Sunday, 2 March 2014

Sunday, March 02, 2014 -

The Perfect Image

by John Benson
Published: Jan 03, 2014
Words: 23,734
Category: fantasy
Orientation: M/F
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The Perfect Image

It was late and she was tired, and the soft spring air had gone chill. She tugged the hem of her Spandex skirt down and it rode back up. A little Cadillac drove by. The one that zigs. Veronica dredged up the false gaiety of her profession. "Hey Mister," she called out. "Want to party?"

The car window slid down smoothly. The guy was stocky and had a fringe of graying hair. Somebody's dad, probably, maybe some else's grandpa. He looked her over pretty good, but that usual hunger wasn't there. "Hop in," he said.

She reclined in warm soft leather and the car door closed with a satisfying thunk. "Business before pleasure," she said. "Two hundred up front, and then we can have fun."

"You're zonked," the guy said. "It can't be that much fun if you have to medicate yourself just to make it palatable." He handed her some cash.

The car started moving. She looked down at two crisp new hundreds. "It'll be good for you," she said. "I promise." The guy had a point, though. She needed the pills to produce a sense of distance, so it seemed that someone else's body was doing this. When she started she thought it would be sexy. It wasn't. It was clinical, mechanical. About as sexy as getting your teeth cleaned. Luckily the guy was usually tracking in his own fantasy and didn't notice.

"What you need right now is a good night's sleep," he said. "Alone."

She pretended not to hear him. "Turn west on Palmer," she said. "I know a place."

"No thanks, honey. I know a place, too. What's your name?"

"Veronica," she said. Was she being abducted? He seemed okay. The mean ones radiated anger or were at least very tightly wrapped. She could tell this guy was calm by the way he drove. His posture was relaxed. His moves were smooth and unhurried. "What do I call you?" she said. She had to dredge up social skills. Pills and stress had blurred her so they were no longer second nature.

"Mel Harkin," he said. "In the morning I'll have an offer for you, but tonight just rest."

She perked up. "An arrangement? Like maybe a steady mistress or something?"

"Tomorrow," he said. The tone was firm. Not angry or threatening or anything, just not at all inviting further comment. She dozed against leather and let him drive.

She roused as the car stopped in a suburban driveway. He led her into a darkened house. It's not like no-one ever undressed her before, but this guy just tucked her into a twin bed afterward, and kissed her gently on the forehead and went away, leaving her alone and unfucked. She wondered why.


The crisp, fresh feel of clean sheets caressed her body. She had cotton-mouth and a large need to pee. Sun filtered in through curtains with little printed flowers. Impressionist reproductions hung in wooden frames on pale blue walls. A big mirror reflected, bright and clean.