The Present...
When you think of call girls, do you think of the movie Pretty Woman? A woman getting paid to have sex with a handsome rich guy? Where's the downside? Well, the downside is that 95% of handsome rich guys don't need to pay for sex. There's still that 5% I meet and fuck some days, but today wasn't one of those days...
Muscles hidden beneath the fat of the man between my thighs tensed and flexed as he drove his cock into me with more energy than before. Oh my God, I hoped my client was finally close to coming! To help push him over the edge, I spread my legs wider and twerked my hips upwards to meet his thrusting cock.
"Do it... Come in me! Do it. Do it. Do it. Fuck me harder," I grunted out in time with his thrusts.
This was the first time this particular client had used Marla's service. She'd had no notes from previous girls on his likes/dislikes to pass on to me before I showed up at his hotel room. But he'd seemed to respond earlier to 'dirty talk' while I'd been sucking and licking his cock. Some men did and some men didn't. This old guy did. I could tell.
"You feel so good inside me. Soooo deep... So fucking deep in my cunt..." Ah-ha! He'd responded to the C-Word.
"That's it, Baby. I'm a cunt. Just a tight, wet cunt made for fucking... Can you tell how wet my cunt is for you? Just like that, Baby. Fuck my cunt just like that.
"Yea, Baby. Me and you, we both know it," I continued in a confiding whisper. "But I'm the only one who'll admit it. All women are just cunts. Walking, talking cunts begging to be fucked... Tight, wet cunts wanting to be fucked..."
I was pleased as my continued 'dirty talk' had the desired effect. The thrusts between my thighs gained strength. Gasping for breath he closed his eyes. He was sweating profusely, his face an alarming hue of red... It seemed our sex was becoming a race between the old guy coming inside me or having a heart attack on top of me. I breathed out a sigh of relief as coming inside me won.
Thighs drove his cock into me in time with his grunts of release. Fucking grunts of release became long, drawn-out groans of completion. I felt cock throbbing inside me as cum flowed. But the throbbing quickly slowed as I was fucked with a final series of short, hard thrusts. Thrusts that seconds later stopped as hips pressed and ground hard against my pussy lips in a man's primal urge to leave his seed deep inside any cunt.
I felt his cock pulse weakly one last time as he rested more of his weight on me to trail kisses over my neck. I was so glad the sex was over that I didn't even mind wrapping my arms and legs around the sweaty bulk crushing me into the mattress. Well, at least not too much.
"Oh, my God. Yes, Baby. Don’t pull out. Stay inside me. I love it. I love having your cock in my cunt," I breathed into his ear. I didn't mean it, of course. For one thing, he was wearing a condom. For another, I was just glad the heavy and slick with sweat bulk would soon move off me. Damn, I'm such a good actress.
His heavy body remained on top of me for about a minute as he gulped for air between kisses. I turned my sigh of relief into what I hoped would sound like a moan of pleasure when most of the weight of the sweaty, heavy body finally lifted off me.
As he (Dammit! What the fuck is this guy’s name!?) rested on locked arms above me, I kept my smile natural. A smile that said I was sexually satisfied and not that I was thankful that our sex and time together was over. I even tried not to mind the sweat that dripped from his chin and nose onto my tits.
"Oh, my God… That was incredible,” he whispered as his breathing became less labored though his face remained an alarming red. Still hoping the old guy (Dammit! What the fuck was the name he'd given me?!) wouldn’t have a heart attack on top of me.
I whispered back how good he felt inside me. To give me more pleasure, his hips began moving his softening cock in a slow in-and-out motion. I closed my eyes and moaned, telling him again how good his cock felt just before his now flaccid and completely soft shaft slipped from my pussy.
Well, at least he’d tried...
As he continued to hover above me, his gaze left my face and trailed down my body as if trying to commit every detail of my large breasts, narrow waist and hairless pussy mound to memory. Dipping his head, he took his time sucking on each of my tits before, with a drawn-out sigh, he finally moved from between my legs and collapsed beside me.
"My God, you're beautiful," he sighed.
