They say it is better to give than it is to receive. They also say turnabout is fair play.
In the Gutter, they say a lot of things. And none of it is good.
In the Gutter, they say a lot of things. And none of it is good.
Working Overtime by Jeff Switt
 |
 |
I watched them exit the elevator, his arm circled around the small of her back, his hand cupping her waist, pulling her to him. Her hip flounced against his as they walked, and they shared a laugh over something private. He pulled her close and nuzzled her neck, and I saw her give his butt a squeeze. His laughter boomed across the deserted lobby.
“Shush,” she admonished him. He reached to fondle a breast, and she slapped his hand in a playful way, postmarking her message with a pair of red-lip impressions on his cheek. I watched him exit through the revolving door of the hotel with a carefree lightness to his step. I thought I heard him whistling. I clutched my purse to my gut. I felt sick, then mad as hell.
She strutted across the midnight lobby toward the hotel bar, her stiletto heels clicking on the marble floor, making that sound that turns men’s heads. The sound that other women envy. Her black dress looked like a river at night: the top clung to her breasts like moss on two alabaster boulders; the skirt rippled like black water across her hips and legs. For a moment I felt so ordinary, dressed in my workout clothes and running shoes with my oversize purse hanging from my shoulder.
I take a closer look. Too much makeup. An aging facelift. Signs of anorexia.
She starts to speak, and I whack her across her face with my hand. She looks at me, startled, and grins. “If you want it rough, that’s another hundred.”
“Fine with me,” I reply as I draw back my hand to give her another shot.
Her quickness surprises me. Her fist digs into my gut. My knees buckle. I drop to the floor and want to puke. She stands over me and peels the straps of her dress from her shoulders, down across her breasts, and lets the flimsy garment fall to the floor leaving her naked.
She jumps on me, slapping and kicking. We wrestle across the floor, but she has a grip on my hair and I can’t get away. She forces my face between her legs. It’s obvious what she wants. I relent, and when she’s satisfied she lets me go.
“My turn to play.” I kick off my shoes, shed my jacket, and drop my pants. Now we are both naked.
I push her down on the bed. “On your stomach,” I order, and she obeys. From my purse I pull a pair of stockings. I tie her wrists together at the small of her back with one, and with the other I bind her ankles. I roll her over, face up, and straddle her hips. I reach inside my purse and fetch a pair of kid leather gloves. I slip them on. Slowly. Enjoying the moment.
“The last guy sure did,” she answers with a prideful smirk as she looks at mine hanging long and natural.
I look closer. There are hickies on her tits.
She speaks again. “Now, let me ask you a question. When I forced you down, between my legs … you didn’t object to what you found.”
“Nah. No big deal. Just my husband’s leftovers.”
It’s my time to smirk. Panic overtakes her face. She struggles to break loose, trying to escape from under my weight, but she can’t. I return to my purse and pull a bone-handle hunting knife. Its cold steel blade gives me a chill.
“This is my husband’s, too.”
“This is my husband’s, too.”