With all the violence and cruelty this site offers up, you'd think you'd be safe with a bit of loving.
Daniel Henshaw proves you don't need to spill blood to destroy a life.
Daniel Henshaw proves you don't need to spill blood to destroy a life.
La Furcia Murciana by Daniel Henshaw
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The young lady spoke with the most beautiful Spanish accent. “You like a drink?”
Martin Watson was zipping up his jeans when he thought about his over-sized beer-belly. He knew he’d performed well enough in the sack but the girl couldn’t have enjoyed having all that flab jiggling around on top of her. He glanced over towards his temporary host, with a glass in her hand, and realised that she was precisely his type. He always picked the same sort. Whether he was in Prague, Vegas, or here in Spain, he always chose the same. Firstly, they needed tight, curly red hair with freckles on the skin if possible. They’d have to have full, juicy lips and straight, white teeth. And when it came to the body, Martin liked big – big ass and big breasts. Martin realised that he was rather specific with his women but it was Martin’s belief that when you’re paying for it, you need to get your money’s worth. And, in his experience, the big red-heads always delivered.
They, however, were not always easy to find. In Dublin it’s never too difficult. But try finding a red-head in Mumbai. Even here, in the small Murcian town of San Javier, it was tricky. Spain was not known for its ginger girls. However, Martin had been here eighteen years ago and, although the place had changed somewhat, he knew exactly where to look. He had successfully found a ginger-Spaniard eighteen years ago and he’d found one again tonight.
“Are you not desperate to get rid of me?” Martin asked with a cheeky grin on his face.
The girl, Sofía, brushed her fingers through her fiery red curls and breathed out a short giggle. “You pay for an hour so you get me for an hour!”
Martin’s eyes moved quickly around the room. Firstly, he squinted into the red UV lighting on the wall, then failed to recognise any of the hip hop artists in the girl’s CD collection and he even noticed a pair of roller-blades in the corner. Suddenly, Martin felt rather old. He was well into his forties and this gorgeous work of art in front of him couldn’t have been a day older than twenty. Stuff it, he told himself, what is life if it’s not for enjoying? His eyes then returned lustfully to Sofía while she stood there naked, clumsily pouring a couple of Vodka Martinis. She was perfect; great ass, great tits, worth every penny.
Sofía finished making the drinks and strolled sensually back towards him. She handed Martin his glass and then climbed back on the bed. She lay next to him, wrapping her bare left-leg around his waist and placing her hand on his chest.
“You like this part of España?” she asked, taking a sip of her cocktail.
“Yes, I love it. I’ve been here before.”
“Really? I meet you last year?”
Martin snorted out a laugh. “God no! It was eighteen years ago!”
“Oh!” Sofía giggled. “Before I even was born!”
Unconsciously, Martin took a sharp intake breath. “How old are you?”
“I’m seventeen. It’s ok, we do sex at sixteen in España.”
Seventeen? Seventeen was ok. Christ, Martin had lost his virginity at fourteen. She clearly wasn’t bothered about her age so why should he be. Stuff it, he told himself, what is life if it’s not for enjoying?
Sofía suddenly grabbed hold of Martin’s face and gave him the most passionate-yet-delicate kiss imaginable. Her soft lips and tongue were like those of an angel; sending him into a half-dream, as if he were floating around in space for a few seconds before hazily he drifted back into the red, ultraviolet light of the prostitute’s bedroom. When he opened his eyes, he realised he had a firm grasp of her left breast and something firm in his pants too.
“So, Mr Englishman. Which part of England you come from?”
“You probably won’t have heard of it. I come from a little village called Clowne.”
“Clowne!” The girl sat upright. Her reaction was completely unexpected, as few people outside of the area had actually heard of Clowne. “In Derby?” Sofía pronounced this quite phonetically; saying der-bee rather than dar-bee.
“Well, it’s in Derbyshire but it’s not actually anywhere near Derby. Anyway, how in God’s name do you know about Clowne?”
“My papa is from Clowne. He met mama just once but she always remember the name of his town. Like the circus.”
Martin’s mouth suddenly turned oatmeal-dry and a sharp churning twisted in his gut. “Your mother’s name isn’t María, is it?”