Here's another tease from one of the stories ("Joe Boyega Picks a Bad Night to Become a Rapist"). One of these characters might be familiar...
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Joe Boyega tracked the woman in the black dress and white fur stole as she walked up Donohoe Road. She didn’t notice him. He was just another city kid hanging around a bus stop. In this environment his dark blue hooded top functioned as effectively as camouflage fatigues in a jungle.
The woman was elegant and sexy. Class followed her in a tangible cloud. She breathed it in and out. She was totally different to the girls on Joe’s street. They acted like they were gonna be celebrities—pop stars, actresses, models; it didn’t matter—but anyone else could see they were nothing more than low-class skanks. They didn’t want Joe and he was happy with that. He didn’t want them either.
Joe wanted the woman in the black dress and white fur stole.
This woman had it... refinement. She looked like a real star. Her black hair was cut in an exotic Cleopatra bob that framed a pale, ethereally beautiful face. Joe had never seen the whole of her face. She always wore a pair of large fashionable shades that hid most of it whenever she was outside. To Joe she seemed less a human being than some kind of aloof alien—as perfect as a fine art sculpture—gliding effortlessly through a sprawling morass of humanity.
She was a whore.
He’d figured that out after watching her house for the past month while he pretended to wait for a bus at the stop across the road. Him staking out her front door had come about by accident. At one time he used to catch the bus from here to take him up to The Cornish Block, a pub on Whittaker Road, where he’d worked behind the bar. That hadn’t lasted long. The owner of The Cornish Block had been dealing drugs out of the back and the feds had bust him, taking down The Cornish Block and Joe’s evening job with it. It was during his waits for the bus he’d first noticed the sexy girl in black.
It was easy to work out she was a whore. All the different men coming and going through her front door had been a giveaway. There were way more than could be explained by an active dating life, and they were of all types and ages ranging from fit young men to silver-hairs with the expanded waistlines brought about by late middle age. The one thing they shared was money. They all looked well off, but then everyone looked well off when compared to Joe’s circumstances.
There could have been an innocent explanation—some other business she was providing—but Joe doubted it. He’d watched men both come and go. When arriving they’d approached the door in a furtive, sidling manner. As if they knew they were up to something that wasn’t quite legit in the eyes of society. It was totally different when they left. When they walked out of that front door their chests were puffed out as if they’d just successfully negotiated contracts worth millions of pounds. One time Joe had even glimpsed the woman through the door as she waved her client goodbye. She’d been dressed in nothing more than frilly black lingerie that had contrasted with her pale white skin. He’d also been surprised by the number of tattoos covering her exposed flesh.
Then he supposed it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. She was a whore after all.
It was that puffed up feeling, like he was worth a million pounds, Joe wanted. That’s why he’d picked her to be the one.
And because she was a whore.
He reasoned she’d be more used to it. For her it would be less... traumatic.
Joe paused as he contemplated what he was about to do.
...traumatic.
Shit. Was he really going to go through with this?
The reptile part of his brain reared up and asserted control.
She was a whore. She’d be used to this. It was what men paid her for day in and day out. He would have paid her too... if he had the money.
He felt bad about it, but he had to pop that damn cherry. It was driving him fucking insane.
The woman in the black dress walked up a short flight of steps and started to unlock her front door. Joe glanced to his left and right. No-one about. Perfect. He crossed the road with brisk strides, bounded up the steps, and then bundled her through her front door and closed it behind him all in one smooth movement.
“Don’t cry out,” Joe warned.
He held up a big kitchen knife. It glinted in the light cast by the streetlamp outside.
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A Succubus for Saint Patrick's Day and other tales, coming soon!
