rapid Thai. The guy
pulled out his wallet, staggering with the effort, and waved baht in
the face of the first girl. She hissed at him, turning her face away
contemptuously. The second girl whispered to the Indian and pointed
along the bar at Sukara. He looked up, squinted, then staggered
towards her. Behind him, Sukara saw that the girls were laughing.
He slurred something at her in Hindi, waving the
cash, a measly fifty-baht note.
Sukara turned away, ignoring him. Her lurched
towards her and pincered her arm in a painful grip.
"Let go!"
"I said, come with me!"
For a split second she considered telling him
where to go—but something nasty in his eyes told her that that
would not be wise. The alternative was to go with him, and pray that
the bastard wouldn’t turn violent.
Quickly Sukara grabbed the note and slipped off
her stool.
She led the Indian to one of the tiny cubicles,
not the room she used for the Ee-tees; she didn’t want the
memory of what she did with the Indian tainting her special room. He
collapsed against the door, staring at her and unfastening his
trousers. Sukara slipped the baht under the mattress and pulled down
her skirt, leaving her T-shirt on: she did not like going with human
men, and tried to keep as much of herself covered as possible.
She knelt on the edge of the bed and held on to
the rail on the wall, letting him have her from behind. She heard him
belch, smelled the beery fumes in the air. She felt him thrusting
between her legs, his first few attempts missing and sliding up and
across her back. She felt his fingers forcing apart her legs, felt
him try again, this time entering her brutally. He was so big that
she feared he might tear her. She closed her eyes and cried out in
pain as he thrust repeatedly. She pulled forward so that he slid out
before he came, and her relief was immediate.
The first blow struck her across the back of her
head, so painful that she thought he must have picked something up,
or pulled a cosh from somewhere. The blow rang through her skull. She
fell face down on the bed, protecting her head from his punches. She
would not cry out, would not give him the satisfaction of knowing
that he was hurting her. She curled into a ball, covering her face
with her forearms. He pulled her towards him, prized her arms away
from her face, and backhanded her across the jaw. Now she knew why
his blows hurt so much: his fingers were studded with big,
square-faced, imitation-gold rings. Behind his flailing hands, Sukara
stared at the ludicrous sight of his huge cock bobbing up and down in
time to the blows. She leapt forward, snatched at his scrotum and
twisted with all her strength. He yelled out in rage and pain and
fell to the floor, curled protectively around his injury. Sukara
grabbed her skirt and skittered from the cubicle down the corridor
and into her Ee-tee room. She locked the door behind her and
collapsed onto the bed.
Minutes later she heard the Indian barge from the
cubicle and hurry out into the bar, cursing. If he complained to Fat
Cheng, then Sukara would tell him that he had hit her, and Fat Cheng
would throw the bastard out.
She sat up and felt her head for bumps, then
tested the tender area around her chin. As the pain receded, she
smiled in pained satisfaction at the thought of the expression on his
face when she’d grabbed his balls. It was the last thing they
expected, men who hit working girls—that the girls might turn
and fight back.
She went with men only rarely now; Ee-tees paid
Fat Cheng well for her, and he allowed her to turn down men when she
wanted. She wished she hadn’t been so greedy tonight, and had
told the Indian to get lost.
Three years ago, before the attack that left her
scarred, aliens came rarely to the Siren Bar. Then, she had gone with
humans; some men had treated her well, were gentle and considerate,
but they were rare. Most men were rough and selfish, others brutal.
She could count on a
pulled out his wallet, staggering with the effort, and waved baht in
the face of the first girl. She hissed at him, turning her face away
contemptuously. The second girl whispered to the Indian and pointed
along the bar at Sukara. He looked up, squinted, then staggered
towards her. Behind him, Sukara saw that the girls were laughing.
He slurred something at her in Hindi, waving the
cash, a measly fifty-baht note.
Sukara turned away, ignoring him. Her lurched
towards her and pincered her arm in a painful grip.
"Let go!"
"I said, come with me!"
For a split second she considered telling him
where to go—but something nasty in his eyes told her that that
would not be wise. The alternative was to go with him, and pray that
the bastard wouldn’t turn violent.
Quickly Sukara grabbed the note and slipped off
her stool.
She led the Indian to one of the tiny cubicles,
not the room she used for the Ee-tees; she didn’t want the
memory of what she did with the Indian tainting her special room. He
collapsed against the door, staring at her and unfastening his
trousers. Sukara slipped the baht under the mattress and pulled down
her skirt, leaving her T-shirt on: she did not like going with human
men, and tried to keep as much of herself covered as possible.
She knelt on the edge of the bed and held on to
the rail on the wall, letting him have her from behind. She heard him
belch, smelled the beery fumes in the air. She felt him thrusting
between her legs, his first few attempts missing and sliding up and
across her back. She felt his fingers forcing apart her legs, felt
him try again, this time entering her brutally. He was so big that
she feared he might tear her. She closed her eyes and cried out in
pain as he thrust repeatedly. She pulled forward so that he slid out
before he came, and her relief was immediate.
The first blow struck her across the back of her
head, so painful that she thought he must have picked something up,
or pulled a cosh from somewhere. The blow rang through her skull. She
fell face down on the bed, protecting her head from his punches. She
would not cry out, would not give him the satisfaction of knowing
that he was hurting her. She curled into a ball, covering her face
with her forearms. He pulled her towards him, prized her arms away
from her face, and backhanded her across the jaw. Now she knew why
his blows hurt so much: his fingers were studded with big,
square-faced, imitation-gold rings. Behind his flailing hands, Sukara
stared at the ludicrous sight of his huge cock bobbing up and down in
time to the blows. She leapt forward, snatched at his scrotum and
twisted with all her strength. He yelled out in rage and pain and
fell to the floor, curled protectively around his injury. Sukara
grabbed her skirt and skittered from the cubicle down the corridor
and into her Ee-tee room. She locked the door behind her and
collapsed onto the bed.
Minutes later she heard the Indian barge from the
cubicle and hurry out into the bar, cursing. If he complained to Fat
Cheng, then Sukara would tell him that he had hit her, and Fat Cheng
would throw the bastard out.
She sat up and felt her head for bumps, then
tested the tender area around her chin. As the pain receded, she
smiled in pained satisfaction at the thought of the expression on his
face when she’d grabbed his balls. It was the last thing they
expected, men who hit working girls—that the girls might turn
and fight back.
She went with men only rarely now; Ee-tees paid
Fat Cheng well for her, and he allowed her to turn down men when she
wanted. She wished she hadn’t been so greedy tonight, and had
told the Indian to get lost.
Three years ago, before the attack that left her
scarred, aliens came rarely to the Siren Bar. Then, she had gone with
humans; some men had treated her well, were gentle and considerate,
but they were rare. Most men were rough and selfish, others brutal.
She could count on a
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