Disclaimer: I do not own the Matrix or anything else, for that matter.
Summary: Hurt and angry by Bronwyn's harsh words the next morning, Smith lashes out in the only way he knows how, forcing Bronwyn into a corner from which there is only one way out.
A/N: I owe a great debt of thanks to Cecilia for supplying me with the well-written and highly erotic description of a certain sexual act-she knows the one I mean... ;-) Hint: it's the one that is written in italics…Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
The next morning, Bronwyn opened her bloodshot, gritty eyelids and saw Smith sitting on the other side of the bed with his back to her and he was putting on his shirt. She widened her eyes in surprise when she noticed deep scratch marks down his back. The skin had been broken and in a few places, she saw dried blood.
How on earth did he get those scratches on his back, she wondered. Then she realized that there was only one way a man could receive those marks on his back and that was if the woman under him…I couldn't have done that. We didn't make love—did we?
By this time, he had turned his head and saw her watching him. His face was inscrutable as always, but there was something about him that was not the same as usual. There was something different about his eyes and the expression she saw in them now. It was almost as if he was hoping for something. Perhaps seeking some kind of reaction from her on this, the morning after? Wondering what she would say to him, now that she was awake and had realized what had happened between them the night before?
For his part, Smith finally knew the meaning of the term "on pins and needles." He saw comprehension of what had transpired the night before dawn on Bronwyn's face. She had remembered everything. She knew, without a doubt, that they had made love and that it had been consensual. However, the bitterest pill she had to swallow was the fact that she had enjoyed it.
But how is she feeling, he wondered. Why isn't she saying anything? Watching her face closely for any sign of a reaction, Smith was relieved and encouraged when she blushed and turned her head away as she drew up the sheet to cover herself.
Her sudden attempt at modesty made him almost smile when he compared her present actions with her wild sexual abandon of the night before.
A lady in the parlour and a whore in the bedroom, as the old saying went.
But, no. Bronwyn had not been a whore, he corrected himself. She had behaved like a woman who enjoyed the attentions of her lover so much that she had left her marks on him while she was in the throes of uncontrollable ecstasy.
Ecstasy that I made her feel and I know she loved what I did to her last night, he thought with more than a little pride. I can still hear her cry out as she came. Twice. She wanted me as much as I wanted her, and last night proved that with a little time and patience on my part at least—and drugs and alcohol on hers-she seems to have forgotten all about Jones, or else she never would have enjoyed our encounter to the extent that she did. It took a while, but she realizes that it is me she loves now, and no one else. I need not worry any longer about the ghost of Jones coming between us in the night.
"Good morning," he murmured.
He caught her eying the scratches on his body and a leisurely, licentious grin spread over his face. "They are not self-inflicted, Bronwyn, I can assure you. You were quite the little wildcat in bed last night, but I didn't mind. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. And if you are up for a repeat performance this morning," he said in a drawling tone, brazenly eyeing her with slowly awakening desire, "I would be more than delighted to accommodate you."
Bronwyn trembled slightly at the look in his eyes and clutched the sheet even closer to herself as if that would protect her from his gaze. Smith smiled wickedly when he saw the gesture. "I've left some marks on you as well, as you will discover when you are taking your shower."
Bronwyn turned her head away, her cheeks burning in shame but she said nothing. Her back was to Smith and he was not able to see her face. Leaning over, he saw that her eyes were shut tightly. His hand caressed her shoulder to get her attention, but she wrenched herself away from his touch.
"What's wrong?" he asked, hurt and puzzled.
"Don't touch me. Just leave me the hell alone," she snapped.
"You didn't seem to mind me touching you last night," Smith stated angrily, "and I seem to recall you begging me not to stop when I had my fingers inside of you. They were thrusting deep inside of you, as a matter of fact."
It was not possible for Bronwyn to turn a deeper shade of pink, and even her ears went red as she listened to his statement. She tried to react as if his words had had no effect on her, and she snarled her reply with the first words that came to her mind. "Yeah, well, I was bombed out of my mind, in case you've forgotten. I didn't know what I was doing—besides, I thought you were Jones. He was a better lover on his worst day than you were last night," Bronwyn sneered, forcing self-assurance into her words that she was far from feeling. It was a bald-faced lie, but she would have done anything rather than admit it.
