Carol awoke the next day curled up in her own bed. Her legs were pulled up, knees almost reaching her chest as her hands gripped the covers. She could feel that it was late and wondered how long she’d slept. Rolling over she squinted her eyes against the light and looked at her clock. It took a few moments to focus, her eyes were sore and she guessed they were probably red-rimmed and bloodshot. If they weren’t they should be. Carol could remember how much time she’d spent crying the night before. She pushed the memories away, allowing herself just a few moments of peace before forcing her attention back to the clock. 11.30, or near enough. No surprise, given when they’d arrived back from the club and then the time Janice had taken to get Carol to bed.
Janice had been backstage when Carol had stumbled into the dressing room. Mrs Bowen must have summoned the redhead, or at least that’s what Carol supposed. The madam had been all smiles and solicitations, telling Carol what a good girl she’d been and how proud of her she was and here was her friend Janice to take care of her. Carol remembered the gratitude she felt towards the madam for making sure Janice was there. Her lips set themselves into a tight line as she stared at her ceiling, berating herself for how close she’d come to falling for Mrs Bowen’s manipulation. It was the madam who had set it all up, put Carol in the position where she was naked and humiliated, shaking from the shame running through her. She’d stood in front of the madam, hands trying to cover what was left of her shredded dignity as Janice and Tracey helped her into some clothes and she’d almost felt grateful to the madam for her praise. Carol had to admit that Mrs Bowen was a real pro. Someone like Stephanie, her cover, was supposed to be, an ex-college girl who’d tripped into whoring, probably would have fallen for it.
But Carol knew better. She could see exactly how Mrs Bowen had planned each step. Forced Carol into a position where she couldn’t afford to refuse to strip, no matter how much she didn’t want to. Then arranged for her best friend to pick up the pieces while the madam gave Carol a little hug and told her how good she’d been. Even in the state she’d been last night Carol had sensed the resentment in Janice, but the redhead hadn’t said anything. Not until they’d left the madam. Carol understood that, Janice had her own position to worry about.
She’d cried on Janice’s shoulder all the way home in the cab. Janice didn’t try to tell her that it was okay, they both knew that it wasn’t. The redhead simply held her, sensing Carol’s need for comfort. Carol appreciated her friend’s efforts, but she wasn’t sure if she could put herself back together. She’d done what she’d promised herself she’d never do, strip in public and, worse than that, she’d gotten off on it.
She owed Janice. She could remember her friend helping her up the stairs to their apartment, holding on to her arm so she didn’t stumble, Carol berating herself for being so useless, realising all the time that she was sinking further into despair. Janice talking to her, knowing just what to say. In their apartment Janice had sat with her, softly speaking, Carol didn’t know for how long, her redheaded friend telling her that it wasn’t her fault, that she had faith in her, just holding her as Carol cried out her misery. Carol knew Janice meant well, and it had helped, but she wasn’t sure anything would be the same now.
Carol rolled over, pushing the memory aside. She heard a noise, looked at the door to find Janice peering in.
“Just seeing if you were awake,” the redhead whispered.
“Yeah, I am,” Carol muttered.
Janice tiptoed over to the bed and sat down. She looked at Carol, concern clear on her face.
“Shouldn’t you be at class?” Carol asked. She didn’t know Janice’s timetable by heart, but she was certain that her friend should be at college by now. She could see the lines of concern on Janice’s face, the weariness in her eyes from lack of sleep. Guilt joined the other emotions gnawing at Carol.
Janice shrugged. “One day won’t matter. I need to be here.”
Carol rolled away, not wanting to look at the redhead. She didn’t want to add being a burden to her friend to her list of problems.
“Hey,” Janice commanded, firmly but not unkindly. “No feeling guilty about me, I make my own decisions.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just being stupid. I am stupid. I’m a whore, why should stripping bother me?” Carol couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice.
Janice gently laid a hand on Carol’s shoulder, “Because you never wanted to do what you did last night, not the you who you are now or the you who you were before.”
“Before Copeland you mean?” Carol swallowed. She could feel her eyes beginning to water. She knew that she’d never have been in this position if it wasn’t for Copeland. Without him the girls would never have been kidnapped and she wouldn’t have the words running around her head.
Janice just nodded.
“You shouldn’t have to worry about me. I’m the policewoman around here.” There wasn’t much of Carol that really believed the last part of what she’d said, but she wanted to put on a brave face for her friend.
“So?” Janice replied and Carol could imagine the raised eyebrow. “You don’t have to be alone.”
“Copeland didn’t twist that bit of me did he?” Carol rolled back to look at her friend, could see the concern in the redhead’s eyes. She wondered how bad she looked for Janice to be that worried.
