read: The Churchill Suite. With a confident hand, she knocked. She took a small step back as she heard movement from the other side of the door. Nick. That was his name. At least she could recall that detail about him.

The door opened and a man appeared standing before her, an excited look upon his face and an excited stance straining beneath the white hotel towel that he was wrapped in. His dark hair was dripping down his face as he’d climbed fresh from the shower. He looked Whitley up and down and smiled.

‘Babe, long time no see! How you doing?’ he asked.

He took a step back and held the door open wide for his evening’s entertainment. Whitley stepped in and could tell instantly that he was on coke. He was jittery and kept running his tongue over the front of his teeth - no doubt enjoying the sensation of having the front of his face numbed up by the drug.

‘I’m good.’ She turned to him as he closed the door. The pair kissed each other on the cheek. A funny, mild greeting given that it would most likely be less than ten minutes before his dick was down her throat and her pussy smothered over his face. Still. Manners. Before she had to ask, Nick walked into the main living room area of the suite and picked up an envelope from in front of the television. On the screen, hardcore porn played with some petit blonde taking it hard in the arse from a big black man who looked as though he were on the verge of splitting her open. Her screams (of pleasure?) were muted, along with his grunts.

‘That’s for you,’ Nick said.

‘Thank you.’ Whitley took the envelope and slipped it into her open handbag.

‘You’re not checking it?’

‘I trust you.’ This was the tenth or eleventh appointment with this client - still she couldn’t remember what he did for a living - and she’d long since given up checking the money when he handed it over. It went against all of the unwritten rules of being a hooker but, she trusted him.

‘I might have short-changed you,’ he said. A twinkle in his eyes. The Devil.

She smiled right back at him. ‘You didn’t though.’

‘Ah but I could have.’ He nodded towards her bag. ‘Go on - check it for my own peace of mind.’

She went to argue with him but realised it was pointless. Without a word she took the envelope out of her bag and opened it up. Inside were stacks of tens and twenties - enough to cover her fee for the whole night.

‘You can count it over there,’ he told her with a nod of his head towards the sofa. She walked over to the furniture and took a seat. Her eyes were instantly drawn to a plate of finely cut up coke on the glass table. Next to the plate, a razor that he’d obviously been using to cut it with and a rolled twenty pound note. When she first guessed he’d been doing the drug, she’d automatically presumed he had been using a rolled fifty. There was a little part of her that was disappointed.

‘Help yourself,’ he said with a knowing wink.

Whitley smiled polite and declined, ‘I’m good - thank you.’

‘Really? You ever fucked on coke? It’s amazing.’

‘Just not for me.’

He shrugged and sat on the floor next to the table. As he started to rack himself up a thick line of the Devil’s Dandruff, he said, ‘More for me!’ As he racked it up, he glanced up to the envelope of money in Whitley’s hand. ‘Don’t forget to count,’ he said casually.

She smiled again and started counting. In the back of her mind she was telling herself to just get up and leave. He was a nice enough client usually but she hated it when they showed up high on cocaine as it just made it nigh on impossible for them to finish. They would be banging away, oblivious to how sore she was, desperate for an orgasm that would always be out of reach. She’d lost count the number of near-flaccid dicks she had been fucked with. Or rather “attempted” to have been fucked with. And when they couldn’t finish? It was always her fault. Never their fault for trying to get as much shit pumping around their system as they possibly could.

Nick snorted two lines one after the other and slammed the note down on the table. ‘You sure you don’t want some?’ he asked, his tongue sliding back and forth over his gums.

‘I’m good.’

He suddenly looked at her with a look of obvious lust in his eyes. He smiled, ‘You’re more than fucking good,’ he said. ‘You’re fucking fine!’ He crawled around to Whitley’s side of the table until he was kneeling in front of her. ‘So fucking fine,’ he said as his eyes scanned her bare legs.

‘Good of you to say so,’ Whitley said. She parted her legs. The short dress immediately rode up and Nick was treated to a full sight of her black, silky panties.

Nick grinned. Without looking up he said, ‘I’ve fucking missed seeing you…’ He sat forward and buried himself between her legs, pressing his face up against the soft gusset of her panties. As he breathed in her scent deeply, he scrambled with the towel around his waist until it was pulled loose. He’d booked her for the whole night and - as such - had the entire evening to fuck but that didn’t mean he wanted to waste any time in getting up inside  her.

With one hand reaching back, holding the back of the sofa she sat on, Whitley reached down with the other and pulled the panties to one side - exposing her freshly shaven cunt for her hungry client. No invitation was needed before he pushed up inside her with his tongue.

3.

Whitley’s dress had been discarded on the thick carpet of the hotel room floor. Her panties, tossed to one side, along with her bra.

The proceedings had moved from the large living area through to the equally impressive bedroom where - much to Whitley’s surprise - some more cocaine had been laid out ready to be snorted in lines of equal width. A bank note pre-rolled so as not to slow their fun. With his thick cock throbbing hard in her warm mouth, she was impressed that he was still as hard as he was although she’d long since given up on the belief she’d be able to get him to ejaculate for her. At best he might be able to manage it himself with a strong hand but, even that, she didn’t hold much hope for given the amount of coke he’d gotten through. Regardless, she sucked him hard taking his cock to the back of her throat and a little beyond. A little gag every time she pulled away enough to gasp for another mouthful of air before swallowing him back down again. He was loving it, his body writhing beneath her and his hands gripping on the white duvet covering the kingsized bed. Sighs of pleasure escaping his mouth with little contented murmurs. On a normal day, with a normal client, she would have already been swallowing a thick wad of creamy semen.

‘Come here,’ he reached down to her and - with hands on either shoulder - pulled her up the bed so that they were face to face. She didn’t ask why he stopped her. She just kissed him. The tongue that had once been slipping and sliding over his thick shaft now stroking his own tongue. Could he taste himself? Did he like what he tasted? When Whitley pulled away, Nick took charge and rolled her off him. Before she had a chance to move, he positioned himself on top of her. Whitley reached down with her hand and continued stroking his cock - both as a way to keep his erection standing proud but also to keep him from penetrating her without protection on. With her other hand, she reached over to the bedside table and took a hold of one of the many condoms that she’d set down next to the little silver dish of class As. Nick smiled at her as she bit into the foil and pulled the rubber out with her teeth.

‘I’m going to fuck you so hard,’ he said with a smile.

‘Mmmmm,’ she purred - a noise she didn’t make during normal encounters, reserving it only for appointments because she thought the clients wanted to hear that kind of thing. For the most part, they did. Whitley changed her grip on his shaft and reached down with the rubber when suddenly he gripped both her wrists in his own hands and pinned her arms up to either side of her head.  The rolled condom still between her thumb and finger.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she said.

‘Come on, baby, you know that shit just desensitises everything,’ he said with a nod towards the condom. ‘You know me, I know you… I think we’re past that kind of thing now, right?’

‘What? No!’ Whitley tried to move from under him but his weight was too great, pushing down upon her - pinning her in place against the soft mattress. ‘Get off!’

Nick laughed. ‘Oh I plan to, baby.’ He moved around until he felt the tip of his dick nudge up against her cunt, still wet from how much he had been licking it in the living room. ‘You know - you probably won’t believe this but you’re the only lady I see…’ He thrust in. Nick sighed. Whitley gasped.

‘Please don’t do this,’ she said.

‘I mean it. Of all the various women on that site, you’re the only one I see. I’m fucking crazy about you,’ he continued as he started to fuck her. ‘Couldn’t you tell?’ He continued pounding her, his tongue still rubbing his numb gums as he did so, whilst Whitley continued writhing beneath him - unaware in her desperation to get free that it was making it all the more pleasurable for him. ‘I’m going to cum so fucking hard and deep in you, baby…’ The only time Whitley had been grateful for the client’s heavy use of cocaine.

‘Please stop…’

‘Ssh. It’s okay. I’m clean. I promise. And I know you are too. You’re so careful with your clients. I know you’re good… We owe it to ourselves to have this kind of sex. I know you like me too, I can read you like an open fucking book…’

‘Get off…’

‘We need to talk about what you do for a living though, babes. You don’t need to do this anymore. I’ve got you. Whatever you need, you let me know and I’ll take care of it. I’m here for you now that we’re a couple…’ He increased the tempo. ‘And, you feel so fucking good… So, so fucking good… I could just die here and I’d be happy…’ He started to laugh. Whitley closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. She stopped fighting him. The sooner he was done, the sooner he would get off her. She even closed off to the words that he was saying - a couple now, finally, perfect couple, love…

With a buck of his hips he suddenly stopped. Slowly Whitley opened her eyes and turned to face him. His back was arched and his neck bent so that his head was lifted - his eyes staring ahead at the wall behind the bed.

‘Did you cum?’ she asked hoping that the answer was yes.

Nick’s face contorted as he winced in pain. With a loud groan and another contortion of his face, he reached to his chest and gripped at his flesh hard. His fingers clenched with so much pressure that the tips of them turned red. ‘Nick?’ Whitley tried to crawl from underneath him but was still trapped by his weight as his face contorted again and he let out another - louder - groan. ‘Nick?’ His body went limp and his head dropped down, hitting Whitley in the shoulder. ‘Nick?’ she called out in a panic. With her hands now free she continued writhing around beneath him as she felt a warm trickle within her vagina. Disgusted, she reached down and pulled his still erect penis from her orifice only to be splashed with the last trickle of his impromptu pissing. ‘Nick?’ she called out again hoping that this was just a sick joke. With a little more snaking, she managed to roll free from underneath him. Quickly she rolled him onto his back and immediately jumped back in shock. His eyes were fixed staring and there was a small trickle of blood coming from his left nostril - no doubt from all the cocaine he’d put up it that night. Nervously she took a step forward and gave him a little shake. ‘Nick?’ She knew he wasn’t going to answer her. She knew he was gone.