"Is that a fact?" Smith replied coldly and his eyes darkened for a moment with pain. She had hurt him more intensely than she would ever realize with that one, simple sentence, but he knew the perfect way that would make her pay dearly for her thoughtless, callous words. "Well, if you managed to get so drunk that you were unable to tell who is in your bed and who is not, then perhaps I will just have to stop the hotel from sending up any more liquor, won't I?" he snapped. He tried, in vain, to allow his anger to wash away all the traces of the emotional and even physical agony he was now feeling, but her words had wounded him too deeply to be erased so easily.
"You wouldn't dare!" Bronwyn said, and Smith could hear the panic and alarm in her voice. He was aware of how quickly she had become accustomed to drowning her troubles in a bottle of booze; dulling her senses so that they were befuddled to the point of happy oblivion, and that if she were to suddenly go "cold turkey," it would be a serious hardship on her mind and body.
"Watch me," he snarled, as he picked up the phone on the nightstand. Bronwyn felt the blood drain from her face as she listened to him speaking to the clerk at the front desk, giving the order that no more alcohol was to be delivered up to the penthouse.
"And furthermore," he stated to Bronwyn when he hung up, "I'll be making sure that you are no longer supplied with pills of any kind. In case your mind is still too stupefied with the after-effects of all those drugs you've been taking, I'll make this very simple: you are now cut off and you will soon be feeling the unpleasant symptoms of withdrawal."
Bronwyn closed her eyes in horror. Withdrawal. A ten-letter word that perfectly epitomized hell on earth. She had gone through withdrawal on a number of occasions in the past because a lack of money and the primal need to eat had forced her to sort out her priorities. The memories of those experiences were terrible, but it made her realize that once you are an addict, all the rehabilitation in the world will not change the fact that you will always be an addict. Even though Bronwyn had only been using either pills or alcohol for a little less than two weeks, her body had become all too used to them and the escape they offered from dealing with her memories.
"Goddamn it, you can't do this to me, Smith!"
"I am doing this, and there is nothing you can do about it. And I will continue to do so until-."
"Until when?" she interrupted.
"Until I damn well please, that's how long. I am through coddling you, Bronwyn. I am tired of your lack of gratitude for everything I've done for you, everything I've given you. Soon, you will learn to appreciate me and show me the proper respect. However, I am not completely heartless. I am a reasonable man. I am aware you drink as much as you do because you are mourning the loss of our child, and I know better than anyone else does about how much that can hurt. As a result, I am prepared to offer you a fair and just compromise."
"What are you talking about?" Bronwyn asked unwillingly. Instead of answering, he sat down beside her on the bed and lightly trailed his fingers through her hair. He moved it out of the way so he could nuzzle her neck and shoulder without impediment. "I think you can hazard a guess, can't you, Bronwyn?" he said sensuously, his breath hot and quick on her neck, while his lips seemed to scorch her skin with the intense heat of his lust.
She swallowed and turned her head away. It was worse than I could ever have imagined, she thought, revolted. He wants me to sleep with him in exchange for the drugs and booze.
"Yes, you understand me now, don't you?" he purred, his voice low and sultry, satisfied and secure in his mastery over her. "If you please me in every way that I wish, then you will receive some pills and alcohol in exchange for your services, shall we say. But let's be clear about something," he said, jerking her chin upward so that he could look into her eyes and drive his point home, "you will receive them only after I have been satisfied, not before. I will not have a doped-up, alcohol-saturated whore in my bed. For that is what you will be, Bronwyn: my whore. And while you are in my bed, you will not just lie there-you will participate fully and eagerly in whatever act I choose.
If you are good to me, then I will be good to you. If I am displeased in any way, I will reduce your allotment; however, if you please me, I may even increase the amount, if I am feeling generous or if having you was especially enjoyable. It all depends on you." He rose off the bed and stood in front of her.
"I think we will begin now. Stand up," he ordered. When she did not comply, he forced her to her feet by yanking her upward by her hair. "Rule number 1: when I tell you to do something, you will obey immediately. I do not wish to repeat myself." He ripped the sheet out of her grasp and threw it away. When she was standing nude before him, he continued. "That's much better. Kiss me," he ordered, and he lowered his voice to a deep growl, "put your arms around me, and kiss me." He smirked when he saw a flicker of fear pass over her face before he lowered his lips to hers.
Bronwyn tried not to draw back when she felt his tongue push its way past her teeth and deep into her mouth until she felt it touch her own. Her mind and body felt encased in ice and mechanically she went through the motions of kissing him. She was heartened when he groaned in pleasure and his breathing quickened.