Carol could feel tears start to fill her eyes. Maybe someday she’d be a policewoman again, feel a sense of self-worth. But for now she was just a whore and a stripper who’d gotten off on being naked in front of a crowd of men, revelling in her own degradation. Shame and humiliation coursed through Carol, matching the tears that ran down her cheeks.
“None of that,” Janice said. “Self-pity isn’t the Carol I know.”
Carol shifted, half sitting up, surprised at Janice’s use of her real name.
“I know, I know,” the redhead sighed. “I’m supposed to call you Stephanie. But not now, right? I think you need to remember why you’re here. Why you’re doing all this.”
Carol frowned, “I, I don’t,”
“Yes, you do,” Janice insisted. “You’re here to rescue those last two girls, Karen and Laura, right?”
“You still going to do that?” When Carol didn’t answer her friend frowned crossly at her before continuing, “Yes, you are. I know last night was bad. But you’ve told me about some of the things you’ve had to do before, some of the things that have happened to you. Beaten up, shot at. And you still did what you had to do. I couldn’t have done that. Not many people could, but you did. It’s what you told me, in undercover sometimes you have to do some bad things to get the job done, right?”
Carol looked at her friend. Janice was right, though she wasn’t sure that she could deal with last night the way she’d coped with other things that had happened to her in her undercover work. It wasn’t the same, it felt as if she’d given away a part of herself that she’d never wanted to lose. But Janice was right, she told herself again, and she’d survived bad experiences before, maybe last night wasn’t the same but maybe it wasn’t that much different either. Carol wasn’t totally convinced, an ache deep in her soul telling her this was something she wouldn’t be able to shrug away.
“I know you, you’re strong. You can do this. The Carol I know isn’t going to let anything stop her rescuing those girls.”
Carol smiled at her friend, knowing there was a brittleness to her expression, but it was smile never the less. “Thanks Janice, but I know psychology.”
“I know you do. Doesn’t mean I can’t use it.” Janice smiled back, her eyes sparkling with mirth, “So, you still going to rescue those two?”
“Well, it’s just scouting, make sure the raid knows what it’s getting into. I doubt I’ll be able to get them out. But…”
“But?” Janice prodded.
Carol paused, swallowed, “Last night, I want to make it go away.”
“Of course you do,” Janice reassured her friend.
“I, it’s like the only thing that will make it go away is getting back work, on my being, being,” Carol stopped, horrified at the words pouring out of her. “It’s like it’s the only thing that will make me feel better.”
“You want to whore?” Janice asked, her face expressionless.
“Oh honey, it’s okay,” her friend whispered as she put her arms gently around Carol. “It’s who we are. So what do you want to do?”
The answer was easy, too easy, because there were two answers and they didn’t quite go together. “Whore, get the girls back.”
Janice pulled back, peered thoughtfully at Carol from a few inches away “Which one’s more important?”
“Which one is, or which one do I want it to be?” Carol replied, trying to avoid the question.
“You tell me.”
Carol took a deep breath. “I want to whore, I want to be fucked, but I know the girls matter more. I’ve got to hold it together.”
“You can do it,” Carol knew Janice was trying her best to be encouraging. And it was working, though maybe not as well as the redhead hoped. Carol knew what she needed to do but she wasn’t sure that she was strong enough.
“It’s fucked up isn’t it?” Carol could hear the bitterness in her own voice. “I’m fucked up, thinking whoring will make me feel better about stripping.” She pulled away from Janice, brought her knees up so she could lay her head on them.
Janice followed her across the bed, but didn’t touch her “It’s not, not really. Copeland made us want to whore, not anything else. So it’s no surprise you reacted so strongly to last night.”
Carol turned her head, still resting on her knees, looked at her friend, wondering if she could say what she wanted to say. She wanted to tell Janice, needed to tell someone. But she wasn’t sure if she could.
“You, you could say that…” Carol looked away, too embarrassed to meet her friend’s gaze.
“Sorry?” Janice frowned.
“What?” Confusion crept further over Janice’s face
Carols started hesitantly but then the words came tumbling out. “Not, not all of me hated it. I mean, I hated it, I really did, I still do. I don’t want to do it again. But part of me liked it, wanted it. Got off on it.” She hadn’t told Janice that last night. How much it had turned her on, how stripping in front of all those men had turned her on, hard. How the idea, even now, was making her pulse speed up, just a little. Was turning her nipples into little rocks and making her wet as she remembered each piece of her clothing as she took it off, as she remembered the gaze of the men upon her.
Shame burnt in Carol’s cheeks, fresh again as she turned away from her friend, unable to meet her gaze. She hated this, hated how much her body was reacting to the idea, how, deep in her mind, part of her liked it. Hated how she couldn’t blame Copeland for this. The way she was reacting must be a part of her, the real her. The real me? Who is that? Maybe the old me. Some part of her, hidden away, must actually like the idea. Carol buried the thought as her stomach lurched.