Scared, she started to cry unsure of what to do. Phone the ambulance or make a run for it and hope that no one spotted her coming into his room. A fear that - given her profession - she would be blamed for what happened to him and that it had been her who’d provided the drugs. She backed up to the doorway with her eyes fixed to his still-warm corpse. A wetness still leaking from within that repulsed her. She dropped to the floor and retched once, twice and - on the third time - she vomited stomach bile over the plush cream carpets. With the taste of sick in her mouth and the thought of a dead man pissing into her pussy, she threw up for a second time and then - spots in front of her eyes and a head full of fog…

BLACKNESS

*

Whitley opened her eyes. Her head pounded as though she’d had a heavy night of drinking even though not a drop of alcohol had passed her dry, cracked lips. For the briefest of moments she completely forgot where she was. That is, until she moved and realised her face had stuck to the dried vomit matted into the carpet. She peeled herself away and sat up, nervously looking over to the bed - a hope that he was no longer lying there. A hope that she’d hear him call from the living room - something mocking her for passing out. No such luck. His body was where she’d left it. Cooler now. Paler now. Some shit smudged between his arse and the once white duvet as his body continued to relax all the muscles within. Whitley gagged but suppressed the vomit.

Ignoring the mess on the floor, she crawled her way over to the bed. His lips had turned blue now and his skin was pale white. His eyes paler than before too, almost cloudy in their appearance. She reached out with a shaking hand and prodded him. Still a small part of her that hoped he’d suddenly sit up and shout out “boo”. Nothing. She prodded him harder and a small pocket of air escaped from his arse with another dollop of the brown. The foul stench lingering in the air to be chewed upon. There was no dignity in death.

With the severity of her situation sinking in fast, Whitley hurried from bedroom through to living room where she gathered up her panties and bra. Fuck having a wash, fuck making herself look presentable - just get out of there. Quickly she put her underwear on before she picked up the dress lying next to the coffee table where she’d earlier wriggled out of it. She slipped it over her head, grabbed her bag and headed for the doorway only to stop with her hand outstretched towards the gold handle. She glanced back over her shoulder - through to the bedroom. His corpse still in view. Her mind was racing in a million and one different directions but kept coming back to the troubling thought of what would happen if she’d been caught on CCTV. Would they be able to ID her in anyway? Had she left DNA evidence in the room? Of course she had - all over his cock and face for one… But could they use it to track her back to her home? If she ran, surely it would make it look that much worse for her? Slowly, she turned her back to the door. What happened to him wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t forced the coke into him. She hadn’t caused what must have been a catastrophic heart attack. This was down to him and the authorities would be able to see that. The worst she had done was show up and take his money for a sexual encounter but - at worst - that would be a slap on the wrists. She wouldn’t face jail time for that and, besides, she didn’t have to admit to being a prostitute.

Feeling nervous, she walked over to the nearest telephone and lifted the receiver. Pressing “0” she called down to the reception despite having no idea what - exactly - she’d say.

4.

Earlier Today.

More than twenty-four hours later after being arrested as a (their words) “prime suspect”, Whitley finally walked through the front door of her apartment. Outside the day was overcast. Rain had been forecast later that morning. People were milling around on their way to their places of work. All of them looking tired and miserable - wishing for a longer weekend. The chance - perhaps - to work two days and have five off instead of it being the other way around. That was the outside world though. A reality that Whitley wanted to shy away from.

Tired, relieved and dying for a long soak in a hot tub filled with whatever Lush products she had left to wash away the stink of the police station and the unpleasant hum of death. She’d told the officers that she didn’t know Nick and that she’d met him in the bar. They - of course - questioned how she’d come to have so much cash in her handbag, a question she struggled to answer and one that almost made her tell them why she was actually in the hotel that night. She’d been forced to take a drugs test and treated like a criminal the whole time despite waiving her rights to speak to an attorney, or even have one present. Despite what she did for a living, she was adamant that she hadn’t done anything wrong and - at the end of the day - there was no proof of wrong-doing other than the fact Nick had been snorting cocaine. She didn’t have any in her system and neither did she have any on her person. She just happened to be in the same room as someone who’d died taking it. The investigating officers couldn’t pin anything on her and they knew it. For a while, there was a small part of her that wondered if they’d guessed her true vocation and merely kept her in for as long as possible to try and scare her from the job. Teach her a lesson. Make her see the error of her ways. Funny that they’d think she needed to be put off from whoring given the fact she’d just had a punter literally die inside her. Like that wasn’t off-putting enough. The way she felt now, she’d be lucky to have sex ever again - whether as part of the job or for fun.

Whitley dropped her bag down by the front door and shut the real world out of her life by slamming the door. No matter who came knocking, the door wouldn’t be opened for anyone and neither would her mobile be answered - a fact made more concrete as it had long since run out of juice whilst she’d waited for the police to finish questioning her.

Tinker, her tabby cat, hopped off the living room sofa and ran through to the hallway the moment it heard the front door shut. Empty stomach and similar state for the food bowl, she started meowing as she attempted to wrap herself around Whitley’s legs as she made her way through down the hallway.

‘Not now,’ Whitley said, carefully pushing the hungry feline away with a gentle foot. Instead of turning left into the kitchen, Whitley continued down the hallway through to the bathroom. She pulled the cord by the door, illuminating the room with the overhead light in an instant, and walked over to the tub. Reaching down she immediately started running both the hot and cold water taps. As the water slowly start to run into the tub, she sat on the closed lid of the toilet seat and put her head in her hands. Tinker watched on, still hungry, as she started to weep - her eyes already red raw. The tears weren’t for the lost life. As tragic as it was for someone in their early forties to have a fatal heart-attack - she didn’t really know him any more than she knew any of her clients. She knew their names, sometimes where they lived depending as to whether they ever had sessions in their own homes, she knew how they liked to fuck and… The thought popped back into her head, reminding her that she didn’t even know what he did for a living.

Tinker meowed from the doorway. A small little mew reminding her owner that she was still there and - yes - she was most definitely still hungry.

‘Fuck off!’ Whitley snatched the toilet roll from where it rested on top of the toilet and threw it at the cat. Tinker, in turn, made a hasty retreat back down the hallway, turning into the kitchen. A split second later and the cat-flap swung open and shut. ‘Shit.’ It wasn’t the cat’s fault. Tinker didn’t know what had happened. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time like most family pets when the owners had had a bad day and come home in moods blacker than usual. The pets wanted some attention - show love - and the owners wanted to be left alone. ‘Idiot,’ Whitley berated herself. She’ll be back in a few hours, she thought to herself, and then, she could have a big tin of tuna fish to make up for it.

Still sitting on the toilet seat, Whitley wiped away her tears. She glanced to the bath which was filling nicely. The hot water mixing with the cooler to give a warm temperature that was just right. She’d feel better after a bath. She’d feel better after she’d washed herself clean from all that had happened.

*

On more than one occasion, lying in the warm water discoloured by a glittery bath bomb, Whitley had tried to close her eyes and drift into a much-needed sleep. She’d not slept a wink at the police station even though they’d not been questioning her the whole time. The moments she’d been left alone, locked in a small cell as if she was already guilty of supplying narcotics, she’d laid upon the hard mattress but not been able to sleep. Just as it did now, in the bath, her mind had kept drifting back to what had happened in the room. Not just the fact that her client had died whilst on top of her - and inside - but the way he had looked afterwards. The pain on his face seemingly frozen on his expression forever. The colour of his skin. The look - or rather the lack of “look” - in his eyes… The shit that had come from his relaxed arsehole and - dear God - the smell. The musty scent of dying flesh and stinking shit, along with the occasional sniff of vomit from across the way over on the carpet. Sight and smell forever tainting this client, never mind the fact that he’d fucking raped her; a fact she’d only now remembered.

Whitley sat up in the bath. How could she have forgotten that? She reached down to between her legs and tentatively touched herself between her legs. She flinched at her touch, her whole undercarriage slightly sore from the encounter thanks to how rough he’d been. The only positive, if there was such a thing, was that she was sure he hadn’t ejaculated inside her. She shuddered, playing back the encounter mentally. He’d not cum in her, just urinated.

Still sitting up, Whitley reached for the flannel sitting next to the cold tap. She dunked it down in the water before moving it to between her legs. Carefully she started to clean around her undercarriage, desperate to get all traces of him washed from within her - if any trace still remained from where she’d been soaked in the tub. Better safe than sorry. Carefully she ran a finger, encased by the flannel, over her slit before pushing it inside her - an act of being thorough in cleaning herself with nothing remotely sexual about it. After she’d scrambled from beneath him, she’d felt a lot of the piss he’d squirted up there trickle out but - even so - could there still be a trace of it in her? The thought repulsed her and she pushed her finger as deep as it could comfortably go in order to make doubly-sure she was good. The amount of times she’d spent squatting over a bathtub, legs parted, pissing over clients - she often wondered what they saw in such an act. Now she’d technically engaged in a little watersports of her own, being on the receiving end, she really didn’t see what the fuss was about. Still being careful she moved her finger slightly and froze at the feeling of something different. Over the years she’d enjoyed her finger inside her on many an occasion - usually with paying punters watching be it face to face or via her cam channel. This was the first time she’d ever felt something different though.

Concerned, she pulled her finger out and discarded the flannel - letting it sink to the bottom of the tub. Then, she tentatively pushed the finger back up inside herself and shifted it back to where she’d felt the - what - lump? She frowned again. There was something definitely there. Soft yet hard. Different.

‘What the…?’

