Bright lights stabbed through Carol’s eyelids as consciousness returned. She forced her eyes open, the ceiling above her white. It took time to sit up, there was an ache in her left knee. Her right arm hurt and something pulled at her left arm. Looking in that direction she saw blinking machines and a saline drip and realised that she was in a hospital. She looked around the room and groaned as her gaze fell upon Wainwright, sitting quietly in the one plain plastic chair the room held.
“So, Detective,” he said.
“Hello, sir,” Carol ventured, cautiously. Her head hurt and her throat was dry. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now, maybe not ever, but certainly not now. She didn’t want to face Wainwright, didn’t want to face anybody.
“Want to tell me what you were doing there?” Wainwright’s voice was calm, quiet. Carol knew that wasn’t a good sign.
“How are the girls?” Carol asked, making herself sit up in the bed. She noticed a bandage wrapped around her upper right arm. She realised that she must have been hurt. The idea seemed unreal. Everything seemed unreal. At least she was herself. She remembered the thoughts that had been going through her head, on the rooftop. She’d been so close to slipping into Stephanie.
Wainwright was looking straight at her. “Karen and Laura? They’re fine. Well, fine as can be expected. Won’t know really until the shrinks have had a chance to talk to them, but they’re in one piece. And you’re avoiding the question.” The last statement sounded like a casual afterthought, but the undertones were clear to Carol.
“I, umm, just happened.” Carol didn’t know how to answer. Even if she said that Mrs Bowen had wanted her to go to Conti’s she should have known to stay away. She couldn’t think of anything to say that would satisfy him. All she wanted Wainwright to do was go away. Then she could just stay in the bed.
“Like Hell,” Wainwright cut her off, the police captain’s voice rising as he rose from his chair, eyes fixed on Carol. “You don’t just happen to be in the place you know a raid is targeted. What were you thinking?”
Carol glared back at the police captain, “Conti would have got away with them if I hadn’t been there. And you lied to me.”
“You’re damn right I did,” Wainwright threw up his hands in exasperation, “I didn’t want you anywhere near the place. But of course that didn’t stop you.” He paused, then continued more gently, “And yeah, Conti probably would have got away if you hadn’t been there.”
“How is he? Did you get him?” Carol asked.
Wainwright suddenly looked sober. “He’s dead. You’re a good shot.” Carol gasped. She hadn’t meant to. But then she stopped herself. She probably had. She hadn’t been aiming to wound. She’d killed him. Did she care? She thought about it and realised that she didn’t. Conti had been a piece of dirt and after what he’d been part of with Karen and Laura Carol couldn’t regret what she’d done.
Wainwright gave her a half-smile. “Your aim was better than his. He only nicked your arm.” The police captain indicated her bandage. “We thought you were both dead when we got to the roof. But all you had is that scratch and a banged knee from falling over. What did you do? Faint?”
Carol shook her head, trying to ignore the note of sarcasm that Wainwright had finished with. Faint? She probably had. But she’d handled a gun before. Hell, she’d shot people before. She didn’t faint.
Except that she had this time. It was what Stephanie might have done if she’d actually shot someone.
“Anyway,” Wainwright sighed, “you’re suspended.” Then he added reassuringly, “Just routine, he had a gun, the girls are safe. It’ll be okay.”
“No,” Carol shook her head. “It won’t. Suspended means an inquiry. Even if the shooting isn’t a problem, they’ll want to know why I was there, what I’ve been doing. It’ll all come out.”
Wainwright’s voice was firm. “No, it won’t. We can fix it. I can say I sent you into to scout the place out but you couldn’t get out before the raid started. It’s over Detective, get some rest. They should let you out in the morning. You’ll have to come by to drop off your badge. We’ll talk about it then.”
Wainwright wouldn’t leave until Carol promised him that she’d get some more rest. She had to lie down and close her eyes before he was satisfied. Even then she was afraid he would stay until he was sure that she was asleep. She knew that sleep wouldn’t come easily. It was with relief that Carol heard his footsteps heading away. Wainwright had turned off the lights as he left, but even in the dark Carol lay in her bed, awake. Too many thoughts ran through her mind. She’d killed a man. It wasn’t the first time she’d fired in anger, not even the first time she’d hit someone. But it was her first kill. She ran over and over the scene on the roof, wondering if there was some way it could have ended differently. Something she could have said, something she could have done. She couldn’t think of anything. Conti’s face swam before her. Angry, proud, dismissive of the whore pointing a gun at him. Carol couldn’t think of anything she could have said that would have changed the outcome. Regret didn’t bite her as hard as she thought it might. Not for someone like Conti. He’d had his chance, could have run if he’d been prepared to leave the girls. It wasn’t something she’d ever forget, but she couldn’t say that she was sorry.
Carol rolled in the bed, restless. With Conti gone and Karen and Laura rescued, it was over. The problem was, she didn’t know what ‘it’ was. She knew what it should be, knew that Wainwright wouldn’t let her continue at the brothel, as far as he’d be concerned the undercover operation was finished. She should be happy. She could go back to her old life, stop being a whore. Mrs Bowen might seem nice, probably even was nicer than Conti, it wouldn’t be hard to be better than him, but to the madam Carol would always be something to be exploited. It’s not as if she had no way out. Despite what she’d said about the inquiry to Wainwright, giving voice to her fears, Carol knew they’d find a way to sort it out. They always did. But the need was still there. An aching, empty, need in her pussy. She wanted to be fucked. She wanted a man to pay her. She wanted to whore.
