Dark Soul Vol. 3 (2 page)

The safe house was a bit out of the way, in a rundown part of the city, with no direct neighbors. Just a closed-down printing shop to one side, and to the other a boarded-up apartment building awaiting gentrification or a wrecking crew. This part of the city was holding its breath for rebirth, but would only succumb to cancer.

The car stopped and Sergei stepped out. He watched while Vasily composed himself and got out of the car, raging erection pushing against his fly. Pavel was no better, but he didn’t grin as gleefully as Vasily and actually helped the already disheveled hooker out of the car.

Vasily winked at him. “You’re gonna be first?”

“Yeah.” Sergei usually didn’t pull rank, but she’d come to him, and while that decided nothing really, he figured it was important to show who was leading. Besides, she’d made that possible; his body responded readily to hers.

They escorted the hooker to the nondescript two-bedroom house. Sergei had claimed the master bedroom for himself (having his own shower seemed like the height of luxury), while the rest shared the other double bedroom, or had until Vasily had complained of Vanya’s snoring and moved onto the couch in the living room. It was the shared bedroom they were heading to.

The hooker reached the bed, glanced at it, and turned to Sergei, looking nervous. But then she stepped closer, met his eyes for a long moment, and went down on her knees. Sergei inhaled sharply when she opened his fly and rubbed him through his boxers before pul ing down his trousers far enough to pull his boxers down, too.

She didn’t tease much—straight to business, her lips parting for him and taking him in without reluctance. He grabbed her neck, her smooth, long movements much like he’d jerk off when he had time and wanted to make it last. His gaze fell on Vasily, who stared at her face, her lips, and of course at Sergei’s dick, eyes glowing with cold, calculating lust.

Pavel made a rude comment in Russian, while Sergei stepped out of his boots and trousers, allowing the hooker to keep jerking him off while he undressed. “Get on bed now.”

She stood and plucked the silver handbag from her shoulder, then fished out a tube of lube and a long strip of condoms.

Vasily scoffed. “I’m not putting one of those on,” he said in Russian.

She seemed to catch the gist of that protest and looked at Vasily, her dark eyes steady and not afraid at al . “I’m not worried about you,” she said, “but you might want to be worried about me. I fuck men for a living, not you.”

Sergei huffed laughter and responded in Russian. “You put that on. I’m not nursing you through some infection. If you catch anything, I’m putting you down like a dog.”

Vasily stared at him with the “try it” expression he sometimes used when given an order not directly related to a job. Sergei assumed those were shows of machismo. Vasily thought of himself as the second man on the team, while, for Sergei, the hierarchy was flat indeed: him at the top and the other three on the level underneath.

He met that stare, then grabbed the hooker and pushed her to the bed. She lay down on her back, booted legs spread wide. He got on top, noticed her shifting something between her legs, then she reached for the condoms. She ripped one open with skill, then put it on him as she must have done a million times.

She curved her spine, since he wasn’t going into her pussy, but once she was positioned right, he could push easily against her ass.

She was lubed up already there, but Sergei still pulled the lube closer.

Just in case. She smiled at him and licked her lips. “Give me that fat cock, please.”

He pushed inside, a tighter heat than a normal hooker usually offered, and saw something real in her face. Discomfort, maybe, because she felt tight—not yet fucked tonight, or maybe he was larger than the last guys she’d had—but that dissolved into pleasure once he was further in.

She opened her lips, her hands on his shoulders, stroking, kneading his muscles while he thrust into her up to his balls. “Oh God. Exactly . . . what I needed,” she moaned.

Minute movements from her hips spurred him on, and he pulled out, keeping his weight mostly on his arms, then thrust in again. She arched, her legs crossing around his back, pul ing him close, the cool chrome-clad heels digging into his flanks.

He concentrated on the feeling of heat and tightness and eagerness—if she wasn’t eager, she certainly made a damn good show of it—thrusting and pul ing out, feeling her lithe strong body take him, the heat that rose from them both, the way her neck arched.

Pavel muttered a coarse comment, and Vasily was there too, like a hyena biding his time.