Whitley pulled herself up and out of the bath. She reached for the cabinet and pulled out a clear bottle of lubricant - a small dollop of which she squirted onto the same finger she’d used to clean herself. Smearing it all around her finger, she stood straight and slipped the digit back up inside herself and shifted it around until… Definitely something there that was new.

‘That’s all I need,’ she muttered to herself as her mind switched to having to make an appointment with the gynaecologist. Her mother had always told her: When you find things in your body, especially lumps, you don’t waste time. You get it checked out. Before you do that though, you get a mirror…

Whitley took a small make-up mirror from the side, next to where it stood with the toothbrush and toothpaste holder. Setting it down on the floor, the mirror on its back so the reflective surface pointed to the ceiling, she stood over it with her legs parted. Hardly her most flattering angle. She didn’t expect to see anything but was nevertheless curious to know. Looking down to the mirror’s unflattering reflection of her undercarriage - her pussy in particular - she pulled back the lips and squatted down until… Immediately she screamed as - from inside her - the human eye stared right back locking onto her gaze.

5.

Whitley paced her bedroom back and forth, still naked and wet from the bath. Her heart still racing - beating so hard that it made the back of her throat ache as her mind tried to make excuses for what she had seen. The primary reason for what she’d seen being nothing more than “guilt” for what had happened. Of course there was nothing inside her, she knew that. That wasn’t to say that there wasn’t a lump there, or something, that needed investigating with the doctor but… What she saw… What she thought she had seen. That wasn’t real. That was a cruel trick of her over-tired imagination. That was all. Guilt for what had happened. She kept telling herself over and over again that that was what she’d seen: A vision of a guilty mind. All the time she thought it, she tried to ignore the other voice in her head - the quieter one, nagging away in the background like a constant, irritating drone. What did she have to be guilty about? Nick hadn't died because she had gone to his hotel suite. He had died because he was a fucking coke addict. He’d snorted a shit tonne whilst she was in the room, God only knew how much he’d inhaled before she’d gotten there. And as for Whitley being in the room with him - if it hadn’t been her, it would have been some over charge-by-the-hour broad. Again she ignored the nagging voice reminding her that he’d confessed, moments before his massive heart attack, that she’d been the only girl he had ever booked.

‘That was bullshit,’ she said, answering the nagging voice out-loud before she even realised what she was doing. It wouldn’t have been the first time a guy had tried to convince a girl that she was the only one. Meanwhile, in his phone, he had numerous whores on speed-dial for the occasions when his “favourite” wasn’t available to come and suck his dick. He was just trying to play her, that’s what she kept saying to herself. He was trying to win favour in the hope of getting future appointments discounted or - better yet for him at least - free. She asked herself, or rather - the nagging voice, why she should feel guilty over the death of someone like that? Especially as - she reminded herself again - he had fucking raped her.

Anyway whatever it was - it hadn’t actually been there. It had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. A sign that she definitely needed to catch up on some much needed sleep. But how could she sleep with that vivid imagery of the eyeball inside her? Whether it was real or not, that’s the kind of sight that haunted your dreams… If she’d even be able to fall asleep given the rate in which her heart was still thumping.

Whitley say on the edge of the bed and tried to reassure herself, ‘There was nothing there. You’re just seeing things because you’re over-stressed and over-tired…’ No mention of guilt. You can’t feel guilt for someone who dies because of their own bad choices. That wasn’t the way the world worked. You feel guilt for the death of someone if you caused it, or at least played a part but… That nagging voice again, whispering that she had played a part. Had he not been inside her, fucking her - he wouldn’t have put additional pressure on his heart.

‘Fuck you!’ She screamed out and ripped the duvet off the bed, tossing it to the floor. An act which catapulted her phone, once sitting stationery on the bed, through the air and into the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. The mirror smashed upon impact and the phone dropped to the floor amongst a rainfall of broken glass: Shards of all shapes and sizes. Whitley screamed out again. The nagging voice moaning about seven year’s bad luck. ‘There was nothing there!’ she screamed to the multiple new reflections of herself. ‘There was nothing there!’

As if to prove a point, she grabbed one of the larger shards of mirror and dragged it away to a clear bit of carpet so as not to cut her feet. For a second time, she stood over it so that it reflected her undercarriage. She paused a moment and repeated, again, that, ‘There was nothing there!’ Then, with her legs trembling, she reached down to her pussy and carefully spread the lips apart. At this angle, she couldn’t see anything. Slowly, as she’d done in the bathroom, she started to squat.

‘You and me together forever, babe!’

Whitley screamed as this time she saw Nick’s mouth inside her. His full lips, his white teeth, the one slightly crooked tooth at the front of his mouth.  The mouth moved from sight. She saw his nose. That too came and went as she continued screaming and then… His eye again. This time - it seemed to move back inside her until both eyes were visible… The whole time it moved, her stomach twisted and turned as though it were terribly knotted with nerves. The left eye flashed her a wink as she heard Nick speak again - this time his voice sounding more muffled, ‘Together forever, babe!’

Once again black spots dazzled and danced in her vision as her head started to feel heavy. A fog descending as everything in the room started to darken. A second later, maybe less, Whitley collapsed to the floor unconscious.

*

Whitley knew it was a dream. She saw herself as though looking through the eyes of a stranger. She was lying in blackness - seemingly floating in a void of nothing. Her body was naked, her head turned to one side, her arms hanging down by her side and her legs bent at the knees - slightly parted.

She called out but - in this dream - she had no voice that was heard and even if she did have one, there was no one to hear it. The Whitley lying before her was seemingly unconscious. Maybe even dead? She tried to call out again and - again - there was nothing to be heard.

The Whitley before her started to move as though turning on an invisible, silent turntable. She stopped moving when the unconscious Whitley’s legs faced the Whitley who was forced to watch the dream play-out, unable to change what was happening - not that she knew what was going on. Suddenly the legs started to open, exposing her naked vagina. From here everything looked normal. Clean.

Whitley called out again and - again - her voice wasn’t heard.

‘We need to talk about what you do for a living though, babes. You don’t need to do this anymore. I’ve got you. Whatever you need, you let me know and I’ll take care of it. I’m here for you now that we’re a couple…’ The voice came from within the unconscious Whitley. With each word spoken her pussy opened and closed as though it were speaking for itself. Watching Whitley screamed a silent scream as, after the last word was spoken, the unconscious girl’s vagina opened enough to reveal Nick’s face staring back at her through the darkness. His tongue still running his gums, still numb from a night of coking it up. ‘I won’t let anyone come between us, babes. You can count on that!’ he said with a wink before sinking back into the cunt - the woman’s lips closing in around his face until all that was left on display was a neat looking slit much like any other vagina of that “style”.

*

Whitley screamed again but this time her scream was heard as she sat up on the bedroom floor, where she’d passed out. She grabbed a broken shard of glass, cutting her fingers in the process, and - for a third time - angled it so the reflection caught a glimpse of her vagina. From this angle it looked normal. Slightly puffier lips than some ladies have, clean shaven… Normal.

‘It’s all in your head,’ she told herself out loud. ‘That’s it. It’s just in your head… You’re tired and suffering from post-traumatic stress. It has to be that… You’ve read about it happening to people after traumatic experiences… They see things. They think they hear things. That’s all that is happening to you… You think you’re seeing things but - in actual fact - there’s nothing there… You just need to…’ She dropped the broken shard to the floor and turned her head to where the frame of the mirror stood. Her eyes drifted to her mobile phone, nestled amongst the glass.

‘That’s it,’ she said to herself. ‘That’s what you need to do!’

6.

The mobile phone powered up a few seconds after being plugged into the power adapter. First a black screen, then the Apple logo and - finally - the screen inviting the owner to enter their four-digit passcode. Whitley held her thumb against the home-button, her print being enough to bypass the code and load the screen up automatically. With the device fully loaded, she swiped through the screen, tapping at various icons, until the website she advertised herself on and her emails were loaded up. A simple press of the screen to flit from page to email to check messages on both sites as she tried to forget what she’d thought she’d seen inside herself.

‘Yes! I thought you’d booked in,’ she said to herself when she noticed a message from one of her regular Johns. She didn’t always talk out loud when reading her messages. She only did it this time as a further way to try and distract herself from what had happened. The sound of her own voice, somehow soothing in the otherwise silence of the house.

The message she’d seen was a confirmation email regarding a booking this guy had made the day Whitley had gone to the hotel. The punter’s named Bill. Clean, polite, fairly tall. A silver fox, she’d once described him as. He worked in the print industry, not quite at the top but still fairly high up. With everything that had happened, she’d almost forgotten about his booking entirely. Something that would have been embarrassing had he suddenly rocked up and she’d not been ready. Although, had that happened, she could have always made an excuse about not being well and - in such a state - had forgotten to message him. Bill was one of the good guys. He would have understood. As it stood now, she was grateful she’d seen the appointment. It would be the perfect opportunity to prove to herself that there was nothing wrong with her. Everything was normal, especially down there. She’d let Bill in. She’d offer him a shower and a drink. Knowing Bill, he’d refuse the first as he would have already had one and accept the latter. They’d talk a few minutes in the living room as he wet his lips with a glass of wine and then she’d lead him through to the bedroom. He would strip off, she’d already be in sexy lingerie. He liked silky material. He enjoyed the suspender belt and stockings look. Whitley would start with a soft massage before inviting him to return the favour… From there, things would progress. After she’d suck his dick for a while, she would slide a rubber over his shaft and ask him what position he wanted her in. Bill was a simple man with simple pleasures. Missionary for him. She’d lie there, legs parted and he would slide his penis inside her - as deep as it could go. She would sigh, he’d moan: His first taste of pussy for a while… Everything would be normal.

