Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“Step right this way, sir!” the redhead said, slapping his palm on the table.

The fat man looked at the redhead, then at the women again. He wanted to get out of there, but if he turned around and ran down the stairs, everyone would laugh at him, and he hated people to laugh at him.

“Can I help you, sir?” the redhead asked insistently.

The fat man thought he might as well go through with it, what the hell. He walked to the table where the redhead sat, and felt the girls’ eyes burning into his back. His face and shoulders prickled with heat.

“Ten dollars, please,” the redhead said.

The fat man reached into his pocket and self-consciously took out his roll of bills. Peeling off two fives, he dropped them on the table in front of the redhead, who tore a ticket off a big coil and handed it to him.

“What do I do with this?” the fat man stammered.

“You give it to whatever girl you want, and she’ll take care of the rest.”

The fat man turned around and felt vertiginous. All the girls were looking at him, licking their lips, crossing their legs, caressing their tits, winking and wiggling; all acting very freaky. He was so nervous he didn’t know what to do. They wore brightly colored ballerina tights and were a bunch of slobs.

He wasn’t anxious to screw any one of them: his eyes roved back and forth over their painted faces. His cheeks were hot and perspiration dotted his forehead. He had to do something, but he couldn’t leave because that would be too embarrassing. A blonde head and youthful face was among the older ones. Without giving orders to his feet, he found himself walking toward her, holding the ticket out. The closer he came, the worse she looked. She had pimples, a piggy face, and her body was shapeless, but at least she was young. Stopping in front of her, he gave her the ticket.

“Here,” he said meekly.

She made a little smile of satisfaction that indicated that she was pleased to have beaten out the other girls. Taking the ticket, she tucked it into the bosom of her purple tights, stood, and looked at him scornfully.

“Follow me.” She led him down a narrow corridor lined with doors. The walls of the corridor didn’t reach the ceiling, and he could hear grunts and muttering. He wished he were down on the street heading toward the subway. This was awful and there was nothing he could do about it.

She opened a door. “In here.”

He walked into a tiny cubicle that had a padded table against the wall. Any sound he might make could be heard over the tops of the walls in the other cubicles. He’d thought that at least he’d have some privacy.

“Take all your clothes off,” she said.

“All of them?”

“Yes all of them.”

“What for?”

“Because that’s the way it works here.”

The fat man felt a rise of anger, but he’d already paid his ten dollars; he wasn’t leaving now. He started removing his jacket and she walked out of the cubicle, closing the door behind her. He looked around. Her jeans, a shirt, and a Navy pea coat hung from a peg on the wall. In the corner was a box covered with a towel, and on it were bottles and jars of cosmetics. He took off all his clothes, hung them over the back of a rickety wooden chair, and sat on the massage table, feeling chilly and sick. His pecker was shriveled up and his scrotum was hard as leather.

She returned to the cubicle and closed the door. “What do you want?” she asked.

“I… uh… I want you to blow me, and then I want to fuck you.”

She made a thin hard smile. “If you give me a ten dollar tip it’ll be better.”

“The piece of paper the guy on the street gave me said I didn’t have to give a tip.”

“Like I said, it’ll be better if you give me ten dollars.”

“How about five dollars?”

“What are you—cheap or something?”

“No, but the paper said I didn’t have to tip.”

She shook her ass and forced a smile. “C’mon, it’s only ten dollars.”

“But that makes the whole thing twenty dollars.”

“I’ll make it good for you, baby.”

There was no point in arguing. All the cards were stacked against him up there. He got off the table, picked his pants off the back of the chair, and took ten dollars out of the pocket. “Here.”

Her smile vanished as her hand covered the bill. “I’ll be right back.” She left the cubicle again.

He sat on the table, hugging himself for warmth, feeling gypped. He should have known better than to come here. The cops ought to close these places down and throw all the whores in jail. Or better yet, shoot them.

She returned with a towel and a basin half full of soapy water. “Get up.”

“What’s the water for?”

“I’ve got to wash you. Stand over here.”

He got up. She put the basin on the massage table, reached over, grabbed his penis, looked into its eye, and squeezed. “You got anything wrong with you?”

“You mean like a venereal disease?”

“What else would I mean?”

“No.”

She let his cock go, soaped up her hands, grabbed it again, and washed it. That should have made him horny, but it didn’t. He wanted to get everything over with fast and leave. She dried him with a towel, picked up the basin, and left the room again.

The fat man sat on the table. He was worried that he wouldn’t be able to get an erection. That would be humiliating. The girl was treating him like shit. She probably had a black pimp for a boyfriend. White girls liked to go out with black men because they had big dicks, so he’d been told.

The girl returned to the room and looked at him insolently. She wasn’t trying to be sexy; she didn’t give a damn about him at all. “You got a rubber?”

“No.”

“Why the hell didn’t you bring a rubber with you?”

The fat man felt a flash of anger. “What the fuck are you telling me what I should bring here!”

She backed off a little. “I think I might have one here.”

She rustled around among her cosmetics, opened a jewelry box, and took out a rubber in a foil wrapper. She had a big unshapely ass and her tits were flabby. She wasn’t worth twenty cents, never mind twenty dollars.

She tore off the foil and looked at his cock. “You ain’t hard yet.”

“I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“It ain’t even hard enough for me to put the rubber on.”

“Maybe if you do something, it might get hard.”

“Okay. Lie back.”

He stretched out on the massage table, and she unbuttoned something in her crotch. Her tights opened up and he could see the brown fuzz of her pubic hairs. Standing beside him, she gave his flaccid penis a few jerks, then bent over and put it into her mouth.

He tried to concentrate and make himself feel horny, but there was a despairing, nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. Reaching to her, he inserted his fingers into the crack of her ass, and wondered how many guys had stuck their cocks in there today. She sucked him vigorously and made it hurt a little.

She straightened up. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You been drinking?”

“Not that much.”

“You ever have this trouble before?”

“I haven’t been to a whorehouse since I was in the army, and that was like twenty years ago.”

She wrinkled her nose, shrugged, bent over, and sucked him off some more. He touched her cunt, and it was cold and damp, probably filled with the cum of twenty guys. His prick hurt and he felt loathsome. This was turning out to be a horrible experience, and he’d had many horrible experiences with women already, a fat ugly man like him. Somehow he had to bring it to an end.

She stood up and smoothed back her hair. “Listen, you don’t get all night here, understand?”