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Is it possible to write a story in 750 words? Fuck, yeah!

Is it possible such a story will be any good? That is entirely for you to decide and me to find out.

* *

An arrowhead of birds soars high in the cold, grey sky, as if pointing a way out of this prison. My gaze shifts from the skylight to the solitary picture hanging on my wall. At times like these, I wish my apartment were not quite so featureless. My mind needs distraction; my eyes, refuge from the man currently rutting on top of me.

He builds skyscrapers in Manhattan, funds restaurants and art galleries in Brooklyn and Queens. Trevor Maitland is my primary benefactor, and as the rules of such transactional exchanges go, I have given him a three-star Michelin enterprise to show off (with the side-benefit of clandestine sex).

*quot;Oh, yeah! Give it to me.*quot;

I don't know if my moaning flatters him or not, but I do it anyway. His breath stinks of expensive Scotch and Turkish cigars. Yesterday, he hosted a party in my restaurant and raved about my skills to his friends, my potential antep escort future investors. So, instead of saying *quot;Thank you*quot;, I moan it... and I allow his disgusting pudgy fingers to awkwardly poke and prod whichever part of me he wants, even enter me down there.

My eyes have settled back onto the ceiling now. When his face blocks my vision, I almost want to stare past it at the peeling plaster there. The unnerving surprise is my fault. In my absent-minded moaning, I hadn't realised he'd climaxed and slowed down already.

*quot;My friends are interested in meeting you after yesterday's dinner.*quot;

He gets up and finds his clothes awkwardly slung over my musty couch where he left them. He had me bent over that same couch earlier, which was a blessing since I could focus on the wall without seeing his wrinkled visage.

*quot;I'm going out of state for a few days. Is there no way you can come with me?*quot;

*quot;Small matter of a restaurant to run.*quot;

*quot;Don't you have sous-chefs for that?*quot;

Still shaking his head, he walks towards the door.

*quot;I'll need some more money when you get back. I'm thinking of opening a bistro section.*quot;

He acknowledges my request with a perfunctory nod before he is gone and the door is shut. I take a deep breath. Not a hundred showers will wash the stench off me, but it's a means to an end. With him and maybe some of the other men I served last night, I can finally have enough to open my own place on the Vegas strip.

That man looks uncannily similar to my father. A preacher in a small nondescript Minnesota town, married to a woman meek enough to inherit the entire solar system. It's not that I disliked either of them, and they were perfectly acceptable parents. But it was the thought of growing up to become my mother that scared me.

I like to think I keep the Maitlands from a messy divorce. I have it on good authority that they haven't had sex with each other since Obama took his first oath of office.

So, here I am. It's a good day when I can get out of bed in the morning without pharmaceutical help, and still I manage to hold my dream together tenuously. That's a win.

It is late in the evening. The distant sky is smeared salmon pink when there is a knock on my door. I open it to see Eileen Maitland, nervously looking down. Where her husband had indifference and swagger, she only has shame.

*quot;I saw him off at the airport.*quot;

I usher her inside, wondering which version of me she needs tonight. Should I just compliment her like her husband never does or should I skip that?

*quot;I tried kissing him goodbye, but he didn't even notice it. It's as if he doesn't even see me any longer.*quot;

I smile and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She obviously needs to vent first, maybe even cry. A while later, when her beautiful earrings are perched on my thighs and her tongue is sliding in and out of me, she won't know it, but that is where her husband's cock was mere hours ago. And when I return the favour, she won't know it's the same mouth that swallowed his slimy cum recently.

So, my dear lady, he does fuck you. Through me. I am the means. The conduit.

I am your weekend therapist. I am your secret saviour by night.

And of course, I also sauté filet mignon and flambé foie gras by day.