Turning onto my side, I rose up on my elbow to run my free hand through his sweaty, salt-and-pepper, mostly salt, chest hair.
"You were pretty incredible yourself,” I cooed.
"Don't try to bullshit a bullshitter," was the response. "I'm a fat old man staring down the barrel of mandatory retirement."
Ah-ha! So that's what got his motor revving. If we were playing poker, I'd go all-in that it was a woman, a walking/talking cunt, leading the charge to retire him.
"Can you stay longer," I was asked. "We can have some drinks. Order room service. Who knows? Maybe go for Round Three after I rest?"
"I wish I had more time. If I did I wouldn’t say no to a repeat,” I lied. I sure as fuck didn’t mean it about the repeat. “But I can’t stay longer today, Jim.”
That's his name! JIM! He'd introduced himself as Just-Call-Me-Jim!!
"Unfortunately for both of us, I have to get going,” I continued.
Feeling relief I'd remembered Jim's name, I patted his chest as I sat up beside him. Just-Call-Me-Jim watched my tits sway as I reached up to finger-fluff my hair out of my face to lay down my back. I was used to men looking at my big tits. I gave my hair a few extra finger-fluffs to give him a good, long look.
Remembering that time was passing by, I reached to circle the condom on Just-Call-Me-Jim's cock with my thumb and forefinger. I milked the small, soft shaft to let the last bit of cum join what was already in the condom before removing it. Leaning over, I pulled as much shaft from his thick crotch hair as I could. The fragrance of my pussy from the crotch hair filled my nose as I filled my mouth with limp cock.
My tongue moved Just-Call-Me-Jim's cock around my mouth while I sucked it clean. The mixed taste of cum, latex and spermicide would never make it as an ice cream flavor, but it no longer bothered me.
Wow, just look at me now, I thought as I lifted my mouth away from Just-Call-Me-Jim's crotch. The girl who only a few months ago wouldn't even consider letting a boyfriend come in her mouth.
After a last suck and lick, I slid off the bed and walked to the bathroom.
I tossed the condom into the toilet and decided to give Just-Call-Me-Jim my own little sign of approval to take his mind off his pending retirement. My handbag was on the sink counter and I retrieved my lipstick from a side pocket. Leaning closer to the mirror, I applied a thick coating of red to my lips.
I walked back into the bedroom where Jim was still resting. With a shit eating grin but without a word of explanation, I took his limp cock in my hand and pressed my lips hard against head of his cock. Satisfied with the bright red kiss emoji I’d made, I walked back to the bathroom.
"What's that for," Jim laughed curiously.
"You've heard of wounded soldiers receiving the Purple Heart? I just awarded you the Red Dick. It's what I give to men who gave me a good fuck."
Honestly? It hadn't been a good fuck. Just-Call-Me-Jim certainly wasn't a good lover, but I gave him bonus points for enthusiasm. Besides, Just-Call-Me-Jim's net worth had to be large. I wanted to see if his wealth translated into a large gift for me!
I have no idea why I started leaving a red kiss on the cocks of men who’d pleased me. But it became 'my thing' when I noticed that men who'd received it began requesting me more often. Spending more time with men I liked meant spending less time with men I didn't like. Recipients of the Red Dick also seemed to give me larger cash gifts, too. Win-Win-Win for me!
Back in the bathroom, I wiped off the lipstick with tissue. Tossing the tissue into the toilet, I gave tissue and condom a watery grave.
Just-Call-Me-Jim seemed to admire the view as I walked past the bed to go into the main room where the mini-bar was. Just-Call-Me-Jim traveled with his own special brand of scotch. A brand I'd never heard of. I poured two-fingers of scotch neat into his glasse and half-a-finger with ice in mine. Sitting on the side of the bed, I handed one glass to my client.
"Pussy," Just-Call-Me-Jim labeled me, looking pointedly at the ice in my glass. "Only pussies drink scotch over ice."
"Yea, well. In case you haven't noticed yet, I have a pussy," I whispered back before leaning over and sliding my tits over his chest to share a scotch flavored kiss.
