The Woman

Mumbay Prostitute 1

He was waiting in his car. Across the street, he could see the pimps in their white hats waiting for their girls. The girls themselves were all squeezed into a few protective doorways. Not even the curious whistles and slow circling cars could bring them out. It was a cold night; only the usual customers would get attention. No shopping around. No sexy teasing. Only one stop — from a huddle in a doorway to a heated front seat.

The tall girl with the blue stockings had a doorway to herself. He’d watched her for several nights. For some reason, all the other girls kept a distance from her. She was alone.

He was alone like that. He had no friends. Nobody would huddle in a doorway with him either, even if he stood on the same street night after night. He loved her for that.

He started the car and moved it from the curb.

“Hey you” He yelled through the window. “Twenty bucks for a blow job.”

She looked at him through two-inch false eyelashes. She was probably twenty years old. She’d probably been sucking strangers’ cocks for three or four years. When she smiled, her lips had that lax, rubbery look that hard service tends to give them.

“Sure.” She jumped into the car. “Hello. Cold night.” Her hand was already in his pants and she was rubbing his manhood to get it hard. He hadn’t yet even driven from the curb.

“Feels good.” He said. “But let’s wait until I park somewhere. I want to enjoy this.”

He drove the car into the back of an open parking lot, slid back the seat, and slouched down into the classic position that anyone who went to high school in America would recognize.

She giggled the usual set of inanities while she slid his pants over his buttocks.

“Oh, what a big one. Oooh, I’m anxious to taste this one.”

While she was crouched over him, her legs pulled up onto the seat and her lips slowly stroking him, he reached his hand over her shoulder and warmly held her. She gently moaned. He felt something for her frailty. He shared her loneliness. His heart opened to her—all of her. Her feminine weakness, the trap her life had gotten her into, the hopelessness of it, the desolate attempts at a small happiness, all congealed in a kind of love for her.

In a surge of hatred, he pulled a knife from his jacket and stabbed her in the back.

In the spasm of pain, she bit hard and her teeth ripped across his dick. He stabbed her again, but her bite wouldn’t release. Laughter, blood, and pain poured from her throat.

“Damn you. Damn you.” He said, and he tried to pull her head loose by her hair. She bit harder. He stabbed her again. Blood was dripping from the edge of the car seat onto the floor. The windows had gotten steamy.

The car shook in spasms that looked like the standard thing. And she kept biting. She wouldn’t stop. When he blacked out, she felt his body go limp under her.

The pain from the stabs was overwhelming, but she hadn’t lost consciousness. The knife was still in his hand. Overcoming her own agony and being careful not to twist and force the blood from her wounds any faster than it was already flowing, she pulled the knife from his hand and jabbed it into the base of his dick. She could see her tooth marks just above where the knife blade entered. His body convulsed. The blade was sharp. With no effort, she turned the knife and severed the dick from his body.

She knew that she had little time before she herself blacked out from the pain and the loss of blood. She also had to allow strength to walk back to her man.

She slid the knife blade under his skin and muscle at the crotch and pulled it up, opening his belly. She jammed the now limp dick into the slit before the full odors from his ripped intestines could escape. She was sensitive to odors.

He’s probably dead, she thought, but I hope he lives. He should have to live like this.

Leaving him sprawled against the seat, she slid from the car quietly closing the door. With the little strength left, she moved, glided, as smoothly as she could, across the parking lot back to the sidewalk where her pimp should be standing. When she was sure that he saw her, she collapsed.

He saved her. He always did. She was special. She actually didn’t make more money than the other girls he ran, but her reputation alone carried an aura of high mystery and the romance of intensity. It paid off indirectly.

She was a specialist. Her job was to kill. The desperate in search of an abrupt end to their lives looked for her. He, himself, had no idea how these people could spot her. Actually, he was glad that he couldn’t see what they saw.

She was the valve of release that even precinct politics wouldn’t touch on their regular sweeps. Nobody could officially sanction her, but her existence was a fact known as for as city hall. How the appropriate victims found her was also a mystery to the police, but they were believers.

He saw her fall, and he realized that, again, she had not been quite fast enough. She’s getting careless. He thought to himself, not quite professional. This was the fourth emergency this season.

Philosophically, he thought about the hard life a pimp leads while he tried to explain the emergency to the 911 operator.

“Look, lady,” he said, “I don’t know anything. There’s some girl lying on the street bleeding all over the concrete. Just send a goddamn ambulance.” He hung up and waited.

Actually, he really liked her.

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