The silence stretched out and Carol wondered if the admission had been too much for her friend. Maybe Janice was going to give up on her. Maybe that’s all I deserve.
Then the redhead spoke, her voice holding no judgements “But do you want to do it again?”
“No!” Carol cried. “No way.” It didn’t matter what that part of her wanted. She never wanted to be up on a stage like that again.
“See?” Carol could hear the smile in Janice’s voice and she couldn’t help but look at her friend. “You can still make choices. So what if a part of you enjoyed it? There’s lots of things we enjoy that we choose not to do for whatever reason. Drink too much, get angry at people, lash out at them. We decide not to. Every day we make those choices. That a tiny piece of you liked it but you won’t do it again shows you can still choose.”
She should be a psychologist.
Carol’s shoulders slumped. “What about, …, what we do.” She couldn’t say it, the word catching in her throat.
Janice pursed her lips. “We have to believe we still have a choice there too, don’t we? I’m going to quit after college. You’re going to quit next week, right?
Carol wasn’t sure she could do that. The need in her was so strong. The desire to offer herself, sell herself, to have some stranger pay her money so he could ram his cock deep into her pussy. To let him use her anyway he could. That somehow that would wash away the pain of last night. She knew how sick it was. That didn’t stop her wanting it. Carol wasn’t sure that she could just walk away. But she knew that after next week she wouldn’t have any excuses left. It had to be then.
“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes I will.”
“When you rescue the last two girls.” Janice said, firmly.
Carol nodded, made herself smile at her friend.
Janice smiled back. “See? Choices. You can do it, I believe in you.”
The redhead shrugged “It’s okay, what are friends for?”
Carol wasn’t expected at the brothel until the evening, but she knew that Janice wouldn’t leave the apartment until she did. It was the only way to prove to her friend that she was coping. Carol didn’t want Janice missing any more classes because of her than her friend already had. So she decided to head out early. Concern for the redhead wasn’t the only reason. The sooner she was back in the brothel the sooner Carol could whore herself to some man. She didn’t even try to deny the need, the ache that could only be soothed when the emptiness in her pussy was filled by some stranger’s cock. The urge coiled and rolled inside her, like a snake, tempting her, tormenting her. Her thighs shifted uneasily, rubbing against each other, Carol couldn’t stop them, but it was a poor substitute for what she really wanted.
So she left as soon as she could persuade Janice that she was going to be alright. Her friend was dubious but Carol insisted, her only concession eating lunch under the redhead’s supervision. Even then Carol had grumbled and had only agreed when Janice assured her that she’d still make her next class.
Carol wasn’t surprised when Frank, lounging beside the door, directed her to Mrs Bowen. She may not have been expected until after Frank’s shift was over, but the madam didn’t take chances. Frank grinned at her and said hello in his friendly Texan drawl, but his eyes left Carol in no doubt about what she had to do.
Mrs Bowen smiled as Carol entered the room. One of the madam’s hands brushed softly against her always immaculately-styled hair. Carol wasn’t fooled by the pretence of warmth in the older woman’s expression. She could see all the satisfaction there of a cat that had trapped a mouse. For a moment Carol wondered if she’d ever smiled like that, just before she made an arrest. Then she wondered if she’d ever do that again.
I have to, I have to believe. I can get out of this.
“Sit down Stephanie.” The madam made it sound like an invitation, but Carol knew it for the order it was.
“There,” Mrs Bowen said as Carol sank into one of the seats. As always the young woman couldn’t shake the impression of being in the headmistress’ room. “You did a good job last night. I was impressed. Edgar even asked when you’d come back.”
Carol’s eyes flew wide. She wasn’t going back, not ever.
The madam’s look turned thoughtful as she took in Carol’s expression. “Not keen? You did so seem to enjoy it. Perhaps a little too much, there are some fine legal niceties about these things that have to be observed.”
Carol’s stomach dropped away, leaving a gaping void inside her, as images of the previous night pressed in on her. She couldn’t believe what she’d done, how aroused she’d been, how, in the end, she’d gotten herself off in front of the crowd, naked in front of all those men. She knew the limits under which places like Angel’s worked. She hadn’t just pushed the line, she’d trampled all over it.
“Well, we’ll see. You are a natural dear. With a little more control you could be amazing. You had that crowd in the palm of your hand. Don’t you like that sort of power?”
Carol didn’t think she’d had any power. She’d been cornered, used, left with no choices. She could remember every eye on her, following her, she’d felt like an object. Humiliation and shame blossomed in her again. She could feel the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks as she turned away from the madam, unable to look at her.
“You need to look at it in the right way.” The madam said, not unkindly.
Carol wasn’t convinced. Right way? How can there be a right way?
