Politics. Escorts. Blackmail. (3 page)

She engaged in insignificant chitchat while paying for the room at the front desk, then took the keycard and headed up in the elevator. Same old same old.

As far as the cost of the date, she’d already run the transaction through the credit card scanner on her iPad. She preferred credit cards as long as the hobbyists didn’t have a problem giving their billing information. Since 80 percent of her clients were regulars, it worked because most had special personal-expense accounts set up. Besides, she considered Lip Service too high-end for the risk of cash exchanges like solo escorts or girls on the street. Every now and then she’d let her ICs take cash from a client, but the rule was it needed to be in an envelope and in clear sight as soon as one or the other entered the room. It wasn’t discussed or counted right away, but the IC made sure to take it into the bathroom to count it in private before clothes were removed. No refunds after the clothes came off.

She entered the executive king room on the fifteenth floor, tossed her bag on the brown leather sofa, and turned on all the lights since the sun hadn’t quite finished hiding, but also because she knew her visitor liked it that way. Bright.

She went into the bedroom and pulled back the rust covers, fluffing up the down pillows. The time on the clock read ten minutes to six. She sent a text to her booker.
Here.

Ten minutes later on the dot, she was stripped down to her black cotton bra and panties, stockings, and garter, curly hair flowing down her back. There was a single knock at the door. She looked through the peephole, seeing her three-thousand-dollar, one-hour client, Mr. 31, and then forwarded the text a second time. That meant he’d arrived. The reply text sounded. She put her phone down and opened the door.

She smiled, but it wouldn’t last long. “Good to see you, Pretty in Pink.”

He stepped inside and closed the door without saying a word. He liked to be called pretty, so he smiled.

She looked down at his crotch. His hard-on was on. She frowned, and her voice turned bossy. “You came to my door excited. Make your dick go down, now!”

He looked at her with eyes that asked for permission to speak.

“Talk.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress.”

She nodded. “My slave.”

He was white, portly, with graying hair that was slicked back, and he carried his usual gym bag as he stepped into the bedroom. Inside was a red wig, makeup, handcuffs, pink lingerie, nipple clips, and a paddle.

By 6:15 he lay across the bed all dolled up, when Money the master demanded, “Turn the fuck over.”

He obliged with puppy dog eyes, replying “Yes, Mistress” in a soft, high-pitched, passive feminine tone. He lay in a fetal position, looking scared out of his girlie wits, yet his expression said he would have it no other way. “Am I your bitch?” he asked, and then he squirmed, peeking at Money like maybe trouble awaited him. Or perhaps hoping it did.

“Shut the fuck up. You talk when I tell you to talk, dammit.”

The more shit Money talked, the harder his dick got under the lace fabric of his panties.

He never tried to please Money. Never made a move to put his mouth on the skin of her pussy, or his dick inside of her. Not even his fingers.

“And yes, you’re my nasty little bitch, all right. Now kiss my feet. And let me hear your lips smack.”

He moved from the bed and crawled onto the floor as Money raised her high-heeled foot onto his shoulder. He took her foot into his hands and removed her shoe, kissing the top of her foot loudly.

“I can’t hear it.”

He smacked louder.

“Now suck my toes, one by one, starting with my baby toe.”

He brought his lips to her toes and worked them, smacking, licking, and sucking.

“Punk. You’re just a sissy. A man in drag who’s a cross-dressing-ass sissy. And you love it.”

He sucked harder.

“Yeah, suck my big toe like I might suck your dick if you beg me, like a good little submissive.”

He sucked it with vigor and looked up at her with wide blue eyes of pleasure.

She was a notch below yelling. “Don’t look at me.”

He looked down and continued his foot job.

“One day, I’m gonna walk you around New York City like a dog, with a cord tied to your scrawny little penis that I’ll yank every time I want you to stop and sit and shake my hand like I tell you to. Take you to Central Park and make you piss on the grass. You piece of shit.”

Being dominated was Pretty in Pink’s only escape. It was what he lived for. It served a purpose. It was his refuge from his life of being in control. His life of telling people what to do. His life of making decisions and being respected. His way of letting it all go, being free, freaky, and feminine as opposed to masculine and dominating.

He liked to be controlled without judgment while he lived out his urges and secret desires. From time to time, he had to have the opposite of what the world demanded of him. The same demands he knew awaited him as soon as he left the hotel room.

