Nicola Rocca - Two Drops Of Water

She worked at the bar, just a couple of miles from the family home, for the first two years of her course, doing the 5.30pm-10pm shift three nights a week. The money she earned eased the pressure on her folks, at least until the country was rocked by the financial crisis. On one horrible autumn day, Chantal had received a phone call from Signor Ferruccio, who told her (sensitively at least) that he could no longer afford to keep her on. The bar just wasn't generating enough business.

And so Chantal found herself out of a job, and her parents were forced to tighten the purse strings so they could cover all her uni expenses. Then, one day, she responded to an advert:

WANTED: NIGHT CLUB DANCER

The night club turned out to be more of a strip club, requiring topless dancers to strut their stuff in front of sleazy, drooling old men stroking themselves through the inside of their trouser pockets.

But the pay was good and she needed the money, so she had agreed to get up on stage and take her kit off, surrounded by a pack of horny wolves.

When Chantal awoke from her daydream, she found herself standing in the middle of the kitchen. She took a deep breath and pulled yet another cigarette from the rapidly emptying packet.

She had tried to quit so many times but succumbed whenever life got tough.

It was more than just life getting tough though; it was a deep, dark depression that had pervaded every fibre of her being.

She took three long drags on her cigarette, glanced over at the dirty dishes piled up in the sink and shook the tablecloth over the balcony. The sparrows would be grateful for the breadcrumbs.

Taking another couple of drags, she headed back indoors and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. She wandered into the bathroom and took all her clothes off, glancing at herself in the mirror but not stopping to admire what she saw. That same body, lusted after by dozens of randy old gits at the club, had been traded in for a younger model by the man she'd thought was the love of her life.

Pushing those painful memories to the back of her mind, she reached inside the shower and turned it on. She put her hands under the jet until it reached the right temperature, stepped into the shower and waited for the water to succeed where yet another cigarette had failed, by calming her thoughts.

CHAPTER 3

He opens his eyes.

He feels drowsy, or perhaps it's the after-effects of the stuff he is forced to take.

Must be some sort of tranquiliser. But he says nothing. He doesn't moan. All that matters is that he gets what he wants. And so far, he always has.

He looks over to the opposite corner of the room.

Still there.

He smiles and begins to drool at the prospect of his favourite meal, which has been there for some time now.

He yawns.

Why me and not someone else?

He asks himself the same question nearly every day.

Why me and not him?

He doesn't actually need an answer, as long as he gives him what he wants...something to play with. Something that sates him and yet leaves him feeling empty.

He belches - damn acid reflux -

gets up from the dirty, unmade bed and thirstily gulps down some water from a plastic bottle in an attempt to get rid of the taste of whatever the hell he'd forced him to swallow.

He sniffs, slips a hand inside his pants and lightly touches his cock and balls.

He pauses for a few moments as he looks at himself in the mirror and tells himself he’s not an ugly man. Sure, he could improve things if he took a little more pride in his appearance,

but he’s OK like this. A glance over at his favourite meal in the corner . All that matters is that he always gets what he wants.

And he has.

But he doesn’t fancy it right now.

Perhaps his appetite will return after a cold shower.

He scratches at his beard. He hasn't shaved for...goodness knows how many days.

He turns on the cold tap, cups his hands under the stream and splashes the water over his face, which is either just tired or numb from those fucking tranquilisers.

He turns the tap off and watches as the drops of water fall from his face. He takes off his dirty t-shirt, uses it to dry himself off and tosses it casually onto the bed.

Before getting in the tiny shower, he again casts his eyes over to the shape in the corner and realises he is changing his mind.

His hunger is returning.

He wants to gorge himself like an animal that has just emerged from hibernation. The thought prompts a twinge inside his pants.

‘Behave! ’ he tells himself.

His breathing starts to become heavy and laboured. Beads of sweat begin to form on his brow. He’s getting aroused; it always happens like this.

Another glance at the shape in the corner. Another little fiddle downstairs. His mouth begins to water.

‘Later! She’s not going anywhere ,’ he tells himself. ‘She’s all yours...’

“All mine!”

He smiles because he knows it's the truth.

He takes a deep breath, lets his pants fall to the floor and uses his tongue to suck the air through his teeth. He loves the feeling it gives him, the sensation on his teeth and gums.

He enters the shower, lifts up the mixer tap and turns it all the way to the right. He wants it ice cold, like always.

As the water beats down relentlessly on his muscular back, he begins to anticipate what will happen when he has finished washing himself.

The saliva begins to taste sweet in his mouth and the urge in his groin becomes uncontrollable.

Thankfully, it’s nearly time to get out of the shower...

CHAPTER 4

‘Is it really me that should be ashamed?’

Chantal poured herself a glass of sparkling mineral water and sipped it slowly but determinedly, fuelling herself with some non-alcoholic Dutch courage.

‘It's them who should be ashamed, paying me a pittance for two years and...’

There was a thud as she angrily thumped her fist on the table.

‘...and then letting me go. Morons!’

Chantal became enraged every time she thought back to when she was fired, or, more accurately, they refused to renew her contract. What pissed her off the most was the shame she felt at being unemployed and living off benefits of four hundred euros a month.

Four hundred euros...

She'd dedicated her life to her studies for four hundred shitty euros a month. Oh, and an Economics degree. Which she could use for...making a paper aeroplane or maybe wiping her arse. Oh yes. That was Italy in 2016. On the one hand, there were people with a career spanning more than forty years who weren't about to retire anytime soon; and on the other, there were millions of young people who would give their eye teeth for a job - any bloody job.

Unfortunately for Chantal, she was one of those young people.

She took out a fag, went into her bedroom and switched on the computer. Her long, drawn-out drags meant she was down to the butt in no time.

Chantal opened the chat site and tried to think how she could possibly explain her plight to AlfreDario77.

There was an unread message.

03/02/2016

AlfreDario77 20.32

Fine...you could have just said if you didn't want to chat anymore. If your manners ever come back, you know where I am.

“Fair enough,” she said to the screen. “I'd have been pissed off if someone had done that to me.”

She took another puff and drummed her fingers on the desk, trying desperately to think of how she could respond.

04/02/2016

SadChantal 10.15

Hi...

I’m so sorry about last night. It’s not that I didn't want to keep talking to you. Something came up.

That was fine to start with, while she waited for some inspiration on how she could deal with the whole work thing. Also, she wanted to be sure he was online, which would be confirmed by the little green circle next to his name.