The neon bar on the Brussels road hummed with false glamour. Leather stools stuck to thighs. Champagne fizzed sharp on the tongue, golden bubbles popping like secrets. Bénédicte, my acne-scarred soulmate, worked topless. Firm breasts swayed under pink lights. Clients, lonely suits, spilled hearts over bottles she upsold. Nine in ten just talked. Needed an ear, a soft shoulder. The rest? She jerked them off. Sucked deep. Her pussy soaked through panties. ‘I drench like a fountain,’ she laughed, eyes wild. No fucking there. Just hands, mouth, tits for groping. Excitement pulsed in her veins. I envied her fire at eighteen, virgin hands only knowing my own skin.
She thrived a year. Cash flowed. ‘Not a whore. Hostess. Therapist without papers.’ Then a beating shattered ribs, brow. She quit. Waitressed downtown. Fucked patrons freely. Married Jacques, rough factory grunt. Daughter Louise bloomed under her love. Read at four. Pure bliss five years.
The Privilege
Jacques chased dreams. Bought a private club for three million francs. Lies hid in contracts: back taxes, jacked booze prices, rent hikes. Debts snowballed to five million. Evicted. Seized car, furniture. Courts failed against political shields.
Bénédicte chose the life. Jacques raged, beat her. She won. Rented a Liège salon near the post office. Three by five meters. Sagging bed, sink, mirror, toilet. Twenty-five thousand francs monthly. I fronted the first. Prices stark: five hundred for handjob, thousand penetration, two thousand deep throat, three thousand half-hour free-for-all. No ass, no violence.
Novelty boomed. Queues formed. Ten, twenty tricks nightly. Her fountain dried. Burned raw. ‘I’m just a hole.’ Jacques refused her bed.
The double salon in Antwerp gleamed under red lights. Vitrines flanked the door. Back kitchen hid me during waits. Curtains thin. Voices bled through.
The Excess
Moans raw. Grunts animal. ‘Suck harder, bitch.’ Flesh slapped. Bedsprings screamed. I crouched, fingers frantic in my slit. Laughter mixed with sobs. A teen wept on her tits; she ground his hand to her clit, denying her peak. Weirdos begged filth; she booted them. Yet kindness lingered. ‘People like us, Jeanette. Flawed beasts.’ Booze fueled her. Taxes on illegal trade bit deep. Jacques jobless, pimped her pride in a cathédrale café. She slapped; he floored her bloody.
Trottoir next, then Antwerp weeks alone. Louise with in-laws. I supped post-shift. Heard it all: crude deals, tender pleas, vicious barters. Knife drawer tempted when screams turned dark. She came once from a licker’s tongue. Hated her joy. ‘Less than nothing.’ Cash piled. New car. Charles emerged: suave engineer, dinners paid, debts offered free. She refused.
Divorce papers waited. She lost Louise. Charles saved her. Married. Son Jean born. I fled to America.
The Excess
The Discretion
Ten years on, Visé villa shimmered. Marble floors cool underfoot. Silk sheets whispered. Charles poured candlelit champagne, crisp oak notes. Tension crackled. Bénédicte snapped at Jean’s perfect script: missing i-dot. Froze his dinner. Rage erupted pre-zoo: ‘Son of whore and john!’ Tires howled away.
Antwerp zoo enchanted Jean. Sint Anneke’s black sands reeked petroleum. Escaut gleamed sunset pinks, violets. Cargo sirens rumbled chests. Cyros steaks sizzled, beer foamed cold.
Charles confessed backseat: loveless father till Jean’s midnight wait. Bénédicte’s monster cycled: paradise, then venom. I found her nude, stinking in my bed. ‘Folcoche,’ I teased.
She bloomed briefly. Paradise weeks. Emails from Jean bridged oceans. Divorce split them. She to Cannes, pensioned. He swam, fought like me.
Summer reject: bible hurled. ‘Old whore!’ Still, weekly letters flew.
Jean arrived prince-tall, bronzed, pool-ready. Muscles sleek. Zoo dreams fueled vet path. Amanda’s kiss in jacuzzi moonlit bubbles closed the loop.
‘Fils of pute and miché. Proud.’ Her ghost lingered. Warning etched: think twice, darling.
