Sadie Whyte: The Lust of my Life (4 page)

Chapter 7

Fuck You, Pay Me

Dunn Loring, Virginia

2007

“Houston.  Allison Houston.  Yes.  I’m contacting you because I believe you’re the beneficiary of a half of a million dollar life insurance policy… Yes…  I don’t know why you never received your portion, but you’re still entitled to it… Yes… Were you related to a Stephanie Gertrude Shields?... Yes, at least eight years ago…  I’m so sorry…  But on another note, it appears that you are entitled to $125,000 dollars…  Yes…  Well, these types of funds are held just like cars are impounded…  There are fees for holding the funds…  Yes…  Yes…  So, before the funds can be released to you, you must first pay, in your case, a $5,000 dollar fee.

I have no idea why they operate this way, but they will not just release the funds and deduct the fee, which would make so much more sense…  Yes…  Isn’t that insane?...  Ha Ha Ha…  OK…  Make it out to Independent Insurance, Inc…  No, thank you… You too…  Yes…  No more than 90 days…  OK…  Bye Bye.”  Click.

Beatrice, AKA Allison Houston, hung the phone up, pulled a Virginia Slim from its pack, lit it, and reclined in her leather office chair.  She spun around and exhaled, now facing the window of her leased office space.  Lifting her left hand, she admired her recent manicure.  She wore a white $3,500 skirt suit by Chanel with $600 heels by Hermes.  She slid closer to the window, reclined further, and crossed her legs, smiling to herself.  She’d just hit her 9
th
trick in 12 days for more than 2,500 dollars a pop.

Beatrice saw through to people’s flaws like window panes.  She was about her business.  She’d fucked, scammed, and raked dry the best of them.  She’d traveled the country, wreaking havoc with her cunning, crooked mind, her charm, her elegance, and her unyielding insatiable appetite for sex.  She’d found that people had come looking for her.  She’d heard that she was wanted.  But she wasn’t who anyone believed her to be. She’d always been able to flee prior to being hit.  On record, her fingerprints revealed that Beatrice Miller was Evelyn Foster, Charise Gables, Leona Lane, or Goldie Kaan, depending on which state one chose to check the records in.   

‘Allison Houston’s’ smile grew brighter with her memories.  People were so gullible and so horny that she couldn’t comprehend how any attractive person could ever miss out on the American Dream.  She shook her head, full of silky faux blond hair, and glanced into her reflection in the window, glimpsing her hazel eyes.  Eyes that were just as unreal as Independent Insurance, Inc.

Allison spun back around, cut off her computer, and took a few more puffs of her cigarette.  She got up and headed for the door after retrieving her purse, a provocative pep in her step.

On the way to her navy blue 2006 convertible BMW, she caught a gentleman staring at her as if she’d just leapt over a building.

“Excuse me Ms., I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, side stepping in front of her.

“Oh, no problem.  There are plenty of people I haven’t met.  Some of them I wouldn’t care to meet.  It’s too hard to trust people, you know,” she replied instantly, meeting eyes with the gentleman briefly. She attempted to move around him, reaching for the door of her car.              

“Well, my name is Bernstein.  Lyle Bernstein.  I’m an investment banker.  I work across the street.  And you can trust me when I swear to you that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said seriously.

“‘Allison’ paused, her car door open.  Batting her lashes and blushing a little, she turned her head slowly until meeting Mr. Bernstein’s honest eyes.  She looked him up and down and stood up straight. “Mr. Bernstein…”

“Lyle. Please call me Lyle,” he interrupted.

“Lyle, that’s got to be the most flattering thing anyone’s ever said to me.  Thank you,” she said.

“I’m not into flattery, Ms…”

“Houston.  My name is Allison Houston.”

“I’m not into flattery, Ms. Houston.  I apologize for my straight forward approach but, my God, you’re inhumanly gorgeous.  May I call you?”

