The Education of a Whore

He climbs the narrow wooden stairs. Although he has learned where whores can be found in America, he still feels nervous. He wonders what Mummy would say. What Dora would say. Dora...her pretty yellow curls, her sweet white muslin dresses...and then the curve of her bosom under her bodice...He shakes his head to clear his mind. It's profane to think of her here.

He reaches the top of the stairs and looks around. There is the parlor. He enters and looks around at the women reading, gossiping, waiting. Some idly sip whiskey. Some are mending. He sees a blonde one, her fine sharp features remind him of a cat, and he feels a flicker of lust in his groin. He goes to her and tells he he's "settled the bill downstairs."

"Fine," she tells him briskly. Her voice has that strange twang that American voices so often have. She turns and walks out the door, without looking to see if he's coming. She's wearing a dressing gown belted loosely over her body, which looks thin and nervous and strong. He slips his hand into his trousers pocket and surreptitiously strokes his cock through his pocket.

She stops at a door and turns quickly to see him. He is slow to draw his hand out of his pocket, and she notices. A small smile plays over her lips. She opens the door and gestures him in. The usual narrow bed, wash basin, chair, lamp. It is still day, so she doesn't light the lamp, but it is late and the summer sun lights the room only dimly. In this late afternoon glow, her face looks a little softer, curvier.

"Well, then." He never quite knows what to say at this part. So he says little. He places his hat on the chair and quickly strips off his coat. He moves his braces down his shoulders, unbuttons his trousers, takes out his cock, which is already red and aching. He's been waiting for this for several days. No whores on the lake, and whilst the hunting was good now he needs relief. He may want to do her twice.

He turns to her and to her surprise she is not lying on the bed, on her back, with her dressing gown open, the way whores do. He frowns and looks meaningfully at the bed. "Hadn't you better...?" But she is looking back at him, bold, as if she's seen something she wants and although she didn't know five minutes ago that she wanted it, she will have it.

She walks towards him so quickly that he moves a hand to push her away, but she drops to her knees and he's off balance. He sways, touches the end of the iron bedframe for balance, and then he feels it, dear God, the woman has taken his prick into her mouth and she is sucking on it. He groans, almost in pain, because this teasing warm wet sucking is like nothing he has ever felt, it's not like a cunt, he can feel her teeth and her lips and he didn't know women did this. He shoves his hips forward, cramming her, cramming her mouth, this whore, who is rubbing his arse as if she knows that it will make him spend faster, and of course she knows, she's a whore, she does this all the time, and the idea that she will do this all day, every day, to countless men, but for him it is the first time, makes him insane with lust. He grabs her head and realizes that it's not so different at all, it's just fucking, fucking a whore's mouth. And he spends, cums, spurts in her, knowing it's going down her throat and dear God, she is going to swallow it. He's so dizzy with orgasm that he almost falls over but he grasps her head and holds her to him and thrusts one last good time, and then he shoves her away from him, so she has to break her fall with her hands. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes, shame and pleasure burning inside, and he hears a man murmuring, "oh God, my God, ahh, ahhh" and he realizes that the man is himself. His knees bend and he slides down the wall. He puts his head on his knees, gasping for breath, a fragment of language on his lips.

World without end. Amen.

Sometime later he realizes that she's left,and the room is dark. Can he have fallen asleep? He fumbles for his matches, strikes one, does some more fumbling with his watch, and sees that he has. His trousers are still open. He rises and washes himself, buttons himself up. "Right then," he mutters. And he goes out into the hallway.

I am waiting in the room. I don't like this, any part of this. I wish that it had not come to this. But I am a whore now, and I await my first customer. I'm dressed--am I dressed? I'm wearing my corset, and its garters, and stockings, and shoes. "Men like to see us dressed this way," one of the older whores told me. "It's better for a new girl who doesn't have any regulars. You'll get customers this way."

But I feel so exposed. I try to read, a little poetry, take my mind away from this sordid place. Can I remember any the Greek I once learned? What use will Greek be to me here? Maybe French. I hear the other girls refer to "French" sometimes and I don't think they mean the same thing I do by the word. For that matter, "Greek" doesn't seem to mean the same thing here that it does to me either.

A young man stumbles in, the same one we saw pick Suzanne earlier. He's flushed. I liked the way he looked before, clean and blond. But now he doesn't look so nice somehow. I can't describe it. He goes to the bar and orders whiskey. He drinks it down all at once, and orders another. He glances around the room. I think he's looking for Suzanne, but she's with another customer now. Then he sees me.

He approaches me, and when he stands over me he seems so large. I can't look at him. I know this will be my first customer. My mouth feels dry and my stomach clenches tight. My hands perspire. "Come on then," he says, politely enough, I suppose. I know I'm supposed to take him to a room but I can't move. For a moment it is almost comic; he glowers down at me, I sit very still and look at my hands. Then he reaches down and grabs my wrist and pulls me up. He drags me out of the room and down the hall to a room with an open door. No one pays any attention. I trip at the threshold and he pulls me up. I collide with his chest and before I know what's happening, he's kisssed me roughly. I don't know if he's supposed to do this or not. I like it, though. His mouth tastes like whiskey but it's sweet, as well. Perhaps this will not be so bad, I think. But I know better.