I want to be a prostitute. The girl’s might be rescued but Copeland’s words were still in her head.
I love being a prostitute.
Carol had no illusions about what being a whore meant. She’d lived that life for long enough to know. Yet she couldn’t let the idea go. She found herself seriously considering telling Wainwright to stick the inquiry and then going back to the brothel. Carol couldn’t believe it. Well, she tried telling herself that she shouldn’t believe it, but she knew that she was lying to herself. She knew how much she enjoyed the work, how much she wanted to be used, degraded. She couldn’t deny it turned her on. She wanted to whore herself. It was that simple. But she also knew how sick that was, what risks she was running, how close she was to ruining her life. She had a chance to get out, to get back to something respectable, safe. She knew that she should take it. If she gave in to the desire, played that part, she didn’t know where it would lead. Without the girls to rescue she’d just be a whore. Just be Stephanie. How long could she whore before that role took over completely?
She expected to hear voices in her head, arguing her fate, see the images chasing each other around. There was nothing, just the gaping indecision. Eventually Carol told herself that she was in no state to decide anything and made herself relax enough that she could sleep.
As Wainwright had said the hospital discharged her in the morning. The bullet had barely grazed her arm, Carol wondered whether she’d hit Conti before he fired or whether the brothel owner had just been a bad shot. The nurse reassured her that it wouldn’t even scar, not even bothering to replace the bandage after checking the wound. It wasn’t serious enough to need it. There wasn’t even much of a bruise on her knee. Carol shook her head, thinking how little there was outwardly to show for the previous night’s events. Inwardly was different. She was going to have to decide. And however much of her wanted to stay a whore she knew that wasn’t really an option. Wainwright wouldn’t let her. She could, she admitted, keep whoring while she was suspended. But as soon as she was back on active duty, and Wainwright gave her an assignment, that would be impossible. Something had to give and Carol didn’t see the point of delay. Much as she loved prostituting herself, she knew that she couldn’t let herself go on. She had to try to recover her old life, however hard that would be.
So when she went to hand in her badge it was easy to tell Wainwright what he wanted to hear. That she was okay, that she could just walk away from the last few months. He offered her counselling. She smiled and refused it. She questioned whether the inquiry would be that straightforward. He told her that he had all the records, and he’d made them deliberately vague. All they had to do was claim Carol had been undercover as a petty criminal, using that to talk to prostitutes and track down leads on the missing girls. She wasn’t totally convinced, the story had so many holes. But it might work. It depended how hard anyone looked. She caught Wainwright looking at her dubiously, once or twice, but that was only to be expected. What she’d been through wasn’t normal, even for an undercover officer. He had to satisfy himself that she was still up to the job. It was never going to be hard, telling him what he wanted to hear, especially as Carol wanted to say it to him. It was what came next that was going to be difficult.
Carol considered having Stephanie simply vanish. Mrs Bowen would assume that she’d been arrested in the raid. That gave her time, it would be a day or two before the madam became suspicious. By then Carol would be back in her old life. She would never have to go near the brothel again, never be tempted, never again feel the rush that she felt every time she walked in the door. But she couldn’t do that. If Stephanie disappeared Mrs Bowen would look to Janice for answers. Even if Janice could be trusted to say nothing, it wasn’t fair to make her take the brunt of the madam’s inevitable anger. Carol had to face Mrs Bowen herself, deliver the message that she was quitting. Make a clean end for Stephanie and let Janice off the hook. Maybe even give Janice an example to follow. If she didn’t, and Mrs Bowen pushed, then Janice might reveal that Carol was a police officer. Reluctant as she was, Carol knew that she had to go to the brothel one last time.
She told herself there nothing to it other than that.
It was only when the building came in sight that Carol began to think that maybe going back wasn’t such a good idea after all. She could feel a heat start to radiate from the centre of her body, moisture mixed with the warmth. It was so familiar, comforting, like an old friend. It wasn’t that sharp an arousal, just the pleasant tingle she felt every time she came to work. But Carol didn’t need it today. She wasn’t, she told herself, here to whore. No matter how much she wanted that, it was over. She could feel the whore in her mind, drip feeding her images from her time as a prostitute. Knew how easy it would be to step into that role. To be Stephanie. To be nothing but Stephanie.
More memories pressed at her. The feel of her pussy being filled, the pleasure spike as a man gazed at her naked body, the humiliating rush, pushing towards her own orgasm, as a john sprayed her with his cum. Angrily she pushed the images away. She couldn’t deny how much she wanted to whore. But she wasn’t a slave to her desires, wouldn’t let them define her. She hadn’t let Copeland make her a slave back when he’d held her in the cell. She wasn’t going to let the echoes of what he’d done to her mind make her one today.
At least that was what she told herself.
