ANOTHER AT THE DOOR. She would have bathed a hundred times to have washed him out.

Now she dries her red hair with a white towel sitting on the edge of the white bath. She will never get used to it, never quite come to accept the duties of a whore, not take it as a fact of her life, fucked more often than any wife. But he she loathes, his way, his demands, that touch of his, the earthly smell and tone of voice. She's washed and washed her hair, and rinsed it through, to be rid of him, but still he's there in her red long hair. He's just another punter, the Mistress says, just another gentleman to please and have his way, no different than the others, so just lay there, shut your eyes and obey. She never thought she'd end up a whore, never thought she'd end up this way, being the plaything of men, just a relief machine,

a good lay. She wonders, drying her long red hair, what her parents would say, seeing her here, doing what she does, things she has to perform, sometimes quite kinky, often beyond the norm. She's dry now, the hair brushed and her body clean, time to prepare, tie back her hair, simple cloth to cover what'll soon be bare, lying there. She sighs, who'd be a whore? she says, knock knock, another one's come, another at the door.

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