White Niggers
Chapter 4
Friday, August 2nd, 2019, 15:30
Karl-Gunsam-Gasse 1, 11th district of Vienna
Riml-Löhr is in a dimly lit hallway with a carpeted floor and doors on each side. The walls are painted midnight blue. Between the doors, abstract paintings hang on the wall. The place smells like lavender.
Several dozen prostitutes stand in formation like soldiers. Wouldn't mind that kind of military, Riml-Löhr thinks. Some of them have droplets of water on their bodies. Wristbands and shoes are the only clothes they wear.
He is going up and down the line. For a few brief moments the increase in testosterone makes him forget about Marik's idea and woketurds on barricades, firing guns at "hetero swine" like him.
He walks up and down the row. He stops in front of a woman with light brown hair, blue eyes, and breasts that hang there like spaniel's ears.
"What cup size do you have, sweetie?" Riml-Löhr says.
"D, mein Herr," The woman says.
Her voice is so mannered, you immediately know that she is at work. Riml-Löhr is her customer, like many others. Nothing personal, just business and exchange of bodily fluids.
Her voice's pretentiousness stands as her last fortress of freedom. She is not allowed to wear anything except the wristband, and she has to copulate with the likes of him or worse, much worse, sometimes.
But she can still shove into Riml-Löhr's face that he can't fuck her soul no matter how hard he fucks her vagina. Riml-Löhr feels it, and she knows it, and because of this, she can tolerate this graveyard of shattered identities.
"Nice, nice," Riml-Löhr says.
He goes further down the row. There is a blonde there, slightly shorter than the big-breasted one. She is chewing gum. Riml-Löhr attentively looks at her. It is hard to see the features of her face due to poor lighting.
On the other hand, I'm here not because of their faces, Riml-Löhr thinks. What matters, I can inspect haptically.
"Turn around," Riml-Löhr says to her.
She turns. He looks at her back, then squeezes her bottom multiple times.
"Excellent," Riml-Löhr says. "You may turn around now. What's your name?"
"You can call me whatever you want," The woman says. "And if names don't matter to you, just call me Eighty-eight."
"Pardon?" Riml-Löhr says.
"My number is eighty-eight," the woman says.
She shows Riml-Löhr her wristband. She is calm and friendly. The opposite of that big breasted one. As if she tries to accommodate for the sexual insecurity of her clients. One of those psychotherapists in disguise. Come for the fuck, stay for the talk. Especially if you can't, or come too early.
"Our boss thinks that names can turn off customers," Eighty-eight says. "Like, if you had a fight with a Susie, you may feel uncomfortable with one of us being called Susie. Therefore the numbers."
"That bastard is a marketing genius, indeed," Riml-Löhr says. "I think I'll take you. And that other one, too."
Riml-Löhr snaps his fingers.
"D cup size, what's your number?" Riml-Löhr says.
"I'm Eighteen," the woman says.
"Good, Eighteen and Eighty-eight," Riml-Löhr says. "We need a third one."
He looks around and sees a redhead giantess. Six feet tall. She stands out in this crowd like a skyscraper in a village.
"Come here," Riml-Löhr says to her.
When she approaches, Riml-Löhr kneads her breasts for a long time. They are smaller than those of Eighteen, but would still make most women jealous.
"Excellent craftsmanship. They are perfect. Together with the height, that's a nice combination," Riml-Löhr says. "I think I'll take you. What's your number?"
She smiles bitterly.
"86," The redhead says. "Call me Iveta."
"She is flaunting conventions!" Eighteen says.
"Hey, he likes that, don't you?" Iveta says.
"I don't care," Riml-Löhr says. "We have great things ahead."
Iveta presses her lips tight into a grimace. Someone more kind-hearted than Riml-Löhr would have noticed by the look on her face and the way she moves that she is too smart for this place. The society would get more out of her, if it only allowed her to apply her brain and soul, not just her genitals.
But she was cursed with being born a white niggeress. It's either working for pennies at home, or sucking dicks of the likes of Riml-Löhr.
This brothel is her plantation.