This is a continuation from my first short, short story, The Big, Bad Wolf.
His hookers knew tricks that would make David Copperfield blush.
Slights of hand that made his balls blue – frozen sacks of anticipation. Disappearing acts that made his wants and needs vanish into sweat-stained sheets.
But most of all, these whores – paid for their twists and turns, sculpted bodies and unnaturally colored hair – played the ultimate trick.
They made him believe in magic.
It was because of the way they moved. God damn, how they would gyrate. Monica was the best. A Tight Body with hazel eyes that pierced. That stared him down while she moved side-to-side. That knew what to do.
They met twice a week at the Ritz downtown. Jennifer, sitting at home, probably watching The Bachelor, was clueless. That bitch was more of a Hilton Girl anyway. Jennifer was fine to show off, sure, with her blonde hair and perky B-cup tits, but couldn’t hold a conversation if she was being interviewed by fucking Barbara Walters.
In the end, Jennifer was expendable, just like everyone else.
But Monica. Sweet Mary and Joseph. Her spells had a way of never letting go. Moving her hips, he’d get lost inside her world of illusion, nothing but a pimply-faced kid swilling Mountain Dew in his basement, working toward his level 10 chain lightning. She could make sparks fly, but only after the lights went off, visual senses dulled and erotic thrills of touch heightened.
She was an enchantress of the first order and she was the only person to cast that kind of impression on him.
Sitting alone in his kitchen, he realized their weekly visits could be over. He ran his fingers over the cool marble countertops, flat and hard like Monica’s stomach. Like the way his cock would greet her for round two the morning after, his eyes fluttering open with the foresight of stupid fucking fucks he’d fuck in the day to come.
And he did. And they did. And Monica would collect and be on her way.
So he’d be there alone, darkness wrapped around him as tight as the bed linens. His dirty deeds gave way to the lies spawning in his brain, born from release and incubating in a clearer head.
But tonight there would be no coital absolution. No magic tricks to leave him in awe. Instead, his mind raced with plans of retribution, but only for himself and what he faced.
He’d get out of the hearings. He’d manipulate investigators. He’d find his own tricks to play.
But before the interviews and plea bargains and deals, he’s trapped in this moment. In the darkness, he’s forced to face himself.
He’s forced to face the truth.