“You were in control,” the madam continued and a little bit of Carol wanted to be persuaded, wanted to be rid of her feelings of helplessness. The madam’s words were a liquid balm to her brain, soothing her feelings, taking the hurt away. Carol knew what the madam was doing, but that didn’t stop her wanting to listen, to just maybe feel a little better.
Stephanie would want to hear what the madam had to say, she’d be vulnerable after the previous night. Carol tried to give her face the proper expectant look.
The madam’s eyes lit up as she spoke. “The timing, the moves, fast or slow, tease or reveal, it was all up to you. They were hanging on your every move. You were so good they had to look at you, couldn’t do anything else. You may not have thought it at the time, Stephanie, but there’s power in that. You were a goddess on that stage and they were ready to worship you. You think about it.”
Carol did. She didn’t want to, but she did. She had trouble thinking of what she’d done, stripping in front of all those men, as anything other than demeaning, humiliating, degrading. She felt sick just remembering it. She’d been helpless, anything but the controlling figure the madam painted, just an object for the men to leer at. But part of her, maybe the part that had got off on it, wanted to believe, wanted to think there was more to what she’d done than debase herself. She wasn’t sure what to think. There was a force in the madam’s voice, tightly leashed, but Carol could still hear it. Carol wondered if the madam was trying to persuade herself as well. She wondered again about Mrs Bowen’s past. Maybe she should accept what the older woman said. If she believed the madam she might feel better, but Carol wasn’t sure what that would make her.
“Hmm, well, maybe something for the future. But you went there to learn, didn’t you Stephanie? Have you learnt what you need to, dearie?” The urgency had left the madam’s words, her tone now light and breezy, but Carol could sense the currents running through her questions.
“Yes ma’am.” Carol knew that Stephanie had been meant to learn more than one lesson. The obvious, how to strip, and the implied, to do what exactly what her madam told her to do.
She’s the madam. She says what goes. It was a little voice. Soft. But it seemed to come from so far down in her mind.
“There’s my girl.” Carol couldn’t stop herself responding to the praise in Mrs Bowen’s voice. The young woman was too good at her job, too skilled at slipping into her role, feeling what she was supposed to feel. She knew how Stephanie would react. Cowed, humiliated, but eager to please, hanging on the madam’s words, wanting to believe what she was told. Carol hated what she’d done, hated the memory of how aroused she’d been. She still couldn’t believe it had made her cum. She was so tempted by the picture the madam painted, anything to take away the pain. That there’d been some power there, some control, no matter how degrading the experience had been. She knew that Stephanie would seize on the idea, anything to make her feel better about what had happened.
“Thanks,” Carol smiled at the madam, certain that her smile was as brittle as it needed to be. She hated thanking Mrs Bowen for what the older woman had put her through, hated the part of her that meant what she said.
“You’ll be a good girl for me?” Mrs Bowen looked at her questioningly.
“You know I will,” Carol swallowed nervously, then smiled again.
“I suppose you want to get back to work.”
“Sure” Carol replied, not bothering to hide the eagerness in her voice as she stood up.
The madam surprised Carol, rising as the younger woman left and giving Carol a quick hug. The older woman had never seemed fond of physical contact. Carol wasn’t sure if she felt comforted or smothered. Then, before she could decide, Mrs Bowen stepped back, her hands still on Carol’s upper arms. The madam tilted her head to one side, Carol feeling the weight of her examination. An emotion slipped across the older woman’s face and if Carol didn’t know better she’d have almost thought it looked like the pride of a parent in a child’s accomplishments.
“You could go a long way, dearie, yes you could. Just remember, any time you need to talk, I’m here.” The madam’s smile was warm and genuine, catching Carol off-guard.
“Umm, sure,” she managed, as Mrs Bowen let her go and sauntered back to her couch.
The madam waved a hand in her direction. “Off you go then dear, and make us both some money. I’ll have what you’re owed from last night ready when it’s time for you to go.”
Carol let her thoughts and worries dissolve as one man after another fucked her. She smiled and preened in front of prospective customers, hoping the eagerness she felt showed in her eyes. As usual she went light on the makeup, her face a mask of innocence when she was anything but. All of Mrs Bowen’s whores were pretty, beautiful even, but Carol knew that she and Janice and Ellie were in a class of their own and the redhead and the blonde didn’t arrive until the evening. Until then she was the star, the one men wanted, her innocent, girl next door, beauty matched with promise and temptation. A finger running between her breasts, cleavage exposed in a low cut top, a hand drifting to her short skirt, pulling the hem higher. Her back arched, coyly, eyes downcast. Her mouth a perfect ‘o’ of surprise when a man spoke to her, the only concession to heavy makeup her ruby red lips, glistening in their promise of what they could do. She’d known how to tease before. After last night she knew even more. But she wanted to be fucked, so she didn’t have to think about how she’d honed her skills.
