Everything about Charles seemed relatively normal and sociably likeable.  He was, of all men, a lawyer, and well known as to be one of the best in the odd little city in which our story is to take place.  His dark hair went perhaps to his chin and always pulled back behind his ears, intelligent square-framed glasses adorning the bridge of his nose with the green eyes gleaming back.  But what people often mistook to be empathy in those eyes was truly the awful and indescribable intentions of a man who was depraved and bound to the bizarre sexual pleasures.

He liked to keep his alternate profile low, of course, and had not decided to act upon impulse until this day.  Upon winning a particularly difficult case by convincing the court and judge that his client (accused of the rape and murder of a young boy) was innocent, Charles sought to reward himself by tasting fantasies he had only dreamt about.  Being single for these reasons and not enjoying any long-term relationship, he went to a place that possessed its own rumors.  That, and he was interested in seeing the reputation of such a brothel.

The rundown and large place deceived all onlookers that did not dare to step foot inside the foul place, but Charles, being bold and in his pleasant mood, swept in, dressed in attire that did not match his occupation, hair in his face.  Within, he was astounded by the hotel-like lobby with its elegant furniture, bright lights, and clean appearance.  The madam looked more like a hostess, and he approached her almost hesitantly. 

“What may we do for you?”  She smiled, dark lips, but otherwise straight and professional appearance as she folded her hands, nails gleaming in the light.  “What sort of tastes appease you best, because I assume that you come here not for the usual fucking.”  Her use of the word “fucking” caused an immediate thrill of passion to summon his attention, and it seemed only to engrave the fact that this was no ordinary whorehouse.  But instead of daring to name his desires aloud, he handed a folded sheet of paper upon which he had already written his preferences.  As the madam read, he watched with obvious contentment as her lips curled into a smile and she looked up through the dark lashes.  “There is one girl,” the madam said gently, her voice succulent with obvious admiration, “that will deny no one nor their pleasures no matter how perverse.  But there is one problem.”

“How desperate a problem?” He asked immediately and the madam laughed.

“It is nothing of dire proportion, only that she has a sister.  A sister of whom she refuses to part from and who is onto quite other sexual preferences.  I am sure you can work something out with her, though.”

“I only need one girl,” he insisted, but the madam shook her head.

“You will like her, I promise you, and if you are not satisfied we will, of course, repay every cent that it will cost.  She deems the price, though, unlike most of the girls here.  You must understand that she is very skilled with her business, and her sister is not to be hassled with if you do not prefer it.”

“Very well,” but Charles could not understand the problem, even though it seemed to mean less and less.  The sister would, of course, merely face away or something of the sort, he was sure, and after some direction, he found himself in the girls’ very quarters.  Unknowing of what to expect, the madam unlocked the door, allowed him within, and then shut it after he was safely behind.

Every thought he had ever had drifted away and he was filled with confusion upon seeing the girl who was about to satisfy his odd sexual desires.  The paper in his hand fell carelessly to the scarlet carpet, but he seemed uncaring for the two girls that sat with their backs to him before a large vanity were connected.

His eyes mused over the two, jaw wide open with what could be presumed as horror.  The dress that they wore bore two colors: one a deep and shameless red wine, the other a soft violet.  The one in purple, situated on Charles’ left side, continue to brush her hair, so long that it dropped below her waist, and colored a bright strawberry red, while the other had hers piled upon her head.  Looking up to the man, the woman wearing red nudged her sister and the two stood; conjoined at the hip and sharing one set of legs while each having their own torso.  With surprising skill she moved to Charles, the long haired woman keeping her head down to the carpet as the obviously bolder one began to speak.

“Hello, an odd sight for you, I suppose; the madam did not tell you!  Oh, well you must have wanted something deliciously awful, didn’t you?”  She put her arms around him as her sister continued to look at the floor, arms crossed.  “I am Vanessa and this is my sister Monica; say hello to the dear man, Monnie,” but the sister said nothing.

Charles looked at the woman who called herself Vanessa and began to realize that in spite of the woman’s unfathomable birth-state, she was actually quite attractive.  A thin layer of white paint covered she and her sister’s face he noticed, dark eyeliner bringing out bright blue eyes and therefore ever accenting the rich red hair.  Her lips were painted dark like the madam’s and circles of rouge had been plastered onto her cheeks.  The woman, watching his face soften, smiled and leaned down to pick up the paper, going over the contents to herself and nodding every now and then.  Meanwhile, Charles’ attention fell down to the whore’s surprisingly long and slender legs, moving up to her hips (connected though not hideously with Monica’s), and then up to her breasts.  These were accented by the low cut dress, and also because her waist was exceptionally slender; Monica continued to stare down the whole time, never making eye-contact once with Charles.

Presently, Vanessa looked up again, her smile bright and inviting, and she moved to the large bed he had somehow forgotten to see when the horror of she and her sister had first struck him.  Monica’s hair fell in front of her face, hiding her eyes as her sister patted the bed next to her.  “My sister,” Vanessa stated, her white teeth showing as she spoke, “only does some things, as the way of prostitution was not her life’s ambition.  She’s quite accommodating, though.  I must ask you…”

“Charles.”

“Ah, thank you!  I must ask you, Charles, if you are still interested in my completion of your little…” she giggled, “…chore list, or if we have so offended you as not to desire us.  And when I say us, I mean myself for you  must understand that Monica does not do such things and normally will wear a blindfold and go off into her own mental world.  Is this alright?”

He looked at the whore, hardly giving her dull sister a look, eyes dancing down to her bosom and coming back up to those almost inhuman eyes.  Then, before he had already really thought about it, he heard himself utter two words that were later to become his favorite and most prized in the English language:

“Of course.”