Almost like magic, a hand appeared seemingly from nowhere to grasp and fondle one of my tits. I let my boob be played with while we shared kisses between sips of scotch. I drank mine quicker than I usually do and rattled the ice in my glass as I pulled away to stand up.
"Want more," I asked as I held my glass up.
"Definitely," Just-Call-Me-Jim answered, his eyes on me and not my glass. "Spend the night with me."
Wow! That was quite an offer. Marla charged different rates for her girls and I knew what she charged a client for me to show up for a couple of hours. What she would charge for an entire night of my time wouldn't be cheap! Maybe it would be pocket change to Just-Call-Me-Jim, but to me...
I gave serious thought to calling Mom and telling her I'd been invited to go to the movies and spend the night with a girlfriend from work.
But I shook my head to dispel the vision of what my bank balance would be if I agreed. Instead, I took our glasses back to the mini-bar. I poured me another half-finger and topped off Just-Call-Me-Jim's drink. Smiling, I handed him his glass. I carried my drink into the bathroom.
"I'd love that much money but I'm still gonna say no to spending the night," I answered making up an excuse while raising my voice to carry over the sound of running water as I wet a washcloth with hot water. "Wanna know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I already know what will happen," I answered while surveying the damage in the mirror. My makeup was ruined. There was dried spit and cum on my cheeks, chin and tits.
Our missionary sex had been the second time my client had come. The first had been after a blow job that had turned into my being mouth fucked beside the suite’s couch. Just-call-Me-Jim had covered my face with rope after rope of thick cum. I swear the old guy must've saved up his cum for a year to have that much in his balls!
I'd used a finger to move most of the cum into my mouth but, looking in the mirror, I could see where I'd missed some. 'Shit! What is it about men that they can’t hit an open mouth two inches from their dick,' I mentally groused as I used the damp washcloth to begin cleaning from my face to my tits.
"You're tired from just having sex. I'll keep feeding you scotch. You'll order a lot of food from room service." I began explaining while rinsing out the washcloth to clean my face again while checking for any remaining cum.
Turning on the shower, I adjusted the temperature and pulled my hair up. I used a scrunchy from my handbag to hold my hair in a knot. A quick wash to clean the cum from my pussy, thighs and ass crack took very little time.
"You'll fall asleep and sleep until... I'd guess midnight," I continued to explain while in the shower. "You'll wake up horny and I'll suck you off. Some more bourbon and you'll fall asleep again."
I stepped to lean against the door jamb where Just-Call-Me-Jim could watch me brush out my hair.
"You'll sleep until morning," I told him. "Meanwhile, I'll be binge watching one of my shows on your dime."
Slipping my dress over my head, I fluffed my hair out and did a quick touch-up of my make-up. Straightening my dress again, I exited the bathroom and had to laugh. Just-Call-Me-Jim was standing almost naked beside the bed. Almost naked because he'd found my thong panties while I'd been in the bathroom dressing and cleaning our sex from my face and between my legs. My thongs were now dangling from the thick bush around his limp cock.
"Thank you for finding those for me," I managed after stilling my laughter. Closing the distance between us, I was reaching for the panties when Jim pulled me close.
"Are you sure you need to leave," Just-Call-Me-Jim asked as his hands kneaded my ass through my dress. "We can have some drinks… Order that room service..."
Damn. Except for being four inches shorter than me and two-hundred pounds heavier, Just-Call-Me-Jim hadn’t been an entirely unpleasant fuck. He certainly had stamina as long as he didn't have a heart attack. Plus, the kitchen in this hotel made wonderful food. But I shook my head in a slow no.
"No, I'd rather leave you happy now than pissed off tomorrow because sometime tomorrow you'll check your credit card charges. Yea, it won't be much more than pocket change to you, but you'll end up thinking how I ripped you off. Paying for all those hours and only getting one lousy blow job."
Letting him down gently with a kiss, I reached between us to close my fingers around a very used shaft that wasn’t showing even the smallest signs of life. After squeezing and slow stroking for a few seconds, I moved backwards until his hands reluctantly let go of my ass.
