Authors: S.K. Logsdon
Copyright © 2013 by S.K Logsdon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Cover art by: Marika Kraukle
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I want to say thank-you to my boyfriend. For sticking by me through all the long hours upon hours of writing. Understanding my dedication and putting up with extra laundry piling up, or eating takeout because I’ve spent twelve hours locked into my book world. I’m thankful to have you in my life.
To my friend Goldie, who’s been a constant support system.
To Hannah, My proofreader/editor who has helped me with this book when my previous editor screwed everything up.
My mom for promoting my books even if she’s not a book lover. She’s still supportive and for that I’m grateful.
This book is a book of Fiction- No characters or scenes are real. The book has been strictly created by S.K. Logsdon for the pleasure of others to enjoy. No names or instances come from real life events.
Other Titles by this Author:
Of Delicate Mind – The Circle of Blood Series #1
Stricken Rock Series
“Alexis Tylah Monroe—hurry your ass down here, we’re going to be late.”
“Jesus, Becka. It’s not like Brian can’t wait. We aren’t due to meet him until ten anyhow,” I yell down the hall from the bathroom. I’m getting dolled up, so sue me.
Becka, or should I say Rebecca Anne Davis, is my roommate and coworker, going on four years. We met through Brian, our boss — or, that’s what I call him. I think the politically correct term is pimp. Now before you go and get your panties all in a bunch, Brian is not the stereotypical pimp who hits his prostitutes and makes them fuck anything with two legs. First of all, we aren’t technically prostitutes. We’re escorts. High paid, highly functional, and educated. Yes I said it, educated. And I don’t mean 401 ways to give the best blow job.
I attended NYU for four years while landing this gig two years into my schooling. I graduated with a bachelor in Art History. Money was tight being on my own in New York City while attending college. I met Brian one night when I was cocktail waitressing at a small high class lounge— you know, the ones where all the rich business men go afterhours. I was pawed and hit on hundreds of times a night. I guess dropping the tray and working for someone who pays me well enough to get pawed at was the smartest career choice. Let’s face it; there aren’t a ton of job openings in the art history department, so I’ve stayed an escort. But it’s not like I don’t get to use my knowledge. Brian typically pairs me with high profile clients or rich business men who are attending galas or other cultural events. Sure, I actually know the difference between neoclassical and neo-expressionism art. And most of my dates consist of men who think ‘that, that blue blends nicely with that red.’ It’s simple for them and complex for me. Nonetheless, Brian thoughtfully pairs me to those types of clients.
And my dear friend Becka gets the jocks and sports nuts. She’s arm candy for rich men who attend Knicks games and poker tournaments. And every one of our clients come in all shapes and sizes with larger wallets or smaller. But you can’t pay for a date with me if your pocket book consists of tens and twenties. My cut is $175 an hour to escort and sexual favors are on a case by case basis. And yes, if you’re hot I’ll blow you for less.
Most people think escorts screw every night and get paid little to do it. They also think that the clientele are fat, balding, middle aged men with no sense of humor. Sure, I do get those types, but the rich and sexy float my way more often than not. Some wonder why those men need a date when they look as good as they do. But the truth is they don’t want the strings. If they take a female friend on a date, those women expect to be doted upon and get offended easily if their date walks off to chat with a hot waitress. I could care less. I provide a service of sex appeal, companionship, intellectual conversation; if needed and sex; if the price is right.
Growing up in the Midwest, I wasn’t raised wrong. My parents were divorced but I had both of them, and they love me, and my two sisters. I’m the middle child. My older sister Hannah is now twenty eight and married with two kids. And my younger sister Beth is twenty one and studying to be a teacher. I don’t hate either of them and actually I like Beth. Except my life here in New York is secret. I can’t tell my family about my career path. This isn’t Pretty Woman, it’s not a fairytale. I’ve never stood on a street corner and I’ve certainly never met a rich man who wanted to spend hundreds of dollars on me for nothing in return but friendship. I’ve gotten gifts, yes. But I’ve had to work hard to procure them.
“Woman, I said get a damn move on it. We need to take the bus to head into the city,” my roomy, says popping her head into the bathroom doorway.
