Six years later
The heat was the first thing Carol noticed when she stepped out of the car. Dry. Not like the coast. Even in a city the size of her home you still knew you were living close to the ocean. But here you could tell that water was a long, long, way away. She was grateful that her dress didn’t have any sleeves, but she didn’t want to stay in the sun very long.
She needed to take care of her body.
With a flick of her hand Carol closed the door of the Ferrari. She’d enjoyed the drive. It was the longest time she’d spent behind the wheel in years. Probably since she’d abandoned her old Dodge.
Definitely the longest, she told herself. It had taken years before Patrick had let her drive at all. And it was only thanks to Wainwright that she had a licence in Stephanie’s name.
But she was here now. It hadn’t been easy persuading Patrick to let her make the trip. He didn’t like her being too far away. Mobsters were like that. Controlling. Wanting everything within easy reach.
And if she was too far away he couldn’t fuck her.
Carol liked it when Patrick fucked her.
I love being a prostitute.
If she was being honest, she loved it when Patrick fucked her.
I’m a whore.
She was still Patrick’s whore. His mistress if she wanted to put a polite term on their arrangement, but that was a euphemism. He fucked her, he gave her money, her gave her things.
Like the Ferrari.
She was a whore.
Carol wouldn’t have it any other way.
The trip had taken about six hours. It should have taken longer, but Carol had broken a few speed limits, revelling in the freedom of the road.
She wasn’t free. Every time she’d looked in the rear view mirror the black limousine had been behind her. The one carrying some of Patrick’s guards. She’d managed to persuade him to let her be alone in the car, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t being watched.
Being watched by Patrick’s guards was hardly the only way in which Carol wasn’t free.
I want to be a prostitute.
I want to be an informant.
She was. Both those things. It was why she was here.
She’d been an informant for six years. She’d been a prostitute for longer. It was six years since that day in the police interrogation cell where Wainwright had made Carol into an informant. Given her that role. Ever since that day she’d been carefully passing the police captain information. Seen mobster after mobster put away. But not Patrick. He was too careful.
She’d been Patrick’s whore for longer than she’d been an informant.
Carol leaned over, checked herself in the wing mirror of the Ferrari. She’d already checked into a hotel, grabbed something to eat, cleaned herself up after the drive. But it didn’t hurt to make sure. It never hurt to make sure. She was over thirty now. Not by much, but even so. And even if she looked like someone in her mid-twenties a whore should always look her best.
Mrs Bowen had taught her that.
Carol pulled a tube of lipstick out of her purse, touched up her lips. They didn’t really need it, but it was part of her image. Part of her role. Part of who she was.
I’m a whore.
It wasn’t lost on Carol that, bending over as she was and wearing such a short dress, her rear was presented to Patrick’s goons. They couldn’t touch her. Patrick would kill them if they did. But she liked to tease. It was part of her role. It also made the guards careless. If they thought she was a brainless bimbo then it was easier for her to meet with Wainwright. To gather the information he wanted. To inform.
I’m an informant.
That was almost as good as being a whore.
But being an informant was only a role. A whore was what she was.
Carol straightened up, looked around. She’d seen the photos but it was still hard to believe. It was a small town, the name not worth remembering. She wasn’t here for the sights. If anything she and her car were probably the two things most worth looking at in the whole town. At least if she could judge by the stares she was getting from a couple of locals perched on chairs in front of the hardware store. They’d been leaning back in those seats when she pulled up.
They were sitting up now.
Carol was fairly certain it wasn’t the only thing about them that was up.
She rewarded them with a smile, noticed the hand of one tighten on the arm of his chair.
What would you think if you knew I was a prostitute? She wasn’t sure it would make much difference. They wanted to fuck her. She could tell. She was sure she could get them to pay her. She’d like that. It would be clean, simple. Almost pure.
Carol had to stop herself laughing at the thought. Clean and pure weren’t words most people associated with prostitution. But to her it made sense. A man paid her, they fucked, he went away. Somewhere in there she’d have cum. She almost missed those days.
But Patrick would kill her and them if she sold herself to them. And it wasn’t why she was here.
