Many thanks to floss83 for first editing and improving this story.
Grateful thanks to the erudite
Ginger_Scent
, who writes stories in both English and Italian, for pointing out additional embarrassing mistakes and weak parts, suggesting better words and phrases and helping make the story better in countless ways.
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Almost everybody who knew Barnaby Grant would describe him with a single word: bastard.
They had to admit he was a shrewd businessman. When they first go to know him, some acquaintances found being around a shark was exciting. But most of the people he dealt with eventually stayed as far away from him as they could if they could help it.
His private life was almost nonexistent. He didn't care, because he paid professionals to give him everything he wanted. They despised him, but they were whores, so they came when he called.
Tonight, he was with one of them who avoided him unless she really needed the money. Though he took her to a nice restaurant, he spent the dinner telling her about Mrs. Roberts, his executive secretary, and the various ways he humiliated her in front of his staff, her husband and even her children.
"I know she hates me, and she knows she could run the business without me, but one of her kids has a lot of medical bills, so she's at my mercy."
He laughed heartily, and the hooker, whose name he always seemed to forget until he looked her up in his phone book, pretended to smile because that's what she was getting paid for.
Barnaby never took any of his call girls home. He didn't want them in his house, so he always rented a hotel room for the night. He wasn't cheap, so it was an expensive hotel. But it could have been any filthy dive once he and the pretty woman closed the door because of the disgusting things he made her do.
The ultimate sadistic pleasure for him was finding something vulnerable in even the most hardened prostitute. They knew they had to speak to him or he'd tell them to leave and they'd forfeit their pay. His conversational skill was honed razor sharp to manipulate others at work. The hookers were no match for him.
They had many stories for customers who wanted to talk before sex, but they had never encountered someone like Barnaby. He would pretend to believe them and encourage them to embellish and invent, all the while directing the conversation into channels where he could probe and discover more about what they liked and disliked.
His triumph was prying out the woman's deepest, darkest sexual secret -- the one thing she detested more than anything else. Then he would demand it -- and eventually obtain it. He enjoyed it even more if they were crying or gagging or both while he did it to them or they did it for him.
It came down to that on this night as well, and the hooker was in a rage. She was refusing, but he knew she'd come around. His game was to see how little it would cost to force her to do it, and he figured that if it cost nothing extra, he was the winner. He usually won.
"You are the most sickening excuse for a human being that walks this Earth," the woman said. "How I wish I you could feel how disgusting it is to have sex with you!"
Talk like this didn't bother Barnaby. He loved it because he knew that by the end of the evening, he would have his satisfaction and the woman would be hating herself.
"Oh yeah?" he replied. "How much do you wish that would happen? Would you pray to God or Allah or whatever you pray to for that to happen?"
"Yes I would," said the woman vehemently. "I would give anything to make you take what you've been giving. You'd be a whimpering crybaby in no time. You're nothing but a bully. You can hand it out, but you can't take it yourself."
"Oh yeah?" he said again. "Maybe you can find yourself a genie. Or why don't you go out on the balcony and wish on a star. Just don't fall off."
He began to laugh.
Dressed only in a slip, she got up and staggered to the sliding door that led to the balcony and pulled it open.
"Hey, be careful!" he yelled. "You've had a lot to drink."
She opened the door, stepped out and looked up into a clear sky full of stars.
"Why be careful?" she thought to herself. "So he doesn't have to explain my dead body to the police. Screw him! Look at all those stars. Why not make a wish? It's stupid, but I'm going to do it anyway. I wish that I could trade places with Barnaby. I'd be the rich businessman, and he'd be the whore. Yes, yes, yes. I wish. I wish. I wish. Oh! Was that a shooting star?
She began to laugh and the laugh turned into a cough.
"How did it get so cold out here?" she thought. "I'm shivering. A second ago it was a nice night. What happened? Something feels strange."
She walked back into the room and began laughing again.
"Barnaby Grant, you're through," she shouted at him as she poured herself another strong drink. She knew she was going to need it and more of them to get through this night.
"I just wished on a shooting star, and you're finished. You hear me?"
"I hear you," he said with a laugh. "Before I'm all washed up, though, come over here. It's getting late and that little thing we talked about might take some time, because I want you to do it very slowly, so that you really enjoy it."
"Ugh," she said and shuddered. Suddenly she was just as chilly in the room as she had been outside. And she felt strange inside, too. It was probably the booze or the fear of what she was going to do with Barnaby. She poured herself another drink and walked over to Barnaby. She might as well get this over with.
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