A Full Bodied Red
Not what I expected from an eighty dollar hooker — but as we chinked our glasses, I figured it was her birthday. Or something.
“So...how old?” I ventured. It’s rude to ask a lady her name, I know. But hell, I was about to fuck her.
“It’s a 1929 Chateau Mouton Rothschild,” she replied, swilling her first sip round her mouth with a sophistication clearly honed from years of swallowing.
“That so?” I said, bemused.
She looked at me long and hard, raising the tip of her nose and drawing down her eyelids.
“Mmmm. Yeah. Just so.”
I guessed she was joking about the wine. Tasted like shit, but what do I know? I’m a broker, for chrissake.
“So what’s the deal?” I said. “Straight fuck?”
Tossing her glass aside, and swigging deep from the bottle, she brushed up close, firing me up with a whisper I could feel in my balls.
“Straight, my ass...”
I made to fling her onto the bed, but she resisted.
“Playfight, huh? Riiiiight.”
Again, I tried to turn her, but her faux defiance wasn’t funny any more.
“What the fuck you playin’ at, woman?”
She swang the bottle hard, breaking glass into my face. I fell to the floor, clutching at blood.
Behind me, the door opened — the other hookers; the ones I didn’t choose.
Kneeling beside me, my nameless lay grinned and ushered them close.
“Feast, sisters, feast,” she purred, then slowly sank her fangs into my neck.