Carol turned away from the men, headed a few steps down the sidewalk. Stopped in front of a door.
Can I do this?
You have to.
She had to.
Her roles demanded it.
With a sigh Carol pushed the door open, the cool of the air-conditioner a blessed relief.
“Hello, can I?” the voice died away as its owner’s jaw dropped.
“Hello Janice,” Carol smiled as she let the door close behind her.
It hadn’t been easy persuading Patrick to find Janice for her. Although in some ways it was. He already owned her body. She would do anything he wanted. But even as enthusiastic for their fucking as Carol always was there was always more she could do.
Carol thought it was the afternoon that she’d spent under Patrick’s desk, sucking him off, wearing only skimpy lingerie, that had persuaded him in the end. Or possibly the week she’d gone without underwear. Ellen had especially hated that one. Patrick’s daughter was nineteen now. At college, but still living at home.
Still hating her father’s mistress.
It didn’t matter what Ellen thought. Carol had enjoyed it all. She was Patrick’s whore.
Of course, she could have asked Wainwright to find Janice. But he’d have wanted to know why. She could have arranged it herself. Hired her own PI from the money Patrick gave her. That wouldn’t have been hard. But then Patrick would have wanted to know how she’d found her friend again. Persuading Patrick to find Janice had made getting him to let her make the trip easier. So Carol had planned ahead. That’s what you did in undercover work. Cover all the bases. As much as you could.
Of course, the reason she’d given him for the trip hadn’t been the real reason. Not quite.
“What?” the redhead exclaimed. “Steph? Carol? God, I don’t even know what to call you. What, what are doing here?”
As Carol slipped into the chair opposite her friend she feel Janice’s eyes staring at her, heard the redhead audibly swallowing. She wondered what thoughts were going through Janice’s mind. The visit was unexpected, Carol had arrived unannounced. Was Janice wondering what Carol had been doing for six years? Was she remembering what the pair of them had done together? The time they’d spent working in Mrs Bowen’s Brothel? Copeland. Escaping from his boat.
Carol was sure Janice wouldn’t have forgotten being a whore.
I want to be a prostitute.
Janice had learnt those words too.
“It’s still Stephanie,” Carol replied. “And can’t I just come see an old friend? I’m not interrupting am I?”
“Ah, no, umm. Just let me check my appointments.” Janice shuffled through papers on her desk, finally pulling out a black appointment book.
Carol used the time to examine her friend. The photos the PI had sent hadn’t been from that close. Janice wasn’t quite as Carol remembered her. She was older, of course. She’d put on some weight. There were dark lines under her eyes, an air of edges fraying about her. None of it was any surprise. It could all be fixed, given a little time and patience.
“Yeah, I’m free,” Janice announced at last. “Next appointment’s not for an hour or so. You want to get a coffee?” The redhead reached for her purse.
Carol waved her friend back into her seat. “Maybe in a bit. But it’s cooler in here than outside. So how’s business?” Carol looked around the small office. It was neat but not exactly pristine, the off-white paint peeling from one of the corners, the old air-conditioner labouring in one of the windows. The calendar on the wall, showing a beach somewhere far away. Carol had been in offices like this before. Knew there were a million of them across the country. Its occupant getting by. But only just.
“It’s okay,” Janice shrugged. “There’s always someone who needs an accountant.”
But maybe not that many, Carol added. I bet there’s a lot in this town who don’t think it’s a job for a woman.
“Take up a lot of your time?”
“Yeah,” Janice acknowledged. “And once we pay for a day sitter for the girls there’s not that much over. But they’ll be in school in a couple of years and by then I should have built this up. Oh, God, do you know about them? Heather and Amber. Er, just how did you find me? It’s not like my name’s Thornton anymore.”
The name on the door had been Janice DeWitt. Carol knew about that. And Janice’s daughters. She expected that being a mother explained the extra pounds. There weren’t too many. And Janice was only twenty seven. Even with the little wear and tear, the scanty makeup and the cheap office clothes Carol could still see the beauty her friend possessed.
“Yes, I know about them,” Carol admitted with a guilty smile. “The PI was very thorough.”