He sits on the bed, pulls down his suspenders, and opens his pants. He takes it out and strokes it, once, twice. I feel my face flushing in embarrassment. I've seen them, of course, on animals, but this is on a man. "Well?" he says.

We sit in silence. His breathing quickens, as does mine. I can't look at him, but I whisper, "I don't know."

"You don't know what?" he demands. "What in heaven's name are you talking about?"

"I don't know what to do!" I say, and to my humiliation, my voice breaks. A tear rolls down my cheek.

"Oh, bloody hell," he mutters. He stands, grasps my shoulders, and for a moment I think I will get another kiss. But instead he presses down, hard, on my shoulders, until I have to fall to my knees. In one hand he holds it--the other girls have so many names for it, dick and cock and prick-- and with the other hand he seizes my hair and pulls my head forward. "Suck it," he says, and I don't know what he means. "Suck my cock, you whore!" And in one dreadful moment I understand what he wants. He pulls my hair hard and and I cry out. He stops my mouth with it, he puts his cock in my mouth.

I don't know what to do with it. I gag. I am weeping as he pulls my head back and forth with both his hands. I know what he is doing, he is fucking me, only I thought they did it with another part, I never could have dreamed anyone meant this. He gasps, moans, sighs, and he says things to me. "Eat it, suck it, make me cum, you little slut, use your slut mouth on it." His prick feels as if it will rip my lips in two, he is so large, and I am terrified that I will bite him and then he will kill me, so I just try to keep my mouth open while he pushes it in and pulls it out, over and over again, until I hear him crying out wordlessly. Suddenly there is a new taste in my mouth, salty, bitter, rich. Instinctively I swallow some, but most flows out of my mouth and down my neck and over my breasts. I feel nauseous. I pray I don't vomit. He pulls himself out of my mouth and releases me. He falls back onto the bed. For a moment there is nothing.

I curl into a little ball on the floor. I bite my own hand, tasting blood. He rolls over onto his side and looks at me. He reaches out and touches the liquid on my breasts. He tastes it. He reaches down and pulls me up, pulls me onto him, and he licks his own semen off my breasts. Where my skin is exposed, pushed up by my corset, his tongue feels warm and soft and even pleasurable. To my shame, I feel warmth between my legs.

But then it becomes ugly again. He turns us over, rolling on top of me, and he pushes my legs apart hard. I keep trying to push him away. I say, no, don't, no. I try to close my legs, and he cries out in frustration, "Don't do that!" and he opens my legs again. Again, I can't help it, I don't want this, it feels wrong to have him scrabbling at this secret spot, and again, I try to close my legs. This time, he hits me across the face, so that all I can do is sob with the pain ringing in my skull. He presses down on me, so heavy, and I feel something heavy and thick between my legs, at those soft pink lips that I have sometimes secretly touched late at night. He grunts, holding my legs apart in a painful grip, and he jerks his hips forward.

He enters me, not gently, not tenderly, but cruelly and selfishly. He is inside me. I am violated. I am being raped. The pain is excruciating, like fire being applied inside me. "Please," I weep, "please don't." He does not hear, or he does not care. Again, he is taking his pleasure on me, thrusting hard, his face pressed into my shoulder, muttering, "Little whore, little whore, fucking little whore, I am going to fuck you and fuck you and fuck you." I put my hands on his shoulders and push and he just shrugs me off. He's too big, he's crushing me, and I can't breathe.

He slows his thrusting, and I think perhaps at last it will be over. But instead he pulls out his cock (see how I have learned to say it already) and he lifts me in his arms and turns me over and pulls my bottom up towards him. He holds my hips so tightly. I can feel bruising pain. He fumbles with his cock and then he shoves it inside me again. Again, the terrible pain. But now, something else. It does not hurt so much. But it hurts when he slaps my bottom, hard. It stings. And he is talking again, saying "God I want this, I want to fuck, I want to fuck this little whore, little fucking slut, fill her, spend in her." He reaches out to grasp my hair and he pulls it hard. My head snaps back painfully. And then I feel his other hand, his finger probing at my bottom, so shamefully, so wrongly.

"Please, don't do that," I whisper. He ignores me and shoves a finger into me. The little hole there flexes, tries to expel him. He bores into me more firmly, and I can feel his pace quickening. He is holding me by the ass and by the hair as he fucks my cunt. Now I can say these things because now I am a whore. He has made me one. And I know this unmistakably as he drives forward towards his pleasure, towards cumming in my cunt, towards marking me forever because he is the first man to take my virgin body, the first cock in my mouth, in my cunt. His cum will drip over my cunt and down my thighs, burning, marking me, baptizing me as a whore.