When he’d said the words ‘investment banker’, he’d unwittingly ensured the answer ‘yes’ to the question he’d just asked.  ‘Allison’ admired his Stacey Adams shoes, his leather briefcase, and his Brooks Brothers suit.  He had ‘trick’ written all over him.                                                                  

*****

“To be honest with you, I’ve grown terrified of men, most men, over the years.  In all modesty, I come from a few generations of wealth and it’s as if I’ve been sheltered to the point of becoming naïve.  It’s like no one’s ever serious.  Everyone’s got some crazy hidden agenda.  But I’m just me.  Little ole’ Allison,” ‘Allison’ said, sipping her Brandy.

Mr, Bernstein began to laugh.  He sipped his Vodka and appraised Allison with sophisticated eyes, sheltered by Paul Mitchell rimless glasses. “With all due respect, Allison, you don’t seem to be the naïve type.”

“Well, that’s good.  And I hope I’m not naïve.  But that’s how I’ve been treated by so many people whom I believed meant me well before revealing their true colors,” she responded.

Smart ass
, she thought.

“Well, from the outside looking in, it took a lot of courage on my part to continue pursuing you after you initially responded to my greeting.  You come off as no-nonsense, Allison.  So, I believe you’ve overcome the naivety of a sheltered girl as time has passed.”

“Again, I hope so.  And thank you.  But I hate having to keep a shield up, a protective front to keep away the predators.  I like to just be me, Lyle.”

Lyle took another sip of his vodka and reached for Allison’s hand.  She allowed him to hold it, caressing her fingers gently and staring at her nails.  Their eyes met again.  She was 35.  He was 38.  Their complexions matched.

“I want you to forget about any fool who had the audacity to play games with a woman of your stature.  Forget about them, Allison.  You’ve got access to my work phone.  You know where I live and what I’m about.  I’m a very secure and honest man.  You can be yourself with me.  OK,” he said, eyes still locked on hers.

She held his stare for a few moments, slightly squeezing his hand. 

  “Do you know how good it would make me feel to know that I could safely do that, Lyle?”                                                                   

*****

Allison spent the next 25 days, on and off, with Lyle Bernstein, who proved to be exactly who he said he was.  His work schedule had kept him extremely busy to the point of remaining single.  The two of them talked on the phone for hours at times.  Allison got lost in the moment on occasions.  And on the twelfth day, she’d given Lyle a little something extra: The legendary ‘Oktapussy!’  She’d placed her hands on his chest, her feet on the bed on each side of his hips, and worked her luscious love box on the head of his happy friend.  She’d never allowed her lower lips to levitate below the head of his shaft, driving him insane.  They’d cuddled, kissed, and fed one another.  And the results of such an affair were astounding.

“It’s something about you.  I can’t stop thinking about you Allison,” Lyle said.

“I can’t keep my mind or my eyes off of you either, Lyle.  But I’m not out to hurt anyone.  And before this goes any further, I want you to know that I’m not who you think I am,” Allison said.

The two of them sat together in Allison’s leased, fully furnished, condo.  Their knees brushed against one another’s.  Lyle leaned back, his eyes growing larger. 

“I’ve been living off my ex-husband’s funds for quite some time.  But now they’re gone.  I have no contact with my father, as I told you.  My living expenses are high, to say the least.  And I’m $160,000 in debt.  I’m an independent insurance broker and my commissions barely keep me driving, let alone living the way I’m accustomed to living.  I’m…”  She burst into tears, her fists clenched together, her head held down.  “… I’m ruined.  I’m worthless.  I don’t deserve you.”

Lyle crawled to her side and wrapped his arms around her.  He pulled her toward him, embracing her in both his arms.  He placed his chin on her head and stared at the ceiling, rocking her slowly.

After a long moment, he spoke. “Allison, I’m in love with you.  You’re like no one I’ve ever met.  And if you marry me, I’ll make all your troubles go away.  I promise,” he said, passion in his voice.

Allison pulled away from him, tears dampening her smooth, soft features.  This time, her eyes grew wide, much wider than Lyle’s eyes were capable of growing.

“Are you…  proposing to a broken, … washed up girl like me?”