Sometimes she didn’t have to wait, didn’t have to compete with the other girls. A message would come up, that a man wanted her, someone who’d used her before. Then she’d ready herself in her room. Prepare herself for a man who’d already taken her, been given everything she had to give. A man that was back for more, taking her like a favourite book pulled down again from a library shelf. Other hands might have held the book, other cocks had been inside her pussy, but the man had decided he wanted her again. He’d slip inside her like putting on a familiar sweater, then, when he was done, take her off again. Fun for a time, but after he left he’d give her no more thought than a dirty piece of clothing. Not until he wanted to fuck her again. She’d be left soiled and used and ready to be cleaned up for the next customer.
Carol didn’t want it any other way.
If she remembered the john well enough she might know what he wanted to see her in. The jeans and tee shirt of a college girl, cotton panties and plain bra completing the fantasy of innocence corrupted. Or it might be the tight skirt and blouse of an office worker, sometimes helpless and taken, sometimes playing the floozy, taking the lead, soothing the man’s conscience as they both pretended that it wasn’t really his choice. Some of them wanted her in clothing that was barely there, short skirt and tight top. Those men would call her slut and whore as they’d throw her on the bed, rip her panties aside and thrust into her, the skimpy clothes giving her no protection from their assault. There were limits to what the men were allowed to do to her, she knew it and so did they, but as long and they stayed within those Carol didn’t mind it a little rough. She thought it was more honest. She was a whore, so she didn’t care if someone called her that.
She came with every one of her customers. She always did.
As the waves of pleasure coursed through Carol she arched her back, thrusting herself towards the man, welcoming his cock as it plunged deep inside her. With each one she felt a little better, the satisfaction of her raw physical need soothing the corners off her jagged memories. On her back, on her hands and knees, the pounding of cock after cock chipped away at the pain.
She was, had been, might be again, a policewoman. Someone who had authority, responsibility. Right now she was just a whore, open and exposed to the men who paid for the use of her body.
I want to be a prostitute.
I’m happy to be a prostitute.
I want to be used, sexually.
For now that’s all she was, all she would be until the girls were rescued. Then she’d have to try to be the policewoman again.
Unless I decide not to leave the brothel, a little voice reminded her. Carol clamped down on that thought. There was no future there.
Early in the evening Janice slipped inside her door, the redhead trying to keep a smile on her face but Carol could see the concern lurking in her eyes.
“Hey, how’s it going?” What two friends might say if they met for coffee, or two prostitutes taking a moment before their next johns.
“I’m fine,” Carol shrugged. And surprised herself by how much she meant it. The memory was still there, harsh and raw. She was still ashamed of what she’d done, the disappointment coursing through her. Humiliation, buried for the afternoon as she’d given herself over to whatever the men wanted, let herself be used, flowed back. But it was weaker now, a pale shadow of what it had been. Carol knew she’d carry the mental scars, that there’d be more tears in the dark. But Janice had been right. She’d done things before that she hadn’t liked, would probably do more again. They hadn’t broken her, there was no reason to crack now, every reason not to. Perhaps she was stronger than she thought.
“You sure?” Janice frowned.
“Sure enough,” Carol replied. Then, seeing the doubt in her friend’s face, she continued, “Yeah, look I’m not perfect, it still hurts. But you were right, I can do this.”
Janice still looked uncertain, “If you need me.”
“I know where you are,” Carol laughed, a purer sound than the walls of her room usually heard. Then she sobered. “I’ll be alright. I have to be. But, thanks, I don’t know if I would’ve been without you.”
The redhead shrugged, embarrassed, “Hey, it’s okay. What are friends for?”
Carol smiled at Janice then walked over to the wardrobe in the corner of her room. She realised she was naked in front of her friend. It was far from the first time one of them had seen the other naked and after last night it hardly seemed to matter.
“Frank sent me with a message,” Janice said as Carol opened the wardrobe’s door. “He said you needed your party dress.”
Carol stopped, felt herself take a sharp intake of breath. She was trembling as she realised who her next customer would be. After last night she wasn’t sure she was ready for him. Carol’s eyes fell on a blue cocktail dress hanging in the wardrobe and she told herself she would just have to get through this, like everything else life was throwing at her. Turning her head Carol looked over her shoulder at her friend. She wouldn’t need just the dress, “How long have I got?”
Janice frowned, “Frank said thirty minutes, so I’d say twenty five by now.”
Carol sucked air through her teeth as she felt a tightness spread across her chest. Twenty-five minutes would probably be long enough to get ready. For any other man else it would be, some other john wouldn’t need quite the preparation she’d need for her next appointment. She wouldn’t just need to be dressed as ordered, but her hair and makeup would need to be immaculate, or at least as close as she could manage in the time she had.
