Here is a story in which my favorite whore has the main role.
Also, part of the inspiration is due to a phenomenal song. The verses in the story are parts of a song. The YT link is at the end of the post.
Most of the text was translated by ChatGPT, and I manually inserted the parts that the program censored. If I missed any errors—please don’t hold it against me.
“Hello.” A sleepy male voice slipped out of the phone.
“John, it’s me!” I shouted frantically into the device, pressing it maniacally against my right ear with my shoulder, aware that I was calling him from an unfamiliar burner number. “I'm in deep trouble... I messed up, big time!” I continued, unable to organize my incoherent thoughts.
“Did something happen, dear?” came the voice of John’s also newly-awakened wife. “Who is it?”
“letvor,” he replied shortly, telling her to go back to sleep.
“At three in the morning?” she sounded as surprised as she was displeased.
“The stock market never sleeps,” he replied, accompanied by the creaking of the bed as he got up.
“Don’t take long,” she grumbled.
“letvor is the on-call broker, and I’m his supervisor,” he justified himself, briefly summarizing our professional relationship. “What’s going on?” he asked in a nearly colorless tone, through which I could hear the squeak of stairs as he walked down from the upper floor of his suburban home. “How did it go?” he wanted to know, aware he’d just lied to his wife, implying that I was on duty and he, as my older and more experienced colleague, was assigned as my mentor.
“I’m fucked!” I cried out in despair as my blood-stained, soap-slippery mobile phone slipped from my cheek. “I’m as fucked up as a kidnapped teenage girl!” I tried to joke, nearly bursting into tears.
“What did you do?” he asked confidentially, and I imagined him sitting down on a kitchen chair and closing the door, not wanting his voice to reach his wife, Teresa.
“I picked her up…” I sobbed. “I picked her up, and...”
“The muse?” he wanted to confirm.
“Yes.”
“Did I tell you… Did I tell you not to…” now it was his turn to start stuttering.
“You told me not to touch her! You said to pick up any other whore and take her to the location…” my voice cracked again. “But she was there, and I couldn’t resist. John, I’m fucked, John…” A blinding flash of headlights from an oncoming car shut me up, followed by the protest of screeching tires, signaling a near miss of a head-on collision.
“Are you driving?” he shouted, asking a question he already knew the answer to. “Where are you?” he demanded to know.
“I passed the lookout.” I was vague but precise enough.
“Where are you going?” my friend continued to interrogate me.
“I don’t know!” I snapped as if John was at fault, as if he was the one who filled my car with the blood of a brutally stabbed prostitute lying dead in the passenger seat.
“Take one of the side roads,” he commanded expertly. “Drive another five hundred meters, then park and turn off the lights.”
“John?” I stammered, wetting my dry lips, which were trembling from adrenaline, as I nervously turned the key to turn off the engine.
“What did you do?” he asked calmly, telling me to take a deep breath and try to calm down.
In the course of that one deep breath, an image flashed before my eyes of my friend John, a successful broker. His beautiful wife, Teresa, in her eighth month of pregnancy. Their two children. The colonial-style house in a quiet part of the suburbs. The neatly mowed lawn. The expensive car with tinted windows, and all other details of his idyllic life.
Then I thought about his hobby. The location. All the girls he’d kidnapped, taken there, and kept chained for days, weeks, months. The schoolgirls he’d scooped off the streets, the young women he’d managed to lure from clubs and bars, only to drug them and transport them in the trunk to the location.
He knew the type of girls I liked and always invited me when he had one to my taste. He allowed me to do whatever I wanted to her. To love her. To hit her. To comfort her. To torment her. I wasn’t afraid of the law. John was an artist, and all evidence disappeared along with the bodies. I never asked him what happened to the last girl (I didn’t want to know) – I just wanted to enjoy the new girl.
This was supposed to be my initiation, my first kidnapping. John had given me the keys to one of his “clean” cars, so even if I left it somewhere, no one could trace it back to him. He’d equipped me with everything I might need and told me exactly what I could and couldn’t do. The plan was simple. I was supposed to find one of the cheaper prostitutes; some addict, homeless woman, or any idle matron, and convince her to get into the car.
“You’ll sedate her at the right moment,” he instructed as we sat in his office with a bottle of whiskey. “The back seat is modified, just lift it up...”
“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupted, saying he’d already told me about the hidden compartment in the trunk, big enough to store a body. “I’ll take her to the location and have my fun, and I’ll wait for you regarding the body.”