Whitley didn’t have to do anything else for the booking. The confirmation email from the client was enough to say that it was happening, especially with his lack of cancellation. Whilst it was true that sometimes the booking time could come and go, and the client didn’t show, thankfully - for Whitley - this was rare. No doubt a situation helped by her one strike rule: Mess her around with bookings just once and get blocked for life. She closed the phone’s screen down and tossed the device back over to the bed. It was a little before midday and the booking was scheduled for 6pm. Looking around the room, the bed that needed to be made up, the broken glass to be cleaned… She had a lot to do in order to get herself ready for the appointment.

An appointment so soon after what had happened? To think - when she left the police station she couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less than fuck another person. But what was it her mother used to say? You fall off that horse, the best thing you can do is jump up and get straight back on it. As Whitley set about tidying the room she couldn’t help but to laugh at herself (another welcome distraction). When her mother said that to her, back when Whitley was a kid, she probably didn’t ever envision her daughter’s metaphorical horse would be a stranger’s pulsing erection. Regardless, there was some truth in the saying. If Whitley could get on with the appointment then it put her one step further away from what happened on Saturday night. One step further away from that and closer to being how things were before she’d entered that damned hotel room… It would also prove to herself that there was nothing wrong with her, other than being overtired and a little traumatised from what had happened. With the knowledge that everything was fine, she could book in to the doctors just to double check there wasn’t a lump or anything else going on down there and then - with the all clear from the professionals too - she could put this whole fucked-up mess behind her. And - moving forward - definitely ban the use of illegal substances whist in her company. There was no way she would want to be going through any of this again!

*

Whitley had forgotten Bill’s aftershave up until the moment he stepped by her and into her apartment. Davidoff “Adventure”, a sweet smell that suited him and gave the impression of class and sophistication. The suit he was wearing, adding to her impression. Here was a man who knew how to present himself. A man out of place considering her neighbours. Dealers and punks. Society’s Scum and the Great Unwashed.

‘Long time no see,’ she said as she closed the door.

‘Indeed.’

He was already taking his black suit jacket off.

‘Can I take that for you?’

‘Thank you.’

Bill handed her the jacket which she - in turn - hung over a peg jutting out from the wall close to the front door.

‘So how have you been?’ she asked. ‘Still in the print industry…’

‘Kind of,’ Bill said with a smile. ‘I’ve had to take some time away from it. Went and had a minor heart attack.’ He laughed as though it were some joke. Whitley shot him a look, concern clearly etched on her lightly made-up face. ‘Don’t worry. I’m good now,’ Bill reassured her. He continued, ‘Well, other than this new diet I’m on. All the good has been sucked out of it and I’m left eating rabbit food!’ He said, ‘I miss bacon. I can’t put into words how much I miss the bacon…’ He shook his head. ‘Still, I’m alive… And, added bonus, I’ve been getting to enjoy my hobby some more so - yeah - all good.’

‘Well, I’ll have to be gentle with you,’ Whitley said, trying her best to act completely normal. ‘Don’t want you dying on me.’

Bill laughed. ‘Ha. Can you imagine?’

Whitley bit her tongue. The last thing a potential punter wanted to hear was how - only a few days prior to his appointment - someone had actually died inside her. Especially if she then shared the graphic details of what that entailed… She changed the subject if only for her own peace of mind, ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Water would be great,’ he said. She looked at him - surprised. Usually Bill would have a glass of chilled white wine. Just the one as he was always driving but, still a glass of wine was always ready for him ever since he’d brought a bottle with him on the first session. He shrugged. ‘Not my choice,’ he said.

‘Well take a seat and I’ll get you a drink,’ she said as she pointed him through to the living room. Bill walked in and sat on the edge of the settee as Whitley continued down the hallway towards the kitchen.

‘If you’re not working - how come you’re in a suit?’ she called back through to the living room.

‘I wanted to look good for you. Just because it’s a business arrangement, doesn’t mean I can’t look nice for you.’

Whitley smiled. If only all her clients thought like that. Sadly most of them just rocked up however they were dressed for the day and, in this area, that could have been anything from builders clothes that were covered in dust, to tracksuit bottoms and a tee-shirt.

‘Well, I appreciate it,’ she called.

She opened the cupboard and took out three glasses. As she ran the cold tap she quickly filled the third glass to the brim with the wine she’d opened for the session. Then, replacing the lid on the bottle, she downed the contents of the glass in one. As the alcohol hit her near empty stomach, her body did an involuntary shudder. Better to sip the wine but rude to do so if her partner wasn’t to be drinking it too. Especially as it sounded like he still missed the odd tipple.

Hoping the wine would take effect and dull her senses a little, just enough to help her through the appointment, Whitley filled the other two glasses with cold water before shutting the tap off. With both hands holding a drink, she walked back through to the living room where the punter was waiting. Immediately she noticed a stack of twenties on the coffee table.

Bill said, ‘That’s for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Whitley took a seat next to him and set the glasses down on the table. One next to where she was sitting and the other next to him. She then moved the money to the other side of the table, out of the way.

‘You’re not going to check it?’ Bill asked. The words he spoke reminded Whitley of Nick and she tried to block them from her mind.

‘I trust you,’ she said before realising that was how she’d answered before too. She felt a twinge in her stomach, an uncomfortable cramp no doubt brought on by nerves and guilt.

‘Most people don’t,’ Bill laughed.

‘You’re not a trustworthy person?’ Whitley pounced on what he said, thankful for a chance to steer the conversation into new territory.

‘I just meant in general. In this day and age too many people are quick to steal from one another so you never know who to trust.’ He paused a moment. ‘It’s nice to find someone trusting for a change, you know?’

Whitley tried to hide a sudden wince as her gut twisted again. She forced a smile as - deep down - she was regretting her decision to down the glass of wine. The alcohol was supposed to help but, instead, it was feeling as though it was going to have a different reaction. She leaned to her glass of water and lifted it from the table. She took a sip as Bill mirrored her, taking a drink from his own glass. Whitley set the glass down and asked him, ‘Did you want to go through to the bedroom?’

Bill smiled. ‘Sure.’

Whitley stood up in front of where Bill was sitting. Wearing a short red dress that stopped just beneath her arse cheeks, she about turned so that Bill was facing her arse. With a cheeky look back over her shoulder she said, ‘If you want to follow me.’

Bill stood, not needing to be asked twice, and Whitley led him through to the bedroom.

7.

The bedroom had been cleaned from earlier. A thin blanket had been laid over both the bed mattress and the duvet she slept beneath. The purpose being that it could soak up any unwanted sweat patches or protect the rest of the bed from any cum - should the client choose to finish with an explosion over her tits. Whilst Whitley remembered Bill as a person, she couldn’t recall many of his likes - least of all how he preferred to get himself over the edge. Some clients were happy for just a straight-up, covered fuck. Other clients preferred to ejaculate in her mouth, or over her arse cheeks or tits. Then, of course, there were those who liked to cum by their own hand as she smothered their face with her soaked pussy. Not knowing which Bill preferred, she figured it would be better to play safe and use the blanket. If he shot his load in a rubber, she could just fold the blanket away for another day. If he got anything on the blanket - easier to wash than having to change the duvet sheet and clean the soiled one. Especially as - when she first started - some “stuff” had seeped through the duvet sheet onto the duvet itself. End result? Unplanned trip to town to get a new duvet.

Whitley closed the bedroom door as Bill stepped in, for no other reason than force of habit. She’d been living alone for so long now she didn’t quite know who was worried about walking in on her “working”.

The room was lit with candles strategically placed. Incense sticks burned, filling the room with a pleasant aroma of lavender designed to put people at ease. The broken mirror had been covered with a sheet and the carpets cleaned - hoovered repeatedly to clear up any unseen shards of glass.

‘Smells nice,’ Bill said, breathing in the scent.

‘Thank you.’ Whitley unzipped the side of her dress and slid it off her body to reveal white satin bra and panties, a white suspender belt and sheer stockings.

‘Wow…’ Bill’s mouth fell agape as he struggled to take his eyes from her body. Curves in the right places, an arse to die for and a cleavage he wanted to bury his face in. Whitley smiled as she walked over to the bed. She crawled onto it and laid on her side, looking back seductively to Bill. Her stomach was still quietly grumbling away as the hidden nerves continued to feast within her but now her head was also starting to spin - not so much to do with the nerves but more to do with the wine. She patted the side of the bed, next to where she lay, hopeful that Bill would cum fast and not be one of those clients who liked to stay the full hour even though they’d long since shot their load. Bill took a step towards her only to stop when Whitley raised her hand.

‘Ah ah ah…’ She waved a finger at him. ‘I think you’re overdressed,’ she told him.

Bill smiled again. Taking the hint, he started to strip his clothes off - starting with his shirt, then trousers, socks and - finally - boxers. Before long he was standing in front of her wearing nothing but a smile, the expensive watch on his wrist and a proud erection, twitching in anticipation of Whitley’s expert touch.

‘You may join me now,’ she said as she waved him back over with a hand gesture. Bill crossed the room and laid on the bed next to Whitley. His eyes exploring every part of her body. When they reached her lips, he licked his own at the thought of kissing her. ‘So what did you want to do?’ she asked seductively.

‘I’m just happy to see you,’ he said to her. It was the standard line of a person too embarrassed or shy to say what they really wanted. Usually, if a client came out with that line, it meant they wanted something they considered freaky. Maybe they wanted to lie in the bath and have her piss on them? Maybe they wanted to whack off whilst she insulted them, taunting them about the size of their small dick. Maybe, even, they wanted to just sniff her sweaty panties as she wanked them off over her tits. Different strokes for different folks - a point driven home in her mind when she recalled the client who wanted her to shit on his chest. An appointment she’d never forget: The client was well-to-do. He owned more than one company and drove one of the more sought after Supercars. When he rolled up, he was dashingly handsome, he smelled great, he was polite and - truth be told - Whitley thought all her Christmases had come at once. Then she asked the question and got the reply that shocked her. Needless to say, she declined and he made do with sniffing out her arsehole as she sucked his dick. A compromise.