“I need to get moving,” the brunette said as she reached for some clean underwear, matching white silk bra and panties.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Janice said, giving her a wave and a smile. Then she left, Carol seeing the need in her friend’s eyes, recognising what it meant.
Carol was touching up the last of her makeup, glittering eyeshadow, as she heard her door open. Some of the johns knocked, nervous about what they were doing. They’d hop from foot to foot as if they were standing on a hot plate, and Carol would need to take the lead until their hesitation passed.
She’d known that wouldn’t be the case with this customer. She knew him too well.
Colin Patrick stood in front of her, resplendent in his tailored suit. Over his shoulder she could see two other men, his bodyguards, lounging in the hall outside. Her trained eyes picked out the bulges at their shoulders, the fit of their jackets disturbed by the guns they carried. The man in her room didn’t carry a weapon. He didn’t need a gun to be intimidating.
Carol knew it was odd that such a powerful underworld figure would visit the brothel like any other john. But Patrick had told her once that he did things like that, just to remind himself of what life was really like. Eat at a diner, visit a cheap bar. Come see her at the brothel. “Forget what the street is like, sweetness, and the street forgets about you.” Of course, sometimes he did send for her, and she’d be whisked away in a limo to spend the night at his mansion.
Tonight he’d come to her and he didn’t look happy.
“What’s the matter baby?” Carol cooed, mincing towards him in her high heels.
“Sit down,” the crime boss growled, pointing at her bed.
Carol was tempted to take up a seductive pose, but somehow she didn’t think he’d appreciate that. She didn’t need to see the scowl on his face, she could feel the anger rolling off him. She’d heard about Patrick’s anger, how he could flick from calm to raging in a heartbeat. How he wasn’t afraid of using his own fists. Carol might be trained, but she knew that she was no match for him physically. If he decided to take that anger out on her she knew exactly how much damage he could do to her. And how slim the chances were of the brothel’s bouncers getting to her past his bodyguards. If they even bothered to try.
So she sat on the edge of her bed, as primly as she could, given the dress’s short skirt and plunging neckline. She hoped the way she looked, clad in the dress from his weekend party just as she’d been instructed, might take the edge off his anger.
“I heard about last night.” Patrick said, his voice cold.
Carol could tell he wasn’t happy about what she’d done. Part of her rebelled at his attitude. He didn’t own her. Sure he rented her body, but the rest of her time he had no right to object to what she did. And he knew that he was far from her only customer. He’d never seemed worried about that. But it was obvious that her stripping mattered to him. Some part of her preened, happy that he cared enough to dislike what she’d done. Even if he was only treating her as a possession, an object, it meant something to a whore.
But it wouldn’t help her much if he decided to take his anger out on her. She could sense the tension in the big man under his cold exterior. She wasn’t sure how to handle that.
Patrick cut her off, his hand making a sharp cutting gesture. “Whose idea was it?”
“Mrs Bowen’s,” Carol replied eagerly. It was the truth and she was happy to deflect the blame elsewhere.
“Might’ve guessed,” the mobster spat. His lips formed a tight line and his scowl deepened into a frown.
“You listen to me babydoll. I don’t want you doing anything like that again.” He ordered.
“But, I,” Carol really didn’t want to be in the middle of a fight between Patrick and her madam. The outcome was too unpredictable and she was too close to her goal.
“No.” The single word had a force behind Carol didn’t want to deny. She knew the power this man was used to wielding. When he wanted something he wasn’t used to being denied.
Patrick strode across the space from the door to her bed, loomed over her. “You just say yes, babydoll. And promise me that if she ever wants you to do anything like ever again, you let me know.” From someone else it might have been a request, even a plea. Patrick didn’t do that. He gave orders and expected to be obeyed. People didn’t say no to him twice. They didn’t get the chance. Smart people didn’t say no to him at all.
Carol hesitated, eyes darting from side to side. She tried to think what Stephanie would do. The girl wouldn’t want to go against her madam. Yet she’d know how powerful this man was. How easily violence came to him. Stephanie would try to cover her bets, keep everyone happy. If it came to a confrontation between Mrs Bowen and Colin Patrick, nobody would doubt who the victor would be. The madam would know it too, wouldn’t go against the mobster to his face. But Carol saw the madam a lot more than she saw Patrick. It was Mrs Bowen who controlled her day to day life. The madam could take revenge on Carol in so many ways if Patrick humiliated her. Carol shifted uneasily on the bed, she didn’t want the two of them at war, at least not over her. She told herself that she planned on being out of the whole situation soon. It was almost impossible that the madam would try to send her back to the strip joint before her visit to Conti’s brothel.
“Yes, I, I promise,” she said, making herself meet Patrick’s gaze. The fear that Stephanie would feel wasn’t as hard to summon as Carol would have liked. She could taste it, burning its way down her throat to curdle in her stomach like sour milk.