“It’s time for you to get your hands dirty, my dear letvor,” he smiled, downing his drink. “Not just your dick.” he trailed off, pursing his lips to keep the ice from sliding into his mouth.
“Why can’t I take my muse?” I asked, reopening a part of the conversation we’d already had.
“Because you’re not ready for her. You don’t know what love is. If you ever have her beside you, you’ll lose your mind, make a mistake, and end up behind bars.”
“But you loved Jessica.” I protested, thinking of a high-school girl John had fantasized about for a good year.
“I still do,” he sighed deeply, looking up at the ceiling, probably recalling her last moments as he tightened the noose around her neck at the location. “But to have a girl you love, you first need experience. You need to learn the trade. You need to learn to control your emotions, to control yourself.”
That was the end of our conversation, but I did the opposite of everything John had advised.
“Hi, sweetie, looking for a good time?” the girl with chocolate skin, long straight black hair, and a delicate build said flirtatiously. “Cat got your tongue?” she teased, obviously aware I was devouring her with my eyes. “Like what you see?” She caressed her neck, traced her fingers over her lips, jawline, and the outside of her breasts. “This beauty doesn’t come cheap.”
“If you don’t want to use my hotel room, the price will be higher,” she said when I told her I wanted to go to the lookout above the city instead of her place. “But I don’t think that’ll be a problem for you,” she said, looking at my car, modest enough to go unnoticed, but still better than what most could afford.
I gripped the steering wheel, shifting my sweaty hands every now and then as if revving a motorcycle. The veins in my neck tensed and relaxed. My idle left leg bounced as if it was being electrocuted. My tongue kept wetting my lips with saliva, while my eyes constantly darted from the road ahead to her. The last thing I wanted was to scare her, but I couldn’t help these reflexes, and she noticed.
“If you try anything...” she raised a finger with a long, fake nail. “I can take care of myself.” She smiled beautifully, hiding the threat behind a row of pearly teeth.
“Trust me, nowhere will you be safer than in this car,” I declared, then realized how that must have sounded to a street girl.
“Is this your first time paying for sex?” she wanted to know.
“Of course not,” I replied honestly. “Why do you ask?”
“You look like you're about to have a stroke from nervousness, and you’re sweating like a racehorse.” She smiled again. “And what do you have under your seat?” she asked, and I almost fainted with fear, worried she had noticed the syringe with the sedative mixture John had prepared for me. I feared my erratic movements and glances had given me away.
“I’m just checking if the condoms are in place,” I lied without thinking.
“We’ll use mine since they’re included in the price,” she smiled and predictably patted her purse.
How could I have been so careless? How could she catch onto my behavior? Nerves had already taken over. Everything John had warned me about – or told me not to do – was happening to me. I needed to compose myself quickly, but it was impossible in this situation. My muse. She sat next to me in all her perfection, and I finally understood why John had said everything he had and regretted not listening to him.
"And?" I almost chirped. "What do you do when you’re not at work?"
"I have a husband, three kids, and I love tending my flower garden." She was sarcastic.
Another mistake. Another reminder to slap myself in front of the mirror.
"I’m just trying to start a conversation," I replied, with a hint of offense in my voice.
"And I’m trying to schedule my next client." She flashed the screen of her phone with an open chat app in my direction for a second.
"I'm more than just a client to you," my mouth moved faster than my brain.
"Stop at that turnout," she ordered.
"The lookout point is around that bend," I reminded her of our arrangement.
"We’ll do it here, or we’re heading right back to the city." She gave me an ultimatum. "The more time I spend with you, the less I like you," she said, keeping her right hand close to the opening of her purse where she likely had pepper spray, a taser, maybe even a small-caliber gun. "And I have no intention of being alone with you up there, parked in some bushes," she said, painting with her words exactly what I’d planned to do.
I figured it wouldn’t last long, anyway. She commented almost entirely soundlessly, skillfully pulling down her panties under her short skirt, ready to climb into my lap as soon as I unzipped my pants.
"What did you say?" I sounded much sharper than I should have allowed.
"Nothing," she replied, and I knew she was lying.
"You think it won't last long, huh?" I smirked.
"That depends on you," she replied, seriously, clearly unhappy with the charged atmosphere. "But yes, it doesn’t look like it’ll last long." She cast a glance at my friend, wilted like a rotten carrot.