Taking my panties with me, I checked first that I wouldn't sit in a wet spot. Sitting on the edge of the bed we'd occupied only a short time before; I lifted one foot and then the other to carefully slip my panties past my stiletto heels and up to my knees. Standing up, Jim watched in silence as I pulled them up until the tiny triangle of silk covered my pussy and adjusted the fit. Pulling the hem of my dress back down, I snagged my handbag and began making my way towards the door to the hall.
"I'll make you a deal," I said jauntily, stopping to face Just-Call-Me-Jim. With my heels on I was almost eight inches taller than he was and the extra height gave me more confidence. "Instead of me taking you for a lot of money just to watch you sleep, I'll spend an hour with you for every two pounds you lose between now and the next time we meet. You gotta be honest though."
"Do I still have to pay you for those hours?"
"Fuck yes! I may be easy but I ain't cheap! But at least you'll be going into the deal with your eyes open. You won't go away thinking I ripped you off. Oh, and you agree not to return to my city until you've lost twenty pounds," I stuck out my hip and let my hand outline my body from chest to hips. "For losing twenty pounds, you get ten hours of this."
"Wait. Wait, let me understand this. I have to go on a diet. I have to fly back here. I have to pay you..."
"Double my regular rate," I interrupted.
"Double?!"
"Damn straight, Skippy. If you can afford to fly your private jet here for a booty call, you can afford to pay me double."
"Deal," Just-Call-Me-Jim answered and handed me the envelope he'd had in his hand all this time. I put it in my handbag without comment.
"Deal," I agreed. "You'll go home. Go to a doctor. Go on a healthy diet and return after losing twenty pounds."
"I diet. I fly. I pay double... Seems like I'm doing all of the heavy lifting," Jim jokingly complained as his hands grasped my ass cheeks to pull me closer. "And what will you do to make it all worthwhile?"
"You do all that and for ten hours..." I leaned in close until my lips were fluttering softly on his ear to whisper in what I called my Triple S voice - Soft, Sultry and Suggestive. "For ten hours I will suck you, fuck you and Rock... Your... World in ways you've only dreamed about."
I pulled away and we took the last steps to the door and kissed again.
"A safe, healthy diet or deals off! Don't even think about returning for at least a couple of months," I said.
"I will! Damn, you've given me the best incentive to lose weight I've ever had. I will definitely be back," Jim promised as he opened the door for me. I slipped through the door and added a little extra sway to my hips as I made my way to the hotel elevators in case he was watching. I felt good. Getting Just-Call-Me-Jim to lose even ten pounds would do wonders for his health.
Stopping in the Ladies' Room off the hotel's lobby, I checked that our last kisses hadn't smeared my lip gloss before retrieving Just-Call-Me-Jim’s envelope from my purse. I don't count 'Gifts' in front of clients. Seven crisp Benjamins. Very nice! Added to what my first client had gifted me earlier in the day, plus my share of the fee Marla charged each client for my time... The Louis Vuitton purse and matching shoes I've been wanting were soon to be mine!
Giving Marla a call as I waited for the doorman to flag down a taxi, I gave her a quick run-down on our service's newest client. His likes and dislikes, etc. Marla would make notes. She got a hearty laugh at the deal I'd made with Just-Call-Me-Jim.
"Ten hours of your time at double what I normally charge a client? I love it and so will your bank account if he follows through!"
I heard the clickety-click of a keyboard in the background and Marla told me that my share of the fee this client had been charged for my time and body was now deposited into my bank account. Another very profitable day was over. Relaxing in the back seat of the taxi, I gave a relieved and satisfied sigh.
I won’t say I’m proud to be a Call Girl, but since I was, I was glad I worked for Marla. She ran a small, very exclusive business out of an office downtown where beautiful girls were discreetly offered to very wealthy clients.
Marla ran a completely cashless business. Money would be transferred to an offshore bank from a client's credit card. As she'd once told me, 'If their credit card doesn't have a high enough limit to pay my fee then they're not wealthy enough for me to waste my time on.'
A series of bank transfers would then automatically occur and upon receiving word that my meeting with a client was successfully completed, my share of the fee would be transferred into my banking account from a different offshore bank.