"You learn quickly, Bronwyn. Very good." He reached into his pocket, and removed a small orange bottle of pills. He took two tablets out, and handed them to her with a self-satisfied grin. She slapped his hand away, scattering the pills on the floor. "I won't be your whore, Smith! I've gone through withdrawal more times than I can count. I've done it before and I can do it again. Keep your damn drugs."
He shrugged unconcernedly, as he bent to pick up the pills from the floor. "As you wish. When you change your mind, you know where to find me. You may refuse them now," he said knowingly, "but eventually you will come begging to me on your knees when your body craves and begs for release from the grief and painful memories that still haunt you at night."
Bronwyn's knees would no longer support her and she sank to the ground. He was right. Her nightmares had never gone away, and it was only because of sleeping pills that she had been able to get any rest at all.
He sat back on his haunches before her. "All of this could have been avoided, you know. All you had to do this morning was be nice, or at the very least, civil to me when you woke up. But, no. You couldn't. Or should I say, you wouldn't. I went to a lot of trouble last night to ensure that you were satisfied, but you spurned me, you rejected me and you are going to pay for that."
He stood up, watching Bronwyn, who was still crumpled into a ball at his feet, with detached and impassive interest. Grovelling at my feet—how completely appropriate. I will never let you know how much you hurt me this morning, Bronwyn, Smith thought to himself. "You know, for a brief moment this morning, I thought we were making a fresh start, a new beginning. But you ruined everything. I never was as gentle with any other woman as I was with you last night. I went out of my way to please you and you thank me by spitting in my face and lying to me. I was the best you've ever had and I have the scratches on my back to prove it. You can lie to yourself all you want, Bronwyn, but deep inside, you know better than anyone how much you enjoyed it," Smith said quietly, before he turned on his heel and left the room.
As soon as Smith had left, Bronwyn staggered to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Once inside, she hesitated before she went to the mirror and looked deeply at her image. She hated and despised the woman who was looking back at her. Of all the hate she had ever experienced, the greatest was that to herself, as she looked at herself; her face flushed, her heart pounding, and her genitalia tingling from the memory of not one, but two complete, shuddering and fulfilling orgasms that she had had last night.
I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it when Smith was touching me; I loved the touch of his hands on my flesh, the feel of his mouth and lips on my skin and especially when he kissed me there. I revelled in it! I hungered for more! I wanted it, I wanted him even after I found out it wasn't Jones who was doing all those things to me, but Smith.
You are a whore, her mind accused her, while she continued to stare at herself in the mirror. Smith was right. Smith was right all along-you are nothing but a cheap slut off the streets who sold herself to him—all because he gave you drugs and booze, not to mention designer clothes as well. All he has to do now is wave a few pills under your nose and you will eagerly spread your legs for him.
No, I would never do that.
You already have.
What have I done? A sense of shame and complete and total humiliation overcame her. Huge, gulping sobs and an unspeakable sense of pain and loneliness engulfed her. "How could you leave me like that, Jones?" she cried out at her reflection. "Why? You were supposed to protect me! You were supposed to keep me safe! Now, Smith is here and you are gone." She racked her brain for anything she could remember, anything that would dispute the lie that she had known it was him and not Jones that her body craved the touch for. But nothing came to her mind.
You knew it was Smith, and you didn't care. You let him touch you, kiss you and do God knows what else that you don't remember. You welcomed him in bed. You received him inside of you, and eagerly at that. All you wanted was a man in your bed and it did not matter who it was, although technically, Smith is not a man after all, is he?
The memory of what Jones had told her about the Matrix, after they had made love the night he died, caused her to visualize scenes of dreadful imagery. It really was true, all of it. Humans were grown in pods and no longer masters of their environment; they were slaves now, at the mercy of super-intelligent machines that ruthlessly ruled over them and used them as an energy source.
It did not matter to her that Jones had also been a machine, a program. To Bronwyn, he would always be a gentle and warm man who loved her as deeply and as passionately as she loved him. A human. But as for Smith…In her mind's eye, she tried to imagine Smith's true form and a scene from a movie she saw a long time ago flashed before her eyes, making her dizzy with horror and nausea. The movie featured a foreign-born, big-name action movie star-who in his later life, would turn his attention to politics and become future governor of California-in his best-known and most famous role.
At first glance, his character appeared to be a man, but underneath the skin and flesh was a monster comprised of steel, cables, and circuits; a cyborg that time-traveled to the past to eliminate the last threat to the machines' successful extinction of the human race in the future.