She jerked her foot away. “Pretty in Pink, get your ass back on the bed, up on all fours so I can fuck you in the ass, doggie style.” She removed her other shoe and took the big black dildo from the dresser. “I’m gonna punish you for not kissing my feet the minute you walked into this damn room.”

“Yes, Mistress Queens.” Even his voice was pink. He stood, looking guilty of a crime while wearing silver clips on his nipples, pulled down his lace panties and stepped out of them all ladylike, and made his way to the corner of the bed—on all fours, as instructed.

“Now open up.”

His hairy ass was propped up and ready. He buried his face into the pillow and took a peek back, seeming to anxiously await her next move after she secured the black leather strap along her hips. Prostate pleasure and rimming were his thing.

He was Tyler Copeland, Mr. 31, New York City’s police commissioner.

In his mind, some things could be done only in private, in another world of no judgments and no rules, no hassles and no gossip.

Just as he squealed upon her full penetration, she popped him on his pale cheek. “Dirty girl.” His cheek flushed dark red.

He grabbed hold of his excited dick as she fucked him into submission.

“Let go. I didn’t say you could please yourself.” She popped him on his dick.

He wept with pleasure at her control and did as she said. But even with him removing his hand, he still spilled his seed, reeling from his thrill. Just as he came, Money’s phone sounded.

He glanced at it with teary, ecstasy-filled eyes.

She told him, “Keep your ass right where it is” and headed to her phone, picked it up, and read the text from Jamie.

Money shook her head. As if he didn’t know she was at work.

Making grown men cry like little bitches
, she thought but never typed.

Tuesday—May 17, 2011

M
idori thought about what she and her sister Money had talked about. She hoped Virgil really wasn’t dumb enough to set up the mayor of Philly in order to get his stepfather, Senator Darrell Ellington, elected as President. She hadn’t been able to see Virgil since she had to go out of town so quickly. Knowing when she was to have returned, he was blowing up her phone unlike any other time before, trying to come by and see her from the moment she got back.

She’d had appointments seven nights straight and couldn’t see him as much as she wanted to, making excuses as if she had evening real estate showings and was too exhausted.

Her trip the previous weekend with the Long Island doctor to the Florida Keys was spectacular. She wasn’t even mad at her sister for assigning the booking to her. Turns out the client wanted the GFE, or girlfriend experience, as opposed to what most of the men who paid for her services wanted—the PSE, or porn star experience.

The PSE was usually freakier and definitely more expensive because it involved hard-core sex. Most of it was deep throat or anal, and ejaculations outside of the body, outside of the condom, mainly for visual effect, like in a porn movie. For the client, PSE with an escort was less about feelings and more about the performance.

The Long Island doctor, Mr. 81, who was in his fifties, paid top dollar for someone to simply be the girl next door, doing what some girlfriends do. Be his willing, feminine, sexy trophy. No drama allowed.

For a moment, while with him, Midori had actually forgotten she was a working girl and fell victim to the allure of the imaginary romance he was trying to portray for his own reasons. No one on the island knew who he was, unlike in the city. The two of them were incognito, holding hands, pretending to be a couple though having just met. While she fulfilled his fantasy, she felt cherished and got lost in the allure of the white sugar-sand beaches and spiraling coconut palm trees, under powder-blue skies in mid-eighty-degree weather. He fulfilled her heart’s fantasy without even knowing it.

The first evening was like a true date. They met at the restaurant in a hotel called Shor. After dinner, he walked her to her own two-bedroom suite, and he went to his. They exchanged nothing more than a good-night peck on the lips.

The next day after breakfast, he took her shopping at the local boutiques and bought her formal evening wear, a sapphire bustier with a matching thong, skimpy lingerie, and a tangerine bikini. And then they went parasailing and scuba diving on the private beach. That evening they enjoyed a cozy dinner cruise at sunset and danced the night away like newlyweds.

Later, in his hotel suite, after sipping expensive champagne and feeding each other chocolate-dipped strawberries, she allowed him to live out his desires: French kissing, expert cunnilingus, her riding him until she had an orgasm, or three, and then him mounting her until he got his, all to the sounds of smooth, baby-making jazz. Then, after about an hour’s worth of pillow talk, she went to her hotel room, floating on cloud nine.

He was the head of thoracic surgery at the University Hospital of Brooklyn, and if Taye Diggs had an older brother, he would be it. Dark skin, white teeth, bald head, sexy but he acted like he didn’t know it. He was a leading, esteemed surgeon who mended hearts for a living. But it became obvious to Midori that he was trying to survive after having his heart broken.