So, I never had to discuss money with clients. If I was sent by Marla, it meant my time was already paid for. I had my share of the fee no matter what as long as I’d followed the rules. But what made me try hard to satisfy my clients were the nice gifts they gave for great sex. Wealthy clients meant large gifts. My gifts averaged three-to-four-hundred-dollars. On one very good day, after seeing two clients, I'd gone home with over a thousand gifted dollars in my purse. All cash and tax-free. The money Marla deposited into my bank account was taxable though, darn it!
Glancing at my watch in the taxi I knew I was cutting it close, but I would make it on time to catch the train to the burbs. I had the driver drop me two blocks from my Brownstone. I've had clients try to track me down outside of work and now I take precautions. Just in case a client ever went through my purse, I only carried a fake ID with a fictitious address.
I unlocked the street door and went inside the apartment building I was dropped off in front of. I walked through the building before exiting out the back door. Taking shortcuts through parking areas, I hoofed it as quickly as I could in four-inch heels to my building. Inside, I took off my heels, checked my mailbox (empty) and ran the stairs to the top floor as my nod to cardio.
Locking my door behind me, I stripped off my 'Work Clothes'. Clothes my parents would never have approved of me wearing in public. Hundreds joined other hundreds in the large, decorative tin marked FLOUR on my kitchen counter. Smaller denominations and loose change got tossed into a pretty lacquered box I’d found in an antique shop.
From a small drawer beside my stove, I pulled out an even smaller baggie. I'd fucked two clients today. Questing between my legs, I found the string and pulled out the tampon I'd inserted to stop the lubricant I’d used and my own pussy juice from wetting my panties. The tampon went into a baggie and the baggie went into the trash.
After washing my fingers, I carried my clothes into the bedroom. Thongs went into the laundry hamper and dress went into the Dry Cleaning Only box. All the jewelry my mom would never believe I could afford on what I could've earned as an office temp was left on my dresser. My watch was the only indulgence I allowed myself to wear at home. It was exhausting enough to remember to change my earrings. Luckily, my parents wouldn't know a four-thousand-dollar Cartier Rose Gold watch from a ten-dollar Wal-Mart Swatch.
Turning the water on in my shower, I twisted my hair into a bun and pinned it. I brushed my teeth until any lingering smell of bourbon and sex was gone and my breath smelled minty fresh. I took a quick but thorough wash under the warm water to remove sweat, any undiscovered cum and any lingering smell of sex. (My mom had the nose of a bloodhound.)
I was toweling off when my phone rang. Damn, I'd forgotten to turn it off after calling Marla. As expected, it was Mom. I'd told her the plausible lie that employers didn't want to see temp workers on the phone. So I kept my phone off during the day. It was after 5 pm. I couldn't plead work to not answer.
There was no reason for Mom's call except to be sure I was going to be on time for supper. But my mom is a talker. She can talk forever about nothing. I put my phone on conference call and placed the phone on my bed as I dressed in the 'Suburban Clothes' I'd worn when I left the house this morning.
Once dressed, I shook my hair out of the bun and finger-fluffed it out. I vigorously applied my brush to make certain that no cum was left clumped in my hair. All the while I was giving appropriate responses to Mom. She was happily telling me a story about something I had no interest in that was happening to no one I knew. Dressed and ready, pleading having to run for the train, I hung up.
My Brownstone apartment is in a perfect location. Three short city blocks from the train station and two blocks the other way from an entrance to the subway. Another thing that made it perfect was the nearby Coffee Clutch I stopped at on the way to the train station. Strong coffee and a gooey pastry would keep me going until dinner. My stomach argued with me and I lost. I bought two pastries. I hadn't eaten all day.
The house and suburb I'd grown up in was barely a thirty-minute trip by train. I used the time to relax, ignoring the admiring looks from the same old guy I saw on the train many evenings. I'm six-feet tall with long, blonde hair and a slender build. Except for my boobs. They aren't slender. They're 34DDs that strain the buttons of any blouse I wear.