Was that how Smith and Jones really appeared? Did they, too, have a human shell that covered a skeleton of metal? If she could claw Smith's skin deeply enough, would it fall away to reveal the mechanism that might lie below the surface?
Last night I was fucked by the worst machine of them all and I loved it, she thought, sickened to the depths of her soul.
I'm sure Jones would be touched at your period of mourning, a part of her mind told her contemptuously. Less than two weeks after his death, you willingly and eagerly give his killer-who is also the man who raped you in case you have forgotten-your most intimate favours; and now that Smith has had you, nothing will stop him from taking you as many times as he wants.
No, that isn't true. I will not let him, I would rather die first. The solution to her dilemma was so simple. Of course! The answer was there, right in front of her and she wondered why she had not thought of it before: my death will stop him.
She hurled the crystal drinking goblet at the mirror, shattering it completely and sending pieces of it all over the marble countertop of the bathroom vanity. She picked up one of the larger shards of glass in her hand and made a fist as hard as she could with the other, and calculated how much force would be required to inflict irrevocable and more importantly, mortal damage to the veins on her wrist. For a long time she stood rooted to the spot, surrounded by glittering glass, while she tried to summon the courage that would enable her to slice her wrist deep enough to end her life. But she could not proceed.
Coward, her face in the mirror taunted her. If you've seen it once, you've seen it a hundred times: slitting one's wrists is merely a call for help, not an actual intention of killing oneself. How many times haven't you seen your hooker friends try to die this way? Did it ever work? No.
But what else can I try, Bronwyn demanded from her reflection. How about if I stockpile the pills that he gives me until I have enough to overdose and die?
That is no good either and this is why: Smith is always checking up on you and he is able to see what you've put into your system. If he discovers what you've done, he will use any and all means necessary to get the drugs out of you, one way or another. After all, he did assimilate your doctor and that clone will know exactly what to do to save your miserable and pathetic life.
Tell me what will work, then!
You are on the 45th floor of a hotel, and your room has a private balcony. The only way you can end your life beyond all recovery is if you go over the edge. No doctor in the world will be able to save you once your body hits the concrete.
Bronwyn was appalled at the idea of ending her life in this manner, but she knew in her heart that it was the only way out. If I do not, my life will be reduced to being at Smith's beck and call in bed, doing whatever twisted and repulsive act he wishes to have performed on him. How can I do this? What must I do in order to succeed?
What you need is to get him to leave the building. It does not have to be for a long period of time, just long enough so that even if he foresees your intentions, all of his agent speed, reflexes and abilities won't be able to save you once you begin to fall. If you have enough of a head start on him, he will not be able to grab hold of you in mid-air to stop your descent, and neither he nor any of his copies will be able to move fast enough and catch you before you strike the pavement. That is why it is imperative that you make him leave.
I don't want to die, thought Bronwyn desperately. What if I can't bring myself to go through with it?
You must. Remember what Smith told you that day you badgered him for answers until he told you everything about the Machines and what they wanted to do to you? He told you that the Architect had had your genetic and hormonal makeup altered so that you will never have another menstrual cycle; but on the other hand, the length of time that you would be fertile during the month would be triple that of a normal human female. Because you allowed Smith to have sex with you last night, you may already be pregnant again.
While a part of her still-grieving broken heart and mind was overjoyed at the thought of expecting again-for if it were true, she would be able to replace the baby she had lost with a new life-the practical and realistic side of her nature examined the ramifications of giving Smith another child and she shrunk from the idea. I do not have a choice, Bronwyn thought, I must do this, and I have to do it soon or else I am lost, or even worse, if I conceive again. She turned away from the mirror and walked over to the large marble Turkish tub that was sunk into the floor, opening the taps and letting the hot water fill the tub almost to its brim before she stepped inside.
Bronwyn lay back and let the Jacuzzi jets ease and soothe her jangled nerves and overwrought muscles. A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as she lay in the swirling water, gradually becoming relaxed and calm. Glancing down at her body, she noticed a large red mark on the inside of her upper left thigh. Peering at it more closely, she realized that this mark was what Smith was referring to earlier this morning.
She let out a moan of longing and desire and her body was inundated with sexual heat as she remembered what she had been feeling while Smith was orally satisfying her last night. Idly her fingers brushed against her pubic mound and she was startled to discover how wet she already was. It had been a long time since Bronwyn had touched and pleasured herself in this manner, and while the previous night's extremely satisfying sexual experience was still fresh in her mind, she closed her eyes, drew up her knees, and parted her legs so she could have greater access to her genitalia. Bronwyn emitted a gasp of surprise as she discovered that by opening her legs, it enabled a stream of hot, but not too hot, bubbling water to lightly dance over her clitoris and vagina, giving her an unexpected rush of delight. Without a second thought, she parted her legs even further, savouring the feel of the churning foam of the water swirling over her nether region, becoming more and more aroused with each passing moment.
