Stories From the Brothel

Chapter One

Chapter One

The First Circle of Hell ‒ Popping The Cherry

That day, I resolved to lose my virginity. Since school classes were in the afternoon, I had the whole morning to figure out how to do it. I wanted a beautiful, attractive and provocatively dressed girl. But there weren’t such girls in my surroundings, which left me only one choice: a hooker. And even if there were girls like that around me, it is a big question whether my charm and physical appearance were good enough to grant me an invitation between their legs. Were there any girls willing to f**k with me for free? Sure there were. I just needed to make a small effort but, as you might already sense, I am a specific person. If I can’t have the girl I like, I will rather spend my whole life jerking off while thinking about her than f*****g the one that doesn’t attract me.

It doesn’t matter to me whether a girl loves me or not. Or if she unconditionally surrenders to me, or what kind of person she is. I don’t care if she is faithful, promiscuous or avaricious. The most important thing to me is that she haves beautiful feet. Nails on hands and feet must be regularly subjected to skilled manicures and pedicures. I prefer red nail polish and lipstick. Yes, I have a foot fetish, but another painting speaks about that. The third important thing beside her feet and hands is her look. Not her eyes, not their color, size and shape. But their look. They must have something wild. Wild, or should I say untamed. Evasive. I don’t like when a woman looks at me like a sheep. I can’t stand monotony in the eyes of the ones I f**k. When I look at them, I want to feel like I am driving a motorcycle and only one moment of carelessness is standing between death and me in the darkness of an empty highway, while the throbbing of wheels fills my ears and air slaps my face. It may seem a bit weird to hear that there were no ladies around me who could satisfy my tastes since many will say how our city is overflowing with beautiful girls. But my dear namesake, I assure you that it was rare to come across a girl that had all the required attributes.

If she had a beautiful face and gorgeous body, her nails weren’t manicured. “Well, that’s the least of your problems,” people would say, glad to criticize me. “She only has to put some nail polish.”

But I am talking about the psychological moment. Why didn’t she already get her nails done? How could she step on the street without a manicure and pedicure? Why isn’t she committed to her aesthetics? I want a girl whose instincts, together with the breathing reflex, make her pursue beauty. And I don’t want her to be beautiful and glam up for my sake. No, I want her to look beautiful for herself whether I am by her side or not.

And even if she was gifted with beauty and the urge to groom herself, her style would ruin what otherwise promised to be a perfect whole. She would dress plainly, like some pre-war auntie who baked a pie in the morning and headed to her little nephew’s birthday party in the afternoon. And she looked at you and laughed like a calf. Without an ounce of boldness or seduction in her eyes. I have heard so many times that physical appearance isn’t everything, but my heart would not pump blood into my p***s without it, and my soul trembled at the thought that I would end with a girl like that one day. Of course, there were attractive ladies whose existence embodied everything that I loved. Or, rather, adored. They wore high heels, had beautiful hands and feet, big breasts, phenomenal style, beautiful hairstyles, penetrating eyes, and to my disadvantage, a perception that didn’t allow them to consider me as a potential s****l partner. Sometimes, I would come across my vision of a sexually desirable girl while walking down Njegoseva or Knez Mihailo Street, but most often I met them in nightclubs. They were sitting in booths, alone or in the company of a handful of guys, drinking glamorous champagne in long glasses as elegant as their lovely fingers which were holding them.

When I had just started going to nightclubs, the question was whether one of the guys was their boyfriend because I didn’t want to cause any trouble. However, on several occasions, those enchanting ladies happened to be alone. I didn’t have money to sit in a booth and usually stood at the bar so I had to wade through the crowd to get to them. I would wave to the girl, approach and offer her my hand. She would look at me in astonishment and accept my hand with disbelief. I would ask for her name and does she have a boyfriend. The girl usually wouldn’t respond or just mumble something before turning her head. I would get the message and leave to save face. After a while, I changed my approach. Instead of stepping to the booth, I would approach from the side and wave. The outcome was the same. I was an athletic guy, but it occurred to me that maybe I should pump my neck and biceps some more. I addressed that issue but it didn’t help. I wasn’t too surprised since many guys who enjoyed the company and kisses of those interesting girls looked quite unsportsmanlike. Something else was the problem. I thought that I might be ugly. In the end, it occurred to me that the obstacle could be a combination of aesthetics and lousy pick-up lines.