After the throes of deep sex, while holding “Brooklyn” in his arms, he shared with her: “My wife is cheating on me. I don’t want to give her half, since we didn’t sign a pre-nup. After twenty-two years, we’re in a sexless marriage. It all comes down to the fact that it’s cheaper to keep her. So instead of having a chick on the side who wants more, I hire an escort every now and then. But I’m never with the same girl twice.”

Midori gave a smile but frowned inside. In her mind she snapped her fingers,
Damn.

The final day they rented scooters to get in some last-minute sightseeing, had lunch, then simply checked out of the hotel and headed off to the airport in separate town cars like it was all a dream. They never even spent one night together.

During the first-class flight back to New York after the trip, she couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Feelgood, even though he was old enough to be her father—which, she admitted to herself, added to the attraction. He was the exact type of person who could be the one. More than anything, more than money, she wanted a man who could do all of that to her and for her, and more, and save her from the life of using her vagina for a stranger’s lust. In her mind, it was all just a pipedream.

But for the moment, back to reality, there she was, flat on her back, mind returning from its travels, starting to feel the tightening of rough, oversized hands around her slender brown throat. The hands of the one her sister warned her about: Bailey Brenner.

The white envelope was on the dresser. A well-earned twenty-five hundred dollars in cash for the hour was inside it, same as his normal fee, but this time she wasn’t sharing it with the agency. With him, the hour always involved something that pushed the limits. It had been that way for a year now.

He was a forty-something Navy veteran who made a run for a New York congressional seat but lost. He was dark and tall and solid, well over two hundred fifty pounds with a low Afro. He was breathing hard, inhaling and exhaling loudly, as if it were her hands around his burly neck.

The kinky goings-on happened in the sixth floor suite at the Roosevelt Hotel on East Forty-Fifth and Madison in midtown Manhattan. Midori had hailed a cab from her Upper East Side apartment to meet him at 8:30 p.m., even though she had a 9:30 scheduled through Lip Service. She had already picked up the key to the room for that appointment, which was two floors up. The understanding was that he expected her to be waiting upon his arrival, dressed like a naughty librarian.

Though it was in the forties outside, to her it felt like a sauna in the room. The blades of the overhead fan spun in overdrive to subdue Midori’s sweat, but failed. She’d put a menstrual cup deep inside of her pussy to stop the flow of her period. Being that time of the month didn’t make it any better, but she couldn’t let her menstruation get in the way of her money. This wasn’t about her pussy, anyway. She tried to stay cool, playing along, thinking if she sped up the thrill, he’d speed up his happy ending and she could be done. “Tighter,” she said with a fake grunt, trying to make it seem as though his grip was more of a strain than it actually was. It was her attempt to take his bondage fetish into high gear.

“Look at you. You like that shit. Being choked.” He looked wildly excited.

She lay there on her back with a wildflower tattoo on her big toe, totally nude upon the sheets of the queen bed, smack-dab in the middle of a client’s choking fantasy. Her freshly shaven landing strip went to waste. Her full breasts and oversized nipples were ignored. Tonight, he needed to scare her. Push the limits.

Midori breathed harder and deeper, in through her nose and out through her mouth. Just as her heart began to accelerate, she forced the secret word from her lips. “When.”

He kept on.

She clenched her teeth and grabbed his thick wrists. Her eyes bugged. “When, dammit.”

He stared at her like he was deaf.

“Bailey. Let go.” Her elongated words were smashed by her tightening mouth. Her nerves were elevated.

He moved his gargantuan hands from around her throat and grabbed his stiff penis, choking it quickly and frantically. Her fear was his turn-on. “I’m about to shoot this on your belly. And then lick it off.”

She rubbed her aching neck and watched him prepare for his jack-off.

His grunts sounded like a surefire heart attack awaited him, and his breathing sounded like a full-blown asthma attack would join in. He was a sight for sore eyes.

Midori braced herself as he adjusted the tip of his penis to her stomach. She watched his spill, feeling the warmth upon her skin. He released the last drop and leaned down to her, placing his mouth at her stomach, lapping up his own sperm.

The money made her ask, “You like that, don’t you?” cheering him on. But she wondered what happened to him to make him enjoy the taste of his own salty seed.

He licked his lips.

