Worlds Worst Whore

We're sitting at a table in a nondescript hotel room, on a nondescript night, and we're wearing nondescript clothes.

Our nondescript client sighs, nondescriptly, and says:

"I only pay for one whore," in a very descript way.

I bite my lip. I'm somewhat offended, but I roll with it.

"I'm not an escort," I say, looking at the bourbon in my glass instead of his eyes, "Milla is." I nod towards my colleague, sitting next to me, and she smiles and waves.

Our client chuckles. "She'd better be," he says, then gobbles down his drink.

I've know this sorry fat sack of shit for a whole six minutes and I'm already counting how many bones he'd break if I threw him out the window.

I look at Milla. She's laughing. Well, fuck her. Literally. She's the one with the dubious honor of getting fucked by mister Wild Turkey breath.

Our client recovers from the alcohol. He points watery eyes at me, then a finger. His glass slips and falls and the ice rolls all over the carpet. He doesn't care.

"And you?" he says, "what are you for?"

Milla is playing Candy Crush on her phone all innocent like. You could paint a halo on her redhead and call her saint. You could swear she's gonna sprout wings any second now.

If only you knew.

"My name is Nadia, and I'm here for... oversight," I say, still not looking him in the eye. It's not quite the truth but also not a lie. I like to think of my job as damage control, of sorts. The unsightly sort.

"I don't need no oversight," he says, "I'm no goddamn rapist."

Milla almost chokes on her drink, then says: "So you're a virgin?"

He cocks his head. "Excuse me?"

I laugh. Not because it's funny, and it's fucking not, but I force it out to cover up Milla's rant.

"You know I don't do virgins!" she's yelling at me, "they get attached and stuff. That faggot from last year still sends me Valentine's day cards! In October!"

I'm almost out of breath when she finally shuts up.

"What Milla meant is," I say, breathless, "that you look quite young for your age."

"Yeah!" Milla nods and smiles, "'cause you're like eighty-two, right?"

I throw my drink at her and she yelps. She's drenched in whiskey and she's dancing around and whimpering curses as she tries to fish an ice cube out of her cleavage.

The client looks at me, expressionless.

I say: "Whops."

He checks his watch.

I say: "I must have slipped."

He sighs. I look at Milla. That ice cube really took a trip down lingerie town.

I say: "I'm so sorry."

The client says: "Look, I only have two hours. I'm not paying for overshit or whatever it is that you do."

I nod: "Oversight is free."

"Good," he says, "I need to take a shit." He stands up and heads for the bathroom. "Our time starts once I get out."

I smile at him until he disappears past the bathroom door. Meanwhile, Milla won her battle on cold, hard waters. She sits back on the chair next to mine and resumes her Candy Crush game.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready?" I tell her.

She replies with a middle finger.

Fine. I'll be the professional, today. Again.

I stand up and look around the room. Ugly green wallpaper with some ugly yellow motif. On the window, the brown blinders, which I'm pretty sure must have been white at some point, are rolled all the way down. I don't think it's a matter of privacy, more like hygiene.

There's a brown carpet on the brown floor. A double bed wrapped in yellow covers. At first I think it's got some kind of polka-dot thing going on but oh Christ those are sex stains aren't they. Just looking at it I get itchy. Can you get crabs at a distance?

There's a ceiling fan spinning lazily over our heads. It's doing nothing for the stench of cabbage.

I drop my purse on the table and pull two scented candles out of it. I lay them on the bedside table and light them on. Immediately, the orchid perfume makes the room more livable.

A cellphone rings. Milla answers it: "Hello," she says, "no, not right now. We're about to, why?"

Next, a bright green velvet sheet. I drape it over the bed so Milla won't get STDs. Not from the bed at least. You might think a red velvet sheet might have been best, but I disagree. This shade of green is a perfect compliment to Milla's skin -- she'll look sexy and enticing on it, and hopefully he won't notice that she's possessed by the devil.

"Oh, I see," Milla says at the phone, "but... Pine Tree Hotel. Room 403. No, not really."

I spread rose petals all over the bed, then start setting up the sex toys. A couple vibrators, bullets, butt plugs. A magic wand, that one's always a hit. Lube. A fleshlight. Why not?

"I know, right?" she's still on the phone. I hear a female voice on the other end but I can't hear what she's saying. "Wait, what? No, fuck you. First off, I'm an escort, not a whore! Second, that's really not my problem."

I turn the lights off and my job is done. Now it's all up to Milla. She'll just milk him a few times, we'll get paid and call it a night.