However, all the shortcomings of this world couldn’t change my desires or make me give up. After all, persistent boys manage to take girls to bed, not the pretty ones. Only later did I realize that persistence could become boring and that a boy doesn’t get to f**k if he doesn’t have a fat wallet or isn’t good friends with the girl’s astrologer. Given the circumstances, I think it’s quite clear why I had to turn to whores.

Let’s get back to the story. So, I decided to lose my virginity and a task of indescribable importance presented itself. Even before I found a prostitute, I had to make sure that I will leave the impression of a great lover. As soon as I woke up, I went to the bathroom and shaved my pubic hair to make my d**k look as big as possible. However, size isn’t the only relevant factor for acquiring the image of Casanova. You need to show experience. Knowledge. Sensibility. Or at least endurance, if you want a girl to believe that you were with many women before her. I had cardio workouts all day, if you understand what I mean? I will be explicit, just in case.

From the moment I woke up until I went to school, I jerked off. I came four or five times. Since my c**k jumped whenever a dressed girlfriend sat on my lap, I was convinced that the touch of a naked woman would make me explode. After I fixed those two problems, the third one was easy. It was necessary to invent an explanation for seeking out a hooker. I planned to say, “Listen, after two long relationships, I’m disappointed in love and now I just want to chill out and change chicks.” All my friends had lost their virginity when they were sixteen-year-olds. What was interesting and common for all of them was that the young ladies with whom they had s*x for the first time left soon after that or, rather, traveled to exotic destinations and nobody heard about them again.

One friend, Vuk, had a really turbulent first relationship. According to his story, he started shagging his girlfriend when he was fifteen, but not only that ‒ he often had to flee from her parents who had a habbit of appearing suddenly. That’s why he had to hide in the tub and behind the curtain, squat in the wardrobe, stand naked on the windowsill, and sometimes even hang from it... I didn’t believe him since it was obvious that he was lying.

Later, I found out that lying was his pathology and often told him, “If you were Pinocchio, you would be guilty for the end of the world because your nose would puncture God regardless of how far away you lived.”

He would always curse me. But I have strayed from the topic. So, I was faced with the problem of finding a prostitute. My friend Damir agreed to look for a brothel with me after school.

“It will be easy,” he assured me. “We will ask taxi drivers where we can get a massage with a happy ending. They know everything.”

When I got home, I threw my school bag and took a shower. Then, in order to ensure endurance, I jerked off once more. I told my parents that I’m going for a walk with a friend, put two hundred euros in my pocket and walked out. The money was saved from my eighteenth birthday a month ago, October the 9th, when my godfather gave me five hundred euros.

Damir, a foot taller than average guys, with 120 kg of doughy skin and a stomach like a pregnant woman carrying five babies in her womb, was walking in front of me. He approached the cabbies, knocked on their windows, bent and asked with a smile, “Good evening. Do you know where we could get a massage with a happy ending?”

They smiled and replied that they didn’t know. Nevertheless, we continued enthusiastically. Night had already fallen when we came across a tall man with long hair and a roguish face behind the wheel of a gray cab.

When Damir repeated his question to the cabby called Dejan, he laughed and exclaimed, “So, you two champions want to f**k?”

“Yes,” Damir confirmed. We were grinning from ear to ear. Dejan explained that there is a well-known brothel in a suburb before Novi Sad. He added that he could take us there and wait for sixty euros. Fear raced through my gut. I knew that prostitution was illegal in Serbia and I assumed that there were many tricks. My brain immediately envisioned the worst scenario: Organ trafficking.

My mother’s furious ravings echoed in my ears, “Just fool around God-knows-where with all sorts of bums until someone abducts you and rips all your organs! Then you won’t be able to cry for your mum or dad! If you manage to survive! Without kidneys! Without a liver!”

This Dejan will take two kids to that kind of place, where other criminals will be waiting. Then they will throw us in a basement, stun us with gas, take what they need and leave us to bleed to death. Is he crazy? I am an athlete, but what good could the intestines of my fat pal be to him? Maybe it isn’t organ trafficking after all.

“If you wish me to go along, I want you to treat me to a girl,” Damir said.

He sensed that I didn’t want to go alone and decided to reap something from it. The taxi driver wanted sixty euros, as much as a w***e charged for thirty minutes. I didn’t want to squander all my money, so I promised to treat him next time. Damir accepted unwillingly and we entered the vehicle.