Janice frowned, her eyes raking over Carol. “PI? Why didn’t you go through the police? Oh God. You’re not? You’re not still with him?”
Carol knew who Janice meant.
“Patrick. Yes. And no. I’ve been living with him for about six years. You don’t think a police salary pays for a dress like this do you?” She waved her hand over her outfit. The dress might have been short, but it was expensive. Not to mention her heels and jewellery. “But I’m working with Wainwright too.”
Carol wondered if Janice would pick up on her phrasing. Carol wasn’t a policewoman anymore. She was an informant. But was far as she was concerned it was just as good. She was doing something important. Something right. Seeing criminals put away. It was so good.
On those few nights when Patrick didn’t make use of her just thinking about what she was doing made her cum.
“Stephanie!” Janice cried, almost leaping out of her seat “Should you be telling me? You always used to tell me how important it was to keep things quiet.”
Janice was right about that. You couldn’t be too careful when you were undercover. But Carol had always been able to trust Janice. Janice had lied to Mrs Bowen for her, had lied to Wainwright. And neither of those two, despite all their experience, had realised. Janice was good at it. Had always had Carol’s back.
Maybe you could have done it, Carol mused.
Back when she’d persuaded Wainwright to let her go undercover in the brothel one of Carol’s reasons had been that Janice had been too inexperienced to find the information they needed. They’d been wrong. Janice could have done it. But even if Carol had known it back then it wouldn’t have made any difference. Carol had joined the brothel because she wanted to whore.
She was a whore.
Janice had been one too, whatever she was now.
“I’ve been passing Wainwright information about Patrick’s organisation. And other mobsters he deals with. He doesn’t realise of course.” Carol might have been telling Janice how she organised the church fair. “But I can’t get information on the really important stuff. They keep that too close. I can see who comes and goes, pick up bits and pieces. It’s enough to get some of the small fry. But not him or the ones close to him. They won’t just tell me. And. Well.”
She could see Janice’s eyes go wide. She was sure that her friend understood. Everyone close to Patrick knew what Carol was. And that she was off-limits to anyone but Patrick. She’d picked up enough information to nibble at the edges of his organisation. But Patrick didn’t keep much written down, not that she could get to by herself, and Wainwright had said it was too risky for her to plant more bugs, now that she lived in the house. Anyone who knew anything really important was too smart to tell her. At least without some sort of incentive. And that was something she couldn’t provide. They all knew how Patrick would react if he found out she was doing anything like that.
“Six years?” Janice exclaimed. “You’ve been doing it for six years? How, how could you?”
Carol knew what her friend meant. Maybe. Maybe she meant how could Carol keep up the act for six years. That was easy. Carol was good at playing her role. Or maybe Janice meant how could Carol let Patrick fuck her for six years. That was easy too. She loved it when Patrick fucked her.
“It needs doing,” Carol shrugged. “And I love doing it. I need to.” Maybe Janice would think Carol only meant the informing. But she needed to be fucked as well.
Janice shook her head. “That can’t be right Carol. You can’t do it for that long. Not and stay sane. And why are you telling me anyway?”
Carol smiled. She knew it was a thin smile. Predatory. One of Stephanie’s smiles. Not the one that promised so much. That said the girl would do anything you wanted her to. And more than you could imagine. But one of Stephanie’s smiles just the same. The one she’d given Mrs Bowen’s girls when they got out of line.
Janice had been one of Mrs Bowen’s girls.
“Like I said, I can’t get the ones that know what I need to open up. But someone else could. Someone who wasn’t Patrick’s mistress. If there was someone else they could watch out while I looked for evidence, documents. But it would need to be someone I trusted. Someone who knew what she was doing.”
Janice frowned for a moment. Then her eyes went wide. “What? You can’t be serious. I stopped. You told me to stop.”
“I want to be a prostitute.” Carol let the words slip from her lips. They filled the space between the two women. It wasn’t that large a space. The office was barely larger than the cells on Copeland’s boat. Where Carol had learnt the words.
Where Janice had learnt the words.
Where they’d filled Janice’s mind.
The redhead was edging her chair back from the desk, fear etched on her face. Carol knew that at any moment she’d make a run for it.
