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Whore-R Stories October 21, 2005
 
Caligula in Kaluga
By Mark Ames Browse author Email
 
 

It was about 10pm Kaluga-time when they knocked on our hotel door. Andrei opened it and announced with a big smile, "They've arrived!"

Before I could even make it to the lineup, Andrei tagged his girl. "This one's mine," he beamed, putting his huge paw on a thin blonde's shoulder. Survival of the fastest. "Take any of the others, Mark."

We'd ordered the girls from the surly "concierge" in the lobby, a middle-aged, scowling creep with pasty gray-streaked hair and a cheap Soviet suit. The price was a mere 1,100 rubles, or just under $40. As we later learned, the hotel security took 400 rubles as their bribe fee, meaning the whores only got 700. It was outrageous-those goons did nothing but stand there and snarl "nyet" or "davai," and for that, they made almost as much as the girls! I'll have to report this to Yelena Panfilova at Transparency International....

There were three more girls in the lineup: a somewhat aging blond to my immediate left; a gangly girl almost as tall (and hairy-browed) as I am; and behind her, a bleached blond with one of those long hot dog-shaped faces--the kind you expect to see on waitresses in rural diners. Her wide blue eyes and spunky smile beamed from her salon-tan complexion. But that smile had a price-a few molars missing on her right upper jaw. Further inspection revealed a bloated, exposed belly, rippled with cellulite and stretch marks, visible thanks to her ill-chosen J-Lo outfit.

I turned back to the first girl, attracted by her simple looks and clothes. "I'll take you," I said, putting my hand on her shoulder.

"No, you can't choose me," she said, backing away.

"Why not?" I asked, shocked. Was I about to get denied by a Kaluga room-service whore? This whole being-40 thing was going to be tougher than I'd thought...

But it turned out she was their mamochka. So I chose the Flo-faced girl with the big smile, and escorted her down the dingy hallway, with its worn strip of carpet running unevenly down the center of the scuffed parquet floor.

My whore's name was Kristina, and she didn't stop smiling the whole time. I wished she'd stopped--that gap on the right upper side of her jaw was very distracting. I kept wondering how many teeth were missing, when they fell out, and why? Whores are like tweaks: they seem to lose their teeth at a young age.

As I told her about California, I started to think, "She's older than I calculated. About 30. You fucked up, Ames." Then I got a closer look at her round, fat tummy, which proportionally didn't correspond to the rest of her body. I pulled out my dictaphone: "Note: urgent need to purchase bifocals. Subject is 35, and rising." Kristina's rippled, stretched tummy looked like an old 4-square ball that had been half-deflated and punched in on one side, and I was looking at the other, still-inflated side. The stretch marks looked like she'd been whipped with long, sharp blades of grass.

"I just turned 24 years old, I'm the oldest girl of the group," Kristina said. "I look older, I know. I look awful for my age."

"No, you look great," I said unconvincingly.

"I'm the oldest girl in our group. There're girls as young as 16, 17. I'm glad you chose me, I'm afraid I'll be too old soon for this. Twenty-four is so old!"

"Umm, is it too late to have a second look? Just curious..." But Kristina pretended not to hear me.

So, I ended up being the last sucker in, the last to take her for a ride before they haul her to the scrap yard and sell off her organs and eyeballs.

Into the dictaphone: "Ames, you're fired."

Kristina pushed her tummy in. "I'm trying to get back into shape. I was married for six years, and I just left my husband two months ago. Married life does this to you. I'm sorry."

"Why'd you leave him?" I asked.

"I usually can forgive people for most things, but what he did--I could never forgive it."

I didn't want to hear about it, not yet anyway. She smoked about a quarter of her Vogue cigarette, then said, still beaming, "Let's get going!" and put it.

As a precautionary measure, I turned the light off in the bedroom and switched on the bathroom light. She was going to be my first whore post-40, and I had strong doubts about my ability to consummate this ceremonial rite if her body was too grotesque.

Kristina undid her top: her breasts were full, not entirely saggy, but out of place set on a rib cage that barreled out in mid-transformation. Then she unbuttoned her jeans, turned around, and coquettishly shook her ass as she tugged the tight jeans down her thighs. Her proportions were paradoxical: her ass was tight and fitted for my hand, but then she turned around, and....Agh! There was that belly again, as if an eight-month-old fetus died in there a few years earlier, and for some reason, she carried it around inside of her, causing her stomach to bulge and droop.

Take me to a happy place, take me to a happy place....