Easy peasy.

"You know what?" Milla says, still on the phone, "Why don't you go fuck yourself with an eggplant?" then she throws the phone away and it breaks on the window sill.

"Damn," I say, "who was that?"

"I dunno," Milla says, then shrugs and resumes her game. On her iPhone.

The phone on the ground isn't hers.

I grab her shoulders. She's still wet from the whiskey.

"Whose cellphone was that?"

"Let go of me!"

"Tell me!"

"Fuck, how should I know?! It was here on the table, what was I supposed to do, let it ring?!"

"Yes! Yes, you were!"

One hand on my forehead, I start frantically looking around for all the pieces of the phone. It wasn't hers, it wasn't mine. It could only be...

"Well, excuse me," Milla says, taking off her coat. She throws it on the bed and half the rose petals fall off. "But they never taught me not to answer phones back in bitch school. Then again, I wasn't top of the class like you, Nadia."

I grab the battery and the back cover. I put it back together and turn it on, and it still works. Thankfully, it doesn't ask me for a PIN.

Latest call received, three minutes ago, from... "Worthless Fuck-Hole". Did we just ruin his fuckbuddy relationship?

The toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens. I throw the phone back on the table. Our client walks out. The fat sack of shit is already naked and he's scratching his burly gut. The ungodly draft that follows him murders my orchids and possibly also my sense of smell.

Forever.

"Did my phone go off?" he asks, "I thought I heard it go off."

"No!" I say before Milla can answer.

"Damn," he says, "I'm getting paranoid. As soon as I leave the house for ten fucking minutes, I get constant calls from that worthless fuck-hole of my wife."

A chill runs down my spine. I stare daggers at Milla, a political smile still forced in my mouth, straining all my facial muscles.

"Does she?" I say through my teeth.

"Yup," he says, "she's always like 'where you going' and 'when you back' and all that jazz. Tonight I told her I'm going grocery shopping so she won't be a pain."

"Grocery shopping," I tell him, "at 10 P.M.? And you're going back without groceries?"

He nods and smiles. "Of course!" he says, "Imma tell her it was closed!"

I take off my glasses and massage my eyes. "That's," I say with closed eyes as the world starts spinning, "that's very clever, sir."

"I know, right!" he says, punching his chest.

"Hel-lo?" Milla says. She's sitting on the bed, leaning back, legs crossed. She's wearing just a corset, a short skirt and nylon stockings. All black. "Are you going to undress me or what?"

Only now he notices her. Staring at her pale cleavage, he hurriedly lumbers toward her. Milla never was very gifted in the breast department, but this tight corset she loves to wiggle into really does a number on her bosom.

"Ow!" he says, cracking his toes on the coffee table, "who the fuck put the lights out? Turn them back on!"

"But," I say, "the atmosphere, the-"

"Fuck your eco-hippie-bullshit!" he yells, "I think I broke my toe!"

I sigh and comply. There's probably an angry wife heading our way and I've got bigger things to handle than this slob's lack of taste.

Milla giggles as our client fumbles with her corset, his face sinking in her chest.

I get to the window and, with a great risk to my personal health, drag down the disgusting blinders with a finger to take a peek outside.

Behind me, clothes hit the floor and giggles turn to moans. She's faking it.

It's a dark snowy night and we're up on the fourth floor. Nonetheless, a crowd of frantic people runs around the sidewalk and there's constant traffic going in and out of our hotel. I have no way of telling which one is our client's wife, if any. I don't even know what she looks like.

Maybe I could ask him. I turn around, and Milla's naked, laying on her back. Her legs are raised. I see the flowery tattoo sleeve running from her hip all the way to her ankle. The fat guy's eating her out and she's pulling at her nipple piercings, moaning her lungs out in the fakest orgasms I've ever heard.

"Cut it out!" I mouth to her, but her eyes are closed and she can't see me. I know this guy's an idiot but he will notice such an obviously fake moaning, and he'll get pissed or worse, he won't pay us.

Milla lifts his face away from her crotch: "That's enough!" she says, "you made me come three times already..."

He snickers. One of his hands grabs her boob and the other starts fumbling about her pussy. Milla arcs her back and inhales in the most bogus way possible.

"Three?" he says, "you sure about that?"

There we go. She did it again. Even with my supervision, her silly little mouth ruined everything once more. I know she's got the talent. I know she loves the job. If only she could keep her stupid mouth stuffed with cock...

"Hmm, alright," the dumb little saboteur moans, "actually, it was six."