“I’m happy to be a prostitute.” Every word was clear. Carol could feel them rippling down her spine. She was sure that Janice could as well.
“No, please, Carol. Don’t do this. I’m married. I’ve got kids.”
Janice was pleading, fear etched on her features. Part of Carol was agreeing with her friend, telling her not to do this. Janice had a life here. Had made one for herself, despite everything that had happened to her.
You need to do this. That was Stephanie. Whenever Carol doubted what she was doing Stephanie was there. You need to be strong.
Stephanie was right.
But this was her friend. Carol had been the one to make sure Janice had escaped from prostitution.
You can’t get him by yourself. Stephanie was right about that too. Carol had tried. She hadn’t told Janice how hard she had tried to find the information that would put Patrick away. She needed help. But the men around him where too clever, too paranoid, the ones who had been arrested too afraid to break the mobsters code of silence. There were too many guards to really search for information by herself.
Or maybe you didn’t try that hard, Stephanie teased. Maybe you like being Patrick’s whore too much. Every day Carol spent in the mansion was another day Patrick could fuck her. Another day she could be his whore.
Carol didn’t want to admit that Stephanie could be right. And even if she was, Carol was fixing it now.
“I want to be paid for sex.”
Carol could see Janice’s lips moving, forming the words, but no sound was coming from the redhead’s mouth.
Carol knew that what she was doing was wrong, so wrong. But it was right as well. Informing felt so good. Being a whore felt so good. Carol couldn’t imagine anything better. She’d spent days, weeks, debating whether she could do this. And every time she’d thought about how good being a whore made her feel. How she came when Patrick fucked her. How she’d cum with every one of her johns.
She knew that it had been like that for Janice too. They’d told each other.
Informing made Carol cum.
It would make Janice cum too.
It was so good.
Just the idea was making Carol wet.
“I want to be a prostitute. You can say it Janice. You want to say it.” It was so easy to say the words.
“I want,” the redhead whispered. Then licked her lips and swallowed, her eyes wide. “Please Carol.”
“Please what?” Carol asked. She had to do this. She had no choice. There was no other way. “Please make you do this? You know how good it felt. I want to be a prostitute. How good it felt to cum when a john fucked you. I’m happy to be a prostitute.”
Carol could see it in Janice’s eyes, her friend staring at her. The words were still in Janice’s head. Carol could see them lurking there. Waiting. Waiting for their chance to come out again.
And wasn’t she doing Janice a favour anyway? What was the alternative? That she let Janice waste away in this fleapit of a town? When she could be helping put away the scum that floated around Patrick?
When she’d get to cum like Carol always did?
Carol knew which one she’d choose. Which one she had chosen.
Which one Janice would choose.
Or maybe the choice wasn’t theirs. Wainwright. Bowen. Patrick. All telling Carol what her role was. Now she was telling Janice. Playing her roles made Carol feel so good. It would make Janice feel so good too.
“I’m happy to, to be a, a.” Janice’s voice spluttered and died. From the look in her eyes something else was dying as well.
“I want to be a prostitute,” Carol declared. It wasn’t just for Janice that she was saying it.
“My, my girls,” Janice pleaded. “My husband.”
“What about him?” Carol asked. Or maybe it was Stephanie. The Stephanie with the face of an angel and the coldness of an ice storm. The Stephanie who did whatever it took to keep Mrs Bowen’s girls in their place. “Did you ever tell him what you were? I bet you didn’t Janice. Would he have wanted you if he knew? I want to be a prostitute. That’s what you are. I bet he wouldn’t have wanted you. I’m doing you a favour Janice. I’m happy to be a prostitute. You know the words. He’d have found out some day. I’m just getting you there quicker. If a man pays me he can do anything he wants.”
Carol didn’t know when she’d risen out of her seat. She was leaning over Janice’s desk, her hands supporting her as Janice cringed away. Like Mrs Bowne’s girls had cringed away from Stephanie when the madam let her loose on them.
“You want this Janice. I want to be a prostitute.”
Carol didn’t know whether Stephanie was lying or telling the truth. She knew it was cruel. But she needed help if she was going to take Patrick. It would feel so good when she did.