I’ve spent the past hour showering, applying my ‘work’ makeup and dressing the part. We meet with Brian our boss once a week. We get our client list and specifics, some of which consist of great lengths of work. If a man prefers a slut, he gets a slut in a short dress and hooker heels. If they order a homegrown country girl, I transform into the wholesome girl I was raised to be, but failed at miserably. Long dresses, short dresses, heels, long hair, short hair, you name it, and we go through it. It’s specific work. Most men don’t care what we dress like as long as we are hot. But you get those types who want a blonde with a pixie cut. That’s where Becka’s and my wig collection comes in handy.
I have copper brown hair that’s long and straight. I don’t dye it because truth be known I actually enjoy my hair color. My eyes are a hazel green and I’m not fat or super skinny. My breasts are average and my skin is golden. I don’t go to the lengths as some of my colleagues do to perfect their appearances. I don’t do spray tans, fake nails, eye brow waxes, bikini waxes or anything that costs a fortune. I pluck my own brows, I paint my own natural nails, my skin is naturally a golden tan color and I sure as hell shave my own pussy. And I don’t mean bald like a twelve-year-old little girl. That’s a hard line for me that I don’t cross. If a man prefers a bare pussy, they can go elsewhere. I shave it all and leave a landing strip, which like my hair is a copper brown color, not black.
“I’m about ready,” I inform the not so patient roomy of mine. We are almost like sisters and nearly the same age. I’m twenty five and she’s twenty six. She’s a natural blonde bombshell with fake tits and a curvy body to die for. Her legs are lean and long and she looks fabulous in red. We have four other colleagues that Brian handles and, to be honest, we can’t stand them. It was luck of the draw that we actually clicked as well as we have. Four years and two apartments later we are living in a clean part of Queens in a two bedroom one bath single story apartment. It has a big living room, galley kitchen and a sizable breakfast nook. It’s about nine hundred square feet but it suits us well, and we’ve stuck to this place for the past two years. Our neighbors are quiet and our landlord is a hot Filipino man by the name of Armando. Before he married his wife six months ago our rent was paid in sexual favors. Now we pay the bill, which is fine with us. It’s not like Becka and I can’t pay in cash. We work on average three nights a week and I typically rake in a couple grand a week. We’re not like hookers who get $50 for a BJ. My average rate is $700 for one and sex is $1200 minimum. If you’re grossly unattractive, smell bad or have terrible manners, sex will cost you $2500. And trust me—they pay it. I’m damn good at my job and have repeat happily satisfied customers.
My working name is Tylah. Like strippers who go by Bunny and Candy, I use my middle name. And all my regulars or semi-regulars call me Ty. Joseph is my favorite repeat. He’s married and has three kids, which believe it or not, we do talk about. We meet once a month, sometimes twice if he’s really lonely. His cock is huge, and he’s a very talented and giving lover. And the best part is he always takes me to an expensive hotel, brings me flowers, orders champagne and I come five times in a given night. He’s the kind of man you beg to have as a customer. His body is rock-hard from working out daily and he’s tall and lean with dark hair and doe eyes. A babe by anyone’s standards and we’ve been seeing each other professionally for the past eight months. At first Joseph used Carmen, our exotic coworker. She’s from Argentina and twenty-nine but looks twenty. She’s hot and sultry and a complete bitch if you get to know her. After two times with her, he ordered Brian to change it up for him. So I took her $2500 a night spot and have been his monthly girlfriend, as he calls me, ever since. Last month I got a $300 tip from him. Which I turned around and spent on more shoes and clothes.
In our apartment, Becka and I have a giant closet in my bedroom which is the master. We share it to some degree, mainly in the shoe department. We both wear size eight and that makes for one hell of a shoe collection. It’s huge, with at least a hundred and fifty pairs. We can occasionally share clothes but I’m shorter and she’s tall, and I’m a size six and she’s a four. So things sometimes don’t fit right.
I walk out of the bath in my jade green skin tight dress that I needed Crisco to put on. Okay, not literally, but it’s tight. Thankfully I have a curvy body and a flat stomach to pull it off. Although my ass is a little bit bigger than I’d like. I’ve tried to make it smaller but it just won’t shrink.
“It’s about fucking time, woman,” she scoffs tapping her four inch black stiletto on the hard wood floor.
“I’m sorry, but someone took a thirty minute shower and used up too much hot water. The last five minutes I was stuck rinsing my conditioner out in ice water. So don’t give me that shit.”
“Okay, well let’s go.” She opens the front door, I snatch up my black purse from the table and out the door we go. I decided to go with silver heels tonight which shine so sexy in the moonlight.