Bronwyn reached down between her legs and smiled slightly when she felt her clitoris was already engorged and swollen, eager for further stimulation. With practised fingers, she slowly slid her forefinger along her outer folds, taking her time in becoming re-acquainted with the digital movements that would eventually bring her satisfaction. Lightly tracing her inner labia now, Bronwyn felt the warm and tender flesh of her most private region tingle in response and she groaned in anticipation. Not wishing to delay her pleasure any longer, she lightly touched her clitoris and closed her eyes, resting her head against the rim of the tub as she stimulated herself.
This is what Smith did to me last night, Bronwyn thought hazily, her fingers moving faster over the small, sensitive nub as her breathing quickened. I would rather die than admit it to him, but he was better than Jones ever was when he touched me like this. She groaned with desire as she recalled the former agent's ministrations of the evening before. Every single twitch, every little movement he made with his hot, wet tongue and skilful fingers that she could remember filled her with feverish hunger for sexual satisfaction and brought her closer to her climax. The very memory of his long, capable fingers thrusting inside of her while his mouth and lips enveloped her womanhood, stimulated her to a degree she never would have thought possible, caused her to cry out as her orgasm rushed over and through her excited body as thoroughly and completely now as it had done last night.
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Bronwyn was towelling her hair dry when she went into her bedroom and stood stock-still when she saw one of Smith's other selves standing in front of the bar, filling his arms with the liquor bottles that the hotel had sent up the night before, until all the shelves were empty. She blushed furiously when she realized that he had probably heard her come when she was in the tub and it made her angrier than ever. You miserable motherfucker, she seethed, staring angrily at the copy's back as she watched him complete his task. Smith was telling me the truth when he threatened to take my drinks away.
Bronwyn forced herself to be calm and appear completely uninterested in what the copy was doing. If I let it know how upset I am because of what it is doing, then it won't be long before Smith knows how much this is getting to me. I have to make him believe that I simply don't care. The copy finished his task and left the room, barely glancing at the still-naked form of Bronwyn.
Damn it, I could really use a little something to make me feel better right now she thought, looking at the now-empty shelves with longing. Would it really be so bad if I did what Smith wanted, she wondered. Not intercourse due to the risk of pregnancy, but what if I pleased him orally? I have performed that particular service on too many men to keep track of since I was almost fourteen years old, and Smith would be no different from any of the others. Her thoughts began to wander as a prophetic vision of that possible turn of events filled her mind…
Goddamn you, she fumed as she heard Smith enter her bedroom. Bronwyn still remained seated at her dressing-table, watched in the mirror as he came up behind her, and bent his head to nuzzle her neck. She cringed when she felt his lips touch her skin and he murmured approvingly when he inhaled the perfume she had chosen to wear.
"Then we have a deal, Bronwyn?"
"Yes—I give you what you want, and you give me what you promised. Don't worry, Smith, you won't be disappointed, I give you my word," Bronwyn replied. I deserve to get an Oscar nomination for Best Actress for the performance I am going to give tonight, she thought ruefully. She looked at her reflection and her eyes met Smith's in the mirror and she reached for the switch that would turn the lights off, but Smith stopped her from following through on her intention.
"No, no, don't do that-I want all the lights on, Bronwyn. I want to see as well as feel everything that you are going to do to me. I wouldn't miss watching this for anything in the world," Smith crooned seductively. "One other thing I should mention before you get started—you will swallow everything I give you or the deal is off. Do you understand?"
"There aren't enough words in the Oxford English Dictionary to express just how much I hate you right now, Smith," Bronwyn hissed.
He chuckled deep in his throat, pleased with himself. "Save some of that fiery Irish passion of yours for our encounter," he said, twisting her arm behind her back she was forced to leave her chair and go to her knees in front of him. "I want you to be as uncomfortable as possible, while I, on the other hand, get to watch every move you make. Begin now." This promises to be very interesting, he thought as he watched every move she made being replicated in reverse in the dressing-table mirror. Now I understand why some humans wish to have mirrored ceilings while they perform sexual acts on each other—it is extremely erotic and sensual to watch a woman, especially this Irish-American hellion, giving pleasure like this.
