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Max tried to smile, tried to get into the role of adventurous womanizer. It wasn’t him. “A little of both, if you get my meaning.” He winked pitifully.
Jesus.
Her tiny hand found its way to his leg. “You like me, Max?” She licked the air as though it were an ice-cream cone and leaned forward. Her eyes burrowed into his until he had to turn away.
“Very much.”
“How much pleasure you want, Max?”
“A hundred dollars’ worth,” he said, “to start.”
She nodded. “What you like?”
Max cleared his throat. “The Kink Room.”
She froze. “You been here before, Max?”
“No. A friend told me about it.”
She nodded again, more professional now. “Kink Room expensive.”
“I can pay.”
Yet another nod. Her hand was about a millimeter away from his groin now. Her very long, red-painted fingernails skimmed the surface of his pants with a feathery stroke. Surprisingly, something close to arousal crept in. Her touch was soothing, relaxing. It felt frighteningly good—sort of strange for a man who usually got excited by male bodybuilders. Not that Max had never been with women. He had. He just preferred men, that’s all.
She moved her hand away. “Pay man over there, Max, and then we go upstairs. We have much fun together. I tear you whole world apart.”
He nodded, wondering if that was better than having his head spin all the way around. Tough choice.
He bit down on a little piece of skin hanging off his fingertip and did as he was instructed. The young pimp looked like a welterweight contender—small, muscular, without an ounce of body fat.
“How kinky you want it?”
“Very.”
“You sure you want Kink Room?” the pimp asked. “Very expensive. Very dangerous.”
“I’m sure. How much?”
“Two hundred dollars for entrance. But if you want to use red wall, extra. Much extra. You let me know, okay?”
The red wall?
After a few moments of negotiating, they settled on a price tag of $175.
Max paid the money. Immediately, the Thai girl appeared at his side and led him up the stairs, whispering the usual whore expressions about what fun they were going to have and what a hunk he was.
“What is your name?” he interrupted her.
“Bambi.”
A traditional Thai name.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“For what?”
Again, the ice-cream-cone lick. “To make you happy.”
“Why do you do this, Bambi?”
“Do what?”
The oppressive heat was even worse here than downstairs. They were in the darkened hallway now, the painting chipped, the lighting nearly nonexistent. Max shuddered as they passed the door in the corner with a “Do Not Enter” sign stapled to it. He managed not to hesitate. “Prostitute yourself.”
She looked at him. “Why?”
“Just asking. You seem like an intelligent—”
For a brief moment the smile disappeared and he could see the naked hatred underneath it. “You going to take me away from all this, Max?” A touch of scorn had slipped into her voice. But then the moment was over. Like a candle that had flickered, the smile came back and seemed to brighten. “Come,” she said. “I will be your fantasy. Then you go home happy, okay?”
She opened the door. The first thing that hit him was the odor. Some sort of cherry room freshener had been sprayed in heavy doses, trying to conceal the still unmistakably foul smell of . . . of sleaze. Sleaze permeated every part of the room, as if the very acts had nestled into the walls like thousands of tiny cockroaches, rotting the foundations. Max shivered.
Where did his unease come from? he wondered. He had been in bathhouses, even heavy-duty mass orgies, and yet something about this room intimidated him. There was just something so . . . so blatantly dehumanizing about it.
As far as the physical layout, well, suffice to say that room was aptly named the Kink Room. On one wall hung dildos, lots of them, of shapes and sizes that boggled the imagination. Some were barely phallic. Whips, chains, handcuffs, ropes, straitjackets, leather masks, bondage and submission devices of all sorts covered shelves on his left. And then straight ahead, on a red-colored wall . . . He walked over to get a closer look.
“Jesus.”
The red wall.
He spun back toward Bambi, who was huddled in a corner now. The smile was still there, but her eyes had suddenly filled with pure terror. “Red wall extra, Max.” Pause. “You want?”
He looked again, not believing what he was seeing. A stun gun. A goddamn police stun gun. Enough volts of electricity to make a body spasm like an epileptic’s during a seizure. “People use this on you?” he asked.
She did not respond for a few seconds, only smiling. “Not on me. Other girls.”
He put the stun gun back and picked up a . . . Jesus Christ . . . an electric cattle prod. Kinky was one thing, but this went beyond simple sadism. He had heard about such things, men who enjoyed zapping nipples or even a clitoris, but his mind had dismissed it as mind-boggling fiction.
“Sometimes,” Bambi said, “they want me to use.”
“Huh?”
“On them,” she continued.
Max looked at the prod and tried to imagine it pressed against his balls and prick. His muscles stiffened and something flipped over in his stomach. He continued to look at the shelves in disbelief. Nipple clamps. Sharp, pointed studs. Torture devices that looked like something from the Middle Ages. Nausea swept over him.
The Kink Room? Chamber of Horrors is more like it.
“What you want, Max?”
“I want to tie you up.”
“You going to use . . . the red wall?”
“No.”
Her relief was palpable. She started to undress, but Max stopped her. “Don’t strip.”
“You don’t want me naked?”
He shook his head. “Lie on the bed,” he said, trying to make it sound like a lustful command.
The girl eyed him strangely but obeyed. Max knew plenty about knots and tying people up. He bound her arms and legs three different ways, making sure they were secure but not cutting into her flesh. There was no reason to hurt her.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
The young prostitute did as he asked. She was surprised when he stuffed only a cloth into her mouth. He wrapped a rope around her mouth and the back of her head repeatedly, effectively gagging her.
