Leon Kennedy

The camera, the click of a clapper, someone alien became part of the body. The days floated like bubbles in energy drinks, broke apart in a blister of painkillers. The brain helped to clean up any residual memory of the non-comatose non-existence. Returning home, it is impossible to say what was lived a few hours before. The work was smeared into a layer of silhouettes, sounds, the director's words.

"Bend over", "spread more", "more naturally" - the orders rang like a migraine in the head. Permanent in reality, appeared in dreams, destroyed the only refuge.

Eyes opened at home, under the hot streams of the shower, obliged to cleanse the skin, wash away greasy male touches and wet kisses.

As if dirty running water were holy and could sanctify a dirty body, rid it of sins and finally allow it to renounce the mortal flesh, surrender to something supreme, just to avoid ending up in a film set smelling of musk and grease.

A cigarette before bed is part of a ritual. It helps not to break down, not to do the unforgivable: surrender to chance, step into the unknown. To become part of the Los Angeles suicide reports. Perhaps to find strength for the next day, in parallel with the penetration of smoke into the lungs, to cast an empty gaze at the flickering lights of the high-rises, whose tops were hidden somewhere behind the clouds. No matter how hard you try, you can’t see them. That’s how success seemed. Unattainable.

The cigarette was burning out. The ashes were falling down, perhaps on the heads of inattentive passers-by. Well, who cares.

At worst, living your own life was the last thing on your mind.

In silence, thoughts often led you "in the wrong direction", but silence is ubiquitous. It is impossible to escape.

Avoid silence.

For those purposes, there was a profile on a dating site. Did not find love. Many wanted only to fuck a porn actress. They did not see a person. Disgusting.

At work, you are a commodity for directors, in everyday life - an object of self-affirmation for middle-aged men. It is naive to want true love when everything in life was reduced to meaningless sex, a schedule. The act of intimacy has long ceased to be associated with trust, and not blind abuse, a demonstration of power and a game over your own dirty fetishes.

At the moment when you thought that things could not get any worse, the bottom refused to be broken.

On a weekday, one of the director's close friends visited the site. Leon Kennedy is a handler for a large escort company. His girls served stars, politicians and other elites.

Popular and with a nasty character.

Of course, the rumor reached your ears late. The signature on the new contract with new conditions was already marked by nasty smiles and handshakes. The transfer of a purebred puppy from hand to hand took place.

Leon Kennedy... Not cruel, as the gossips said, which managed to give rise to a chill in the body and a noise in the ears from a wave of anxiety. "Uncontrollable" described him better. He would fly into a rage from any loud sound, a bold word, freeze from sudden flashes of light, squeeze his jacket pocket until the threads cracked. Kept them with an iron fist and gave leniency only to the best. However, another would not have endured and would not have brought the dirty business to prosperity.

According to the rules, each of the girls was obliged to sleep with him once a month. In the process, he left plum-colored traces of his own hands on thin necks, shoulders bitten to blood, thighs smashed to deep wounds. Paddles and whips were his favorite tools. Kennedy did not have nasty or difficult to perform fetishes, but he liked to overdo it.

He especially loved curvy ones. He let them go only in the morning, completely exhausted. Others were enough for one or two sessions. Sometimes they joked that he took it out on them before he turned thirty. But in a whisper, afraid of getting a slap.

Someone gossiped that he was a former military man and therefore a tiny trigger turned into a tornado.

You managed to fully guess his "desires" and obey the show only on the third try. Before that, you had to treat broken lips, cover up bruises yourself, in the bathroom of his favorite hotels. Didn't obey? Not "loud" enough or not "the way he wanted" enough? The chance of punishment increased several times. That's why everyone followed the rules.

Today it's your turn again.

The bed smelled of sweat, grease and a tart, nose-pounding mixture of expensive cologne and deodorant. Corrosive to hair and skin. Rubbing with a washcloth until bloody streaks - you can't get rid of it. Everything near Kennedy was plowed by him with an irremovable mark. He branded and reason. Oblivion did not work near him. The tone of voice, the look, the touch - everything broke through the haze of apathy, overgrown with prickly gooseberries that pricked with every movement.

He loved to be on top. He moved sharply and slowly, with each of his movements the headboard crashed into the wall with a creak. The insides turned over in the stomach. Foreign, wrong inside. Burned. Your body did not want to accept him, rejected him.

He was silent. Only breathed hoarsely through clenched teeth. You didn't know if he even liked this act with any of the girls or if he did it "for form's sake". Because it was necessary. Because he was a man.

The role of "girlfriend for the evening" was simple: lie below, be silent, touch only with permission and do not kiss. He hated noisy people, as well as overly clingy ones. He does not need a woman, an "object" is convenient for him. Quiet and submissive.

It is terrifying to look into empty eyes that clung past, into the void. Pupils ran around the room, on the nightstands, counted pills in a bottle of sedative. There were only a couple of them, at the very bottom.

Not good.

The grip on the neck strengthened. You learned how he finishes. Squeezes the throat until the pain is numb and the horror is hopeless, until the eyes are wide and wheezing. Lasts only a couple of seconds. During that time you manage to say goodbye to life and to the few relatives who turned away for practicing the "ancient craft". Afterwards he squeezes his eyes, mumbles something as he exhales and falls down next to her. Doesn't look. After orgasm, the instrument ceases to interest him.

Strange.

After sex, as usual, he would fall silent and lie in silence for a few minutes. He would stare at the ceiling with a dead look. He wouldn't blink. If he lit a cigarette, it would be a signal for the girl to get lost. He wanted to be alone.

With Kennedy, the feeling of being used increased many times over. While others were burning with lust and desire, devouring with their gaze, the handler fucked silently, colorlessly, senselessly. Others saw a demon-seducer, he saw only emptiness.

Her legs dangled from the bed, her toes touching the cool varnished floor - she was about to leave. But he crushed her under himself, with a noisy exhalation, crashing his lips into her temple. Roughly and strongly. A hot stream of air sent a herd of goosebumps down her back - it was hard not to shudder.

"You have to serve one client tomorrow... When you're done, come back to this room. Tell Karen not to come," he ordered in a hoarse voice, sliding his hand between your thighs.