In A Position to Deal
folder
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,680
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,680
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
In A Position to Deal
They don’t build in this part of the city any more, everything just stays where it is and gets older. The building’s laminate facade isn’t blue any more, it’s faced, paler than the winter sky, and it’s dirtier than the sky too, all smeared, with grime around the edges. You walk under the façade, in between the spindly metal support poles. You step over discarded cups from nameless taco places, avoid the gaze of the wino next to the wall. You’re heading for the stairs at the back of the building.
Concrete set in metal framing, the stairs are damp, and the rungs vibrate when you step on them. Some, you’re not sure if they’ll hold your weight, and there’s the one that broke one time before; no one ever fixes things here, and every time since then, you’ve looked down at the ground below you as you tried to avoid that step.
He meets you at the top of the stairs. Shadowed eyes under uncombed pale hair, he looks as desperate as you feel. Skinny hands tight on your arm, he drags you inside. Into the bowels of the building, into the guts, through a water-damaged wooden door, its faded office number still hanging on the wall beside it. He pulls you in, and he slams the door shut, and “how much do you want me to take this time?” he asks you.
“How much will you take?” you ask him, because that’s really what matters. It’s insane, that’s what it is; and you’re insane, and he’s insane – This whole place is insane, with its stained fiberboard walls, and the cockroaches that scuttle across carpets that smell of mildew.
He mentions a figure and you nod. It’s not what you wanted, but you’re not in a position to deal. You bare your arm to let him drink – That’s where he takes it from, not from your neck, no matter how many times you’ve asked him. He won’t tell you why he doesn’t either; that’s going to stay a mystery, like how did he end up here, how does he survive to keep doing this.
...How do you survive to keep letting him, there’s another good mystery for you. A pint, he takes at a time, and he takes it regular, not every three months like at the blood bank. He drinks with his mouth pressed to your vein, there’s not even any blood on his lips when he raises his head. “Whore,” he says, “filthy bitch.” You don’t say anything about how he’s the one taking your money.
And your arm bandages easy enough, and your sleeves come down to cover it. ‘He can’t make enough doing this to live on,’ you think, ‘what’s in it for him?’ You never think to ask what’s in it for you.
Concrete set in metal framing, the stairs are damp, and the rungs vibrate when you step on them. Some, you’re not sure if they’ll hold your weight, and there’s the one that broke one time before; no one ever fixes things here, and every time since then, you’ve looked down at the ground below you as you tried to avoid that step.
He meets you at the top of the stairs. Shadowed eyes under uncombed pale hair, he looks as desperate as you feel. Skinny hands tight on your arm, he drags you inside. Into the bowels of the building, into the guts, through a water-damaged wooden door, its faded office number still hanging on the wall beside it. He pulls you in, and he slams the door shut, and “how much do you want me to take this time?” he asks you.
“How much will you take?” you ask him, because that’s really what matters. It’s insane, that’s what it is; and you’re insane, and he’s insane – This whole place is insane, with its stained fiberboard walls, and the cockroaches that scuttle across carpets that smell of mildew.
He mentions a figure and you nod. It’s not what you wanted, but you’re not in a position to deal. You bare your arm to let him drink – That’s where he takes it from, not from your neck, no matter how many times you’ve asked him. He won’t tell you why he doesn’t either; that’s going to stay a mystery, like how did he end up here, how does he survive to keep doing this.
...How do you survive to keep letting him, there’s another good mystery for you. A pint, he takes at a time, and he takes it regular, not every three months like at the blood bank. He drinks with his mouth pressed to your vein, there’s not even any blood on his lips when he raises his head. “Whore,” he says, “filthy bitch.” You don’t say anything about how he’s the one taking your money.
And your arm bandages easy enough, and your sleeves come down to cover it. ‘He can’t make enough doing this to live on,’ you think, ‘what’s in it for him?’ You never think to ask what’s in it for you.