Sergei thrust harder, faster, riding his own pleasure, but she was responsive, pushed back against him and kept urging him on, until he was fucking her hard and fast, their bodies slapping together—rough, dirty sex. Fine by him; he hadn’t had sex in ages.

After he’d come, he pulled out, securing the condom, and stepped away. She looked flushed, glowing with a hint of sweat, dark eyes alight. He tossed the condom in the trash and watched Vasily open his belt and trousers, pluck out his dick. With a poisonous stare, he rolled a condom on, then pushed her legs wide apart, leaning his weight on her knees, folding her completely open. She was wearing some kind of underwear that kept her dick out of the way. He’d felt that, but hadn’t looked too closely.

Vasily almost jumped on her, thrusting in so hard and fast he rocked the bed. The hooker gave a small sound of pain and squeezed her eyes shut when he began to fuck her as if to punish her for making him wear that stupid condom. It only didn’t look like rape because she wasn’t fighting him off.

Sergei sat down on the cot against the wal , couldn’t help but watch Vasily’s cock pump into her, her long graceful legs opened wide, and Vasily’s teeth near her throat, biting and sucking on her neck, throat, face. Sergei swallowed hard, but what could he do? She got paid for this, and if that was how Vasily wanted it, then that was what he’d get. Sergei just wished she’d open her eyes so he could tell if she was all right.

Vasily pulled out as he started to come, tore off the condom, and jerked himself off with a few harsh motions over her, coming all over her face and chest. Pavel protested at that, but the hooker only opened her eyes. Her expression was hard to read: wholly lucid, wholly in control, it seemed, despite her being alone in a room with four men, all stronger and heavier and more vicious than her. It was an “I’ll remember your face” look. Sergei suppressed a smile.

Pavel next. He flipped her onto her belly, lifted her hips, and she pushed her ass out, offering him full access. Pavel waved Vanya over, who sat down on the bed and guided her head to his swollen dick. Sergei watched, enjoying both that blowjob and the skill that reduced stoic Vanya in pieces in mere minutes, amused at how both men tried to coordinate their efforts. They were much better in the field than in bed.

Vasily touched his shoulder with a vodka bottle, looking sated but still dangerous. Sergei took the bottle and swallowed two mouthfuls, welcoming the slight burn.

“Getting ready for round two?” Vasily asked.

“Not me.” Sergei shrugged. “Help yourself.”

Vasily glanced over at the bed, at groaning, sweating Pavel with his rather uncoordinated, clumsy moments of tenderness; and Vanya, who was all spaced out. “I never had a boy,” he conceded eventually.

Sergei glanced up, but said nothing.

“Can we keep her all night? I got some more bullets to shoot.”

Sergei shrugged. “We’re meeting the guy in the afternoon. Should be plenty of time for target practice.” He stood somewhat heavily, patted Vasily on the shoulder, then took the bottle from his hand and walked outside. Once alone, he settled on a pile of roof tiles in the dark, dejected garden in the back, and listened to far-away cars.

Nights like this, he felt every day of his age, and sometimes, he didn’t actually want to be penned in with the same men in the same room. Things had been different once, but the memory of that didn’t touch him anymore. Family or things he’d wanted to do with his life.

Never in a thousand years could he have imagined he’d end up in, of all places, America, a mercenary to men of
bizness
. He finished the bottle with measured sips, watching carefully how much he drank and how it affected him. The pleasant buzz never covered what he knew was going on in that bedroom.

All in al , he spent an hour outside in the darkness, then got to his feet and returned to the bedroom. The scent of sweat, sex, semen was heavy in the air. Vanya was asleep on the cot. Pavel was stretched out on the bed, Vasily half on top of the hooker. Sergei nudged him aside and gathered the hooker up. She smelled of all three of them, flecks of dried semen on her skin. Her black eyes snapped open, but she relaxed again when she saw him, melting into his arms not unlike a smal , trusting animal.

He carried her into his own bedroom and put her down on the bed, but motioned for her to sit up.

She looked at him, tired and worn, her makeup smudged, her wig and clothes in complete disarray. Still, no fear or cringing away when he touched her shoulder. “Come, clean up.”

She shook her head. “I can just go home.”

“In that state?”