“Yes I am,” he said, pulling a ring from his pocket.  “That’s what I wanted to talk to about.  Allison, will you marry me?”

Allison allowed him to place the ring on her finger.  Her lip quivered.  Her eyes were still damp.

“I do baby.  I do.  Yes!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck and smashing her body into his.                                                                        

*****

Allison enjoyed gazing down at the clouds beneath her as the plane soared at 10,000 feet above sea level.  She reclined and reveled in her latest accomplished mission.  She’d swindled 35 unknowledgeable victims through Independent Insurance, Inc., from $2,500 to $7,500 dollars a pop.  She’d also gotten Mr. Bernstein to hand her a certified check for more than $100,000 cash.  Their marriage was scheduled to take place in the following two weeks.  However, Beatrice Miller, AKA Allison Houston, had no intentions on being anywhere near a chapel or an alter at such a time.  In fact, she’d most likely have three half-nude men massaging her naked body at such a time.  Or, maybe she’d be taking skiing lessons in Pocono, Pennsylvania.  Or leasing a speed boat and zipping along the Florida Keys.  Whatever the case, ‘Allison’ would NOT be marrying Mr. Bernstein.  She thought to herself how correct he’d been with his original assessment of her ‘naïve’ comment.  Only, he’d failed to assess himself.  And as a result, he’d been played straight out of the pocket.

“Whores don’t sell pussy… job is to separate… mark from his money… so many ways to do that…”

Allison glanced at her left hand, admiring the beautiful diamond and gold engagement ring adorning her finger.  The smile that spread her face was signature.  It was a victory smile which had been lining her pretty face for more than two decades.

Chapter 8

Sadie Whyte

Georgetown, Washington, DC

April, 2013

It’s been said that a woman’s greatest desire is to be envied by all other women.  And if this was indeed the case, Beatrice Miller, AKA Sadie Whyte, was experiencing the ultimate on-going dream.  When she sauntered into a room with her come-fuck-me-if-you-can-afford-me strut, her very presence commanded attention.  She spared herself no luxury, living like an heiress to the thrown of a royal kingdom.  She drove $50,000 cars and rested her pretty little head on silk pillowcases in furnished condos normally reserved for traveling politicians.  She’d spent millions over the years of O.P.M. (Other People’s Money).  And she’d enjoyed every illegal, immoral, and even depraved, moment of it.

Sadie Whyte had grown older gracefully, unyielding in her hell bent drive to swindle her world out of all its natural resources like sailing pilgrims ‘discovering’ a ‘new’ world of other people’s riches.  Playing numerous men like a Hill Billy with a banjo.  The Pied Piper with a flute. Or Prince with a piano.  However, she’d remained horny, a lewd lover of lust.  And her profession, usually sexually oriented scams, was truly the lust of her life. She’d evolved with the times, progressing in her levels of sophistication like a rotary phone of the 80’s to a huge cellular monstrosity of the 90’s, ultimately morphing into the sleek modern day smart phone equipped with so many capabilities that it defied reality and barely resembled the contraption it had come from.  She was far from the nickel and dime scams she’d started out performing as early as her 12
th
birthday.  She was the living example of the ugly duckling and the swan; her wicked schemes today now beautifully hidden behind a deliberate silky, almost classy, façade.  Sadie Whyte had taken life by the horns and had it her way, taking the term ‘Independent Woman’ to new heights all together.

Sadie sat in her condo in Georgetown, DC, a historical, high income section of the city.  She stared at her computer screen, picking the prettiest faces of all nationalities she could find off of Facebook.  She added fifty of them to her own new website, NuShus.com.  She’d decided to go back to her roots: High class whoring.

Until the 20
th
century, women were forbidden from using written language in China.  So, the women of Hunan Province developed a secret script call Nu Shu (women’s writing), consisting of thousands of phonetic icons.  Sadie named her escort service Nu Shu’s Escorts, Inc.  and the secret writing on the wall spelled ‘sex for hire.’                                                                  

*****

“This is what I need you all to understand.  Street walkers earn $75  per average transaction.  They go to jail at least twice a year.  They’re beaten an average of four times a year.  And most street walking whores end up working simply to support their drug addictions.  I KNOW these things from experience,” Sadie said to the eight women sitting in front of her.

