CONTROL - by Christopher Grant

WARNING: If you're a tad prudish then don't read on...

Control

She's fifty, maybe fifty-five and still has most of her looks. The only thing that shows her age are her graying temples.

"Andrew?" she asks. She's clad in a pink silk robe, leaning on the edge of the hotel room door.

I respond with a nod and she opens the door further and walks back into the room, shedding her robe along the way. Her body is lithe and muscular. She definitely works out and the sinewy muscles and tendons are proof of this. Her buttocks look to be rock hard.

"Are you coming or just going to enjoy the view?" she asks, leaning forward, her hands on the bed. Her voice is flat yet sultry. There's a smokiness to it.

I enter the room and shut the door with my foot.

Her name is Deborah. Not Deb or Debbie or Dee. She's an animal in bed, controlling everything from the way I touch her to the way we kiss to the way she fucks me.

I'm a male escort and make a fine living at it. I have never met a woman like Deborah.

Afterwards, she doesn't want to cuddle and doesn't need to be reassured that she was good. She wants to talk.

"Hank never let me be in control," Deborah says, explaining why she was so aggressive. I know who Hank is without explanation. I think it's interesting that she uses the word Let and not Lets, which tells me that perhaps I don't know who Hank is. Or was.

I do my level best not to get involved in the lives of my clients, even those that have requested me on a regular basis. So the conversation pretty much ends there.

That's fine for Deborah. She rolls over, straddles my hips and takes hold of my cock, slipping it inside of her again, taking it for another ride.

I look up at her and see how beautiful she really is. I wonder what was wrong with Hank. How could he not see Deborah for Deborah?

I hear the door burst open but everything is moving in slow motion, it seems. I see a burly man with scars on his face and tattoos on his arms rush into the room. He has something his hands and then it's over Deborah's head.

"No!" I scream, even as Deborah's body continues to move, even as she slides up and down my length.

The burly son of a bitch is suffocating her with a plastic bag and I can't do anything to stop him. But Deborah doesn't seem to be struggling. She seems to be...

...enjoying it? I hear her moaning through the plastic.

After less than a minute, though it seems like ages, the burly, tattooed man removes the bag and Deborah lets loose a sigh of satisfaction. I go limp and slip from her and Deborah leans forward, pressing my entire body into the mattress. She puts her mouth to my ear and she laughs.

I roll her off of me, disgusted by this entire display. Deborah cackles on the bed as I gather my clothes, ready to book, not even concerned about being paid. I hear the hammer of a gun being pulled back and the burly son of a bitch says, "I'm Hank."

Holy shit!

Deborah stops laughing for two seconds. "Hank's been away for so long." The tattoos make sense now. The use of Deborah's words make sense, too.

"I haven't had my turn yet," Hank says to me.

"She's all yours," I say and try to shove past him.

Hank puts a meaty hand against my bare chest and shoves, sending me careening back onto the bed and making me drop my clothes. I hear his zipper being lowered and he says, "Not with her. With you."

BIO:
Christopher Grant is editor and publisher of A Twist Of Noir. His crime stories have appeared at The Flash Fiction Offensive, Powder Burn Flash, The 6S Social Network and here at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.