Whitley started to stroke Bill’s cock with her hand. It was a gentle, teasing touch with only her finger-tips. Bill rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. Whitley smiled to herself. She knew when they fully relaxed like this, she had them. The appointment would be an easy one: A quick hand-job, a suck and - finally - a fuck. Although, sometimes it didn’t get as far as the “fuck” and they exploded in her mouth.

‘I think I know what you want,’ Whitley said as she moved herself down the bed until her mouth was inches from his throbbing member. Bill opened his eyes and looked down just as she sunk her lips around the shaft of his cock. Enjoying the feeling as her warm saliva lubricated him, he closed his eyes again and laid his head back down on the soft pillow. ‘Mmmmmm.’ The clients loved the fake porn noises. Whitley pulled her mouth away long enough to tell him, ‘Your penis is delicious…’ He answered only with a sigh as she swallowed it back into her mouth again, the tip of his erection tickling her tonsils.

As her head bobbed up and down, she subtly reached for one of the wrapped condoms she’d placed strategically on the bedside cabinet. Whilst she would usually spend more time teasing the client and sucking them, ensuring they were nice and hard - she needed him inside her. Not because she was sexually frustrated or lusting for penetration but because she needed to know if everything was okay. The whole point of the booking.

Still sucking Bill’s cock, her tongue working the shaft in an impressive display of multi-tasking, Whitley tore the condom foil open with her hands and removed the lubricated rubber. She pulled her mouth away from the client’s cock and started to rub him with her spare hand, taking the opportunity to look up to his face. His head was still on the pillow, eyes still closed… Literally, so long as he was being touched, Whitley could do whatever she wanted.

As his breath quickened, she stopped tugging on his cock before he got too excited and shot over her hand. For the first time in a couple of minutes he opened his eyes and looked down at what she was doing. He smiled as she positioned the condom over his dick, a naughty look in her eyes as she started to roll the rubber down to the base of his shaft - completely covering him. She leaned down and, with her lips pressed together, she squashed the air from the teat on the tip of the rubber.

‘An expert,’ Bill said.

‘I’ve had some practice,’ she teased. She sat up and positioned herself so that she her knees were either side of his hips and her pussy directly above his cock. She reached down with her left hand and held him steady as she slowly slid herself down his shaft - the lubricant from the condom making  the process a little more fluid. Even when he was as deep as he could go, her heart still continued to race as her mind played through the scenario of What If. What if there was something inside her that prevented him from being able to enter her? What if he went down on her and saw that beady eye looking back at her? What if? What if?

‘That feels great,’ he said, his tone breathy as he struggled not to cum already. Looking at his face, and seeing the smile spread across it, Whitley started to relax a little. She smiled back at him as she slowly started to ride his member, rocking back and forth - sliding up and down his dick. Not too big and not too small. Just right.

‘You like that?’ She increased the speed with which she fucked him.

‘Slow down,’ he said with a sigh.

‘Really?’ She looked at him with a raised eyebrow, still riding him hard. ‘You really want me to slow down?’

‘I don’t want to cum yet…’ he said with his hands now fondling her pert breasts, his fingers pinching at her erect nipples. He was one of those clients. The men who knew they only had “one shot” in them and so wanted to savour every possible minute of the appointment before they got too excited and blew their load. Still, satisfied that everything was as it should be, Whitley slowed her pace to ensure Bill felt as though he was getting value for his money. Whilst the website she worked from was good for attracting business, it also gave the option for the clients to be able to leave feedback - something the majority were quick to do if they didn’t feel as though they were getting what they paid for. Although, technically speaking, Whitley could have sat in the living room and just chatted for an hour and - according to the site - she would have been offering the companionship promised. Anything else, the site stated, was a matter between two consenting adults. It was a valid point but she - and the other girls - knew they’d never get away with acting like that. Word would soon get around and clients would stop booking. The men didn’t book the women for a chat. They booked them for a fuck and that’s what they expected.

‘Ouch.’ Bill winced as he flinched beneath her.

Whitley smiled. She’d flexed her pussy muscles around his shaft and was suitably impressed by his reaction. Bill grabbed her hips and stopped her from moving. ‘Too much?’ she purred.

‘What is that?’ he asked, a level of panic in his voice she’d not heard before. He flinched again. ‘Seriously - get off… What the fuck is that?’

Whitley frowned, confused as to what the problem was. Before she had a chance to move, as had been requested, Bill shrieked as an unprecedented level of pain shot through his body, causing all of his nerves to misfire. He looked down to where his cock was still inside of Whitley’s tight cunt and shrieked again as blood poured over his stomach and thighs - seemingly coming from her pussy. Whitley screamed too and jumped off the petrified client, unwittingly carrying with her - severed in her gash - his once stiff penis. She jumped back, disgusted, as it slipped from within and dropped to the floor in a bloody splatter as Bill rolled around on the bed - his hands cradling where his dick used to be, the “protective” blanket soaking up the red.

8.

Whitley stumbled down the alleyway between two shops in the centre of town and immediately threw up against the brick wall. As her vomit dribbled its way down the brickwork, she wiped her mouth clean with the back of her hand.

‘Are you okay?’ a woman had stopped at the entrance of the alleyway with her hands full of shopping bags as she made the most of the late night shopping. On her elderly face, a genuine look of concern for Whitley’s well-being. Whitley looked like shit. She’d thrown her dress on and run from the house in shoes that didn’t match the outfit. Her hair a mess, her eyes puffy from crying and Bill’s blood sticky between her legs. And - now - speckles of vomit down her dress. ‘Did you need me to call anyone?’ the woman asked.

Whitley turned from her and started walking away, further down the alleyway. The old woman watched a while longer and then continued on her way, shaking her head at the youth of today. Whitley turned a corner so that she was out of sight and then fell back against the wall. Scraping her skin in the process, she slid down until she was sitting on the ground. Here, she started to weep again.

Whitley had come to town to get away from what had happened. Something in her brain saying it would be a good idea to surround herself with some degree of normality after she realised she couldn’t phone for help and nor could she stay in the house with Bill as he bled out. His voice still audible in her head - begging her to call for help. A call she couldn’t make. Who’d believe what had happened? No one. She barely believed it herself, even questioning whether it had happened at all. One possible explanation being that she momentarily “zoned-out” and cut the client’s dick off with a blade, or something… Her mind making up the alternative… The belief that something inside had bitten his dick clean off. She didn’t know, she was guessing - clutching at straws. After all, she wasn’t an expert on mental illness.

Sitting back against the wall now, her mind wondered back to what had happened and the theory that - somehow - she had blacked out and cut the client in those lost moments. Maybe her brain was somehow blaming the clients for what had happened in the hotel room and - as a result - they all needed to be punished? Could that be it? Was that how mental illness could work?! Was she insane? She parted her legs and reached down with a shaking hand. She put two outstretched fingers against her pussy and pushed in with her eyes closed tight - apprehensive that whatever had happened to Bill could happen to her fingers too. She needed to know what was there though. If indeed there was anything. The sting of the unprepared insertion made her wince.

From across the way, a little further down the alley, a trash can toppled onto its side sending the disgusting contents across the ground. The loudness, and suddenness, of the noise caused Whitley’s heart to skip a beat and her body to visibly jump. She looked in the direction of the noise and saw a homeless man, stinking in unwashed clothes, smiling at her with a mouth full of broken, rotten and missing teeth. She noticed his hands were down the front of his pants.

‘Time of the month?’ he said with a raspy voice that caused a shiver to run down Whitley’s spine. Before he’d even spoken, she pulled her fingers from inside her and - using the wall she leaned upon - pulled herself up.  ‘No, no,’ the dirty old man wheezed, ‘don’t let me stop you… Please, carry on. When needs must, and all that…’

‘Please leave me alone,’ Whitley said as she started to walk away. Despite her friendly request, she heard the man approaching quickly behind her. Before she knew it, she felt a sweaty palmed hand grab her arm. The man spun her round so that she was facing him. Up close, he was even more repugnant. His skin was flakey, his dark hair speckled with grey and layered heavily in grease, his clothes stained with God only knew what and the smell of stale urine mixed with sweat - a stench that only nearly masked his rancid breath.

‘You don’t need to run from me, sweetie!’ His eyes were black and seemingly bottomless as his ugly smile curled onto his leathery face. As Whitley tried to pull away from him, he gripped harder.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she said.

‘But I wouldn’t have to,’ he replied as his eyes scanned the length of her body with a lust clearly shining through. ‘Come on, love… You want this as much as I do… Otherwise you wouldn’t have decided to tease me…’

‘I thought I was alone…’

‘But isn’t it better when you’re not?’ He grinned at her. Black teeth, red gums receding, yellow here and there and that fucking breath.

‘I just want to be alone…’ Whitley continued pulling at his grip, not that it did any good. He had her.

‘Come on… You can’t tease me like that and then walk away without even offering me a fucking hand-job. That’s just rude…’

‘Fuck off!’ Whitley kicked out, catching the tramp directly between his legs. He let out a yelp of pain and dropped to his knees, releasing her arm immediately so he could cup his throbbing testicles. Whitley took a few steps back, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hurt you…’ With that, she turned and briskly headed back in the direction she’d initially come from. The man cursing her as she did so, calling her all the names under the sun. Whitley stepped out from the alleyway, back onto the busy streets. Unsure of where to go, or who to turn to - she just stood there a moment, watching the people go about their daily lives. A part of her envious that - to her - their lives seemed normal.

