Naive (also on Booksie)

I

Frank looked up from his desk at the top of the stairs and smiled. “Well, it’s been a while since you’ve been seen around these parts, Mr. Sentwell. I was beginning to wonder if anything was wrong.”

“It’s been two weeks, Frank,” Paul replied, dropping his raincoat on top of the desk.

“Just so,” said Frank, with a knowing smile. “But, in comparison with past demonstrations, I’d have to say you’re operating below your potential.”

Paul smiled. “I wouldn’t call it a malfunction, more like satiation. The fault lies with the optimal performance of your employees—they leave me too fulfilled.”

“Well, then, remind me to have a word with the girls, because in this business we don’t call that optimal performance,” he said, opening up the guest book. Paul chuckled. “What are you in the mood for today?”

Paul shrugged. “I don’t care. Constance is fine, or maybe Virginia.”

Frank looked at the book and tsked. “I am sorry, but they’re both booked for the evening.” He paused, assuming an expression of deep thought. “I feel terrible that you won’t get your first choice—”

Paul cut in helpfully. “You know, anyone will be fine, really, it doesn’t—”

“Oh!” Frank exclaimed. “I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting the new girl!”

Paul raised his eyebrows suspiciously. “The—the new girl? No, I don’t think I have.”

“Oh, she is something, I can tell you that. In fact, you’re one of the privileged few who she’s for.” Frank waited to see if this line would catch the bait.

“Am I?” Paul smirked. “How very intriguing. I wouldn’t suppose then, that as one of these ‘privileged few,’ I would have to pay extra for this new girl?”

“Well,” Frank began, coming around the desk, “I mean, not really, well, no, not for the circumstances, . . . ” Paul shook his head. “I mean, she is more expensive than the other girls, naturally, but . . . ” Paul crossed his arms and leaned forward impatiently, raising his eyebrows. Frank stopped, and sighed. “How about this? Since you’re such a fine customer, you get to try her out today at the regular price. I’m sure you’ll want more.”

The slimily obsequious manner of the pimp was starting to put Paul into a bad mood, and he wanted to get out of the conversation before whatever sexual appetite he had up and vanished. “That sounds wonderful, Frank.”

“To you and me both!” He put Paul’s name down in the book, under 5:00. “And, payment?”

“How charming.”

Frank walked to the closest door, just feet from the desk, and took out a key, which puzzled Paul. “Does she like locking her door?” he asked.

“Oh, no, her door can’t lock from the inside,” Frank answered vaguely, turning the key. He held the door open for Paul, then entered himself.

When Julie heard the footsteps, some strange, child-like superstitious urge made her close her eyes and feign sleep, as if when the greasy, horrible man saw her unconscious he would leave her alone. She had been here for probably less than a week, but to her it felt like a mockery of eternity, and the only thing more depressing than that thought was how many countless eternities were before her. She had been walking to the subway, exhausted after her bus arrived late, when she was pulled into an alley and been beaten to the brink of consciousness. He beat her more when he realized, angrily, that he had bruised her. He took her right there, in an alley, just a few muffled screams away from help—but the clamped hand over her mouth, the other grabbing her breast for leverage as she held on to the chain link fence to keep from falling, hadn’t even allowed for that.

She opened her eyes as the door opened. The small amount of light it let in made her turn her head away. She couldn’t even see who the man had with him this time, and if it was someone who had already raped her coming back for more.

Paul stared, openmouthed. Finally, he said, “What the devil is this? You know I’m not into bdsm shit, or whatever the bloody hell it is. Straight fuck; no kink.”

Frank sighed. “What you’re doing here is by definition kinky.” He closed the door behind him, opening up the big peephole for light, so Paul could inspect the girl. She was young. Early twenties, if that. Her arms were pulled tight above her head, secured with cuffs to a hook on the wall, her legs tied to the sides of the mattress. Her mouth was gagged with what looked to be a pair of dirty panties.

“Well, whatever. Fine, you’re right, but tell her to take all that shit off.”

Frank laughed. “She doesn’t get to decide if that stuff stays on or off,” he said, looking happily at Paul.

Paul felt a line of goosebumps tickle up his spine. “What the hell does that mean?” Paul asked, turning to look at Frank, uneasily.

“Our new girl isn’t quite like the other girls. She’s special.”

Paul was getting frustrated. “Yeah, like how?”

“Let’s just say, she’s more receptive to the demands of men. Strong men. Willful men.”
 

Julie heard the words. She began to whimper. Paul heard her. “Where did you find her?”

Frank had been waiting for that question. “In a back alley around Port Authority.” Paul was silent, but his lips were moving. Frank paused, letting the words sink in for dramatic effect. “I’ll let you two kids get to know each other.”