He puffs up at this. I see he's pushing three fingers inside her, two in her pussy and one in her ass. No lube. Serves her right.

"I just thought," she says, and pauses to grind into him as if he was doing something pleasurable, "it was shameful to come so much!"

"Oh," he says, "don't worry about that." He starts jamming his fingers into her in what couldn't be anything more than a mildly painful tease, then says: "I know I'm good. I always please my women. No shame in gushing."

Milla smiles and pushes herself onto him: "Thank you," she says, in a cascade of louder and louder moans, "but I want to please you, too!"

"Just tell me when you get to ten orgasms," he says in a low, barely audible, rasping voice that he probably believes is seductive, "then it will be my turn." He sounds like a distant vacuum cleaner.

I scoff and get back to surveying the street.

Asking this guy about what his wife looks like does not sound like a great idea right now. But what else can I do? It's not like his wife will just walk around with a huge sign that says "My husband is an asshole", and even then...

My brain freezes. A yellow taxi pulls into the hotel's driveway. It's shaking heavily on its suspensions, and it hurriedly stops sideways, blocking both incoming and outgoing traffic. Someone kicks open the back door and a tall, fit woman walks out. She's like a blonde amazon wearing ski gear. She throws a handful of money at the driver, then pulls out of the car a heavy set of gardening scissors.

I think I found my woman.

Milla and Husband of the Year are still going at it. He's really into it, finger-hammering her pussy; she's working on her manicure.

"Oh god," she says like she just won a $2 bet on turtle racing, "you're so good."

"Come on baby!" he yells, spitting sweat all over, "tell me, how many times is it now?"

"Twelve," she says, checking her nails. Even with the guy shaking her around, she's done a pretty good job. That takes skill.

He stops immediately. "Good," he says, panting heavily, then he gets off the bed and points at his crotch. "My turn."

Milla smiles and puts the nail file away. She crawls down and gets on her knees, then starts digging under his gut. One hand holding up the fat rolls, she manages to pull out a flaccid two incher and stares at it incredulously.

The man scratches his head. "Little John here needs some help," he says, "I'm sure you can handle it."

Milla nods, and I can see the mockery in her smile; I hope he can't. She takes his tiny member in her mouth and starts sucking. She makes all sorts of wet noises and sultry moans, alternating her mouth with her hand since there's not enough room to use both.

He moans and goes, "Yeah baby," but his dick's still sadly pointing down. She grabs his balls and sucks like a plunger, he holds his breath and whimpers, and when she lets it go with a wet smack it's still worthless like a tiny rotten banana.

The guy growls, then points at me: "Does she have to be here?" he says, his face all red.

Milla replies but I can't tell what she said, with the mouthful of cock and all.

"No," I say, and that's my cue. I have to stop this guy's wife, or at least delay her long enough to let Milla finish.

I walk up to the loving couple and kneel next to Milla's ear. She doesn't stop working and I can smell the ballsweat.

"I'll be right back," I tell her, "be a good girl while I'm gone," and I gesture towards the client.

She chokes on some reply and I hope it's affirmative. One of the many reasons why she needs my help is that she takes limp dicks quite personally. Another, is her assorted background of violent tendencies. You do the math.

Another wet smack. Milla masturbates the littlest limp pea.

"Out!" the man cries, and I take my leave with a prayer in my mouth and a "fuck you" in my heart.

Fuck, I'm too late. The crazy amazon lady is storming down the corridor, headed my way. She drags the heavy duty gardening scissors behind her and, for some reason, there's an eggplant sticking out of her pocket.

She points her finger at me. "You!" she says, "you filthy little whore, where is my husband?!"

I grab a service tray and roll it in between us, blocking her stride. She tries to sidestep me, but I roll it in front of her.

"What are you talking about?!"

"You know what I'm talking about, you cunt!" she tries to whack me with the scissors, but I dodge. The service tray gets slammed; bottles break and some fruit gets uncovered. "You just came out of room 403! What's going on in there?!"

"Please, lady, calm down!" I say, spitting out half words while hiding, crouched behind the tray. "I just found this phone in my room and I wanted to return it!" I throw the phone onto the tray. I hope she will believe me. I'm too young to get pruned.

She looks at the phone.

"Why else would I tell you where I was? If I was having an affair with your husband, would I really be so stupid as to tell you where I was? Just, you know, just get the phone and leave, please!"

She's still quiet. She's not looking at the phone. She's not looking at me. I stand up. I turn around to see what's so interesting behind me.