I didn’t talk much during the drive. Damir had no idea that I was a virgin and was already pestering me with questions. “Why would someone with such an athletic body go to a hooker? Why don’t you make out with some girl from school, many would gladly f**k with you?”

If he found out that I was a virgin, he would make fun of me for the rest of my life. Damir popped his cherry when he was sixteen in Red Light District in Amsterdam.

Of course, I kept silent about my preferences, even with my closest friends. The girl had to be an attractive slut with red nail polish and high heels; otherwise I will remain a virgin my whole life. I’m not interested in other girls. The very idea of screwing an ordinary girl made me sick. Of course, an erection might occur, and a very stiff one too. I could strip, jam it into her and release myself, but it reminded of going to the bathroom. When you put it off for a long time and finally take a dump, the feeling is great on every toilet bowl, but the ass is always dirty. You can wipe your asshole with toilet paper, but you can’t wash away the memory of desecrating yourself with a girl just because you wanted a substitute for your right hand... I would have to live with that memory.

I was mostly silent during the journey. When I spoke, I pretended to be relaxed and laughed, although the taxi driver must have sensed that tonight will be my first time. Dejan spoke mainly about the wide variety of very beautiful girls. “There is a big choice to choose from. Tall, short, big t**s, big ass, white girls, Gypsy girls... If you have recently broken a mirror, I recommend a Gypsy! Hahahahahaha.”

“Are they healthy?” I asked somewhere halfway, when the possibility of STD dawned on me like a thunderbolt from the clear sky. I was afraid of HIV.

“Don’t you worry. The boss gets them checked up every two weeks. He doesn’t allow them even to catch a cold,” Dejan assured me.

“And are they forced to work there?” I continued questioning.

Now it was my anxiety speaking. Every meter closer to the brothel seemed to be growing a mouth and speaking, trying to make me change my mind.

“Oh, no. They like easy cash. Rents her putza and flies to Ibiza,” he replied. Damir and I laughed. “No one is forcing them anymore. All those girls want to do that. Easy and fast dough. Sometimes they earn a thousand euros a night.”

“No s**t!” I exclaimed with surprise.

At some point, at the outskirt of a small town before Novi Sad, the cabbie turned right and climbed up a long narrow street. After a few more turns, we found ourselves in front of the brothel. It was a house with a tall stone fence and a slightly lower gray metal gate. After a few moments, the gate parted to let us through. Dejan explained that we had to wait for the camera to record us. The parking lot was huge, but it housed only one black Audi.

“There you go,” the taxi driver said, “you are all alone. That is the boss’s car.” I exited and headed cautiously towards the entrance. “That is the wrong house,” Dejan called out.

I turned around and saw that the parking lot was between two houses. I started toward the lit up one. Dejan entered first, followed by Damir and me.

A short grey-haired man was sitting behind the counter in the dark corridor. He bowed his head respectfully and wished us a good evening. We replied, passed him and entered a large room shrouded in darkness. In the middle, next to the wall, was a stage with three poles for striptease, one in the front and two in the back. House music was blasting from the speakers and blue and the red lights danced across the stage. We took our seats around one of the dozen tables scattered around. The waitress came to take our order, blueberry juice for me, beer for Damir and coffee for Dejan.

The girls started coming onto the stage. My smile froze on my face. They looked exactly the way I wanted. My sweater was tight and I leaned my arms on the table to make my biceps more noticeable. I chased the goofy grin from my face and tried to look serious since I remembered that all this should be normal for me if I want to leave the impression of an experienced fucker. Some girls were in thongs and small bras, others in short skirts or skimpy shorts and T-shirts.

Just as Dejan had said, there were all kinds of girls. Before I picked my favorite, a fat Gypsy girl approached me, smiled and asked, “May I?”

I mumbled that I will wait a little more.

“I didn’t catch that,” she said.

“I’ll wait a little more,” I repeated intelligibly and she left us alone.

Among the dozen girls on stage, I saw her. She caught my eye because of the large dragon tattoo running spirally over her hip and back. That short, slender brunette with a pale complexion was wearing knee-length boots, with high heels ‒ of course, a texas shorts so skimpy it could be confused for knickers and a green T-shirt resembling a bra. She was deftly twerking her perky butt and the cheeks were vibrating and swaying sweetly. Her nails were painted red and I concluded that she must have beautiful and groomed feet.