Still, Carol couldn’t deny how easy it would be just to surrender, to dive into those feelings and never re-emerge. Bury the policewoman forever. All she would have to do was say hello to the bouncer, strip off the clothes she was wearing, wait in her underwear for the first man who wanted to pay for the use of her body. Take his money and let him do whatever he wanted. That would be it and it would be so easy. She knew how strong her need was. One little taste and she might never give it up. And it wouldn’t take long. She was prettier than the girls who worked the day shifts, hell, she was prettier than any other girl who worked at the brothel, except maybe Janice and Ellie, and the redhead, at least, would be at a class now and the blonde didn’t work days either. And Brenda, but she only worked nights as well. Mrs Bowen kept her best for the nights. So likely the first man to come along would pick Carol. She could be whoring, being fucked for money, in just a few minutes. She could taste it, feel it. She was trembling with need. In so little time her pussy, her wet, needy, pussy, could have a stranger’s cock thrusting into it and …
Carol stopped, angrily thumped her fist into the wall of the building. No, she told herself, she wasn’t going to let that happen. She was in control, not her desires, not some image in her head, not some role she played, not some stupid words that a fool professor had fed her, a professor now locked up and finished. Her time as a prostitute was over. She was here to tell Mrs Bowen that she was quitting, then she was going straight around to the apartment she shared with Janice and convince her friend to stop as well. The whole Copeland affair was over, it ended today.
Despite her stiffened resolve Carol couldn’t deny the knot in her stomach or that the only way to stop her hands trembling was to ball them into fists. She couldn’t let Mrs Bowen see her like this. She ducked into a diner for a cup of coffee, hoping it would steady her nerves.
The feelings didn’t get any better as she headed into the brothel, but at least Carol thought she had the visible signs under control. Her eyes slipped to the women lounging in the parlour at the front of the brothel, knew how easy it would be to join them. She knew how much she wanted to. She could feel her body responding to the thought. Summoning up as much determination as she could she turned away from them and smiled at the bouncer. Not Tom, he generally worked nights now. This was Frank. She didn’t know him as well, not being here in the day so often, but the lack of familiarity he brought made it easier to keep her goal in mind.
“Hi,” she smiled. “Is Mrs Bowen in?”
“Sure,” Frank drawled, his Texas accent making Carol think he should be wearing a Stetson and cowboy boots. His jeans were about the only thing that seemed to match. “You need to see her, Jewel?”
Carol hesitated for a moment. Her last chance to back out, but she knew that wasn’t an option. “Yeah.”
The madam looked up from her desk as Carol entered her room. There was a look in Mrs Bowen’s eyes that could almost be genuine concern, the emotion echoed in voice as she asked “Stephanie? You alright dear?”
Don’t make me think you actually care, please, don’t, Carol thought, trying to keep her features calm. She could feel her emotions tangling, the madam’s warmth fraying her determination. The knot in her stomach grew larger but Carol ignored it, holding on to her resolve.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
The madam rose from behind her desk, “Sit down, girl,” she said, indicating one of the large lounges in the room.
After Carol was seated Mrs Bowen sat down near her, the older woman looked at her, a slight frown on her features. “I heard about that raid, it must have been awful. So I’m assuming there won’t be a deal with Conti?”
Carol shrugged, “I guess not. He’d agreed, too.”
A shadow of disappointment flitted across the madam’s face, soon replaced by a sly smile. “Ah well, never mind. We can still get the others to agree. What about those two girls, Mandy and Tabitha?”
“I gave them your number. Don’t know if they’ll come over, the cops may not have let them go yet. But they’ll have to find somewhere.” The words rolled off Carol’s lips, the words Stephanie would say to her madam if she’d gone to Conti’s brothel not expecting a raid. Carol could feel herself slipping into the role. Don’t show any emotion. Like a hardened whore. It was so easy. Effortless. Stephanie wasn’t conflicted. Stephanie knew exactly what she wanted to do.
Carol fought it, focussing on what she was here to do.
The madam leant towards Carol, laid a hand on her arm, “What about you dear, did the police arrest you?”
Carol shook her head, “No, they took me in, kept me overnight, but they didn’t charge me or anything, they probably figured out I didn’t work there.”
She wasn’t going to let the madam see her inner turmoil. Just like she hadn’t let Wainwright see it.
“No one tried anything? No problems?”
Carol could feel the weight of the madam’s gaze on her, she knew Mrs Bowen was assessing her answers, wondering if Carol was holding anything back, “No, nothing. They let me go and I came around here.”
“Good girl,” Mrs Bowen smiled, a smile a doting aunt might give a favourite niece. The approval sent a warm rush through Carol, not sexual, just the happy feeling when someone’s opinion you value is pleased with you. Sitting in that room, half lounge, half office, where she’d been so many times, it was so easy to feel pleased with herself at the madam’s approval. Then she pulled herself up. The madam’s good opinion shouldn’t matter to her. She didn’t need it, didn’t want it. After today it would mean nothing.
“Hmm,” Mrs Bowen continued. “So if they’ve only let you out now, who knows how long until they let Conti’s girls go? We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Carol shifted nervously in her seat. “Yes,” She agreed, at length, her breathing deeper as she worked herself up to the point, “I, I need to tell you something,” the words almost catching in her throat as she forced them out.
The madam frowned, “Yes, Stephanie, what?”
“I want to quit.” There, she’d said it. It was over. She wasn’t a whore anymore. She could relax now.
The madam was silent for a moment, “Ah, I thought something was troubling you. Are you sure? Was it something that happened at Conti’s? Knowing what happened to him after you met? The raid must have been stressful. I know being held in a cell isn’t the most pleasant, but it’s over now.”
