You are aware of his eyes on you before he even comes over.
He isn't like your usual clients – oh no – this one isn't a fat, ugly businessman dressed in pinstripes and a black tie, this one is young, fit and – ok – he maybe a little grubby around the edges but who cares when he looks like that.
His motel room is anonymous; like most motel rooms everywhere. His clothes are scattered on one bed but the other is free and you wonder – briefly – why he needs two beds but that thought soon escapes you as he grabs your hair and pulls you towards him capturing your mouth in a kiss, biting down on your lower lip and pulling on your buttons with long, capable fingers.
You land on your back on the bed and he growls; the look in his eyes is predatory like a lion with its prey. Your body is naked to his touch and he bites and licks you, his mouth moving over your tingling flesh, your own hands useless as he holds them down, not letting you touch or taste, his control almost frightening.
There is nothing in his eyes but lust and need; nothing. His movements are almost military in their precision and he fucks into you without pause, his mouth on your neck, his hands on your breasts. You don't often enjoy it and even when you do it isn't like this, this is something else, something almost supernatural in its intensity and you let yourself go, moaning and groaning and submitting to him, giving him everything and more. It is an experience that you had missed, that you had lost in all your years as i'a working girl' /i and you let yourself get lost in sensation as he kisses you hard and tenses, comes silently, only his stiff body and hitch of breath giving him away.
You follow him down swiftly afterwards and reach for him knowing that clients often want this, want affection, want to pretend that it wasn't brought and paid for. He rolls from your grip and gets up, wandering away from you into the bathroom. You hear the shower go on and you wait for a while, sleep and boredom eventually taking you as you slip into oblivion.
The next day you walk in on him training and you feel the throb of lust between your legs again. You try to flirt with him but he is near mute, giving nothing away, his eyes distant, his smile on the wrong side of cynical. You break protocol and give him your home number, give him details of your days off. He looks at you with his head on one side like a hawk appraising its prey and then he holds the piece of paper loosely in his hands turning away from you as his cell rings.
Just once you let yourself look back; your heart sore as you see him toss your number into the trash. For one, brief moment you see something else in his face, something different, a flash of – what? Tenderness, love, hope? You don't know, maybe you imagined it, you have never met a man so handsome, so closed off, so cold.
Yet – deep inside – you want to meet him again. Somehow you know this isn't the man he really is – just the man he has become and you wonder if he is a soldier recovering from a war, someone who was once a prisoner, maybe someone who has escaped torture, escaped the cage but is still trapped somehow behind the bars.
You sigh and call a cab; night calls and you have a job to do….
End