Taboo Unchained(2)
I turn around and grab my briefcase, laying my suit jacket over my arm. One quick glance at Mr. Braxton shows that he's already asleep in the ostentatious wingback chair that sits near the window. I try desperately not to roll my eyes.
“W-wait!” Clarice calls out, scrambling off of the bed and chasing after me. I ignore her when she tugs on my arm and tries to stop me from heading out the door of her bedroom. “I can say it. Fuck me. Fuck me, Lucas.” I slide easily from her grasp and manage to step into the hallway before she gloms onto me again. My scowl feels permanently etched into my skin at this point. I'm an artist whose medium is flesh and blood and sex.
“I am not a whore, Clarice,” I tell her as we move past the open door of a bedroom and the blasé stare of one of the Braxton's many maids. They've seen it all and more, I'm sure. Not once have I ever seen a single one of them blink at my presence, not even when I'm ramming Mrs. Braxton in a sex swing dangling off the edge of the balcony overlooking the foyer. Heights. The danger of falling is one of the few things that really gets Clarice off. That, apparently, and my utter distaste for her personality.
“I know, and I'm sorry, please. Lucas, come on.” Clarice follows me halfway down the curving staircase before I stop and turn to her, her chest heaving, breasts full and admittedly quite tempting. I lean over and whisper in her ear.
“Stop begging like the desperate little slut that you are, and maybe I'll consider fucking you next time.” I watch out of the corner of my eye as her lashes flutter and her breath comes quicker. Insults. A fairly tame breed of naughty, but one that Mrs. Braxton likes all the same. I step back and continue down the stairs, debating on whether or not I'm going to stop in the gaudy gold and white marble bathroom near the front door. My hands are still sticky with my cum, and the sensation is making my teeth hurt. I'm a meticulous man, and I like to be clean.
“You're seriously leaving?” Clarice wheedles as I hit the bottom stair and pause with one foot on the ugly travertine floor. I spare her a quick glance over my shoulder and find a frown plastered across those red, red lips. “The check cleared, didn't it?” she snaps when she sees me make no move to turn around.
My scowl returns with a vengeance.
“I already told you: I am not a whore.” Fuck. I hate repeating myself. I continue towards the front door, pausing only when a vase smashes into the ground next to my feet, shattering into a million white and blue pieces. I don't bother to look back when Clarice starts screeching at me.
“You are a whore. An overpriced one at that. Get over yourself, Lucas. You have sex for money!”
Okay, now that does give me pause. A smile replaces my scowl as I turn around and give Mrs. Braxton my most evil look.
“Then you and I, my darling, are one in the same. Next time Mr. Braxton is busy riding your ass, think of me to get through it. I'll consider that a freebie.”
A small angel statue comes flying over the railing of the balcony, crashing into a gilded mirror not six feet from where I'm standing.
There is a demon inside of me.
Not a literal one, of course, because such things don't exist. Not that I've ever seen anyway. But there might as well be because I can feel something deep down that doesn't belong in this world, a darkness that permeates my being and shadows the world around me. I don't usually let it hurt anyone – not intentionally – but it is ravenous. It demands to be fed. Sated. Set loose every now and again. Most people can't handle my demon. Trust me, I've tried. I was once even engaged for a brief period in my life. That wasn't the problem. The problem was the wedding night when my beast emerged and demanded sacrifice. Obviously, something is very wrong with me. On an intellectual level, I understand that, but it doesn't change things. It doesn't change my needs, doesn't satisfy them, so I make do the best I know how.
Currently, the best involves a woman named Leslie Catsitch. She doesn't know I'm here to see her today, but she will as soon as she opens the door. Leslie lives alone, so unexpected drop-ins are not only encouraged but required. I usually only visit Leslie when I have a cancellation, such as today. Otherwise, the demon is generally too satisfied to be of much use to Ms. Catsitch.
I grit my teeth and curl my fingers into my palm. Clarice and her husband will be lucky if they ever see me again. The money is nice, but like I stated before: I am not a fucking whore. People don't pay me for sex. They pay me for a chance to visit with the demon, to find themselves in the arms of a dark God. It's not about the carnal connection of flesh, the rapid bump and grind of a hard cock inside a wet pussy. If that's all this was about, I'd have a normal job. I'd work as a financial advisor or something, pick up women in restaurants or bars or at board meetings.