Marriage in the Bordello

It was a world in which two things converged; lust and love. Lust was the game we played here, and love was the illusion of smoke and mirrors. It was a world of crimson and grey; grey coming to our world of crimson in order to fantasize that they lived the crimson day in and day out. The smoke and mirrors was our job in the game of lust. We created the passion that bellowed within their loins, and rattled up through their heart. We were the Ladies of the Bordello.

The city was that of peace and faith. Our corner of the town, though, held an edge of darkness that those of the light came to tempt once in awhile. Their wives would never admit it, but we were the women who taught their men the ways of the flesh that caused their cries into the night. That was the only reason we remained in business in this quiet town.

The Bordello taught a woman a lot about men. Those who wore any sort of jewelry tended to have an aire of an actor, one with skill in flirtation, but rarely lived up to the bragging they did downstairs upstairs. And a man in a suit with manners, and a charming smile, who bought you your drink, and entertained you in a gentleman-like manner, was often quite a cat in bed. The quiet ones were often just as quiet in bed, and the obnoxious ones proved to follow their tone in bed as well. One other thing this place taught a woman was how to fake her climax with the best of them. This was a good talent to have when your husband just cannot learn the right techniques.

Yes, some of the Ladies were married, including myself. My husband had a thirst for watching me fuck another man, he liked to watch from a secret place off the balcony, or place a video recorder in my private room for his pleasures later. Sometimes I despised him for his hunger, other times it was quite enjoyable. The times I hated it were generally with the worse kind of man he could find. He liked to watch me scream, to cry out for a brutal man to stop. He never came to my rescue. Some husband, I know. But I had no choice but to remain his own.

Divorce was not a thing of our marriage; for a contract had been made, a prenuptial that I would remain his bride for the rest of my life. No, it was not that I loved him irresistibly back when we married. But that was a longer story.

I had worked in a café at the time. It was quiet during the day, and came to life when the stars and moon decided it was time. I danced for the men's pleasure upon the stage over chairs and around poles. I never bared my body completely, and that was how I met him. He sat in the back of the room, in a quiet corner. He wore a dark suit, and smoked a cigarette with a sent that reached me upon the pole. I could feel his eyes, and for that song, I danced for him. It was the first night I bared my breasts, and showed him what he wanted. For some reason, I knew what he wanted. He wanted my flesh, and his eyes and cigarettes, his suit... they made me want to give it to him.

I finished my dance, and I found that he had moved to the base of the stage. He waited for me. As I attempted to replace my bra, he grabbed me, pulling hard back against his front. I felt his hunger at my ass, and I took him to the back room. He looked at me with a hunger I had never before seen in a man's eyes, and for a moment I mistook it for love. He thrust me with such force that I stumbled as I fell back against the bed. He never asked, he only took and never gave. My body was his own, and he would claim it as so. My thong was ripped from by flesh, and my thighs were parted before I could object. He undressed himself only enough to give me what he wanted; his pants resting around his hips, and his hardness bore out before me. He covered my mouth as he thrusted into me with such force, burying himself to the hilt, begging for my cries beneath his hand. I parted my legs for him, and he released his hand, pulling my hips to him, pulling back and thrusting into me as my hips met his. He fucked without love. He had the ability to make one who indulged in the act often shamelessly, feel like a whore. Ironically, I liked it. He grasped my breasts tightly, and told me to tell him to whom I belonged. It was at that moment I gave myself to him, and he claimed me. Then, as he came inside me, he whispered into my ear that I was to marry him that next night, and I was to sign a prenuptial agreement without any questions. He told me stories of how he was going to take me away from this place as he stroked my pussy. He told me how he would care for me how no man could ever. And to this day, I do not think he has ever lied. He twisted words for his benefit, and gave me everything that agreement said.

The next night we were married at a small chapel. He had chosen crimson for my wedding dress, a satin dress thin enough to see every curve and outline of my flesh, he allowed for me to wear nothing beneath, and made me to stand before a few as his wife, baring me as Helen was bore before her crowd. There was no honeymoon, only a quick move to the Bordello I reside in now.

It was the night of our wedding he tied me down and gave another man roam over my body. I never begged for an end to this, for I was his wife, and in that prenuptial, I promised to do whatever he asked to please my husband in exchange for what he gave me. He gave me clothes, money, food, and a place to live. He had met his requirements. My husband rarely took my body, and when he did, it was only when I passed a test that I might become pregnant and bare the children I had promised him. For awhile, I thought I repulsed him, but then I learned that I pleased him as he stood out on the balcony, watching me as other men took me. And when he took me for his own pleasure, he groaned like no man I had had before. He satisfied me like no other man could, and for that I knew this was my life, and how I was supposed to live it. I never believed in love, and knew that this was my "soul mate", for neither of us could give what others needed, and neither of us wanted to feel.