She knew now, she shouldn’t have come out. She shouldn’t have left her home despite what had happened there. Now desperate to get back to her home, she turned to where she’d parked her car and hastily made a bee-line for it. The sooner she could get back, the sooner she could shut herself away - the better.

*

‘Stupid!’ she said to herself as she climbed into her Ford Focus, slamming the door shut behind her. ‘You’re fucking stupid!’ she looked at her reflection in the car’s rear-view mirror. She looked a state but her appearance didn’t register as she continued to berate herself. ‘Why did you leave the house? You should have stayed. You should have…’ She stopped talking. She should have what? In this case - with all that had been happening in her life the last few days - what the hell was she supposed to be doing exactly? This wasn’t exactly the fucking norm. She sat back in the driver’s seat and turned away from her judgemental reflection as it seemingly continued to question her sanity. She looked down and noticed her dress had ridden up ever-so-slightly. Enough, at least, to see the dried blood. Enough to remind her what she’d been investigating before the homeless man had spotted her. Once again, she reached down with two fingers out-stretched: The same two fingers as below. And, once again, she winced at the sting of the penetration. She inserted her fingers up to their knuckles and froze as they connected to something hard… Was that teeth? She moved them to the side slightly and felt what seemed to be the corner of a mouth. She pulled her fingers back in shock, leaving her vagina slightly agape in the process. Her gut twisted as she felt movement from within as the mouth moved closer to the entrance of her vagina.

‘I’m sorry, babe, I couldn’t let him fuck you. You and me… We’re a thing now,’ the voice said. Nick’s voice said. ‘I don’t want anyone else fucking you…’

Whitley didn’t scream. Her heart rate quickened to an uncomfortable pace but she didn’t scream as the voice - coming from within - continued talking… She tried to shut it out, pretend it wasn’t happening. She slid her key into the ignition and turned the engine on. The 1.6 litre engine spluttered into life and - as the voice continued - she revved the engine before reaching to the radio and twisting the dial. The rock band Queen blasted from the speakers and - finally - the voice was quietened.

As her mind raced as much as her heart, Whitley slipped the car into first and pulled away from her parking space - headed for home.

At least he should be dead now, she thought to herself - somehow finding relief in the thought of Bill’s untimely passing but only because she couldn’t stand to hear him scream anymore. She had never actually wanted him dead but she knew she was unable to help him without getting herself carted off to jail in the meantime. Another thought, maybe I should be in jail? In prison, she would at least have the help she obviously needed to get herself fixed - be there something living within her or if her mind was actually on the verge of complete breakdown. And, inside, at least no one else could be hurt… Solid arguments soon pushed to one side as the survivalist part of her screamed that it wanted to live free, not cooped up in a small prison cell.

End of Part One

INTERVAL

Earlier today.

Bill climbed from his car having dabbed a little more aftershave onto the skin of his neck. As he locked the vehicle with the small fob in his hands, he leaned down and checked his appearance in the wing-mirror. Looking good. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small stick of gum. Standing up straight, he pulled the wrapper off and pushed the stick into his mouth. He stood there a moment, chewing the stick into a neater ball as he scrunched the wrapper into a small ball of silver which he then proceeded to toss into the centre of the car park. From the shadows, a little old lady tutted at his littering. He looked at her and flashed her a wink before he headed towards Whitley’s apartment. The old lady, less than impressed, watched him go - shaking her head. Clearly with that car he had pulled up in, and the suit he was wearing - he wasn’t from around these parts. She wanted to call out to him. She wanted to ask if he would litter at his own home. Her lips remained firmly shut though. There was no point talking to people like that. These people who believed themselves to be higher up the food chain than everyone else. The kind of person who just raises their voice when they’re challenged. The louder they are, the more correct the points they’re making. Not.

The old lady watched him enter the apartment block on the other side of the car park. She shook her head again as she pictured her neighbour upstairs, wearing next to nothing and waiting for the man to show up, knocking on her door. She should have realised it was one of her clients but then, dressed like that, he could have been here to visit one of a handful. He was either a customer of the whore or the boss of one of the many dealers…. Again, the old lady shook her head and turned back towards her own apartment block. She wanted to say that it never used to be this bad around these parts but she knew she’d have only been lying to herself. As she stepped into her apartment, she considered fetching some eggs from her kitchen. They were coming up to their sell-by-date and she knew there was little chance of eating them all before they turned. Armed with that information, and a sadistic streak, surely it wouldn’t hurt to lose a couple over the arrogant prick’s car?

She chuckled to herself as she pictured the look on his face.

‘Where’s my dinner?’ The old woman’s husband called through from the living room at the sound of the front door closing. She sighed heavily. He was adamant he wanted her to quit smoking but all the time he was alive, kicking around - she needed to smoke in order to keep calm. ‘You smell like a chimney!’ he said. Of course he hadn’t actually smelled her yet but that didn’t stop him from moaning about the smell. The more he moaned, in his mind, the more likely she’d get annoyed and quit smoking just to silence him. With regards to his dinner, it was in the oven - just as it always was at this time of the day thanks to her efforts. Fifty years they’d been married and he’d never so much as cooked her a slice of toast. Why? Because it was a woman’s job to do the cooking and cleaning. It was the man’s job to go out and earn the money. That was all very well and good when he used to work. He’d leave early and - by the time he got home - the cooking and cleaning was done. But when he retired - surely that meant the rules should have changed? Her work load had stayed the same with the cooking and cleaning but his had completely stopped. Here was another man whom you didn’t directly approach with your thoughts though. Just as the idiot in the suit would always have an answer for people like her, so would her husband. She smiled to herself again as she reminded herself about the time she made a pie using a tin of dog meat. To this day, he still had no idea.

‘It’ll be ready soon,’ she said. She walked past the doorway to the living room where he was sitting and entered the kitchen. According to the egg-timer on the top of the microwave, his dinner would be ready in a little under five minutes. She’d timed her crafty cigarette perfectly. ‘A little under five minutes,’ she said. Can get a lot done in five minutes. She walked over to the kitchen side and reached for the tray of eggs. There were six remaining. She could save two of them, one for her and one for her husband, and the other four… She smiled again.

‘I’m thirsty! Bring me a beer!’

The woman sighed and fetched a beer from the refrigerator. Maybe one of the eggs could be used to crack over his head. A lesson, if you like, not to be a lazy arse.  The way he carried on, people would think she was only on this planet to serve him. Still, no sense arguing. She took one of the cool bottles of beer from the top shelf of the fridge and walked with it through to the living room, along with the bottle-opener. She’d take him his drink but he could take his own damned lid off.

‘Here.’

Without so much as a word of a thanks, he took the beer and opener. With little effort he cracked the cap off, letting it fall to the floor and set the opener down on the arm of his chair before taking a swig. The whole time his eyes didn’t leave the gameshow flickering on the television’s screen.

‘What are you watching?’ she asked. She could see for herself what it was but, from time to time, she actually found herself missing the art of conversation. Fifty years of marriage and it was fair to say the conversation had all but dried up, part of the reason she liked to get into the business of her neighbours as it was something to do. Something to talk about. ‘Looks like the girl in 2b is working again,’ she said after her husband failed to answer her question. ‘Just had a man in a posh car and smart suit show up…’

The old man took a swig of his beer and grunted.

‘Littered in the car park.’

‘Oh?’

‘Chewing gum wrapper.’

The old man laughed.

‘It’s not funny. It’s disgusting. We don’t want his trash about the place. If there aren’t any bins, you should put your rubbish in your pocket and take it home with you!’

The old man momentarily took his eyes from the television to look at his wife with a look of sheer disbelief. He didn’t say anything as he realised there was little point. Whatever he would say, she’d just argue. He could tell she was in one of those moods. The reason for his look though was because it was a wrapper the guy had dropped. She was moaning about a fucking wrapper. Dotted all around the alleyways and the various car parks there were clear baggies that once contained drugs, there were syringes, discarded bottles - smashed… The place was a shit-hole and here she was stressing about a fucking wrapper. He shook his head and looked back to the television.

‘What?’ she asked defensively.

From out in the kitchen, the timer went off. Dinner was ready. Despite not having an answer to her question, the old woman teetered back to the kitchen. The old man, in turn, swigged another mouthful of beer.

‘And bring me another beer, will you?’ he called through. There was no way one beer was going to be enough for this evening. For one, it was still relatively early and - for another -  one beer was never enough when she was up on her high horse. He smiled to himself as his mind drifted to Superman. People thought the man of steel was invincible until the day he climbed upon a horse and broke his neck. Maybe, one day, she would do the same? The smile faded as he looked to the beer in his hand. If she did fall and break her neck or die, who’d get the beers in?

Over the clattering of plates and pots - out in the cramped kitchen - the old woman called back through to the living room, ‘What do you think she even does up there anyway? Must be pretty special to attract a man of that calibre.’

The old man sighed. Had it not been for pension cuts and various other ridiculous taxes, maybe he’d have had enough money to go and find out for himself. It’s not as though his wife and he had intercourse anymore, much to his frustration. He was old, not dead.

What would she do to him?

He was still playing through the possible answers to the question when his wife brought a plate of food through. Pie and chips. The husband took the plate from her and put it on his lap before she handed him the cutlery she’d also carried. Then, she sat down next to him. He looked at her with suspicion in his eyes.

‘You not eating?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

Trying to keep a straight face, she turned away and looked out of the window. Across the car park she could see the apartment block the suit had walked into. What did she do up there that was so special?

‘You forgot my beer.’

Part Two

9.

