One London Day by C C Humphreys

Author:C C Humphreys [Humphreys, C C]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781989988053
Publisher: Two Hats Creative Inc.
Published: 2021-04-30T22:00:00+00:00

13

Sunday July 29th 2018

Sonya had made a mistake.

She knew it immediately, as soon as the second handcuff locked. Saw it in the john’s eyes, how they changed with the click.

She’d always trusted her instincts. They had kept her safe, long before she became an escort, before the army even. From her childhood, her father. Unpredictable when sober he was doubly so when drunk, when his restraints dissolved and the meanness came. The professor of music vanished, the kid who’d starved on the streets of Leningrad during the siege returned. He had only survived the war because when an opportunity came to take what he wanted, he had. Later, in the army, she’d thought her father had been her first and best training course. Unarmed combat. Read the enemy, discover his weakness, use it against him. A few early losses to her father had taught her most of what she’d needed to survive.

Desperation, she thought - as this man’s eyes changed, narrowed, and he went to the end of the bed, to his briefcase on the fold out stand there, and she pulled against the cuffs, the two pairs that held both her hands against the single wrought iron bedpost, hoping that one of them might somehow have failed to fully lock or that the post was weak within the frame.

Neither was true.

Desperation had made her careless. His offer had been high - £1500, and not even for the whole night. A quarter of what she still needed to make for Marushka’s operation, which had to happen faster now, her daughter’s pain greater, her movements slower, the drugs less effective - according to Georgiy, her husband, on his own edge, deciding whether to tumble off it into the warmth of his addiction. So she hadn’t tried to read this man deeper, had accepted the softness in his eyes as genuine. He also said she’d been recommended to him by Bernard, the one who mourned his wife and mostly only wanted to hold her in the night. She hadn’t tried to contact him, to confirm this Eric. You didn’t contact clients, they contacted you.

She watched him pull a large, black rubber dildo from his case, complete with straps to attach it around his pelvis. Which he proceeded to do, dropping the white dressing gown from off his shoulders, wrapping the belts around his waist, below a small, bulging pot belly which was streaked in curly, greying hairs.

She tried to keep her voice level, to keep the fear from it, to even make it playful. “What are you planning, Eric?”

He started, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there. Paused in his strapping, his eyes piggie-small, angry. “Planning, Eric?” he echoed, mimicking her accent. “Eric’s planning to fuck you up the arse, you fucking whore.”

She didn’t mind the abuse. Most of her clients were nice, polite Englishmen. Some needed to be angry with her during the act, perhaps to justify it. Though afterwards they nearly always apologised, and tipped her.

Not this one, she knew, she could see.

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