Sherrys New Job Epilogue

Epilogue

Sherry stretched in the big bed, wriggling her toes against the smoothness of the satin sheets. From the sunlight streaming into the room, she was sure it was past ten AM, yet she still felt tired, and her head ached. How very strange, she thought. She didn't even remember going to bed last night, just a series of strange, disquieting dreams, filthy, disgusting images that she just couldn't shake from her mind.

Ray peered around the corner. "It's getting a little late," he said. "Shouldn't you be down getting my breakfast by now?"

Now she was angry. "If I feel like sleeping in, that's damn well up to me, and you can just get your own..." She was cut short as Ray tossed something onto the bed in front of her. She recognized a pile of the photographic paper from their inkjet printer that they used to print out their digital photos. Her breath caught abruptly in her throat as she picked them up, turned over the pile, and saw the first one.

It was clearly her, but not the woman she or any of her friends would ever recognize her. She was standing at the bottom of their stairs. She recognized the clothes she was wearing, the short skirt from her old dance costume, and her red camisole, but worn together like this they made her look like some sort of streetwalker. The next picture emphasized this, dressed as she was in the same outfit, but standing on the sidewalk of some darkened city street she didn't recognize. In the next, she could only be seen from behind, as her and another, similarly dressed woman leaned into the window of an unfamiliar car. In the next she was bent over a police care, handcuffs dangling from her wrist. She thumbed through the pictures – more of the same, and stopped at one. Unlike the others, it was brightly lit. She was bent over a counter in some sort of small booth, lit from above by a fluorescent fixture. Her short skirt was bunched around her middle, her camisole pushed up to reveal her dangling tits. The young man behind her had his jeans in a heap at his ankles, his hands tightly grasping her hips, clearly ramming himself into her as hard as he could. Sherry could tell that she was doing what she could to help the boy – her knees flexed, grasping hard on the counter and pushing her hips back to meet his thrusts. Her eyes were closed, and she could see the red-rimmed lids, trailing mascara, her lipstick smeared and hair starting to tumble free. Clearly this picture was taken at the end of a very busy night.

She could hear Ray, as he said, "I can imagine what you're thinking, but remember, if you leave, our daughter goes with me. No court in the land is going to award custody to some drugged out whore over a respectable businessman. And as to your job? Can you even keep a job dealing with that sort of sensitive business information if I get Officer Carelli to attest to your boss that he's picked you up in the recent past on prostitution charges? If we split up, you lose it all – the house, the car, your nice clothes, and your little girl. Think about it."

"Oh," he said, as he headed out of the room. "And maybe now you'll fuck me when I tell you I want it. If I can bring myself to want a cheap whore like you again." He laughed as he strode down the stairs.

Sherry dropped the pictures and began to cry. The disgusting dreams and images came back to her in a rush. She had become aware of a burning in her crotch and an ache in the muscles that ringed her anus. Although she didn't know how or why, she now was certain that she had done all of the things in the pictures, all of the vile images in her head, and probably more.

Sherry pulled on her robe. She looked at the damning photos again, thought about what Ray had said, about the life she had, and what she stood to lose. She dabbed her eyes with the hem of her robe, squared her shoulders, and strode toward the stairs. She was a strong woman, and she knew there was only one thing she could say.

"Honey, do you want bacon and eggs, or French toast?"