“That’s my girl,” the mobster replied, suddenly all smiles and reassurance. It was the way of gangsters, if you did what they wanted then the world was roses and everyone was best friends. Until the next time they didn’t like what you did, and the anger returned and maybe that was the time you ended up dead. Even in the best of times the threat of violence always hung in the air
Patrick reached into a pocket of his immaculately creased trousers, withdrew a small case. Carol wasn’t sure what it was, but she had her suspicions.
“For me?” she asked, hoping she’d managed the surprised and slightly vacuous tone that the man would expect.
“Who else would it be for?” Patrick grumbled. “Go on, open it.”
Carol did as she was told and then felt her jaw drop. Inside the case was a bracelet. Even if the jewels that glittered up at her were semi-precious it had to be worth more than she earnt in a week on her police salary. And if they were actually precious stones, well, Carol didn’t want to think about that.
“No, I, I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with it. She didn’t know what the madam would say, and if she did go back to the police there was no way she could keep it. She knew where the money came from that would have paid for it.
“Yes you can,” Patrick said firmly. “Don’t worry about Bowen. Just keep it for when you visit me.” He reached down and slowly picked the bracelet out of its case before placing it around her wrist and fastening it in place. Carol was sure that she’d never worn anything half as valuable.
She jumped off the bed and gave the man a big hug, letting her image of Stephanie take over. The young woman she pretended to be would be overwhelmed and Carol always knew how to play her part. She gave a little squeal as she wrapped her arms around the mobster, one leg bending at the knee, to raise her stiletto-heeled foot far off the floor.
Patrick kissed her, his head bending down to push his lips forcefully into hers. He wasn’t a bad kisser, Carol admitted. He certainly did a better job of it than most of the men she catered to.
“Now,” he said after they parted, “you got something for me?”
“Of course I do,” Carol replied, looking up at him from under eyelids that she batted seductively.
Carol felt his hands on her hips, then they were running up her sides. As they reached the level of her chest they moved to the front until they were cupping her tits. Patrick flicked her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress and bra. Even with the sensations dulled by the material Carol couldn’t suppress a little moan. Small sparks flicked through her, teasing. They ran down to her pussy, which was already moistening in anticipation.
It wasn’t just the man’s physical ministrations, although Patrick knew her body well enough by now to elicit just the reaction he wanted. He’d made sure of that, instructing her very early on that he wouldn’t put up with a faked response. Carol realised that it was part of the turn on for him. Most men would be happy with the words she said by rote, the sham responses of a whore. Not that Carol faked anything very often, the very act of whoring her biggest turn on. But Patrick demanded a genuine physical response. Not because he wanted to give her any pleasure, though that was a happy by-product as far as Carol was concerned. He wanted the power, the control over her that the keys to her pleasure gave him. Every moan she uttered, every tremor she felt, was music to his ears. He played her body like a fine instrument, teasing her as much as she teased him, drawing her to the edge over and over again until she was mindless in her desperation. A nip of his teeth at just that spot on her neck, fingers gliding over her thighs with exactly the right touch, rolling her nipples between his fingers, the pressure on her tight nubs catching her breath in her throat, Patrick knowing precisely where the fine line was for her between pleasure and pain, even pushing her just over that edge sending waves coursing through her. She’d taught him how to do everything her body wanted, the pace and rhythm that would drive her insane with lust. With a few touches he could have her dripping, with a few more begging for his cock. Once Patrick had his hands on her Carol knew she couldn’t stop him doing anything he choose, even if she wanted to.
Not that she wanted to stop him. This man was able to play her body like no-one before him. And he paid her for the privilege. She came with every man she serviced, fireworks going off in her brain. They could be the worst lover in the world and she wouldn’t care, that she was prostituting herself to them enough to make sure she came hard, her mind shattering in glittering fragments.
But with Patrick it was nuclear explosions, detonations that left her both ruined and desperate for more. With him she was whoring herself to a man who knew her body’s needs and desires as no-one else did. Physically and mentally he was fucking Carol to her limits, every craving met. Sometimes, at night in her bed in her apartment, she’d get off on the memories, fingers exploring her slit. No-one fucked her like Colin Patrick.
Patrick ceased his exploration of her boobs, pulled her in tight against him, one arm wrapped high around her back, the other dropping to her arse. His head lowered until his mouth met hers again. Their lips met, his tongue pushing into her mouth. She put up a token resistance, only because she knew that he liked that. It wouldn’t have mattered how much she’d tried, she couldn’t have stopped him.
Then his mouth moved to her neck, a line of kisses that followed her throbbing pulse, each contact accompanied by one of her moans, one of Patrick’s hands found the zipper of her dress. He stepped back, admiring her body in the frilly lingerie, as he removed his coat and loosened his tie.
“Take it all off,” he said, “but leave the bracelet on.”