"Next time, take something for potency." she snapped. She continued to stroke on my limp dick for another minute or two, then announced that time was up—wiping her hand on a wet tissue at the same time. "I’ll keep the money," she said.
"You could try a little harder," I said, clearly implying only one thing.
"That’s not happening," she announced. "I'm keeping my eyes on you, brother, you're as murky as sewage."
Once again, she saw through my intention to distract her with something, then attack. She was so cautious. I felt insulted. Hurt. Humiliated. I’d masturbated countless times, imagining this moment. Imagining forcing her to moan in the car. Emptying the syringe’s contents into her neck, watching her wake up bound and helpless at the location, then doing countless things to her for days, weeks, months. Watching her waste away, putting a rope around her neck, making love to her dead body, keeping pieces of her flesh and organs, and making love to those, then disposing of everything. Then reminiscing about her final moments with a wistful sigh, just like John remembers little Jessica.
"I love you!" I yelled, grabbing the sedative syringe hidden under the seat. I knew this was a potentially fatal move, with cars passing by just fifteen meters from our parked vehicle, occasionally illuminating us with their headlights. I'll overpower her, I told myself, knowing she was barely fifty kilograms. The key was to stop her from reaching into her purse.
"You bastard!" she screamed the moment I lunged at her, the headlights briefly illuminating me.
A cornered animal is most dangerous – in a fight for life, even a canary can bite like a crocodile. Her nails were sharp like knives, shards of cursed plastic stabbing into my hands and forearms like ice picks. She headbutted me in the nose, punched me in the teeth. I endured the pain, but it was clear I wouldn’t withstand two or three more hits. I had to act fast, minimize movement, and avoid rocking the vehicle too much to avoid drawing attention.
She kept cursing, spitting, struggling. I don’t know when she unbuckled her seatbelt, but I wish she hadn’t; it would’ve made this battle easier for me. I focused on getting the syringe to her neck while she defended herself. I took a few more scratches and a bite to my left hand that made me roar; a bite that would surely leave a scar.
"You’re going to sleep... You’re going to sleep and wake up in our love nest," I gloated, aware (as was she) that I’d won, that the needle would reach her neck in seconds.
"Please... Please..."
"Save your begging for later," I grinned, and she whimpered when I stabbed or at least tried to stab her, only to realize that I hadn’t removed the damned protective cap from the needle.
There was no longer any need for her to put in so much effort in defense, and she knew it well. I could hit her, grab her by the throat – but nothing could stop her from pulling out the pepper spray from her purse.
It was a poor defensive tool for the cramped space we were in. If she sprayed me, she’d blind herself too, but that was an acceptable risk for her. She was probably planning to use the moment of my shock, open the door, run around the car, and make it to the road (just fifteen meters away) to flag down the first vehicle. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop her plan. She just had to push the safety tab aside, press the spray, grab the door handle, and run onto the road.
I knew I could manage to fumble for the key in the ignition; but it was clear I couldn’t control the car if my eyes were full of pepper spray. If luck wasn’t on my side (and it hadn’t been so far), a truck would come along, and the driver would beat me with a crowbar before calling the police. Maybe I’d escape if she just jumped into the first car and fled, but I couldn’t count on that. It was game over. I could already picture myself in jail.
She took a deep breath. In disbelief, her eyes widened, her silent scream dying on her lips. I dropped the useless syringe and grabbed the pepper spray, covering its top with my palm to block her finger.
"I didn’t want it to be like this," I whispered, staring into her face twisted in disbelief, shock, and pain as I plunged a hunting knife into her solar plexus. John said I’d only need it at the location, but I still hid it under the passenger seat.
Blood. So much blood. I knew as much about dying as the average crime film viewer, and now I learned that it was all a lie. I covered her mouth to stifle her sobbing as she clawed at my face. I twisted the blade to widen the wound, and she tried to gouge my eyes. I thought I’d enjoy this, actually I wanted to, but I was really just fighting to avoid being caught, to avoid ending up behind bars.
She cried. She refused to die. She just wouldn’t stop kicking and jerking. I stabbed her again and again until her hands fell into her lap, her head drooping toward her chest. I grunted like an animal. Exhausted, not from the physical exertion but from the excitement, adrenaline, fear. I slumped over her in that warm, sticky mess of blood and scattered viscera, momentarily forgetting where I was.