Not for the first time Carol wondered about the madam’s past. It didn’t matter. She’d said what she needed to say. Now that it was done Carol just wanted to get out. But she couldn’t leave, not yet. If she just ran Carol knew it would rebound on Janice. Carol couldn’t do that to her friend, the other girl had suffered enough. She had to satisfy the madam that she was firm in her decision.
Carol could feel her body taut, nerves on end. Her knees were tight together, her hands clasped over them. She didn’t want to look at the madam, couldn’t, didn’t want to see what was in her eyes. Instead she bent her head, fixed her eyes on her clasped hands. She needed to answer the madam.
“No, no, it wasn’t, it’s just something I need to do.” She could hear own breathing, ragged and uneven. Could feel the desires roiling within her, refusing to die. She tightened the grip her hands had on each other and told herself that she could beat the feelings, that her needs weren’t in charge. She heard, rather than saw, the madam rise up and then come sit next to her.
Don’t call me that. Don’t call me that. Stephanie wouldn’t quit. Stephanie was a whore. It would be so easy to be Stephanie.
“I know how much you love the work,” Mrs Bowen continued. “How much you love what you do. You sure this is right for you?” The madam’s voice was laced with consideration and concern.
Carol nodded, then jumped in her seat. She could feel the madam’s finger running up her bare thigh. She wished she had leapt out of her chair. She wished she’d taken the time to go home, get something other than the skimpy dress she’d worn to see Conti. But she hadn’t, didn’t, do either. She sat there, wondering at her own indecision. Electricity sparked from Mrs Bowen’s touch, giving life to the memories of every man who had touched her. Carol wanted to say no, but the words died in her throat.
“I know how much you enjoy this, Stephanie, when a man takes what he wants from you. You’ve told me so yourself.” Mrs Bowen’s hand was caressing her breast now, the thing fabric of her dress not protecting her, the sparks turning to fire. Carol knew that the whore inside her wanted to be touched, to be used. But that was Stephanie, not her. Maybe Stephanie did want to be a whore, but she was Carol, not Stephanie, the policewoman, not the whore, she wasn’t the role she played. She didn’t want this, no matter how much she couldn’t stop the memories of how men had touched her breasts, fondled and abused them.
One of Mrs Bowen’s arms had reached around Carol, was holding her, the hand running slowly up and down her side, their bodies pressed together. The madam’s other hand was gently caressing Carol’s cheek.
“No, please.” Images tumbled through Carol’s mind, of men’s hands on her, of them touching every part of her body. She was getting aroused, more than that, she wanted it. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, give in. She was a police officer, not a prostitute, She wouldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let it happen.
Really? an errant thought taunted her. Then why don’t you just get up and walk away?
Carol didn’t have an answer for that.
Mrs Bowen leant towards her, the madam’s lips a finger’s width from her ear. “I can tell how much you still want it,” the older woman whispered. “How much you need it.” It was true, much as Carol wanted to deny it, it was true.
“Think about it Stephanie, all the fun times you’ve had, all the fun times you could still have.” As the madam spoke the hand that had been on Carol’s cheek slipped down her body, first lingering over her neck, then brushing her nipple, finally returning to her thigh, heading slowly towards her centre. Carol remembered that she’d never replaced the panties that Conti had destroyed, her pussy was exposed, open, wet and needy as the madam’s hand inched closer and closer. The images of men playing with her, using her, tumbled through her mind. She couldn’t stop them. She couldn’t stop Mrs Bowen. She had to but she didn’t know how. All she could do was repeat to herself, wordlessly, I want to be a policewoman, I want to be a policewoman. The words slipped away, just words, without power, almost without meaning. She didn’t understand where her determination had gone. She needed her strength, but it had deserted her. In its place was only need.
She’s the madam, she says what goes. Those words had meaning. Power. She couldn’t deny them. Carol knew what the madam wanted her to do.
“All those men out there, just waiting for a pretty girl like you.” The words were purred, Mrs Bowen’s lips were so close to Carol’s ear.
Carol tried to ignore the fingers that caressed her skin where her leg ended, “I, I don’t want to be a whore.”
I want to be a prostitute. The words echoed around her head, giving the lie to what she’d said out loud.
“Are you sure dear?” Mrs Bowen whispered, her voice low and sensual, Carol quivering in response. “I think you do. I think I know what a girl like you wants. I think you want it more than anything else. I think you’re a wet, needy, little whore who just wants her tight little pussy stuffed full of some man’s cock.” The madam’s voice lanced through Carol. It almost felt like having her pussy filled. She winced at the careless degradation, she didn’t want to think of herself as a needy little whore but the words pulled at her, ate at her resolve. They were how she’d thought of herself. A needy little whore wanted to fuck, not say no.
She’s the madam, she says what goes. The words were in her head, mixing with Copeland’s words. She almost wanted Stephanie to take charge. Stephanie wouldn’t be conflicted. But the she couldn’t find the girl, almost as if Stephanie was hiding from her. But that was impossible, Stephanie was just a role she played, however dangerous and intoxicating the role was. But it wouldn’t come. She was Carol, and the words were in her head.
Why won’t you help me? she asked, not sure who she was talking to.
I want to be a prostitute.
Carol could feel the madam’s fingers drifting closer and closer to her pussy. She couldn’t deny how wet she was, how much she wanted something, anything, in her pussy. She heard a small moan, and realised that it was her own. But she couldn’t let this happen, this wasn’t why she was here. This wasn’t what she wanted.
Really? a voice in her head, Stephanie, asked. So why aren’t you stopping it?
