Stupid African/Better Than This

I want to fuck you. He said.  His voice gave me the creeps, but as much as I hated being talked to like this, I needed a job until I could find one somewhere else.

I shook my head I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did. I said. Maybe if he had met me five or six years ago, the answer would've been different.

It's not the sex, I value you as a human being too. I was less than convinced.  The way he grabbed at me spoke of anything other than value.  Stupid African he said when I made mistakes.  He said it jokingly, but the words spoke to anything other than being valued.  They reduced me to a fetish of sorts.  His hands groped at me, and I felt used, like a soiled tampon.

He grabbed at me, and I fended him off.  Wanting to eat was one thing, but I felt disgusting just being here in the dingy cornerstore.  Stupid African, why don't you want to fuck me? He said grabbing my face and holding it still.  I fought and shoved him back into the display case behind him

I thought of his death, a slow, miserable agonising one.  Maybe he'll die in the throes with some hooker on top of him, bound and gagged.  Maybe the hooker even wore a strap-on.

You don't have to do anything, just let me cum in you.  He pleaded.  I shook my head.  I hardly think it's something I could do.  It's not something I could tell Narcissus I'd done either, he'd be disappointed in me if I did.  

Fucking African, you could leave here today a hundred dollars richer.  What's a hundred dollars if you've sold your soul?