I lay down on my back, and she crawled up between my knees to my chest, kissing my neck. "You're so hairy," she said. "Russian men have no hair. I've never had a man like this before. I like it! Does it keep you warm?"

One or two fake compliments would have done fine. I pushed her hand down....she resisted, then said, "I have cold hands. I don't know why, my body is usually warm but I always have cold hands."

"That's fine, I like cold hands," I said. She relaxed, grabbed my unit, and started to grind into me. And that was when she did the one thing that, as I've said over and over, I simply cannot stand: She sucked my balls.

Folks--or rather, you ladies out there in reader-land--why do you suck balls? Do I have to start giving seminars on this? TV public health campaigns? There are no happy-nerves on a man's balls. There's just "Ouch!", "Aaaiieee!!!" and "Jesus holy fucking shit!"-nerves, the kinds that make you vomit if so much as flicked. So having your balls sucked is, at best, like bungee jumping--the only thrill is wondering if you're going to survive the near-death experience. But Ames don't bungee-jump: that sort of foolishness is for people who can't handle drugs. And Ames don't tea bag neither.

Kristina gargled away between my legs, while I lay still with my eyes wide open in total fear, wondering if she left those missing side molars of hers in a previous client's sack.... My hard-on was retreating fast as she sucked my balls--alarms sounded, red lights flashed, "Periscope down! Periscope down! Enemy teeth, starboard right!"

I pulled her up by her armpits and lay her next to me, on her side, then rolled on top of her. Her body was warm, her nipples hard and large--she'd clearly had a kid. Then I moved my hand down to feel her vagina. I've been doing this more and more lately, out of curiosity: checking under the hood to see if it needs fluids. More often than not it's like wedging your finger into a sandy Chinese finger-torture instrument. But not Kristina--when I probed inside, she started to tremble and spasm in rhythm with my hand, and I could feel her walls getting wet. It was, I admit, kind of exciting--a whore with a sweet smile and a horny pussy!

She couldn't wait--she applied the condom using her mouth, and worked it deftly, the Jenna Jameson of Kaluga. I got my money's worth, then I got on top of her and fucked her. She made a lot of noise, pulling her legs back.

After I came, Kristina, still trembling (I assume it was an act, but then again, by saying this, I'm merely employing false self-deprecation--I'll be honest, I fucked her well and the poor creature will never experience the likes of me again), sucked the used condom off with her mouth, then threw it away and lay down next to me. I passed out as if in a deep sleep, but she woke me up and, without prompting, told me her story.

Kristina was born just outside of Kaluga, of old Kaluga stock. Six years ago, she inherited her own "chastny dom," one of those crooked single-family houses you see in provincial cities, after she "lost" her parents.

"What happened to your parents?"

"My mother died of a brain tumor. It happened very fast, and it was horrible, she suffered so much. It was devastating, I loved her."

"My stepfather died of a brain tumor too, so I know what it's like," I said. "What about your father?"

Kristina paused; her smile left her. "He was an alcoholic, and he couldn't function without her. He died shortly after my mother did." She didn't explain how. "I was alone. Then I got married. My husband turned out to be a jerk. He never worked. I worked as a waitress, I brought in the money and owned the home. But the pay was never enough. I have a little boy."

"How old?"

"He's four and a half now. He's everything to me! I don't want to do this work, nu, sex, but it's really not so bad. The hours are much better. As a single mother, it's a better job than a waitress. I can start on a weekend night at 9pm and be done by 2am. I work fewer days and better hours, and the pay is better. You understand, of course."

"Of course."

"While I worked, my husband would go out drinking with his friends, partying all night, chasing girls. One night I came home when he was supposed to babysit our child, and he'd left him alone. Our baby, can you imagine? My boy was scared and crying. When my husband came home the next day, I told him we were over, I wanted him out. He didn't take it well. He broke everything in the house, broke the walls, the cabinets, everything. It took a long time to repair. He beat me pretty badly too. I was still working as a waitress at the time, so it was a disaster. Of course, I couldn't show up to work with a huge black eye, could I? It wouldn't be right, the customers would be scared and my manager wouldn't let me work anyway, not looking like that. Well, it didn't matter, because I left that job and took this one."

She paused, then added, "He's a very jealous man. He is going crazy even right now." She smiled, but for the first time, it wasn't a vacant "bezplatnaya ulibka," but rather a vindictive smile, not meant for me. "Yes, he's very jealous. He's not happy at all."

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Ames
Browse author
Email Mark Ames at editor@exile.ru.
 
 
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