A Girl and Her Bitch (Futa/M)

He walked up to the door, and almost immediately turned back around. He would’ve left if he didn’t walk into someone who couldn’t have gotten that close unless she was running, and she wrapped her arms around him.

The hallway was bathed in a golden apricot, a sort of faux sophistication with violet red strips at the middle of the walls that stopped at the corners. The lamps overhead were probably good looking in their day, but now they just flickered and swayed as if they were going to crush anything unlucky enough to be under them. The strips of violet red were lucky to continue to the next corners or not to be interrupted by large cracks in the wall, unsightly breaks in the paint, or graffiti, and he was standing on the only section of carpet on the entire floor. He was positive. After walking around, looking for the room, he had circled it thrice to see the entirety of the floor in its lackluster glory.

He had been skeptical when she called him, even a little frightened when she took the initiative to *69 him to get his number. He hadn’t given it to her for a reason (but that was now moot). She told him to meet her at the old Vanbusen building in one of the shadiest parts of the city. It may have been Broadway back in its day, and the Vanbusen building may have been a theater once, a famous hotel for the stars and fame-hopefuls, but now it was a cheap residential cesspit for the homeless and rats, and people who had fallen on hard times despite it’s size. The windows were boarded up and trash littered the perimeter. He had ignored a few catcalls from prostitutes outside and around it on his walk there because, admittedly, he didn’t live very far from it. There were even a few deep-voiced prostitutes too; some who were obvious drag queens and others who it took a long hard stare at their package to realize that yes, they indeed had a package to realize they were, in fact, not the genuine article.

They weren’t who he was looking for. This… area, seemed to be more populated with them than women, and he didn’t want to know why, but he had already come to his assumptions; that the building was a cover for a freaky niche prostitution ring that was ignored because of its state and neighborhood. It made sense to him, in a way, and it was more comforting to believe than face the fact that he had run into ten or more ‘niche’ prostitutes while asking for directions, suggesting to his paranoid self that he might be attracting them… somehow.

He was paranoid. He was waiting for the nearest cockroach to chase him down while he searched for and entrance in the building and crawl in his shoe, in somewhere else. For thugs and hoodlums and the typical denizens of the impoverished neighborhoods to appear from nowhere and mug him, perhaps even kill him. And perhaps maybe, just maybe be surrounded by a number of the tricky niche and be forced to serve them instead of the other way around. But by the time he got into the building, made his through the ominous lobby and up the dusty old stairs, he was disappointed for a number of reasons.

The hallway he had walked down was at the end of a hallway. He had never seen anything like it and figured it was a zoning thing, something not proper in buildings. It seemed out-of-whack to him, to have a hallway end at the side of a building, and have room right in front of it(unless that room led to a quick drop to the pavement), but that’s where her room was. This part of the building, as far as he saw, was in the best condition, still looked fresh, and the lamp hanging over head looked practically new. He assumed whoever ran the place must have favored her over the other tenants (if there were any) to spruce up her location like that. It was like a palace in the ghetto.

There was a chair beside her door that he couldn’t bring himself to sit in with a white piece of cardboard with a :P sign on it, like it knew that his ass still hurt from the last time he saw her, or at the very least that he couldn’t sit down witho

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