Her stomach growled. She morphed herself into sitting back against the headboard. And then she watched him as he made his way to the bathroom. In her mind she was shaking her head. He was odd and she wasn’t totally shocked. She’d seen his fetish side too many times before. But what amazed her most was why she returned, even after he pushed the limits time and time again.

She asked louder so he could hear her, “Why’d you tell my boss that I tore up the room because you wouldn’t give me more money?”

“Because you did.”

“I did not, Bailey, and you know it.”

“You did.”

“Whatever.” She again soothed her neck with her hand. “She already won’t book you. Don’t push your luck,” she warned him.

“You know you wanna see me. You know you like me.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.”

Walking back in toward the bed, he handed her a warm washcloth.

“Thanks.” She took it and began wiping his remnants of sperm off of her  flat stomach.

He took the cloth back as she stood from the bed, taking the few steps to the chair where her clothes were draped. “You can’t stay longer?” He set the cloth down on the table.

“No.” She stepped into her red panties.

“Why not?”

“Because you came. You know the rules. Once you come, no matter how long you’re booked, your time ends.”

“Well, I say rules don’t apply anymore.”

“Oh yes they do. They’re new rules. My rules. Besides, you were late.”

He shrugged. “No big deal. I’ll just pay for more time.”

“No thanks. I’ll just leave early to make it up.”

“Another thousand?”

She shook her head. She thought twice,
Hmmm
, but still shook her head some more. She needed to leave before she crossed into Lip Service time. That was a no-no, especially since her sister was already pissed at her.

He said, “You must have another John lined up.” He sat on the bed, breathing now back to normal.

She zipped up her pants and put on her bra.

“I have something to ask you.”

“Bailey, I’ve got to get going.” She carefully slipped her top over her head.

“Baby, why do you treat me like this?”

“Why do you call me baby?” Her confused face accented her inquiry.

“Because you are.”

She adjusted her clothes and stepped into her black heels. “I’m not. It’s not what you think it is. It’s just an illusion. I’m not even real. I’m just a figment of your imagination.”

“Not true. When can I see you again?”

“Not sure.” She walked into the living room area and took the envelope, folding it up and stuffing it into her bag.

He stood, still naked, and followed her. “I guess I’ll let Money know,” he threatened.

“No you won’t. Then I’ll never see you again for sure.” She placed the strap of the bag over her shoulder. “Bailey, I’ve gotta run.”

“I love you.”

She gave a weak smile, having heard it from him before, opened the door, and walked out without looking back, making her way down the hall and into the elevator.

By 9:25 she was in the next hotel room upstairs, showered. She’d worn a new menstrual cup and was dressed in her skirt and blouse, nude pumps, wearing reading glasses. Her hair was pinned up. She’d added concealer to the small bruise on the front of her neck. Tired, she texted her booker,
Here
, then lay down on the white sheet. She got a reply text,
10:00
. Thrilled that he’d be a half hour late, she stretched out and dialed her boyfriend, Virgil.

He answered his phone, speaking without any level of hip or swag to his voice whatsoever. He was a very good-looking black man, toffee colored, with a fit body and curly hair.

She said in low gear, “I got your messages. I told you I was going out of town.”

“You did. And you only called once the entire time.”

“I was busy. But I’m back now. Just tired. About to go to bed.”

“I’ve been really wanting to see you. Did you get my text about meeting me?”

She could hear the excitement in his voice. “I did.”

“I left something in your purse.”

“In my purse? Why would you have anything in my purse?”

“It was the last time I saw you, the night before you had your breakfast meeting at the Algonquin with Money. While we were at the movies I put my ink pen in your purse when you went to the bathroom. It was in my pants pocket and I didn’t have a shirt pocket. I forgot about it. I need it.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll give it to you when I see you.”

“Can I come by tonight?”

“Virgil, you’d come by this late to get a freakin’ ink pen?”

“I’d come by this late to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“Sounds like you miss your pen more than me.” She tried to put him off for one more night. “You can get it tomorrow. I don’t know what my schedule will be like, but I’m sure we can do something.”

“Well then, how about lunch?”

“I’ll try.”

“Try? I guess the real estate market is picking up. You have more showings again?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He paused. “So, the trip to Key West was successful, I guess.”

“Very.”

“Next time we’ll have to go together.”

She glanced at the clock. “Okay.”

“Midori, the debates are about to start soon. My stepfather is getting ready. Things have been changing a lot around here. A lot of media. My mom is getting bombarded with interview requests. Things are about to get crazy.”