Janice would enjoy it too.
Carol knew that she could have waited. She could have gone to coffee with Janice. Given her friend just that little bit longer before she was ensnared. She could have pretended that they were just two old friends catching up. Asked Janice about her life here. Maybe gone to the small house Janice and her husband owned. She knew where it was, had seen the photos. Hell, she knew how big the mortgage on it was. She could have met Janice’s daughters. Even met her husband. The man Carol was going to steal Janice away from.
Carol was so wet now.
But what would have been the point in waiting? She could talk to Janice afterwards. See her house, meet her daughters. When she was helping Janice pack.
Once Janice had learnt the words again.
“And about your daughters, bring them along.” She wasn’t going to separate Janice from her daughters. That would be too cruel. “You want them growing up in this place? You’ll have so much money Janice. I’ll make sure of that. They’ll have everything they need. Just say the words. I’m want to be a prostitute.”
“I’m want to be a, a, prostitute.” Janice moaned. Carol wasn’t sure if it was fear or pleasure. She knew what it would be soon.
It felt so good.
“I’ll let a man who pays me do anything he wants.” It had been years since Carol had said the words out loud. She didn’t need to. They were part of her. But it was so easy to say them. So easy to remember them. They were like breathing. Like slipping into some familiar clothes.
“I’ll let a man who pays me doing anything he wants.” Janice’s eyes were wide. There was something glassy and distant about them. Carol thought she could look right through them. Into Janice’s soul.
Into the soul of a whore.
You’re a whore, just like me.
“I want to be a prostitute,” Carol breathed. Just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the air-conditioner. She didn’t need to be any louder. Not when she could hear the words in her head, over and over.
She knew that they were in Janice’s head too.
“I want to be a prostitute,” her friend echoed, not even waiting until Carol was finished. Janice’s voice was flat. Empty.
“I’m happy to be a prostitute.” They were almost in synch now. Janice’s arms were hanging limply by her side as she looked up at Carol, her expression empty. Carol was reminded of how her friend had been when she’d released Janice from her cell on Copeland’s boat, needing to be told what to do. Too helpless to even escape by herself.
She wasn’t trying to escape now.
Neither of them were.
“I want to be paid for sex.”
“I love it when men use me.”
They were repeating the words together, staring into each other’s eyes, Janice seated, Carol still leaning over her desk. It wasn’t the first time they’d echoed them back to each other. The sounds of their voices mixing, driving the words deeper into their minds.
Janice’s eyes were so empty.
“I want to be a prostitute.”
Carol knew that her eyes were anything but empty. She knew that if she could see herself she’d see a sharp light there.
“I’m happy to be a prostitute.”
This was too easy.
“I want to be paid for sex.”
The words must have been in Janice’s head all these years. Swimming under the surface. Waiting for their chance. Carol had told Janice to stop whoring herself once she’d graduated. Janice had done that. But she hadn’t done anything to make the words go away. They were still in Janice’s head.
Like they were still in hers.
“I love it when men use me.”
The heat was building in Carol’s pussy, electric fire arcing up to her breasts. She wanted to be touched. To be fucked. She needed it. But she couldn’t. She was a whore. A whore didn’t chose when she got touched. She got touched when she was paid. She was Patrick’s whore.
She was more than that. She was an informant. Everything about her was for sale. Her body. What she knew. Even an informant was a whore, in a way. Giving up secrets for money. Doing anything for money.
Carol loved to be paid.
It made her cum.
“When a man pays me I’ll do anything he wants.”
It was true. It was so true. For both of them. But it wasn’t all that Carol needed from Janice.
“You’re going to learn some new words Janice.” Carol smiled. She hoped her expression wasn’t unkind. She knew what was doing to her friend. And Janice was her friend. Maybe her only friend in the world.
What Carol did was so good. Why wouldn’t she share it with her friend?
Do it, Stephanie snarled, that harsh, sweet, voice that had Mrs Bowen’s whores wilting.
Carol had been one of Mrs Bowen’s whores.
“Don’t you remember?” Carol crooned. “You love it when I give you new words.”
“New? No. Please, no.” There was still a little bit of Janice still resisting.
