Delicious Whore Pt. 02

I dressed myself then in front of them, weeping a little, unable to look up.

Time to go. It seemed expected, so I found myself saying 'Thank you' to the tattooist, who grinned at me, almost laughing at my feeling the need to be polite, while I blushed.

Once we were in the street, I turned to R, who was looking at his watch;

"Thank you," I said.

And I meant it. The idea that he had marked me with his name was growing in significance with each passing minute, and I knew that I would be fizzing about this for days. Being fucked by another man in front of him --- him using me in turn, in front of the stranger, that too, was new, and would fill my thoughts for weeks.

He grinned at me --- a quick, formalistic movement of his lips, almost bored.

"Indeed, you should be grateful. I don't mark many. Wasn't sure if you'd be worth it, a few weeks ago. I can't offer you a lift, I'm afraid. Taking someone to the theatre. There's a cab office up the street I think."

And he was walking away, without a backward glance.

I was desperate, of course --- tears in my eyes at this deliberate callousness. But I was impressed as well, in spite of myself. Impressed at his calm confidence in my subjection. Impressed that he had judged me so well --- that I was going to accept being abandoned like this, would walk, meekly, to find the cab office in my extravagant heels, the tattoo beginning to burn on my buttock, go home and spend the evening alone, reviewing the many red lines I had been pushed across in those two hours, and how far I had fallen, while he went off to enjoy an evening with some other woman --- with whom no doubt he would be entertaining, witty, respectful, lover-like. That there was no will in me to protest. That I was more grateful than ever.

Crazy. Crazy hot...