Carol unclasped her hands, moved one to try to push the madam’s hand away. “Please, no.” But it was a feeble gesture, there was no strength in it.
You sure you don’t want this?
Carol wanted to deny it. She couldn’t want this. Not what the madam was doing. Not to be prostitute.
She’s the madam, she says what goes.
She had to try.
“Stop,” Carol moaned.
Mrs Bowen’s fingers halted their advance, a hair’s breadth from the lips of Carol’s aching pussy.
“Stop?” the madam asked. “All right dear, I’ll stop, if you can honestly, swear to God honestly, tell me that you really want me to stop. That you really want to stop being a whore. Can you honestly say that?”
Want to stop being a whore? Of course she did, Carol thought, that was why she was here. Then why couldn’t she say anything? A raging need was flooding through her and Carol couldn’t find the strength to fight it. She was drowning in memories, all the pleasure, all the times she’d cum, how good it had felt. She wanted to say no. Just one little word. Make the madam stop, let her reclaim her life. Carol didn’t understand why it was so hard. All she had to do was say no.
I want to be a prostitute.
It didn’t matter. You could want something without giving in. People did that all the time. Didn’t take the last piece of chocolate cake. Didn’t blow the last of their week’s wages on a new dress.
Carol looked around the room, trying to ignore the madam’s hands on her, the feelings they were drawing out of her. She looked at the plump, comfortable, couches, where she’d sat so often and talked to the madam. At the lamps, the other furnishings, that made the room look so familiar, so welcoming. Her eyes fell on one of the chairs, the one she’d knelt before, naked except for her shoes, pretending there was a man there, a man who would pay her for sex. All she had to do was say no and she’d never be here again. The madam’s hand, gently stroking her sensitive skin, would be withdrawn, and she’d never whore herself again. Never have to subject herself to that. Never be bought and paid for. Never have six, eight, ten different men fuck her in one day. Never be aroused by a stranger’s hand. Never get turned on as some man’s cum splattered over her. Never be brought to a screaming orgasm by a man she’d never see again. Never spend hour after hour in a sexual haze, pleasure coursing through her veins, as she barely recovered from one cock before the next one rammed home in her.
I want to be a prostitute.
She couldn’t think like that. She couldn’t possibly still want that, not enough to give up any hope of any other future. But the memories wouldn’t leave her alone and the words wouldn’t leave her alone and the madam’s hand was maddeningly, infuriatingly still there, not touching her pussy, not giving her any relief, but building an arousal in her that she couldn’t fight.
She could say no. Never be fucked like that again. Never feel the joy she’d felt when Patrick had given her the bracelet. Carol remembered the mobster wrapping it around her wrist. How good she’d felt. How he knew to push her into mindless screaming orgasms and draw the last ounce of pleasure from her writhing body.
She couldn’t want that.
Carol felt tears stream down her face, “I, I don’t want.”
“What’s that dear?” the madam whispered, “what don’t you want”
“I don’t want to be a whore,” Carol sobbed.
“I think you do dear,” the madam’s voice was all sympathy and concern. “Look at how the very idea of quitting is making you feel. All tears and pain. The idea of quitting hurts, doesn’t? It hurts so much. You don’t want to hurt like this, do you?”
Carol could agree with that. She was breaking up, being torn apart. She felt worse than she ever had. She knew how much she wanted to whore, how much she wanted that pleasure, how much it hurt to let it go. “No.” was all she could manage.
“Well, we need to make that hurt go away then don’t we.”
She’s the madam, she says what goes.
“Yes. Please,” Carol was still crying, she could taste her own tears.
“I know how to make the pain go away. You want the pain to go away, don’t you Stephanie?”
Carol just nodded, it was all she could do, her emotions, the arousal, the overwhelming need, all of it was too much. She was lost, drowning in the torrent of memories and conflicting emotions.
“I’ve taken care of you until now, haven’t I Stephanie?”
Had she? Carol had to admit that Mrs Bowen had. She didn’t work her girls too hard, had even stopped Janice and Carol coming in sometimes when she thought they needed a rest. She didn’t try to cheat her girls, always made sure they were happy and well. Yes, the madam had made her strip when she hadn’t wanted to, but that was all part of making her a better whore. Carol tried to hold on to the anger she felt towards the madam for that, but it slipped away.
I’m happy to be a prostitute.
Something was telling her that she shouldn’t trust the madam but Carol no longer knew what else to do.
I love being a prostitute.
“Well, you don’t seem to be able to make up your mind right now, so maybe you should listen to me.”
That makes sense, thought Carol. Then tried to stop herself. If she listened to the madam Carol knew what Mrs Bowen would tell her. The madam wouldn’t let her go. Carol couldn’t believe she might agree to that. But right now, she hurt so much, was so confused and lost and alone, that any certainty seemed better than none.
She’s the madam, she says what goes. The words were in her head. They made sense to her. She could barely remember why she should fight them.
Carol swallowed, tried to stop her tears and then said “Okay”.
“We both know what you really want, don’t we Stephanie? We know what a little whore like you always wants, don’t we?”
“Don’t play coy,” Carol could feel the madam’s breath on her ear. “A girl like you, she wants to fuck, wants to whore, needs to whore, needs to have her pussy filled.”
The madam’s fingers were moving again, creeping closer and closer to Carol’s pussy. It was wet and wanting and oh so painfully empty.
