The Romanian

Fiction by Ivy Dillinger



The Romanian strode through the hotel lobby, driven by single-mindedness and shapely legs. Her hips swayed and strained against her black leather mini-skirt; each step landed slightly inside its predecessor. Under a black raincoat, she wore a white bra, black panties, flesh-colored stockings, and black, three-inch pumps. The pumps clacked on the hardwood floor with military-like precision, and caught the attention of the concierge. (At 60, the concierge – who for the last ten years had difficulty getting hard without Viagra – was surprised to feel the instant stirring of an eventual rod. Afterward, while describing the woman to the police, he mentioned how he couldn't remember the last time he'd stiffened so quickly, simply on sight.) The concierge stared at her body without pretense. As she glided by, her breasts bounced tightly, like overfilled water balloons. Her ass was impossibly high. She looked like a seasoned fitness model dominating a catwalk.

Like most models, she looked pissed. She looked determined.



Hers was the voice men heard when they phoned the Amazon Ball Breakers' hotline – an escort service specializing in domination role-play. In a girlish whisper, she promised to "completely transform any man’s face" into her own "personal seat cushion." She promised other things as well.



She took the hotel’s elevator to the fourth floor for a midnight appointment. (Two hours earlier, she’d been at her gym for a "light workout:" a five mile run at a 6:30 pace, five sets of twelve reps on the shoulder press lifting eighty pounds, and a thousand crunches.) She glanced at her watch as the elevator doors opened. Right on schedule. She entered the hallway, stood motionless, and waited.



The door to room 412 opened, and a man stepped out into the hallway. He saw the woman, watched her as she approached, then smiled and waved. The man was drunk – he began to teeter. The woman stopped just short of him, parted her raincoat by placing her hands on her hips, shifted her weight to one leg, and began to tap her toes. The man examined her legs. He unzipped and began to touch himself.

"Jesus," he said. "You’re six feet tall. At least."

The woman said nothing. She continued to tap her toes.

"You’re the Romanian, right?"

More toe tapping.

"Want a drink?"

The woman grabbed the back of his neck. She forced him to his knees and placed his head between her thighs. She squeezed just enough to hold him in place. The man’s vision blurred. He stared at her calves and the backs of her heels. He fumbled with his pants until they fell around his ankles. He gripped the woman’s calves and ground his groin into her feet. He thrashed like a caught fish. She increased the pressure on his head, still easily holding him in place. "I can crush you," she said. With a grunt and a moan, the man ejaculated through her ankles, onto the hallway carpeting.

Afterward, he lay back and closed his eyes. The woman looked at him blankly. "Four hundred," she said.

"I hate myself," said the man.

The Romanian repeated her price.