Milla. Naked. Walking down the corridor with her perky titties pointing out like the wonderful world amazes them.

I can't speak. Neither can my client's wife. We just stare at each other as Milla walks to our tray, grabs a branch of grapefruit, then walks back to room 403.

The crazy amazon lady tramples the tray and me. With the primal scream of a wronged woman, brandishing the deadly gardening implement, she knocks down the door of our room.

I'm sitting in a puddle of broken glass and mixed alcohol. There's pieces of pottery in my boots and probably in my underwear too.

I push away the tray and stagger back into the room.

"How could you?!" the amazon screams, a frantic cry breaking her voice, "how could you do this to me?!"

The monumental woman has fallen to her knees just beyond the entrance. Her weapon lies beside her and she hides her face in her hands.

On the bed, the guy is fucking Milla doggystyle. She's eating grapes in between fake moans.

"It's not what it looks like!" he says.

I throw my hands out and say: "At least stop fucking her!"

"What?!" Milla says, her mouth full, "are you crazy? It took forever to get it hard!"

The wife sobs. "With me, he never gets..." she says, "...I mean, it must be at least six years since we last..."

"Look, hon," he says, still pumping hard into Milla, "it's not my fault. You just don't turn me on any longer."

"Asshole," Milla says.

"Please," I say, looking around at everyone with palms outstretched, "please, everyone, let's just calm down and-"

"Calm down?!" the amazon screams. She stands up, gardening scissors held tightly in her hand. "Fuck you. Fuck all of you!" she says, pointing the scissors at us, but mostly her husband, "I'll cut off your dick, you fat sack of shit!"

She runs to the bed and kicks Milla off of it. She whimpers as she hits the ground, then the amazon points the scissors at our client's genitals. He's holding his blue balls and screaming in pain and sheer terror, all pale and shaking. He can't move, open scissors brushing around his dick.

"Olga," he says, stuttering, "why are you so mad at me? Even if you can't get it hard, I still make you come fifteen times every night with just my finger and tongue. Why must you-"

"I fake it, you stupid fucking moron!"

She goes for the close.

I shut my eyes.

There goes our pay.

"Wait!" Milla screams.

The amazon freezes. "What?!" she asks, "are you going to miss his dick in your filthy pussy?!" she digs around her pocket, throws an eggplant at Milla, then says: "You can fuck yourself with this when he's gone. It's going to fit just fine in your horrid gaping pussy isn't it?"

Then she goes for the close.

"Wait!" I scream.

The amazon flouts and sighs: "What now?!"

Her husband seems to be praying in stuttered Arabic.

"Milla can teach you! She got him hard, somehow! She can save your sex life."

The monsterwife laughs. "Fuck, no," she says, "I'm not taking any lessons from no whore."

And she goes for the close.

"Wait!" Milla screams.

"Oh, for the love of...!"

"What if," Milla says, holding the eggplant, "what if I do fuck myself with this? Then could you call us even? Then would you listen to me?"

"Well," the amazon says, "I guess I-"

"Fine, then!" Milla says, smiling, "It's settled!"

"Alright!" the wife says in a roar, "but if you fail, I'll cut off his dick and you bitches won't stop me!"

"Fine by me," Milla says.

I nod.

The guy swallows painfully. He's shaking and sweating, and the edges of the scissors are so close I think he's bleeding a little. He says: "Don't I get a say in this?" he swallows again, "I mean, after all, we're talking about my-"

"No!" the three of us yell at once.

Milla smiles. "I'll just grab some lube and-"

"No!" the gardener of cocks says, "no lube!"

"But how can I-"

"Your problem."

Milla sighs, then lays on her side with the upper leg pulled to her chest. She rubs herself with the eggplant, drawing circles on her clitoris, eyes shut, breath getting heavy.

It's a pretty big fruit, very wide at the tip, and I'm holding my breath. I don't know if she can do this.

Milla pushes it against her opening. She tries to force it in, but it won't fit. She gets back to the rubbing. She shifts positions ever so slightly and with two fingers she pulls at one turgid nipple.

The amazon screams: "Get a move on, will you?!"

"Give her a break," the man says, "she just came twelve times!"

Milla moans. For real this time. The eggplant is sliding in. I wish I could do something to help but I'm afraid the slightest movement will trigger the guillotine and we won't get paid.

Her tight body twists and arcs as the fruit enters her. It's spreading her wide open and I can tell it hurts a little, but she's getting flushed, and dripping wet.