Another flash of headlights. A dead face. Dead eyes. The fear of punishment, bars, and everything that could happen to me behind them, which was entirely contrary to my sexual interests. I started the engine, pulling her lifeless body into a more natural position on the seat. Her face was bloodless. She looked like she was asleep.
The phone. Where’s my damn phone, I hissed under my breath, smearing blood on the steering wheel, on myself, and on the window.
"There’s no escape for me; I’m going to jail!" I whined like a beaten child into the phone. "My life is over! I'll stash the car somewhere and try to run."
"Don’t do that," John hissed, telling me that the vehicle couldn’t be linked to me, but reminding me that there were likely traces on her body that would lead back to me. "And you probably look like a damn Halloween teenager." He laughed, probably imagining me all bloody.
"Very funny," I said, genuinely annoyed.
"Call this number," he said, starting to recite the digits.
"Wait, wait," I whined, frantically searching for paper and pen in the glove compartment. Knowing that in this state of anxiety, I had no chance of remembering a string of digits longer than two.
"Enter the number on your phone," he said matter-of-factly, and I lashed out at him for no reason, telling him that the phone was soaked in blood and that if it wasn’t waterproof, it wouldn’t last much longer.
He gave me the mobile number, which had a strange area code that I repeated to him a few times, but he just said I’d understood and written it down correctly. I didn’t tell him, and I don’t even remember if I did it later, that I wrote the number on the dashboard of the car with her blood, right behind the steering wheel.
"If you manage to get through to someone on that number, agree to whatever they say and follow their instructions," he continued advising.
"And if I don’t?" I wanted to know.
"Then shoot yourself in the head. The gun’s under…"
"I know where the damn gun is!" It was a friendly suggestion. It was an escape from life in prison.
"I’ll destroy the phone," John informed me, reminding me his number was also a one-time burner, bought just for this. "I’ll be in the office tomorrow, if you make it out…" He took a deep breath, his breathing making me realize just how slim my chances were. "Good luck, letvor."
The sound of the call disconnecting was like the clank of a cell door closing. And the sound of dialing that strange number on my phone was like the crackling of electricity surging through an electric chair straight toward me.
"Come on, pick up," I muttered to myself until suddenly I realized the call had connected. "Hello, hello!" I shouted. "
A friend referred me to you and…"
"Disposal of the dead
Is how I make my bread"
Damn machine. I muttered to myself, ready to hang up—but I didn’t, only because I know that phone call was all that stood between me and a bullet.
"
In my human chop shop
Cadavers are erased
Unidentifiable
Not a single trace"
Wait, what… I kept muttering, realizing there might still be hope for me.
"
I never turn down work
Just pay the fuckin' fee"
"I’ll pay, I’ll pay!" I begged the mindless machine, the recorded message I was clinging to for salvation.
"Number of bodies and your location?" a serious male voice asked, businesslike.
"Thanks for answering. I need help. A friend gave me this number…" I babbled everything the voice didn’t care to hear—acting senseless like a dog biting the hand that saved it.
"I ask, you answer," came the threatening voice over the line.
"I’m in a car. One body. Blood everywhere. Help me."
"Location," the man on the other end said curtly.
"Fourth side road from the lookout point." I tripped over my own words, briefly wondering if he even knew which city, which federal state I was in. "About five hundred meters deep into the woods."
"Don’t move, someone will come for you," the line disconnected.
It was the longest wait of my life, during which I aged at least fifteen years. I think I scratched up the steering wheel cover with my nails, and bit my tongue and lips bloody. When powerful headlights illuminated me from behind, I almost had a heart attack from fear, and when a tow truck stopped beside me, I knew I was saved.
The car, with me and the body inside, was quickly loaded onto the truck and covered with a tarp. After quite a drive, I was told to get out in some hangar, where I showered, received clean clothes, and had my ID photographed, along with a warning:
"If you don’t pay, expect us on your doorstep."
I never saw my muse-whore’s body again. I never saw that cursed, blood-splattered car again.
This time, I avoided punishment and death. Next time, I’ll be smarter. I told myself this as I strode quickly in the direction those mysterious people told me I’d find a taxi (they forbade me from calling one).
My muse’s spot was now officially vacant. Get in line, ladies. I grinned at the delicious thought, lightly tapping the front pocket of my pants where the business card with the number to call in case of a new problem sat snugly.
--------------------------------------------
Waking the cadaver - Human chop shop
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kMHW6Qs ... k7&index=3
