Monday, April 2, 2018

The End...


Everything was too much; her dress was too short and too low cut. Her heels were too high. Her bra was too tight, so she had too much breast on display.

She'd fit in at a club, the right night out, but in a hotel bar, there was a chance people would wonder.

But that's the way he wanted it, he never wanted either of us to forget that she was his whore.

"I want them to wonder," he told us, "when she's sitting at the bar waiting for me, I want them wondering. I want her sitting there by herself, seeing every man look at her."

It had always been a thing with him, pushing her to the edge of comfortable and making her go just an inch further.

"You won't be there?" I asked him.

"Not at first, no," he said.'

"What if...what if someone approaches her?" I asked.

He smiled. "Then she flirts."

"But she..."

"It's a public space," he said, anticipating, "she'll be fine. Besides, you'll be there, across the way, watching."

"Watching?" It was going to be the last time and he wanted it to be memorable. For all of us.

"Watching. Watching to see if anyone talks to her, watching when I pick her up."

It was going to be the last time because she and I made a decision. A mutual decision. It wasn't necessarily a decision to leave him, but the decision necessitated leaving him.

We wanted to share our life. By making a life.

And that couldn't involve him.

He understood, it wasn't like this was something she hadn't thought about. Talked about.

But there would be one more night she was his. One more night she was his whore. A reminder who she...or we...served.

One more night. Then no more.

Two men approached her in the almost hour she was at the bar. Two single men, obviously men staying at the hotel. Business men, men in suits, powerful men, well off men. Single as in by themselves. I presumed they were married. Away. Looking.

I couldn't hear, only see, couldn't tell if they thought she was simply alone or something more. Something they could win over or something they could buy.

She flirted with each, flirting returned. Hand on a suited forearm. A return hand on her bare shoulder or back. A tentative hand on her nylon covered thigh. Ten or fifteen minutes each time, then the end, when attempted closure, the she was meeting someone.

Then he was there. More familiar, of course, not tentative. Not hesitant. Possessive. Dominant. Assured. Confident.

He ordered drinks for them both. Her third, though she'd nursed the second. Took the drinks to a couch, sat with her. He didn't look for me, knew I was there, but didn't look, didn't care.

The couch was low and she seemed, from my angle, across the way, to be all legs and breasts. From his position, there as no 'seem' as she must have been that, on display. And he didn't waste the display, touched her, knowing I was there, watching, possessed her. She ended up with the hem of her dress higher and the bodice lower, not obscene, but close.

When their drinks were gone, he led her upstairs, walked near me, almost by me, but kept her attention, a last reminder that while she was mine, forever, this last time they were together she was his.

Yes, I'm alive.

Things happened. Not bad. Not bad at all. Good, in fact. But things are different. I'll explain.