Lying there, on the bed, with the blood soaking through the light blanket onto the duvet - Bill looked dead. His eyes were closed and his skin pale with a kind of shimmer to it. The blood that had once flowed freely seemed to have stopped pumping now too. Whitley just stared at the body, unable to move from the bedroom doorway. Having just got back from her impromptu retreat to what she thought would be a normal society, she dropped her keys to the floor - no longer able to grip them as her stomach twisted and turned. In less than a week, she’d been in the company of two dead bodies and it wasn’t getting any easier.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. With all that had happened recently, she’d found a newfound belief in the afterlife and a part of her truly believed he’d be able to hear her apology. She looked at the soulless body and wondered what was supposed to happen next. Not to the soul that once inhabited it but to the actual body. She couldn’t just leave it there but she also knew she wasn’t able to phone anyone. The fear - still fresh in her mind - that no one would believe her and that she’d end up inside. A previous thought that - such a result - it could be for the best pushed aside and discarded so easily. She didn’t want to go to prison and nor did she want people thinking she were crazy.

‘You can cut it up.’ The voice came from within her, shattering the eerie silence, and caused Whitley to jump. Her heart once again racing uncomfortably. Nick. ‘You need to cut it up,’ he repeated himself from within Whitley’s pussy. ‘Cut it up and then we can get rid of it. Drive it somewhere out of town and dump it…’ Whitley looked down to her crotch, her legs trembling visibly. ‘Go to a mirror,’ Nick said. Using the wall to steady herself, Whitley walked through to the bathroom. She took a hold of the compact mirror as instructed. ‘On the floor.’ She put the mirror on the floor, the reflection pointing upwards. ‘You know what to do.’ Whitley suddenly doubled-over in pain as her stomach rolled. A heavy cramping pain that thankfully only lasted a few seconds. She stood up straight again as Nick said, ‘I’m ready. You know what to do…’

Feeling sick, Whitley stood over the mirror and hitched her dress up. For a moment she stared forward to the wall. Then, slowly, she glanced down to the reflection of her undercarriage.

‘I can’t see you,’ Nick said.

Hands shaking, Whitley reached down and pulled her labia open before squatting down. She swallowed down the urge to vomit when she saw the eyes, nose and mouth of Nick - up inside her. His eyes cloudy, just as they had been when she saw him - dead - on the bed. He smiled at her.

‘You can’t be real,’ Whitley said with a tremor of fear in her voice.

‘No? Then how am I here?’

‘How is this possible?’ she asked. A tear spilled from her eye and rolled down her cheek.

‘I told you I would never leave you. I’m a man of my word.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Doing what? Keeping you safe from scum like him, through there? Refusing to leave your side?’ He tutted several times over before continuing, ‘Now is not the time for questions. Now is the time for actions. You need to go in there and you need to get rid of that body. You wouldn’t last long in prison. I know people who’ve been and it’s not for you. And, I really don’t want you to be locked up either…’

‘This is your fault.’ Whitley wept.

‘I couldn’t help myself. Him inside you… I got angry… I never intended…’ He stopped talking. ‘You need to get rid of the body.’

‘Please leave me alone,’ she said.

‘I can’t do that. We’re together now. This is us, for life.’

Terrified of the prospect of living like this, Whitley grabbed the razor that she used to shave her legs and pressed it hard against her wrists. Nick laughed.

‘It’s a safety razor,’ he said.

Whitley dropped it to the floor where it landed next to the mirror.

‘You need to get rid of the body,’ he said again. ‘For both of our sakes…’

Whitley screamed, ‘I don’t know how!’

‘With a fucking axe! A saw! Anything sharp! Cut it up, bag it up and get it out of your…’ Nick stopped talking. He took a few deep, fishy breaths in and calmed himself. ‘That body is going to start to smell. It will attract unwanted attention. You need to get rid of it.’

‘I could just call the police.’

Nick’s face moved from side to side causing a ripping of pain in Whitley’s lower abdomen. ‘They won’t believe what happened and - if you tell them - I’ll just hide myself…’

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked again.

He sighed. ‘We’re in this together now.’ There was a brief moment’s pause as he let that sink in. ‘Get that body cut up…’ Another sharp ache in Whitley’s lower abdomen as the face seemed to retreat deeper inside her until - even squatted - she couldn’t see it anymore. Resigned to the fact he was done talking, and she was alone, Whitley stood up. She paused a moment, unsure of what to do unaware that - outside, beyond the bathroom window - back-up was on its way.

*

The old lady could never resist sticking her nose in when the police turned up on the estate. Whilst most of the neighbours were purposefully difficult to them, often pointing them in the wrong direction so their friends had a chance to get away - she was only too happy to point out the wrong-doers. Her husband said it would - most likely - end with her death on the one time she pissed off the wrong people. She responded by calling him a pussy for not standing up to them. This was their home and - as such - they shouldn’t feel the need to stress about what was going on around them. It was pointless arguing with her. On the one hand, she was right and - on the other hand - the drug deals, the prostitution - it was happening around them. Other than forcing the property prices down, it didn’t actually do anything else to impact their lives and - at their age - neither of them were looking for the hassle of moving anyway so - fuck it.

She’d seen the police through her living room window. They were sniffing around the suit’s car, shining torches in and looking all around them. She wasted no time in getting out there and seeing what the problem was. Before they’d even had a chance to say anything, she told them of the man’s littering.

‘And I hope you’re going to do something about it. People like that ought to be fined,’ she said in a matter of fact tone that was akin to running nails down a chalkboard. ‘Walking around thinking they own the place, it makes me sick.’

The officer looked at her and asked, ‘Did you see the man who owns this car?’

‘Yes, of course! I watched him throw his litter on the ground!’

The officer pulled a phone from his pocket and surfed his pictures until he found one of Bill. ‘This man?’

‘Yes!’

The officer looked at his partner who’d now walked over.

‘And did you see where he went?’

‘Of course. I’m not senile.’ She pointed over to the apartment. ‘You’ll find him in 2B, I’ll bet. The whore’s place. Been in there for about thirty minutes now so I’m guessing he has at least an hour with her.’ She paused a moment. ‘Actually, come to think of it, is there anything you can do about her working from there? Surely prostitution is illegal?!’

‘Thank you, ma’am, please go back inside your property and lock the door.’

The old woman frowned. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Please go inside!’ The officer spoke in a sterner tone this time. Then he turned away and spoke into his walkie-talkie. The second officer also turned his back on the old lady who just stood there, ignoring the demand to return to her home. She glanced back to her apartment, curious to see if her husband was watching from the window. There was a desperation to tell him that she was right - she knew there was something off with that suit. Frustratingly for her, her husband wasn’t around. No doubt still staring at the television screen like the braindead idiot that he was. The old woman turned back to the officers. In the distance, sirens run out into evening.

‘Well this can’t be for littering,’ the old woman said.

10.

Whitley walked down the hallway towards the bedroom. In her mind she was trying to figure out if she even had anything remotely good enough to hack a body up. There were no gardens in this estate, at least none that weren’t concrete, so there was no need for tools. The knives in the kitchen were good enough for cutting through bread and that was about it… And everything else in the house was - well, not suitable for hacking through bone. It wasn’t the end of the world as she could always nip to the shop in the morning. It just meant, for now, she’d have to have a corpse overnight in the apartment. A far cry from the sleepovers with friends that she used to have back when she was at school. She turned the corner into the bedroom and stopped dead.

Bill was gone.

‘No, no, no… This can’t be happening…’

‘What’s happening?’ Nick asked.

Whitley looked at the empty bed, her heart in the back of her throat and her armpits starting to tingle as they started to sweat with nerves. There was a blood trail that disappeared off the edge of the bed to the gap between mattress and wall. She hurried across the room and leaned over the edge of the bed with instant relief when she saw Bill lying there. He was alive, just. His eyes were rolling and he was slurring something inaudible.

‘I’m sorry…’ Whitley said - truth in her tone. ‘You have to believe me, I’m so sorry…’ Bill focused as best as he could on the woman standing above him. Had he been able to focus properly, he’d have noticed the angry pair of eyes staring at him from her vagina. Whitley could see, clearly, that it was a struggle for Bill to do anything. He was alive now but she knew, in her heart of hearts, that it wouldn’t be much longer before he was dead.

He said something inaudible again. Muttered words that may or may not have made much sense even if she had been able to hear.

‘I can’t understand you,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry.’

Again, he tried to say something to her and - again - his words fell on deaf ears.

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to say…’ She leaned down to him so that she was face to face with him before turning her ear towards his moving mouth. ‘What are you trying to say?’ she asked.

‘You fucking bitch…’ he muttered.

She turned to him, tears in her eyes and then - from out of nowhere - he head butted her with a blow so hard she stumbled back. Before she had a chance to steady herself , he was up on his feet and grabbing at her… A strength from out of the blue which could have only been caused from one final (or near final) burst of adrenaline. He grabbed her arms and then tossed her to the bed. She fell back with her head on the pillow as he threw himself on top of her. His eyes, once rolling and struggling for focus, now filled with an anger. If he was to die that day, then so would she. He stunned her with a punch to the side of the head before putting his hands around her throat. Bony fingers crushing the life from her as she scratched and clawed at him. Her gasps almost drowned out by the sound of sirens wailing from beyond the bedroom window, down in the car park as the police screeched in, oblivious to what was happening in apartment 2B.

‘What’s going on? Whitley? Babe? What’s happening…?’

Nick’s voice startled Bill who’s eyes were immediately drawn away from her purple face and her eyes bulging from her skull. He looked down to where the voice came from and then back up to Whitley as she continued to struggle for air.

‘What the fuck is that?’ Bill hissed. He released one of his hands from her neck - enough to give Whitley the chance to breath - and pulled her legs apart. He lifted his weight from her body a little and looked down to her pussy. ‘What the fuck was that?’ he asked again.

Whitley suddenly screamed and seized her opportunity. With as much strength as she could muster, she pushed Bill down her body until his face was in line with her crotch. Then, in a quick movement, she clamped her thighs around his head - forcing his face closer to her slit. She squeezed hard as Bill started to try and pull at her legs in an attempt to free himself.

