'Whorehouse hygiene', by Ultan Banan. New novella coming soon.

Extract from 'A Whore's Song', by Ultan Banan

Washing dildos is one of the more tedious aspects of my job. No — we don’t have girls to do it for us, though it’s likely Deirdre is coerced into carrying out such menial tasks. When you’re still working your way up, the other girls will take every advantage. They are predators. They give no quarter. Fortunately, I got wise pretty quickly when I was on the rise. After the first year, nobody messed with me. I took the swipes and stood my ground, and soon they came to know what I was all about. That’s what it takes. A girl like Deirdre, she shows her soft side too readily. They will eat her up if she’s not careful.

Yes, I learned quickly that it’s easier to shovel your own shit, as they say. I have no problem doing the dirty jobs that no one likes doing. Take this filthy cock-like appendage in my hands, for instance, as I scrub the traces of blood and shit from its length. Who would relish such a job? Who would take to such a thing without the requisite squeamishness, the necessary revulsion? No one. Yet such things carry a reminder of the need to stay grounded. Doing what I do, owning and possessing men, digging into the darkest corners of their soul and finding their deepest secrets and fears… well, the risk is that you get carried away, drunk on power and greedy for more. Get ideas above your station. Little rituals like these, scrubbing sex toys, the instruments of my control, they keep me level, remind me that I, too, have a place in the hierarchy and that I’m only here because of her that made it all possible. Madame Zhu. I carry out my tasks with diligence, because I am not above them.

Not to mention hygiene. I take it seriously. I’m a whore — I must. We have good clients who take care of themselves, and who scrub and wash and disinfect, but still, I must be careful. What I’m about to say, you may consider self-evident, but the fact is that many men who visit whorehouses are perverts. Not exclusively, I might add; some are simply lonely. Many, however, are into sick business. I mean, things that don’t bear repeating. So you have to be on your guard that they’re not carrying things in with them that are best left at the door, things with names like ‘trichomoniasis’ or ‘papillomavirus’. Or, if you’re a plain sort of individual with a liking for brevity, things like ‘syph’ and ‘the clap’. Take young Isaak, for instance, who was carried out of here only moments ago — who knows what he’s had up his hole when he’s been high? I mean, I could tell he was a virgin, but boys will be boys and the tots will play when the adults are away. But maybe you’re wondering how he is… well, I’ll put it like this: shitting will be agony for the next few weeks, but he’ll escape without any lasting damage. I could have been rougher on him, and God knows I’d have taken pleasure in it, but my instructions were clear. I did only what was asked and nothing more. I’d deal with them all the same way. Rapists, that is. But let’s not go down that road.

I dry off the dildo and place it back in the drawer next to the rest of them. Some of them are devastating. I’m not sure if I can adequately describe them, but let’s try. So the one I just placed back in the drawer, I call ‘Nurse Ratched’. She’ll toy with you but leave you in a bit of a mess. Not making a lasting impression, however (even if Isaak might disagree on that point). Next up is the ‘MacGyver’. I pieced it together from two other dildos of mine that had seen better days, taking the strap from one and the cock from another and uniting them into a new animal. What can I say? I become attached to things. The McGyver is eight inches long — not including the balls — with a diameter of about two inches. It’s pretty lethal. After the MacGyver, we have the ‘Henry the Eighth’. Ten inches in length and with an enormous helmet like a child’s fist. Many a man has seen his life flash before his eyes on the end of Henry the Eighth. And lastly, there is ‘Genghiz Khan’: Big, fat and dangerous in every way. I mean, he’ll roll over you like an army. Fourteen inches, four inch girth… out to destroy. It’s been a while since Genghiz has seen the light of day.

I close the drawer. It must be nearly finishing time for me. It’s Thursday, so it’s unlikely the Madame will have another client. I generally do three a day Monday to Thursday, and two on Friday. Weekends are free — the perks of my station. Come Thursday evening, I’m practically done. Fridays are a breeze, the jobs light. No heavy lifting. It’s a fine way to break in the weekend.
There’s a knock at the door. That’ll be dinner. I ordered the Thai chicken. And perhaps I’ll invite Deirdre in for a half-hour. God knows, I’ve been thinking about her since lunch.
I open the door. It’s not Deirdre, and it’s not lunch. Jessie Skin is standing there, and she’s holding a folder.
She looks stressed.
‘We have a problem,’ she says.

To see books from Black Tarn Publishing, follow the link below:

 ‘Whorehouse Hygiene’, by Ultan Banan. Please note: flash fiction, nonfiction and all other content is the sole work of Black Tarn. Ask before republishing.

%d bloggers like this: