Go Gentle

Sarah is the most desired mistress. She never fails to please. But this is her life during dark. In the morning, she lives a completely different life.

“Sarah, you got men waiting for you,” a strong voice echoed through the hallway.

It was a gently lit corridor, red lights shimmering in the distance. Sarah walked in quick steps, the click-clack of her heels echoing all the way. Down there, it was posh. Yellow glimmered through the hall, high-pitched voices of women, men in suits gripping their martini glass in one hand, the other tracing his lady’s thighs. Sarah silently made her way to one corner, a familiar face waiting for her. Within a second, they were already petting each other. Rough male hands dominated. Fingers moved everywhere, not a spot left untouched. Short black clothing, so tight one would find it hard to even breathe. Her long hair was now a mess, his tie loose, hands on each other. She could hear him whisper something, incoherent amidst all the noise, but she knew. 

Upstairs, a wooden door was slightly ajar. It was like the door knew. In no time, it was just messy sheets, clothes lying everywhere, exposed bare bodies lying intertwined. Muffled feminine noises, no one knew if it was of pain or pleasure. Minutes passed, the door was now locked, two bodies inside – one elated, the other hurt. One would never guess. 

There were new men, and there were the ones she’d already had time with before. Sarah lay there, bare, without a word. Some men came with stories, some with heaps of dollars to offer, some with tears and some with a brutish smile. She allowed them to trace her still sore scars; scars from the past and scars from the present. She saw them all, and satisfied them all. No man in Sarah’s dungeon left vexed, was what they said. It was like a game – the same characters and the same game play; you lose and you do it all over again. There was no end to it. The only difference was, in here, the player was real, human emotions attached. And those men, those men who forced themselves in, like Sarah described, would never understand what being a real character felt like. 

At the crack of dawn, it would all be like a dream. Sarah – beautiful eyes and silky hair flowing down to her back – would no longer have to wear a dress that wouldn’t let her breathe. No more smudged mascara and no more ruined lipstick No longer the most famous tart in the club.

For the part of the world that didn’t know her, she was the best student in her University. The girl with a beautiful heart and a soul not sold away to men in suits, like any student in her 20s. And for the part that did figure out who she was, she was a slut, a whore, a prostitute and everything in between. ‘Greedy for love, eh lady?,’ masculine voices called out behind her. She couldn’t deny what was the truth. Her jacket hid all the dirty red and bluish spots the world would judge her for.

And just like a game, it all came back to her again – men, short dresses, pain, and ecstasy. Sarah gave away her identity. ‘Get me those thick dollars or you’re out,’ the strong voiced echoed inside her head. Every man had his own way of doing it, every man was different. Every touch was different. She liked the gentle ones better. The others, she liked to say, were demanding. They didn’t know empathy, and they didn’t know love.

Slowly, she gave herself away; to men she might never see again. Sometimes, slow and satisfying, sometimes furious, like an alpha female. 

‘How do you like it, miss?’ they asked. No one really went to ask if she did.

‘No hard feelings there.’

‘Beautiful young girl, you’re a full feast.’

‘We can hang out during the day too. I wouldn’t want to miss out on pretty lads.’

‘Harder, and I’d give you a thousand bucks more.’

And like that, it went on till her shift was done, and till no more men asked for her. She was quick on her feet. She retired in her small rooftop house. A short glance towards her bedroom and there were twin toddlers lying there – a soft snore – with no idea who their father was. She tucked them in.  

Sarah sat on the terrace, under the grey orange beam, going through all her documents. A half-torn, destroyed picture of her father flew off from one of her papers. She made no effort to put it back in. The scars on her neck silently gleamed.

‘Well, who cares if you’re a hooker when you got bills to pay,’ she whispered to herself.

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