She shrugged. “Unless you want me.”

He did, but it was an odd kind of desire there. Not in her state.

He wasn’t drunk enough. “Shower’s just that way.”

She looked up at him, listless, so he got down on his knees, pushed one of her legs to the side and pulled down the shiny metal zipper running along the length of the latex boots. He pulled her foot free, the skin sweaty in his hand, set her foot down on the ground, then freed her other leg. Her calves were hairless, strong and perfectly shaped, both graceful and functional. Smal ish feet, meticulously cared for, with silvery nail polish on her nails.

She looked at him with something like irony. “Don’t mind me if I fall asleep.”

“That’s okay.” Sergei helped her up, noticed her wince when she straightened, and led her into the bathroom. “Get undressed.”

She looked at him. “Are you sure?”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” She padded over to the basin, looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head, no doubt at the devastation of her get-up.

He stepped closer as she washed her hands, and didn’t turn away when she reached for the wig. Like her eyes and eyebrows, her hair was black. Short, sweat-damp and flattened against her skul .

Sergei reached for the shirt she wore tied over her breastbone and pulled the knot free. He felt her breathe deeply, maybe sigh, maybe release tension, as he pulled the damp garment off.

The padded bra was next, and she shuddered when he opened that, then covered her chest when it slipped away, not unlike a woman would do. “Why do you want to see this?” she asked.

“Why are you doing this?”

“What? Hooking?”

Sergei dropped the bra on the floor atop her shirt, then pulled the zipper of her skirt down. She stared at him as if increasingly disturbed by the fact that he was undressing her. Her johns never did that, he assumed.

“Yes. Hooking.”

“For the money.” She reached up to her face and pulled the artificial lashes from her eyes, then blinked at him. “For the surgery.”

She pulled her skirt down and walked past him into the shower, one hand covering her pubes, but he noticed a metal ic sheen.

He shed his clothes while she turned the water on and ran the showerhead between her legs and against her front, one hand against the tiles, facing away from him. After a few moments and some gentle pul ing, a mass of wet duct tape and toilet paper came away.

She gathered it all up in one long-fingered hand and placed it on the soap dish.

Sergei stepped into the shower and ran his hands along her lithe, strong back. Short-shorn black hair at her neck, and he caught a whiff of her smell. “Turn.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You want to be a woman. With tits and without . . .”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, makeup already beginning to stream from her face, taking everything away, the blush, the touch of glitter. The face underneath was just as elfin, delicate yet sharp, the dark eyes just as intense, if not more so. “Why do you ask?”

“There has to be a reason why you do this.”

“For the money.”

“Not everybody would do what you do for money.”

She bent her neck, stared at the water gurgling away between their feet. “The surgery is expensive. I’ll never make that kind of money in any other job.”

“How much more do you need?”

She huffed, but hesitated, then turned around to face him fully.

Water was running down her flat chest, small dark nipples looking sore—one most definitely, with teeth marks on the pec around it.

From Vasily? Not even a hint of cleavage, no breast. A male chest, boyishly bare, flat but for some well-defined muscle that probably helped pull off the illusion. The hooker’s midriff was a thing of beauty—all lean, long muscle that screamed athlete or dancer, with a line of text tattooed across his heart.

His,
Sergei noted. It was impossible to refer to the hooker as female now. There was a cock, balls, all shaved; lean hips; the same long, graceful legs as before; the same long neck. He reached up to the hooker’s throat, took hold of the col ar, then reached around and opened it. That bared the small Adam’s apple, of course.

The hooker looked up to him, studying his face, a hint of mistrust in his eyes, as if expecting violence or mockery. How many men fooled themselves and turned violent once the illusion was shattered?

“Your body is fine,” Sergei said and reached for the shower gel.

“Yours isn’t bad, either,” the hooker told him, and allowed Sergei to touch him, clean him, wash the makeup from his face, thumbs brushing the high cheekbones, the angular jawline, the lips, removing who knew how many layers of carefully applied makeup. Then down to the chest, washing everything away that clung to that skin, the night, the memory, everything but the two bite marks and bruises from Vasily, one on the chest, the other on the deltoid.