Free Sinister Touch (erotica anthology) by V T Turner

 
    Sinister Touch
     
    V T Turner
     
     
    Copyright © V T Turner 2013
     
    [email protected]
     
     
    Also by V T Turner
     
    My Paid Angel
    Voyeur
    Good, Bad, Girl
    Betrayed
    5 Days a Week
    Forbidden
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    The Desperate
     
     
    She cupped her hands, breathed hotly into them and then rubbed them together, hoping to restore some heat into the cold appendages. She tightened her coat around her. It was thin, the zipper had bust long ago and the padding had either worn down or fallen out, but the other layers -- the tattered fleece jumper, stained, ripped; the two blouses, thin but intact -- stopped her from freezing.
     
    It was dark, the night had been drugged with a deep blackness and an unshakeable cold. She rested against the cold wall behind her, straightened out her back against the roughened brick. Up ahead, across the other side of the underpass, a small collection of men huddled around a fire, swapping grunts and sips from a bottle of cider. They were old, decrepit, on their way out, she doubted they had much life left in them, doubted all of them would make it through the winter.
     
    She had shared smiles with them before heading to her current spot, she hadn’t wanted to linger, didn’t want to remain in their lustful eyes for long; they weren’t her type -- too old, too desperate.
     
    She didn’t wait long before she was joined by someone else, someone who came stumbling through the gloom, half dragging his left leg behind him, appearing out of the darkness, through the mist, like a plague-ridden movie villain.
     
    When he smiled at her she saw food stuck in his teeth and his beard. He had probably just eaten, stuffing his face with whatever he could find. She pitied him, but it didn’t go further than that.
     
    He sat down beside her, shuffling along until she could feel him against her. He looked at her a few times, cursory glances, making sure that what he saw was genuine, that yes, she really was that pretty. Her hair, ruffled and windswept beyond repair, was a glorious strawberry blonde color; her face, marked with a few flecks of dirt and disrepair, was neat, tidy.
     
    He offered her a puff from his pipe, they always did. She didn’t know if it was crack, heroin or something else, she wasn’t knowledgeable about drugs but the one thing she did know was that she didn’t want any of it. It would probably keep her warm, but at a cost. When she refused he pulled out a small bottle of vodka from his pocket, offered her a nip, smiling his cracked-tooth smile as he did so.
     
    She didn’t need to say no to that. She drank nearly everyday anyway, she wasn’t as bad as the others she had seen, she certainly didn’t need the booze to survive, but she liked a drop every now and then. It settled her nerves, gave her something to do, and, on a night like this, it helped to warm her up.
     
    The vodka was harsh, it coursed down her throat and caused her to cough in her hand. She gave him it back, offered a hoarse ‘ thank you’ as he screwed the lid back on and dropped it into his pocket.
     
    She watched him smoking his pipe, wondered if she should offer herself to him. He was too old, too dirty, too skinny. She didn’t mind the addicts, some of them were okay, many were keen to please, but there was a line and he was about to pass out on it.
     
    He tried it on after he had finished smoking, when the last dregs of toxicity had faded into the night air and a wide and immovable grin stretched across his stubbled, Dickensian face. He moved his hand to her leg, pressed gently and then began to slowly move it upwards. She didn’t have many layers on her bottom half, they just got in the way, instead she wore a pair of tight leggings, the thick material usually sufficed in keeping the cold out. They didn’t keep the sensation of touch away though and she felt his hand ascend her leg, slip