We walk one block to the bus station. Hop onto that and take it to the train station. The train takes us into Manhattan and we take the subway five stops to our destination. It’s nine forty-five and Brian’s apartment is only a few blocks from the station. The nice thing about working mostly nights is the subway and trains are clear and seats are actually available, because riding on a subway in four inch heels standing up is not a good idea. That’s how you twist an ankle. Ask Mary, one of my other coworkers, who’s done it twice in the past year.
“Where the hell have you two been?” Carmen bitches once we hit the steps to come into Brian’s apartment. She’s outside on his second story balcony. Brian lives richer than we do. His apartment is huge and beautifully decorated with its oriental rugs, leather couches, real art pieces; that I’ve helped select, and a giant office with a presidential desk. We conduct most of our business in the living room but for private one-on-ones he takes us in there.
I put her on ignore and Becka rings the bell. Mary opens the door in a short pair of shorts and silver sequined tube top. She looks like a stripper. Which is a nicer word for trashy. Hey, I’m not saying my moral compass is pushing due north, but damn there is a huge difference between strippers, prostitutes, and us.
“Hey Mary.” I smile and walk past her into the living room. Looks like we’re the last ones to arrive. Brian’s passing around our schedules. He prints them off on his computer and they’re all in detail, including the breakdown of our cut and his and our hours of operation. It’s very professional.
Brian approaches us. “Rebecca,” he greets and kisses both of her cheeks. “Alexis.” I lean in and we exchange the same affection.
“Won’t you all please take a seat,” he says, waving his hand fluently cutting through the air with grace that only gay men have. But Brian is as straight as they come and he never sleeps with his employees. He’s thirty-four, average build, average appearance with his dark brown hair and eyes. But he knows more about women’s accessories, makeup, clothing and spa treatments to rival any fashion queen or drag queen for that matter.
I take a seat on a couch next to my coworker, best friend and roomy Becka.
“Here are your schedules for this week.” Brian extends his arm and slides the paper into our hands.
Appears I am working three nights this week. Joseph is Thursday night; thank the lord. Then two new clients I’ve never heard of, all of them booking up my weekend. Today is Tuesday and we always meet with Brian on Tuesdays. If we have a date, which is rare because Tuesdays are our slowest, he emails us. But this is our own weekly pow-wow. I actually like the ability to pass notes and go over beauty secrets. Even if I can’t stand the women I work next to.
“As you can see, most of you are working twice this week. Except for Becka and Alexis.”
I peer over to Becka’s paper and she’s as busy as I am; three nights.
“Why do they get to have more than us? I thought this was a fair business,” Lulu complains in her annoying childish voice.
Lulu is our newest addition. She’s worked for Brian the past six months. She’s twenty, platinum blonde; thanks to a box of hair color. And she’s as ditzy and as immature as they come. It’s like trying to reason with a five year old. So I don’t even try. Originally Brian wanted me to show her the ropes but after two nights of torturous educating I threw in the towel. She’s that damn dumb.
“Now Lulu, it’s dispersed based on expertise and clientele. Alexis has her regular this week along with two new clients. They are based on her skillset. If they wanted young and flirty, you’d be one of them. But they need her for what she provides,” he explains to the five year old. I know it’s not going to stick, nothing ever does. Sometimes Becka and I wonder if her head is just full of hot air. It seems that way.
Lulu slumps down into the brown leather chair in a deep pout and throws her arms across her tiny chest. Her breasts are almost pre-pubescent in size. I have no idea what men see in her. Okay, I know that’s totally mean but it’s true. I wouldn’t fuck her if I was a man. I’d look the other way. To be honest I’d probably pick somebody like Becka—she’s hot. And no I’m not a lesbian or bi. That’s what Bridget is for. She caters to both male and females in our business and she specializes in bondage. It’s creepy, but I don’t ask questions. No whips or chains for me. Just big cocks, suits and preferably a man with a six-pack and nice teeth. When people say size doesn’t matter, they are full of shit. In my line of work that’s all that counts. I’m surprisingly still very tight thanks to my kegel exercises that I perform daily. Brian four months ago did an entire session on the importance of them. I’ve been a kegel aficionado for years but many of the women in our group haven’t been. Maybe that’s why Becka and I are the favorites amongst our clients.
“So before we go into tonight’s topic— a new eyeliner I want to cover— I wanted to see if anyone had any clients they would like to talk about?” Brian asks standing at the front of the room. Commanding attention. Per usual.