“Just say the word Stephanie and you can get what you want, what you’re waiting for, what a little whore like you needs, just tell me you’ll do what I say. Can you do that for me, Stephanie?”
Carol knew what it meant if she agreed. Those fingers, teasing, playing, that had been keeping her on edge for she didn’t know how long, would finally find her centre and she’d explode. It didn’t matter that they were Mrs Bowen’s fingers, a woman’s. She needed something in her pussy, she needed to cum, she needed to whore. But if she said yes, it would all be over, something in her would finally break, she’d have to admit that her need was stronger than her, that she couldn’t beat it, couldn’t fight it. No more pretence, no more thinking she could master her desire, that being a policewoman was more important than being a whore. The whore would win, pure and simple. She wouldn’t be Carol Taylor any more, undercover police detective. She’d be different. She might be Stephanie Chambers, college drop-out. Whore. It would be so easy to just be that role. She’d be a whore, nothing more, it would define her life, define her, irrevocably. The thought scared her, pierced her to the core.
But she needed to cum so badly, the need was burning through her, crushing her. Like she needed oxygen, like she’d die if she didn’t. Carol couldn’t see the whore in her mind, it was just vast and dark and she was alone in there and afraid and all there was was a need that she didn’t know how to fight. Maybe, in the distance, she could hear the policewoman wailing, but she wasn’t sure. But she couldn’t say yes, she couldn’t damn herself like that.
“Just say yes Stephanie, I’ll take care of you. I’m sure there’s a man out there right now ready to pay for a good little whore like you.” Carol drew a great heaving breath as the madam’s fingers brushed over her pussy. She was so empty. Her mind was a vast echoing space, her pussy was a void. She needed them filled. She wanted to be good. The madam had said she could be good. She wanted the pain to go away, the ache in her head to stop. She knew there was only one way that was going to happen.
She’s the madam, she says what goes.
“Yes,” Carol sobbed, as more tears came.
“Yes what Stephanie?” the madam said, her calm tone like a beacon to Carol, something to latch onto in the storm of emotions.
“Yes, I’ll do it,” Carol felt parts of her melting as the madam’s fingers brushed her pussy lips.
“What will you do, Stephanie?”
“I’ll do it. I’ll whore. I’ll be a whore. I want to be a prostitute. I love being a prostitute,” Carol cried out in pain, then relief, then in pure sexual ecstasy as Mrs Bowen slipped two fingers into her pussy. The feeling, the fullness, the pleasure, leapt up her spine before ripping into her mind. Carol reeled as her world exploded. She twisted, caught the madam’s head in her hands and then mashed her lips into the older woman’s, tongue probing as the orgasm rolled over her.
The madam returned the kiss, let Carol hump her fingers until the young woman fell back, exhausted. Carol felt more than saw the madam gently extract herself.
“You’re a good girl Stephanie,” Mrs Bowen whispered gently. “Everything’s alright now, isn’t it?”
Alright? How can anything be all right? Carol asked herself. I’ve just agreed to be a whore. I’ve just let you do me. But the thoughts had no force behind them. How did I let that happen? How could I say yes? I could still say no. I could get up and walk away. But she didn’t, realised that she didn’t want to, that she wouldn’t, that her need was too great. Nothing else seemed important, nothing else mattered. She was numb, in a bubble. All she felt was an emptiness. An emptiness that could be filled by a cock whose owner had paid her for the use of her body.
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Carol smiled at the madam.
She’s the madam, she says what goes.
“Well, you just remember that I’ll always know what’s best for you. Now, you clean yourself up and I’ll go find you a nice man.” Mrs Bowen sounded so wholesome, Carol thought she might have been looking for a dance partner for the young woman at a church party.
“Yes Mrs Bowen.”
Carol used some tissues she found to at least make herself presentable, wipe the tears away. There was no makeup, but Carol thought it would do. I’m a whore. I want to be a whore. I love being a whore. They were more than words. They were truths. Had been for longer than she wanted to admit to herself.
Mrs Bowen soon returned, bringing a man with her. There was nothing memorable about him. He wasn’t particularly ugly, nor particularly good looking. But he was a man, and he could fill Carol’s pussy, fill the need she felt at the core of her being.
She smiled at him and said “Hello. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Carol lost count of the men she serviced that day. She went home happy. Yet the happiness drained away as she readied herself for bed. She knew what she’d done. Knew what it meant. She should be angry, at herself, at Mrs Bowen. She should be despairing, railing. Resolving to go back the next day and tell the madam no, for real this time. She knew that she wouldn’t. She’d been happy all day, losing herself in what she was doing. Lost, Carol knew she was lost. There was no strength left in her to fight her desires, her needs. That had been proven today, there was no point trying again and she knew that she didn’t really want to. Yet she could feel a blackness stealing over her, the despair she’d expected finally sneaking in.
Why didn’t you help me? she asked, trying to find Stephanie in her head.
I’m you. So why didn’t you help yourself? And who says I didn’t anyway?
It was no answer. That night, Carol cried herself to sleep, quiet sobs, desperately hoping Janice would hear nothing.
The next few days were the same. Carol would go to the brothel, a tingling feeling radiating from her pussy as soon as it came in sight, eager for whatever the johns wanted. Losing herself in bliss as every cock rammed home.
Then the despair filling her again inside her and Janice’s apartment.
Forgotten again the next day.