Carol took her time complying. She had so little left to shed compared to the mobster that she could afford to draw it out.
Soon they were both naked. Carol knew his body so well, he’d used her’s often enough. Patrick wasn’t in peak condition, but he wasn’t that bad either, just a hint of paunch around his middle. But it didn’t matter, not really. He was a man, and he’d paid her and he could do anything he wanted. She waited to be told what that was.
Patrick didn’t say anything. He grabbed Carol by the upper arms, spun her around, pushed her towards the bed.
“Wha…?” she asked.
“Quiet,” was all the reply she received.
At the side of the bed her forced her torso down until she was lying half on the bed, her feet planted firmly on the floor. With his own foot Patrick pushed one, then the other, until he grunted in satisfaction. He stroked her arse, the touch of his fingertips fanning the flames already burning out from her centre.
Carol’s pussy exploded in pleasure as he rammed into her. She could feel her eyes and mouth go wide in surprise. Patrick liked to be in control, but something this raw, this brutal, was unusual even for him. Carol was coming again and again, each time his cock buried itself within her. She was crying out, “Yes, oh fuck, yes,” each thrust jolting all the way up her spine and into her brain. He wasn’t just taking her, he was marking her.
Patrick took her twice more before he was done. Once up against the wall, again from behind, her hands splayed out and her tits squashed as he thrust into her. Even in her stilettoes, which he’d had Carol put back on, she had to stand on her toes to make up for their difference in height. And then, sometime later, on the bed. She’d had to work him up again, her lips engulfing his flaccid member until it was erect again, her tongue playing over his member, willing it to erectness as she tasted her own essence. His hands all over her body. When he was ready he’d pushed her back on to the bed. Her knees were pulled up, stilettoes pushing at the bed covers as she writhed under him. She could see him, feel him, smell him, the scent of his manliness overpowering her. She could barely hear her own cries over the thunder of her pulse in her ears. Patrick’s eyes bored into hers, his gaze reaching down to her soul. Carol knew she was a whore, available to any man with the money to pay her, but right now she was Patrick’s whore, would be even when he was gone, something different to all her other Johns.
That in some way she was still a policewoman and that a mobster had marked her that deeply was something she didn’t want to think about. Because if she did, alone in her bed at night, she knew how much it would turn her on, her fingers playing over her dripping snatch before thrusting inside, Carol screaming her orgasm into her pillow so Janice didn’t hear her.
Carol lay on the bed after they were finished, spent. She could feel the sweat cooling on her skin, smell the mingling scents of her perfume and the remnants of their lovemaking What, no, that isn’t right. Carol shook her head. Love had nothing to do with it. They’d had sex, she’d been paid for sex. Stephanie might be silly enough to think Patrick actually felt something for her, especially after the gift the mobster had given her, but Carol wasn’t that naive. And even Stephanie would learn eventually.
She watched as Patrick redressed himself. She could see the glistening trails of sweat on his body. Her lips curved into a half smile as she considered the unfairness of how men could get away without worrying about odours a lot more easily than women. She’d need a shower before her next customer, but right now she didn’t have the energy.
“You remember what I said,” Patrick directed as he redid his tie. He wasn’t looking at her, his eyes fixed on his own image in her mirror. Yet Carol felt as caught as if his gaze was directed at her.
“Yeah, sure.” She managed.
“I mean it Stephanie.”
Carol’s eyes flew wide. He’d never called her that before. Always Jewel, the name she used as a prostitute. She hadn’t even known that Patrick knew her other name.
Patrick turned, smiled at the surprise on her face. “Come on babydoll, you think I’m not going to know the name of the girl I fuck that often?”
“Umm, okay,” Carol whispered. For all she knew Mrs Bowen had told him. While the madam protected her girls, if Patrick had demanded Jewel’s real name, or at least what the madam thought was her real name, she wouldn’t have refused him. It was just one more thing that put Patrick apart from her other customers. He knew Stephanie’s name, they didn’t use protection, he fucked her into incoherence. And he was a prime-time mob boss.
Carol realised that she getting in deeper all the time.
Patrick leant over on the bed, kissed her gently in farewell, and then left without saying another word. He didn’t have to. Carol could read every message he was giving her.
After a few minutes she rose from the bed. She took off the bracelet and returned it to its box. She knew it was stupid to feel any self-worth based on gifts from a mobster, yet she couldn’t help feel a little frisson of excitement as she looked at the bracelet.
The pain of the previous night had receded. Carol tried telling herself that using whoring to console herself after stripping was insane, but the thought had little conviction to it. She was just happy to feel better.
Only a little longer, we’ll have the last girls back soon. Then this will all be over.
She tried to ignore the sadness that last thought brought, but she couldn’t. Refusing to contemplate what that meant, Carol readied herself for her next customer.