The Safe House. 2 The Lighter

/ Don't think I'm good enough to write me back? DON'T THINK MY MONEY'S GOOD?

Well guess what? I have two wives in the Philippines who will treat me like the man that you NEVER did. They are half your age but they can suck as good a dick as you will ever will, AND THEY ACTUALLY KNOWS HOW TO SPEAK ENGLISH TOO! /

The Virginian from Antarctica, 

No that's not quite right, she messaged her woozy head, it was the drinks talking.

She corrected her thought, The American from Virginia.

By his 13^th email, he wasn't so keen on being polite as well as kept it all in his pants.  

A giggled slipped out. ...Well, despite his written noises, she actually did remember him. How his fat unwashed American cock tasted like deep fried Pus. The very memory of which sent a retching gag down the whole back of her throat. And to think the last 12 mails all had grainy attachment of that thing poking out at the camera as if she would ever willingly want to see it again.

_Well then my sincerest condolences to your two wives, hopefully they don't spit it out afterwards either_ 

_Text Unsent 9:01 PM

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was something she finally want to let out. If his Filipino “wives” were as well as she knew Filipino working girls, she's more than likely to bet that they had much more proper cocks than his, while he was in Japan fucking her. Hmmm, wonder how many real boyfriends they got. But she didn't sent her typed out message about condolences and spitting out either. Rather, her long, manicured fingers hovered over the send button of the tablet, and instead, just closed the window of the mailbox.

Instead she fell into a warm queasy trance. Suddenly, she was laughing, giggling uncontrollably. She shot up from her bedsheets and began to dance with her intoxicated arms. Spinning as the room spinned her. The feeling of loosing a million dollar patron, and how great it felt. A rare luxury, of imagining saying how she really felt.  

She didn't know how he'd feel about it, that fat pimp of hers, about losing "that Dollar Man." The same fat pimp who put her here, in this safe house with his living fruit inside her. But it was his instructions, his orders to not reply any of her emails from all of her clients. Somehow, even without trying, she still fucked it up. Such a klutz.

“Oh you are going to hate me” she said pathetically to her well toned- belly, as if it could hear her. Which, part of her knew would swell up in the coming months. But despite these words, she said in a comforting manner without harshness.

Would he- would he still hit her then? Even with his little...chub in her? She wondered. Afterall, it was his fault that this is even made worse. But her question only bred more questions. And many of the questions had him doing something to her. Instead, still drunk, and thinking of that letter from Spout, she crawled back to her tablet with her naked legs. Typing out a flurry of sentences, then deleting them, then typed them out again. Scrounging her photo library, and sighing. Until finally, exasperated, she waded in a bubbly haze into the bathroom and shrugged off her already disheveled dance floor cloths.

It always hurted. The leopard- spotted (and must be leopard-spotted) thong that always chaffed so deeply into her divided bud. Which despite her hate, she learned to love. Whenever the fuzzy chafe of the edge made it itch all over, it actually took away the pain of the full night's scrapes. And despite a night's sweat and red marks, hid that slit more than another else could have. Perhaps more pathetic that it was her friend longer than most real relations. Working with her since before she was even legal. And before she knew that she was only fit for this life. 

"Ever available"

"Tourist Attraction"

Eat enough to keep those legs thin, say enough to keep her interesting enough. Polite enough to not slap back. And nothing else. And...with no illusions, all she had now would be stripped away from her, with any mark of her real age noted upon her. Perhaps, its why the champagne...and the fits of tiny laughs wracked her. Throwing off the only her  that was known to onlookers. In that that lonesome moment of going haywire, and pretend she could act like someone else. She found herself shrug off more than her clothes. With leopard spotted arm sleeves, held in their place by fuzzy Velcro stripes, and a leopard's pounce she climbed up the show girl's desk in the bathroom and squatted before the well lit mirror as she usually does upon the dance stage. Beyond her dance, she was nothing, and had nothing. 

Was there ever someone?

Fuck, now the Champagne's got her thinking these thoughts again.

With a flick of her silvery lighter case she put one between her lips, as the papery stub entered she greedily sucked in its tar like smoke, letting the effusive rush fill up her vexed thoughts. Both of which- the lighter and the cigarettes she was never supposed to be seen possessing. After all? What type of woman would he let seen like this?

A dark void of depression clouded the once proud woman’s mind as she realized no one, there was no significant others beyond a few random one night stands. 

Such a klutz.

It wasn't hard, with her looks. And she didn't make it difficult for any of them. But beyond a handful of them she could not remember even their faces least of all their names.  Greedily, she drank up more from the poisoned tip. Letting it fill up whatever aperture within her that felt empty.

But, there was still him though. She thought

And...like with Sprout's sweet face, his face came to her, materializing for a second from her exhaling smoke. His boyish, but devilishly rakish face, his wry smile, his scars, and his tall promises. His gentleness despite his full tattoos.

“Don't worry, Mitsu. We are going to climb out of this shithole one day.” and his fuzzy wink.

And just like that, her underwear and the makeup desk was soaked with her itching warmth.

She gasped. Staring at the unintentional egg yoke puddle she made. Lost and mesmerized at the transmission- oil like pattering off the white varnished edge.

Such a klutz.

But despite these words, she said in a comforting manner without harshness.

Link to Part 3