It wasn’t long before Patrick sent for her. Sent a limousine to pick her up. Told her to wear the dress she’d worn at the party. Carol loved the look in his eyes as he gazed at her. She preened and spun and smiled at him. He’d paid for her whole night, he could do anything he wanted. She wanted his cock inside her. But when he took her by the arm he didn’t lead her to a bedroom. Instead Carol found herself in the room with the great table.
Carol froze. It was where she’d planted one of the bugs. The bug would still be there. It would pick up her voice. The tapes wouldn’t go straight to Wainwright. It would be organised crime, not undercover, that would receive them. But maybe he’d hear them eventually. Then he’d recognise her voice. And want to know what she was doing there.
She gripped Patrick’s arm, the mobster leaning in to kiss her, Carol shivering in response.
“You okay baby doll?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she lied, hoping a single word wasn’t enough to give her away. She wished she hadn’t come here. Or that they’d gone straight to a bedroom. There were no bugs in the bedrooms. There she could just be a whore, and not worry about anything else.
Patrick steered her to the table, which was set with elegant plates and silver cutlery. Things too fine, Carol thought, for a whore like her.
He sat her at the end of the table which held the corner where she’d hidden the bug.
As Patrick made his way to the other end of the table she reached under and yanked out the wires connecting the device to its battery.
In a tiny corner of her mind what was left of the policewoman cried bitter tears.
Carol tried not to think about what she’d done. Tried to console herself that the other two bugs would still be working. She knew she’d let another part of herself go. But why should a whore care about whether police eavesdropping worked or not?
Then she frowned, as she realised there was a third place set at the table. Patrick was looking at it too, his face impassive. He signalled one of his bodyguards over. Patrick whispered something in the man’s ear. The bodyguard nodded and left.
He was soon back, half leading, half dragging, a girl with him. An actual girl. Carol guessed she was twelve, maybe thirteen at most. She was wearing jeans, and a tie-dyed blouse. She didn’t look happy. But she didn’t look scared.
“Dad!” the girl protested.
“This,” Patrick said evenly, “is my daughter Ellen. Ellen, this is Stephanie. Stephanie Chambers.”
“Hello Ellen,” Carol ventured. She’d guessed that Patrick had a daughter, but she’d never thought she’d meet her. Couldn’t understand why she was meeting the girl now. Why was Patrick exposing his daughter to a whore?
Ellen glared at her. Then she spun back to her father. “This another of your whores?” the girl sneered.
Carol bristled. Not at being called a whore. That’s what she was. But at the thought that Patrick might have others.
“Shut up and sit down!” Patrick bellowed. Then he stopped himself. He stared pointedly at his daughter. “You’re going to sit here and you’re going to eat. Like someone civilised. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything. And for your information, young lady, I’m not seeing anyone else.”
Carol smiled at that. She even kept smiling when Ellen would look at her and mouth ‘whore’.
To Patrick Carol just smiled and nodded at everything the mobster said during the meal. Gave the answers she thought he wanted. Ellen stormed out when the meal was over.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” Patrick commented. “It hasn’t been easy for her since her mother died. Make an effort with her.”
Carol had no idea what he meant. She didn’t expect to see the girl again. Why he’d introduced them at all was a mystery. She’d never met the family of any other of her johns.
But she wasn’t going to worry about it. She just wanted Patrick’s cock inside her. Later, as he ploughed into her, upstairs in that great big bed, she didn’t even think of it at all. She was a whore, only a whore.
And she was with the man who made her cum like no other.
Patrick kept her there, that night, only sending her home in the morning.
It was the one night she didn’t cry herself to sleep, exhausted as she was by the orgasms the mobster had driven her to.
But when she arrived home the blackness stole over Carol. The same blackness that caught her every time she left the brothel. Janice asked what was wrong. Carol brushed off her friend. She hadn’t told Janice any of the recent events. Janice didn’t even know Karen and Laura had been rescued. Carol wanted to keep it that way, delay Janice asking why Carol was still at the brothel. The answer was easy, it was what she wanted to do. She didn’t want anything else.
So why, Carol asked herself, was she suffering these black moods? She knew the fight was over, and whether she called it winning or losing didn’t matter. She was a whore. Nothing but a whore
Or at least that’s what she tried to tell herself. Even as she knew it wasn’t true. The policewoman was still there, lurking at the edge of her mind. All she’d managed was flipping things. Rather than a policewomen trying to pretend she wasn’t a whore, now she was a whore trying to pretend that was enough. That the policewoman didn’t matter.
I need to let her go.
Part of her wanted to. Wanted to so bad. If the policewoman wasn’t in her mind any more than she could just be the whore. Wouldn’t be pulled in two directions. But she still was. Stray thoughts nagged at her. That she could still walk away. That she was better than this. Carol could almost laugh. If those thoughts were true she wouldn’t have let the madam do what she’d done. Wouldn’t have agreed with her. Wouldn’t still be whoring.
I need to just be a whore.
There was an aching guilt in Carol’s gut. Every time she tried to sink into her role, forget anything but being a whore, the feeling pulled her back. Reminded her of how many times she’d promised herself she could beat this. Reminded her of how she’d failed.
She cried herself to sleep every night. Quietly, so Janice wouldn’t hear. And hoped her tears had dried by the morning.