Her straight, silky black hair cascaded down her back and enclosed her rectangular face in a canopy of healthy follicles.  She wore a vintage gold necklace by Lacroix, a $3,500 oval link chain bracelet by David Yurman, a $29,500 Ballon Bleu time piece, a flowing birthstone-blue $2,180 gown by J. Mendell and $1,400 sandals by Jimmy Choo.

“In contrast, escorts earn 50% more per transaction than walkers.  They rarely interact with the police.  They’re only beaten twice a year, on average…”  She smiled her signature smile, meeting each woman’s eyes.

“Damn,” one of the women said.

“That’s 50% less than street walkers.  Escorts deduce client’s places of employment for security reasons and are afforded a LOT more protection than street walkers. I’ve made a lot of money as an escort.  You can make lots of money also.  You can live the lifestyles of your dreams.  You can climb to new heights, just as I’ve done.  You can go further than me.  All I ask for is your loyalty, and I’ll take care of the rest, beginning with each of your first week’s wardrobes. Who’s with Sadie?  Show me your hands,” she said.

The women Sadie had hand-picked from strip clubs, ‘hoe strolls’, and from the internet, glanced at one another.

“I’ve got a question,” a tall, thick, stallion of a woman said.

Sadie nodded.

“Didn’t you used to make mature movies in the ATL back in the day? Ms. Hot Pussy!”

“No baby.  Ok-ta-pussy,” Sadie corrected with a smirk.

“Ooooooooh, I knew it.  You worked that…”

“…who’s with Sadie?” Sadie repeated, cutting the woman off with an index finger to her lips.

Everyone raised their hands.                                                              

*****

In a world where pimps had learned nothing more than the fact that a man might do ANYTHING for a good blow job, pimps were practically useless in such a technical, advanced, society.  And Sadie had learned from her experiences how to take things to the next level.  Any pimpin getting done was going to be on Sadie’s part. She had each of her ‘escorts’ sign a written contract.  Her subchapter ‘S’ corporation loaned each of them the funds that Sadie spent on their wardrobes.  The corporation paid for their etiquette classes and image consulting.  And each woman had agreed to allow a set fee to be deducted from each of their commissions.

Sadie placed ads in posh, upscale magazines and solicited referrals from Facebook, other escort agencies, bars, hotels and clubs, satisfied clients, and strip clubs.

On Sadie’s website, she didn’t show up as an owner.  She simply was listed alongside 58 other ‘escorts’ as “Sadie”.

In the first two days, Sadie was requested several times.  She escorted, most memorably, Gabriel Thomas, a stock broker, Wilber Strong, a married real estate investor, and Maurice “Moe” Garrett, and ex-football player/entrepreneur.  She enjoyed the upscale atmosphere of the dates Nu Shu’s Escorts, Inc was charging clients up to $5,000 for.  She enjoyed the company of financially stable men.  She enjoyed waiting for the moment the date would become something more.  She watched and anticipated when the men were willing to make the leap from casual to sexual.  She played on the desires, the hidden cravings. She remembered Gabriel because he was so blunt.

“Can I see you naked Sadie?”  he’d said, within five minutes of their first date.

She remembered Wilbur because of his work ethic.

“Ahh!  Ahh shit!  Ahhh!  Ahhhh!” she’d yelled, as he’d hammered her into the mattress of their suite at the Marriott hotel.

“If you EVER make me tremble like that again, you’ve got to pay me extra,” she’d told him, a slight aftershock shooting through her body.

And she’d remembered Maurice because he was sort of goofy, like a big child.  An intelligent, charming child.  But a child all the same.  But what stuck out most about him was the fact that he hadn’t attempted to have sex with her.

Why not, she wondered.

Sadie was in business, capitalized by the fruits of years of her ‘labor’.