Ok, girl, Bronwyn told herself, taking a deep breath to calm and steady her nerves. You have done this before to worse men in even worse places than on your knees in the bedroom of an 8500 a night penthouse suite. You can get through this.
Bronwyn closed her eyes and tried to muster up all of her skills in pleasing men in this most intimate and personal act of them all. In her mind's eye, she pictured that it was Jones and not Smith that she was performing this act upon and slowly reached out to place her hand on Smith's aching crotch. Methodically, she unzipped his pants as she continued to keep her eyes closed, focusing her mind on thoughts of Jones and how much he enjoyed this act when she performed it on him.
Bronwyn tentatively slid her hand into Smith's trousers and pulled out his penis. She hesitated for a few seconds, before she closed her mind and opened her mouth to take him in. When she closed her lips around him, Smith's groans were guttural and low. He grit his teeth as Bronwyn began to slide her mouth up and down his shaft, then she paused so that she can swirl her tongue the engorged head, lapping up the pre-cum that had been discharged from it. Then she took him fully in her mouth again, applying suction as she did so. This caused Smith to cry out in pleasure and he could not take his eyes away from the mirror, watching with voyeuristic delight as she continued to suck him off. The sight of Bronwyn's beautiful mouth on his sexual organ was almost too much for him to take. He started to thrust his penis into her mouth in time to her movements on him. Bronwyn's hands reached up and undid his belt, allowing his pants to fall down to his ankles. She then reached underneath him and started to stimulate his scrotum, caressing his balls as she licked and sucked his penis. Smith was now at the point of no return, his legs were taut with tension and his breathing was ragged. Beads of sweat had now broken out on his forehead as he buried his long, dexterous fingers in Bronwyn's hair with the thumb of one hand on her throat so that he could feel her swallow. Then finally, he shouted in ecstasy as he exploded in her mouth, sending a rush of hot jism to the back of her throat. Smith continued to ram his cock into her as he rode out his intense orgasm, crying out her name over and over again.
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Afterward, Bronwyn was glad that her hair covered her face when she rose from her aching knees and got to her feet. No power on earth could make her look into Smith's eyes, for the scorn and contempt she knew was present on his face would have been too much to bear. Before Smith could even open his eyes, she had already hurried into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her. Bronwyn opened the cold-water sink tap to full flow so that even if Smith were listening at the door, he would not be able to tell what she was doing. Hastily she opened and searched through all the drawers of the vanity until she found what she was looking for: mouthwash. She tipped the bottle and drank it, gulping down mouthfuls at a time. I know there is a warning on the bottle not to do this, but I don't care if it kills me. I will not look at or even speak to Smith until after I have cleansed and rid myself of the taste of his come, or whatever polite, politically correct society wishes to call semen these days.
Inevitably, her stomach rebelled against the intentional intake of the large amount of mouthwash she had consumed and forced Bronwyn to vomit repeatedly into the toilet until her stomach had been completely emptied. For what seemed like hours, she sat on the freezing, mosaic tile floor, resting her forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet. Better out than in I suppose, she thought wryly. At least everything I had to swallow is no longer in my system and she was tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
A short time later, she heard the bathroom door open she saw a pair of perfectly buffed and spotless pair of expensive, Italian black leather shoes come into her field of vision. Bronwyn scoffed to herself when she looked up and saw that not so much as a hair was out of place on Smith's person. His suit was impeccable as always and his manner and mood were the same—cold and implacable. No one looking at you now would guess that fifteen minutes ago your eyes were rolling back in your head as you received the best blowjob of your life, Bronwyn thought angrily. "What do you want now, Smith?"
"Nothing. I only wanted to tell you that I have kept my promise and your payment is on the nightstand," Smith said curtly, before a vulgar grin spread over his handsome face. "You will find that as a result of your skill, I've been a little more generous than usual."
Bronwyn lowered her eyes in shame and degradation and did not look up at him again when he left, but she waited until she heard her bedroom door close before she got up and went to claim her hard-earned dividend. In her past life, all the times she had awoken to discover her client of the evening gone from her bed and her payment sitting on the top of her dresser, never made her feel as used and dirty as she felt now when she saw six pills along with the bottle of her favourite spirits beside them on the table…
Oh God, no, Bronwyn thought, shaking her head trying to clear it from her awful premonition. I could never live with myself if I had to suffer through that humiliation; no amount of pills or money is worth going through that. No, I know what I must do. All I need now is time to think and the perfect opportunity in which to act.