It was his accent she noticed first. She was walking past, carrying a tray of drinks to a nearby table. He was deep in conversation with another woman, but she slowed her steps at the sound of his soft vowels, his rising and falling intonation. He was British, maybe Scottish, she wasn’t sure, she had never been to the UK, she had barely left Pennsylvania, but she liked his accent. It was foreign, sophisticated.
She brushed by him to the next table where a tall, gray-haired man in a perfectly pressed suit stared at her as she served the drinks. He asked her how old she was, his accent American, his voice deep, seductive.
Nineteen, she said.
Oh!
I’m in school, I just started working at the hotel bar on weekends.
She didn’t know why she felt the need to explain. They made small talk, a conversation she’d never remember. She tucked the serving tray under her armpit, and when she turned to walk away, he grabbed her shoulder.
Stay, he said.
His gaze was penetrating, like he could see something within her that she couldn’t see herself. She couldn’t find words, so she shrugged him off, kept walking. She took drink orders, offered smiles and small talk to earn tips.
Later, she felt the gray-haired man creep up behind her. He bent low, whispered in her ear. But his was not the beautiful voice she wished to hear again.
He stared at her while she collected empty glasses and crumpled napkins.
Come to my room, he asked, but it wasn’t a question.
No one had ever been so direct. She’d never had a boyfriend. She’d never had sex. For a moment, she was flattered. Boys back home had never shown interest in her. But she noticed his stare, the gray streaks in his hair, the deep voice like her father’s, his warning that men would use and discard her if she let them.
I’m working.
She grabbed the tray and tried to walk past, but he grabbed her arm. She stared at his large, veiny hand on her forearm, and looked up at him again.
After work. His voice was low, raspy.
His grip hurt. She tried to pull away, but he didn’t budge.
No.
She didn’t say: You scare me. You are old enough to be my father.
A flash of anger crossed his face anyway. A locked jaw, a vein on his forehead protruding. She wondered what she’d done to earn his attention.
Pardon me, a voice called from behind her. She recognized the accent, those soft vowels, and it soothed her, even though it shouldn’t have. The gray-haired man released her arm, stepped back, walked away at some point, she never saw him again. The man with the beautiful voice introduced himself.
He was not particularly handsome. His skin was fair and freckled, his brown hair thinning even though he was probably in his mid-thirties, he smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. He was only an inch or two taller than her. But his voice was beautiful, a promise.
Is everything okay?
When her shift ended, she found him at the bar, staring into his drink. She sat next to him, counted her tips while they talked. She listened to his voice for hours, and then she was upstairs, in his hotel room. She told herself it was because it was late, it wasn’t safe to walk home alone, he was a kind man. He offered her the futon; he’d take the bed.
She was still in her black dress, still had make-up on, terrified to scrub it off in case he no longer found her attractive without it. He unbuttoned his shirt, took off his pants, climbed into bed in his boxers. She stole quick glances at the hair on his chest before he turned off the light. She stared through the darkness at the ceiling. She opened her mouth, closed it. She adjusted her dress, tugged it to her knees. Her pulse pounded. A voice in her head reassured her: nothing will happen. Minutes went by, he must have been asleep.
Do you want to come here?
Okay. The word escaped before she could think, before she could regret.
She climbed in next to him, pulled the covers over her body, pressed her back to his chest. His arm snaked around her waist. She rested her hand on top of his, felt the gold band on his ring finger. That should’ve stopped her, but it didn’t. She’d wonder, later, what kind of woman it made her.
Can I touch you? he whispered.
Yes. She didn’t recognize her soft, calm voice.
He ran his hands over her thighs, her stomach. Her dress bunched at her waist. Then he moved to her shoulders, her back, her neck.
Your skin is so soft, he murmured. His voice was reverent, and she felt special, attractive, powerful.
He unclasped her bra, squeezed her breasts. His hands trailed past her belly button to her underwear, pausing briefly, before sliding his fingers underneath. He found the perfect spot immediately, and she was shocked, she hadn’t known what her clitoris was. He was rubbing her, and she was writhing, and she’ll think back to this moment every time she’s with another man. How little she knew, how much she learned.
I want to make you orgasm, he said, breathlessly.
She didn’t tell him that she’d never had an orgasm before, that she didn’t know women could orgasm at all. A voice–her own, maybe–whispered a warning. She yanked his hand out of her underwear.
We shouldn’t do this, she said.
He reached for her again, rubbed harder, and as the pressure built, so did the awareness of the woman she was becoming. She yanked his hand away again.
You are married.
He said nothing.
She knew she’d never hear his beautiful voice again.
Later, she scrubbed her skin with soap, scrubbed away the soreness between her legs, his lingering touch, her shame.
Image: A bed with rumpled bedclothes from pixabay.com
literally stories 
Brooke
This is a fine piece about naive falling prey to a manipulation. A distasteful “cutting one from the herd” action. It is quite delicate in the sense that it has rare depth and avoids cliches
Leila
LikeLike
A story of betrayal, manipulation, grief and innocence lost. Familiar as sunrise and yet told with a light touch that leaves the reader saddened above other feelings. Great writing. Thank you – dd
LikeLiked by 2 people
Brooke
Your story did a great job at creating a sense of mystery and menace, and also intrigue, in the first half of this piece. The atmosphere of the bar and the creepy feelings the strangers hanging around created were true to life in a good fictional way.
I was hoping that the man she went to the room with was going to end up being a more noble person than he turned out being, and the fact that he wasn’t any better than the other creepy dude in the bar was an excellent O. Henry-like twist that also felt like a kind of brutal realism.
This tale has life-like complexity that comes through in the lean, fast-paced prose style. I also appreciated that this tale was narrated in the past tense.
Curiosity often leads to very hard lessons for young people these days (or always) and your story explores that fact with boldness and aplomb.
Great writing!
Dale
LikeLiked by 1 person
An interesting vignette. I wonder if we’re supposed to view the man with the accent as a wholly bad guy or more in shades of gray. He’s a jerk because he’s married. He’s less of a jerk because he at least keeps asking permission. I guess at the end of the day, he’s more of a manipulative jerk who’s taking advantage of the power dynamics. In any case, I like the story all the more because it made me think.
LikeLike
All these guys seem to want only one thing, whether they try to take it by force or by guile. Indeed, there’s a sense of menace, contrasted with the sense of attraction, the story moves well from scene to scene and draws us in deeper to the nature of the girl’s character. She is attracted and also repelled by the attention, and she’s very naiive. A certain kind of voice can be very tempting.
LikeLike
Hi Brooke,
This was a brave and skilled piece of writing. It could have went down many a path but you controlled the story and took us to where you wanted to go.
Excellent.
Hugh
LikeLike
Beautifully narrated – I hope she doesn’t hold onto the shame
LikeLike
As Hugh said this is highly skilled writing which has such strong suspense and worry, and is ultimately a sad story of someone falling prey to the vultures around them.
LikeLike