Carol could tell how weak that resistance was.
“Yes Janice. I want to be a prostitute. Just the words in your head. Here’s some new words for you Janice. I want to be a police informant. Say that for me Janice.”
Janice was gently swaying from side to side as she sat in her seat. Carol recognised it from the last time she’d taught Janice new words. The last time she’d seen her friend, the night Patrick had bought her. When Carol had told Janice that she’d stop being a prostitute. She was undoing all that good work now. Because Janice could be something more than just a whore.
“I want to be a police informant.” There was no hesitation form Janice now, even if her voice was still so flat.
“I want to inform, informing is almost as good as sex.” Carol was only telling Janice the truth. At least, it was true for her.
It would be true for Janice.
“I want to inform, informing is almost as good as sex.”
Carol could see the flush in Janice’s cheeks, she her chest heaving. She was sure Janice was remembering just how good it could be.
“Informing makes me cum.” Carol had to share it with her friend. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise. She could have just asked her friend to inform, once Janice was a whore again. Janice would probably have said yes. She’d always helped Carol. But if all Carol did was ask then Janice wouldn’t have felt the same way about it as Carol did. That wouldn’t have been fair. She needed to share this with her friend.
And if Janice loved it as much as Carol did she wouldn’t want to stop.
“Informing makes me c-cum.”
Carol wondered just how close her friend was to cumming now.
She so was close to it herself. She was teetering on the edge, her centre so slippery, so hot, her walls about to crash down. But she couldn’t let herself, not yet.
And riding the edge was so delicious.
Carol rose from her chair, headed to the door. She flipped the sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’. She knew just how much time she had. She’d left the mansion early, to give herself time. She knew when Janice was expected home. Knew when Janice’s husband would be home. There’d be time for Janice to pack and for her and her daughters to leave with Carol. Janice’s husband would receive a visit, sometime after that, from some very dangerous men. Who would offer him enough money to pay off his mortgage if he let his wife go. And never bothered her again. They wouldn’t say what the alternative was. But it would be clear.
Carol had promised Patrick she’d be coming home with more than just souvenirs. Patrick remembered Janice, knew how popular she’d been. Knew how much Mrs Bowen would owe him for getting one of her best girls back.
But that was in the future. There were hours now until Janice was due home. Carol knew exactly what she had to do with those hours. She turned back to her friend.
“That’s good Janice. But we need to make sure you’ve learnt it all. So we’re going to say them again. Then make you forget that I taught them to you. So. Again. I want to be a prostitute.”
“I want to be a prostitute.” Janice’s words were perfectly timed with hers as Carol slipped back into her seat. The words were going around and around in her head. Just as Carol knew they were going around and around in Janice’s. She knew that they’d done this before. Years ago. In a police interrogation room. Yet another room where they’d learnt the words.
“I’m happy to be a prostitute.” Their voices were in perfect synch. Like their thoughts.
“I want to be paid for sex.” Janice’s eyes were so empty. Carol wondered if hers were now too. Even if her eyes were empty, her head wasn’t. It had the words in it. Going around and around and around. Telling her what to do. Telling her what to be.
Her nipples were so hard. She was so wet.
Was Janice wet?
Carol was sure that she was.
They were both so close to cumming.
“If a man pays me he can do anything he wants.”
Janice was even ready with the new words, her repetition just a fraction behind Carol’s. Then matching her, word for word
“I want to be a police informant.”
“I want to inform, Informing is almost as good as sex.”
“Informing makes me cum.”
“Cum now Janice.”
Janice’s head flung back, her back arched, her red hair spilling about her shoulders as she cried out. Carol barely heard it, her own climax splintering her thoughts, everything gone but the words. The idea of being a whore, being an informant, was just so good, the waves rippling down her arms and legs to set her fingers and toes tingling.
Carol didn’t know how long it took to pull herself back together again. Janice was simply staring at her, blank-faced and wide-eyed. Carol knew that the words were all that there were in her friend’s head.
She could help with that.
“I want to be a prostitute.”
There were hours before Janice had to be home. Hours for them to repeat the words over and over. Hours for them to cum, again and again, burning the words into their minds.
It was so good.