And then it was just Paul standing in the doorway, with his hands in his pants pockets. After a few minutes, he slid the peephole shut, slowly, and said, “There’s just something wrong with a girl who lets guys hit her for money.” Then she heard footsteps.

The man was suddenly right in her face. “Hi,” he said, smiling. She made no reply. “OK, you know what? I don’t like seeing this . . . paraphernalia. So let’s lose it.” He tugged on the cuffs holding her arms to the wall, and looked surprised when they didn’t give right away. In fact, they didn’t give at all. He sighed.

The tugging on her wrists, making the tight cuffs dig in even more to her flesh, hurt so much that Julie started screaming through her gag. Paul saw her struggling and ripped the panties out of her mouth, which, since he hadn’t expected them to be securely taped down, hurt considerably coming off.

She drank in short, pained breaths as Paul looked at her, confused. Annoyed. “No, I’m serious, I’m really not into . . . whatever this is. The only reason Frank put me in with you is because the ladies I’m used to are otherwise indisposed.” He had an English accent. All she could think of was Jack the Ripper.

He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it on the chair, leaving him in his undershirt and pants. She felt like she was going to throw up, and tried to lean over the bed; he thought she was leaning nearer to him. He kissed her on the lips. She didn’t kiss back. She tried to scream. He kept kissing her, hoping to induce his hard-on. “Look,” he said, sitting up. Suddenly, she began sobbing. Uncontrollably.

This was her chance, and she had no idea what to do with it. If only, she thought. If only he could have tasted the blood from a few days ago on her lips. If only when he had tugged on her arms he had seen her raw wrists, bright pink from her attempts at freedom. If only the light could reveal the bruises on her breasts. If only he could see her cunt, and how swollen and overused it was. But the room was dark and besides, would anyone really expect such horrors if they weren't looking for them?
 

“Oh, bollucks.” He was beginning to get angry, and had no idea how to handle the situation. “For the love of God, I told you, all I want is a quick simple fuck. I had a bitch of a day today at work and, sick as it may be, this is how I unwind. Now, since you’re a professional and I’m paying, I thought we had a de facto arrangement. Are you telling me differently?” She didn’t answer. What could she answer? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just didn’t know.

He was looking at her, piercingly, waiting for a reply.

He’s just your run-of-the-mill asshole who used prostitutes.  

Julie felt a sob bubbling up inside her. She turned her face to the wall. “I’m not a pr-professional,” she said finally, but she hadn’t spoken much in the past week, so the words came out quiet and raspy, uneven with held-back tears.

“What?” He grabbed her face, turning it to him. His eyes were blazing, his grip on her jaw firm.

Just a run-of-the-mill asshole.

“I’m not a prostitute,” she said, not much louder.

He let her face go, and ran his hands through his hair. “Jesus, what a day,” he said. “You know,” he was talking to himself more than her, “you’d think that since I banished myself out of the world of human relations, this sort of thing would get easier.” He began to take off his pants. Julie closed her eyes. “I could get a quicker fuck with dinner and a movie, and probably cheaper,” he said, now only in his underwear. “Now, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m begging you to stop this nonsense.”

And he was begging. Pleading, petulantly, a sad spoiled little boy frustrated the game isn’t going his way. His voice was almost kind, and she opened her mouth, so close to just telling him everything, about the alley, the gagged screams, the start of this hell, the wrists rawer with time. But she couldn’t think of where to begin.

He kissed her nipple, imprisoning it within his lips, and she lay frozen, sniffling. She couldn’t utter a word. He sighed. “Oh bloody hell! What the fuck?” He brushed his hand across her face limply, a laughable attempt at a slap. It tickled more than anything, and she barely flinched. “Is that what you want?” He positioned himself in front of her.

He probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

"No," she whispered, more to herself than to him, barely mouthing the words. Her eyes tried to focus past him.

Paul looked at her in confusion. “Oh! Sorry!” He said, embarrassed, and went over to his wallet, coming back with a condom.

“No,” she said, barely a whisper.

He looked at her, mumbling and shaking in the dark room with the weird smell, and something felt not right. Paul had the chills. “Fuck!” He yelled. He pounded on the bed, and Julie screamed, thinking he was going to hit her. He quickly stepped into his clothes and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Julie sat in confusion, focusing on the ache in her arms.

“Bollucks!” He yelled, coming out of the room, still hobbling into his shoes. “Frank, who else is free? Christ!” He was mad, madder still that he somehow felt his masculinity had been slighted. Frank just stood there, thinking. Paul raised his arms in disbelief. “Can someone tell me where a guy can get laid in this building?”