At the time, I still didn’t know how to tell a girl that I wanted to put her foot in my mouth. I didn’t even know if I should go to her or wait. But she felt my eyes on her and, followed by a strong blonde colleague, approached our table. The girls asked could they join us.

“Yes,” I muttered.

She offered me her hand and smiled. “I am Christina.”

“Nikola.”

The blonde girl introduced herself to the taxi driver and Damir. Then she sat in my pal’s lap and started rubbing his d**k. Over his jeans, of course. Christina sat in my lap. I felt a mild erection. I put my hand around her waist and slowly moved my fingers toward her ass. I didn’t want to be a brute and squeeze her butt right away. I will proceed gradually.

The waitress returned with our order and asked the girls do they want a drink. “What are you having?” I prompted them.

They ordered a sour cherry and blueberry juice. I don’t remember my conversation with Christina. The girl’s juices arrived. She took a tiny sip and said that we could go.

“What do you want?” she asked me. I looked at her, puzzled, until she clarified that she wanted to know how much time am I willing to pay for.

“Half an hour,” I replied and offered her the money.

She told me to follow her. I found myself in that entrance hall where the grey-haired man was still sitting behind the counter. Christina walked through the door behind him. She returned quickly and said that we should climb the stairs that I hadn’t noticed before. They were on the left side of the entrance and covered with a red carpet.

The floor was reduced to a long corridor full of doors ‒ rooms where the prostitutes did their job. Our room was somewhere in the middle. She asked me to take my shoes off. I left my Air Max sneakers beside the mat where she was maintaining her balance while taking off her boots. At one point, she grabbed my shoulder for support. The moment of truth was nearing.

But when she finally took off her boots, that moment was postponed once again. She was wearing green socks with purple flowers. Christina entered the room without taking them off. And why should she do that? With such an ass and legs, nobody would dream of kissing and licking her feet or rubbing his d**k against them.

I will tell her. But how? We were in the room for a few minutes now. I was standing while she was sitting on the bed and watching me.

“You’ll have to undress if we are to do anything,” Christina pointed out.

“Well, we surely won’t do it dressed,” I replied with a laugh.

I must have looked like a fool since I wanted to strip as soon as we entered, but didn’t do it because immediate jumping out of clothes struck me as immature. Boorish, to be more precise. I undressed.

“Lie down and relax,” Christina said.

How can I tell her to take off her socks?

She started kissing me. First my face, then body and finally around the d**k. I felt a mild erection, but then it froze. In vain, she sucked my balls, licked my d**k, groaned, twisted and squirmed. My c**k was laying like slaughtered on my shaved groin and the prickly area was unpleasant to the touch. I jerked off in the hope of getting a hard-on. I told her to get on all fours and raise her ass. I licked her butt and wanked.

My d**k managed to harden just enough for penetration. I rolled on a condom, which immediately softened my poor erection for at least twenty percent. However, with Christina’s help, I managed to push into her. I moved a few times and then pulled out since my d**k softened so much that it threatened to slip out.

I lay down again, and she resumed kissing and licking. Christina rolled a new condom on my c**k and went down on me. She blew me in vain. It must have been frustrating to tongue-chase that tiny invertebrate snake that was refusing to harden. It was a Sisyphean task. She even treated me ten minutes, but to no avail.

“And I thought that you were going to nail me,” she muttered.

“I didn’t hear you,” I said.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Just one more thing,” I started seriously, forcing myself to grin. “Not a word about this to my friend.”

She laughed and said that I shouldn’t worry. We left her room and parted at the foot of the stairs. I returned to the room with the stage.

Damir and the taxi driver greeted me with wide smiles. I was desperate because I didn’t f**k, but managed to fake an exalted grin.

“I can see by your smile that it was wild,” Damir said.

“It was great,” I confirmed. “She really is skilled.”

“Yes, yes,” Dejan joined in. “She surely looks fiery.”

As soon as I sat down, the waitress brought the bill. Four juices, one beer and one coffee: sixty euros! SIXTY! Ten euros per drink. When I settled the bill, only twenty euros were left in my wallet.

On the drive back, I tried to be talkative.

Damir and I got out in the center and walked to McDonald’s, where I treated him to three hamburgers, one big mac and a milkshake. I don’t remember what I ate, but I do remember how much I regretted all that whacking the whole day. I was determined to go to the brothel fully rested next time.