Lola Smirnova - Twisted

Seriously… how can I say no to €500! So what if he is a creep?

At the end of my shift, my new case is waiting for me in a cab. As soon as I jump in, he tells the driver his address and we leave.

It is close to 11 p.m. already and in the darkness, I don’t follow where we are going. The area we arrive at looks decent; he stays on the third floor of the four-storey apartment building. It all seems good until we walk into his place. It is a studio stuffed with rubbish and old junk. It is so cluttered that there is no space even to sit on his only couch. The smell inside is so intense: a mixture of naphthalene, dirt and staleness. Screw the money – I will not be able to spend the night in here.

I quickly look at my phone, fake concern on my face, apologise and explain that for some unforeseen reason I can’t stay the whole night, and that if he wants to, we can do a quickie for half the price and then I have to leave.

He looks upset, but nods with understanding and offers me a glass of wine in the meantime.

I agree that this is a great idea. As soon as we clink our glasses, I drain mine. The alcohol relaxes me right away, but some time later I start feeling heaviness and drowsiness too.

I wake up in the morning, naked in his bed, covered with smelly and dirty sheets. The bastard must have drugged me. I quickly get out of the bed, still feeling dizzy, and find my clothes hanging on the chair. While I am hurriedly dressing, I try to remember what happened last night and think what I’m going to do next.

The sound of the toilet flushing frightens me. I turn towards the bathroom and there he is, standing in his boxers and socks. The pathetic motherfucker smiles at me as if nothing had happened, and serenely says, ‘Good morning, beautiful. Would you like some coffee?’

The sound of his absorbing voice sparks some memories of last night: him taking me to the bed, me still sluggishly objecting, but already unable to move my hands. I remember him kissing, grabbing and fucking me dazed and unconscious, and how he kept repeating maniacally, ‘I know you love me, I know you do…’

The vivid recollection punches through me like an electric shock.

I don’t even put my shoes on, just grab them with my bag and back up towards the door.

As soon as I touch the handle of the door, I freak out, ‘Where is my money? You haven’t paid me, you sick bastard!’

The look in his eyes changes from dull-innocent to reptilian-mean, but his voice stays the same.

‘Sorry, beautiful, but I don’t have the money. Come, have some coffee with me, my love.’

I storm out of that place, down the stairs to the street, and run until I see a cab that is driving past. I wave to stop it, climb in, tell the driver the address of the club and then just start crying…

My anger and resentment for the dickhead as well as for myself rend me into pieces. I can’t stop my tears, even when the cab driver starts giving me discontented looks in the mirror. No matter how much I hate the prick, I know it’s my fault. I dragged myself into this situation…

I decide not to tell anybody. I am too ashamed to talk about it. I have to try to forget it. It never happened to me.

It is the end of another working shift. I had very satisfying trading – went upstairs twice, plus a few piccolos at the bar – so I’m slightly smashed. Besides, I sniffed some in the toilet with Margo, the only girl I have something in common with, of all the girls on the day shift. We are quite spaced out and are having a jolly chat at the bar when this guy walks in.

Margo recognises him on the spot, but oddly turns away and starts looking attentively at her nails, pretending that she hasn’t noticed him. I point the man out with my eyebrows and nudge her with my elbow, asking if she is going to work. In response, without taking her gaze off her hand, she snaps ‘I don’t feel like working; he is yours.’ The fermentation never makes me extra suspicious, but the enigma of why Margo, who hasn’t made any money today, gives up the opportunity so easily, does not bother me at all. Plus the buzz is great. Without any hesitation I jump off the bar stool and slide towards the man.

He is a droll character: short, plumpish, with a James Bond attitude. His pants, jacket, and even his cowboy hat are made of black leather.

I wonder how many poor animals had to die for him to dress today.

He really looks funny, and it takes an effort not to show the amusement on my face. Instead I put my oh-you-are-so-cool-and-sexy look on, and whisper a seductive hello. He looks at me without any enthusiasm, then turns back to his gin and tonic without acknowledging me.

Normally this type of attitude drives me mad. I start to freak out, and most times just leave the rude bastard – but because my successful day has kicked my mood up, I decide to try again. I draw very close, pressing my body against his shoulder, then slowly but firmly grab his bull neck while tickling it with my nails, and whisper in his ear, ‘You wanna fuck?’

He turns to me again. I pierce him with my signature smoky come-to-bed look and add a come-hither-I-am-so-horny smile.

The left corner of his mouth curves, indicating a smile. He looks me over, as if I am a sweatshirt he is about to buy in the shop, and says, ‘Okay. You asked for it,’ before rushing towards the stairs.

That was an easy one. Margo would kick herself if she knew how quickly I arranged my third bottle.

The rest is supposed to be a piece of cake: quickly screw the cowboy and fuck off home, maybe even go to celebrate my highly fertile shift with a few hits in a nightclub.

When the champagne is served and the garçon leaves, the rolypoly unbuttons his jacket, pulls some stuff out of the inner pockets and places it on the table. The stuff includes metal serrated and chained nipple clips, a few rubbers, a tube of anal lubricant and a bottle of poppers. [12] Poppers: a slang term for alkyl nitrites that are often inhaled to enhance sexual pleasure

I swallow a glass of bubbly and sigh. Even though I am heavily intoxicated, it is not difficult for me to imagine the full version of what is about to happen if my vaquero is going to use all these items on me. Especially considering that I am an anal virgin, and that just the idea of somebody sticking something up my ass seriously freaks me out. And my nipples, although they have a boyish look, are quite sensitive.

What can I say? It looks like I am in deep shit again.

He looks at me with a smile, as if he reads my mind: ‘Those are for me, but if you want to try them, you are welcome.’ I also smile – with relief – and mumble, ‘No thank you.’

He liberates himself from his tiring outfit and throws my dress down to the floor. For some time we just kiss while he squeezes my thighs and digs my slit with his fingers. I palm his dick and rub it down, but it is still soft.

He attaches the clips to his nipples, picks up the poppers and makes himself comfortable lying on his right side, leaning on the armrest, with his legs spread wide. He grips the back of my neck, presses my face to his hips, and sniffs from the little bottle. His body reacts immediately and his cock swells and stiffens in my mouth.

Damn, this shit smells terrible.

The erection doesn’t last long; just a minute or two. As soon as his penis softens again, he picks up the lubricant and condoms from the table and goes back to his relaxed position. He orders me to go down on the floor on my knees, sniffs again and pushes his solidifying cock to the back of my throat.

A few minutes later, my kinky cowboy unpacks a condom. Instead of putting it on his penis, he grasps my hand, straightens my fingers and unrolls it over them, stretching the rubber down my wrist. Then he squeezes some lube onto the condom, draws in some more of the smelly shit and orders, ‘Put it in,’ while placing my hand at his bunghole.