‘What are you doing to my woman?’

Bill froze as he came face to face with the sight of eyes, nose and mouth up inside of the woman he’d previously paid to fuck. He screamed out loud as did Whitley who - grabbing chunks of his hair - pulled Bill’s face right into her snatch. She had him now.

‘Fuck you!’ she screamed.

Her stomach cramped as Nick’s face moved forward, closer to the opening of her pussy, with his mouth wide open and teeth bared. As Bill screamed again, Nick’s teeth clamped shut over the terrified man’s face with such ferocity and force that they scraped large chunks of flesh clean away.

Whitley screamed as a heavy fist banged hard on her apartment door.

‘Police! Open up!’

*

Now.

Tears streamed down Whitley’s face, a mixture of anger and fear, as the police continued pounding on the door - desperate to get in, calling through demanding the door be opened. They weren’t calling to her though. They didn’t even know she was there. They were shouting for him after a squad car had driven by the estate and - by chance - spotted his car. They ran the checks to be double-sure and then called through for back-up.  Then, as they waited for back-up to arrive, they started canvassing the area with the man’s picture in the hope that someone had seen where he’d gone. As luck would have it, a little old lady had seen.

As the police continued to pound on the door, they were completely unaware that the man they sought was currently face first in Whitley’s blood-soaked pussy. Not her blood. His. Whitley let out another anguished scream as she pulled his face deeper into her drenched gash - her hands gripping the side of his head, refusing to give him any room for movement. He was frantically pushing against the mattress, trying to pull away from her but it was to no avail. She had him right where she wanted him. Her cunt had him. His muffled, pained cries for help drowned out both by the noises she was making and the heavy banging on the wooden door. Whitley looked in the direction of the flat’s entrance - out the main bedroom door where the two of them writhed around on the bed and down the long hallway. The door was starting to give from the constant pounding. A couple more blows and they’d be in. She turned her attention back to the man trapped between her slim-but-toned legs and crushed him harder between her thighs as his face continued getting chewed upon. Flesh ripped and shredded. Blood oozing from fresh wounds. The tip of his nose missing. Chunks of cheek gone.

The front door burst open, splintering at the bronze hinges, and police officers started to pile in. Whitley turned to face them. From where she lay on the bed, she had the perfect view of them just as they had the best line of sight for her. They stopped in their tracks, none of them sure what to say or do as she continued holding their suspect between her naked legs.

‘Get away from us!’ she screamed at them, tears rolling down her cheeks as the warm blood continued to splatter between her legs and his skull started to be crunched upon. His cries had stopped now. The only audible noises were the ones coming from her… Both her mouth and the chomp-chomp-chomping from her vagina. ‘He deserved this!’ she screamed as the officers continued to stand there, dumbstruck. None of them argued with her. None of them knew what to say.

Detective Andrews was the first to step forward even though it was his colleagues who were part of the armed response unit. They had sub-machine guns. He had a badge and an attitude. ‘Let him go, ma’am…’ he said in the most authoritative voice he could muster given the circumstances. His colleagues raised their guns. Their fingers hovered over the triggers. Andrews said again, ‘Let him go…’

‘I can’t.’ Whitley wept.

‘Let him go…’

Slowly but surely, Whitley released her grip from Bill’s head. She sat up on the bed and pushed his fresh corpse away from her.

‘What the fuck…’ One of the officers had spotted the severed dick on the floor. He pointed it out to Andrews who looked from dick to corpse to woman.

Whitley was crying uncontrollably. She couldn’t understand why any of this was happening and didn’t even know where to begin with trying to explain it to the room full of officers. Wanting nothing more than to curl into a ball and let the world swallow her up, she pulled her knees up to her chest, unwittingly exposing her undercarriage to officers on the far side of the room. From inside her, close to the opening of her once tight pussy… A face winked at one of the armed police. He flinched and let out a squeal as his finger accidentally squeezed the trigger. The gunshot cracked through the air and spat a bullet out of the bedroom window sending shards of glass sprinkling to the floor as another officer - also spooked - put a bullet straight between the eyes of Whitley.

‘Secure your fucking weapons!’ Andrews screamed, spinning on the spot to address his team. None of them were looking at him. All of them, eyes facing forward, unable to look away from the face in the vagina.

‘What have you done to my fucking woman?’ The face wept tears of rage as it bared its blood splattered teeth to the men in uniform. As brain and skull matter slimed their way down the wall behind the dying girl, the face demanded to know again, ‘What the fuck have you done?’

*

The old man knocked on the window again, trying to get his wife’s distracted attention. The first knock had been a light tap with his knuckles. The second was harder as he hit the pane with the side of his hand.

‘What’s happening?’ He called through in the hope that, if the knocking didn’t work, maybe she would respond to the sound of his voice instead. Slowly she turned to face him. With her eyes fixed on his, he asked again, ‘What’s happening?’ She shrugged as a little blood trickled from the top of her head. He looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘What’s that?’ he asked tapping his own forehead, trying to signify to his wife that something was trickling down her own. For a second time she shrugged and, then, she fell face down onto the concrete. The old man looked on, dumbfounded. His eyes frozen to the sight of his wife’s exposed brain from where her skull had been opened by a stray bullet.

*

Whitley lay there, unable to move. The angry voice still called from within her demanding to know what was happening. For a final time, she opened her mouth but no words came out. She blinked once - hard - and then her eyes fixed to a small mark on the far wall. What was left of her brain decided to try and establish whether it was a trick of the light or whether there was actually a mark on the wall. And, if there was, could it be cleaned off easily or did the whole wall need decorating? She exhaled. She did not inhale.

Epilogue

Whitley didn’t feel any pain as she lay there, staring at the wall. She frowned as best as the hole in her head allowed.

Is it a trick of a light or is there something actually on the wall? So long as it washes off, whatever it is. Don’t fancy re-decorating the whole damned thing.

She took a sudden intake of breath and then, after holding it for a second longer than normal, she let out a final sigh…

*

Whitley opened her eyes and drew in a lungful of air. Her eyes focusing on her surroundings as her head pounded heavy with an ache akin to someone playing the drums inside her skull. She was lying on the floor, her head in a drying pool of vomit that had soaked into the hotel room’s carpet. Slowly she pulled herself up to all fours and then, using the wall as a support, she stood - unsteady on her feet.

Whitley was standing by the bedroom door of the hotel’s penthouse suite. Nervously she turned to look at the bed. Nick was lying there, where she had left him. His face was still frozen in a pained expression. His body was cooler now. Paler now. Some shit smudged between his arse and the once white duvet as his body continued to relax all the muscles within. Whitley gagged but suppressed the vomit. A horrible sense of deja-vu making her feel even more uncomfortable.

Ignoring the mess on the floor, she nervously made her way over to the bed. Nick’s lips had turned blue now and his skin was pale white. His eyes, almost cloudy in their appearance. She reached out with a shaking hand and prodded him. Still a small part of her that hoped he’d suddenly sit up and shout out “boo”. Nothing. Deja-vu washed over her for a second time. She prodded him harder and a small pocket of air escaped from his arse with another dollop of the brown. The foul stench lingering in the air to be chewed upon. There was no dignity in death.

Whitley suddenly took a step back away from the body. The thoughts weren’t of what she should do: Phone the authorities or disappear and pretend she was never there… Instead, she was thinking - she’d been here before. She’d experienced all of this already. Flashbacks of the dreams she’d experienced whilst unconscious - so realistic, so horrible. She looked down to her crotch and imagined a voice speaking from it… She imagined what she’d do if she stuck a mirror on the floor and saw eyes staring back up at her, or the smile of a man thought to be deceased. She knew it was impossible but the dreams - remembering them now more clearly - they’d been so real. So unpleasantly life-like from the way it had felt to touch in the dream to the fact she could even sense smells.

Was it just a dream though? she worried.

What if it were a premonition of things to come?

Ignoring the client’s body, she hurried through to the en-suite bathroom. The only mirror in the room was the one attached to the wall. A large mirror with lights surrounding the framing of it and a television built into the middle. Certainly not a mirror that she could use to investigate herself.

Without many other options, she nervously reached down to her vagina with the two fingers she’d used in the dream. She stopped short of exploring herself - long enough to run back through to her bag in the living room. She reached in and pulled out the small bottle of lubricant she carried to appointments for sneaky use with clients who didn’t quite “do it” for her. Releasing the cap, she squirted a little onto her two fingers before tossing the tube down onto the sofa. Worried for what she might find, she sat down on the very same sofa and put her feet up on the glass coffee table, careful to avoid kicking the plate of cocaine. Slowly, hands shaking, she reached down to between her legs and pressed into her pussy with her slimy fingers. She gasped. With all that had happened - the death of the client, the fainting and, finally, the stress - she was tight. Ignoring how tight she was, she pushed in until she was knuckle deep and - once there - she started to move her fingers in a come hither motion. An act to feel around internally as opposed to get her off although there was no denying, that even with the stress, it did feel good. What made it feel even better was the fact she couldn’t feel anything that was out of the ordinary. There were no teeth, there was no nose, there were no eyeballs. There was nothing. She relaxed a little more, still exploring with her fingers although now it was as much to do with how it felt as to being sure that everything was okay within her.

Whitley pushed down on her fingers in an attempt to get them a little deeper. She sighed in pleasure before stopping. She opened her eyes. Her heart raced. She moved her finger a little more… Something hard… A tooth. She moved her finger again, across to the side… A smile…

‘Don’t mind me, babes… You carry on! I’m just here for the show!’

Whitley screamed as Nick laughed from inside her vagina.

Together forever, babes.

Told you it was fucked up.

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