She must have done a good enough job. When she arrived at the brothel after the night with Patrick all Mrs Bowen said was “He likes you, doesn’t he dear? Everything will work out if you listen to me.”
Mrs Bowen was happy with her. Carol could handle Janice, for now, but Wainwright was another matter. He would expect Carol, Detective Taylor, to front the enquiry, to come back to work after that. She didn’t know what would happen when that day arrived.
Carol wished that it was as easy as Mrs Bowen had made out. Maybe if Detective Taylor had ceased to exist, had vanished the moment Carol came, screaming under the madam’s expert manipulation, then it would be easy. She wouldn’t be plagued by doubts. But even if that were true Wainwright wouldn’t accept it. He’d drag her away, lock her up, maybe put her in the mental hospital. She’d thought that when she’d said yes to the madam that it was over. Be a whore, live Stephanie’s life. But she hadn’t done that. Hadn’t stepped into the role. Maybe she was just pretending that it was that easy.
She’d never be able to explain it to the police captain. He’d never accept that parts of her were gone, others so broken they could never be repaired. It didn’t matter that she could be happy, he’d never believe it. She might be broken, she knew that she’d made a terrible decision, but she couldn’t see how she could have made any other. The words where there, they were always there.
I want to be a prostitute.
I love being a prostitute.
It wasn’t just the words Copeland had put there. She was beholden to her madam as well.
She’s the madam, she says what goes.
Carol didn’t see how she could escape them. Not without being like Judy, looked in a mental hospital. For years. Years when she’d want to whore but couldn’t.
That thought scared her so much.
Why won’t you help me? she pleaded, staring into the mirror of the vanity she and Janice had bought. She looked like a whore, painted and preened, in a tight little dress with a low cut neck. She looked like Stephanie. But even her ability to step into her role had deserted her.
Because I can’t, not like you are now. It was the first peep out of that piece of her mind that she called Stephanie since the day she tried to tell Mrs Bowen that she was quitting.
What? she replied to her own thought. But Carol knew the answer. She was too stressed, too anxious. In too many pieces. She knew that she couldn’t play a role when she felt like that. With her own emotions too jagged she couldn’t leave herself behind and take on that other persona.
And even if she could being Stephanie wouldn’t help her. Wainwright would still think of her as Carol. So would Janice. Every minute was another tick on the clock, counting down to when Wainwright would summon her in. She felt sick just thinking about it. She knew now where the tears had come from, the bleak, black feeling. She couldn’t see any way out. He’d never let her alone, never let her be.
She didn’t even want to say no now. The thought of not whoring left her scared and cold. Every time she thought of being the policewoman she shook. But the idea wouldn’t leave her alone, the faint ghost of what she’d ben lurking at the edges of her mind.
Carol thought and thought and she couldn’t think of anything she could say or do that would satisfy the captain. Even if she resigned he’d hound her. He’d never let her sink into the life of a whore, his own guilt pursuing him. The feelings ate at her, tore at her. She started snapping at Janice, taking out her mood on her roommate, her friend, then tearfully apologising and refusing to talk about it. She could see the concern in Janice’s face.
“Is the work getting to you?” The redhead asked, cautiously.
Carol smiled, something she rarely did at home now, “No, no, hey. You seen me like this there?”
“No,” Janice replied. “Is the stress getting to you? That raid has to be soon, right?”
Carol had smiled and said yes and hated herself for lying to her friend.
Carol dragged herself from day to day, only her time at the brothel giving her any relief. She could lose herself, revel in being used, forget her worries about the future. Then the hammer fell. A phone call from Wainwright, irritation in his voice that she was still at Janice’s and not back in her own apartment. A time and a date for the hearing. Carol said yes, but she knew that she couldn’t do it. She’d fall apart if she even tried to act as a policewoman any more. She couldn’t live without whoring but Wainwright would never let Carol do that.
Later that night, lying awake in her bed, sleep nowhere to be found, she realised what the only way out was. The only way she could avoid Wainwright condemning her to a life of pain and misery as her needs went unmet. She couldn’t face any life but the one she had now. Nothing would be worse than losing it. There was only one way to avoid that, avoid that emptiness and despair. For a while Carol lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, acceptance seeping through her. There were some things she’d have to do, but they would be easy. It all seemed so clear now. She’d made her decision and she knew it was the only one she could make. Tears gone, blackness fading away, though not without an empty sense of loss, she could finally sleep.
The wind whipped Carol’s hair about her face. She’d only just had enough time, the hearing was tomorrow. She’d had to talk to Janice, make sure her friend wouldn’t get into any trouble when the inevitable questions came. Of course, Janice didn’t know exactly what Carol was planning, but she’d work it out soon enough. She was a smart girl. Everything else had been easy, just a few signatures, a few preparations. Carol paused and brushed the hair out of face. It was almost funny how easy it was to tie up the few loose ends she’d left lying around. Now it was over. She looked back, peering into the darkness. She could just see her Dodge Charger in the distance. She’d loved that car, it was odd to think she’d driven it for the last time. Wainwright wouldn’t be able to stop her now, she’d never have to worry about that again. He’d be all right. She’d left a signed statement on the driver’s seat. It put all the blame on her, told how she’d gone against his orders, overstepped the bounds. All her fault, no-one else’s. With that, the inquiry would be a formality. Especially when, well, especially when she wouldn’t be there.
Carol turned back to the way she’d been heading, towards the great bridge that spanned the bay.