Big boobs can rarely be hidden except under a Winter coat. It was late Spring so I just tried to ignore the attention from men that my looks, height and big boobs drew. I've had four years to practice 'ignoring' since my fourteenth birthday when my boobs finally stopped growing.
It’s an easy fifteen-minute walk from the station to our home. On nice days I ride my bicycle. Today was a nice day and soon I was coasting to a stop in our garage. Entering the house, I tossed my bookbag on a chair.
"I'm home, Mom,” I yelled. “What's for supper?"
**********
The next morning my phone rang as I stepped from the train onto the platform. My commute from the suburbs to the city was ending in its predictable way. A call from Mom to catch up on my life since I'd gone to sleep the night before. Because I was always up and away from the house before Mom and Dad were up, morning phone calls now took the place of the conversations we used to have over breakfast before school.
The usual pleasantries followed but soon segued into predictable themes - When was I going to look for a better job than being an office temp? A job that offered benefits and security. Was I still uninterested in going to college? She'd just begun to express wishes that I'd find a guy, 'I'm not getting any younger. Grandkids would be nice to have around while I'm still young enough to enjoy them.'
At that point, stating that I was about to enter the subway, I hung up and checked my messages to make certain I had the correct time for my first appointment. I had plenty of time, so I stopped at the Coffee Clutch for coffee and a sugary pastry to snack on as I slowly walked towards my apartment. An apartment my parents knew nothing about.
I've given serious thought to 'officially' moving out of my parents’ house and to the city. I was almost nineteen and out of high school. Many girls I'd graduated with were finishing their freshman year of college. Others had jobs and were living on their own. A few were already married! One was already pregnant in her third trimester. Money was no longer an issue, but... But the city was only a short ride by train from our suburb.
If my mom knew I had an apartment she would drop by at all hours of the day, any day of the week. Maybe I’d get a call after she was already on the train. I'd never be able to keep my secret life a secret. Instead, I considered my apartment as just a very large closet where I could change clothes and wash. I still lived at home in the bedroom which had been mine since I was sleeping in a cradle. Mom and I still rode bikes together. Shopped together. Gardened, talked, and watched weepy-eye Lifetime/Hallmark movies together. To keep Mom happy, I even went out on dates occasionally.
My Dad? Oh, he huffed and puffed and bellowed like an elephant wondering, 'When are you going to leave the damned nest so your mom and I can have some damned peace and quiet around here!' But on Saturday mornings after falling asleep on the couch during a late-night binge of watching the aforementioned weepy-eye movies, I'd find a blanket covering me and Dad making a huge breakfast while bellowing, 'Eat you idiot child and put some meat on those skinny bones so you have the energy to find your own damned place and leave me in peace!' Yeah, I've had Daddy figured out and wrapped around my little finger since I took my first steps.
Thinking of steps, I looked at my watch and increased the pace of mine while licking my fingers clean of gooey syrup. I was on the steps leading to the rear door of my building when I met Danny leaving.
A senior in college, Danny lived in the apartment below mine. With un-kempt hair that always needed to be cut, seeing him made my fingers itch to reach for a comb and scissors. Even dressed in his usual jeans and wrinkled t-shirt, he still looked delicious in a rumpled, un-made bed, shaggy sad-eyed sheepdog kind of way. I knew he had a little crush on me and wanted to ask me out. Schoolwork, part-time jobs, lack of money, and a crippling case of shyness kept him from asking.
After exchanging 'Heys', I was reaching for the doorknob when I heard him stumble and almost fall with the thud of a bookbag hitting the sidewalk echoing in the street. Grinning, I tried very hard not to laugh. I just knew he'd turned his head to check out my butt and tripped. I stopped at the door and watched as he fumbled for his dropped bag.
"You okay, Danny?"
"Ahh, yeah. Just clumsy, I guess," he answered while trying to keep a furiously blushing face turned away as much as possible. Danny changed the subject by pointing to my coffee. "You know, Olivia. It'd be cheaper to brew coffee instead of going out to buy one every morning."
"I know. I guess I just like the taste,” I replied. I'd made up the story of going to the Coffee Clutch for coffee when Danny had met me coming in as he was going out once too often.
"Hey, Olivia," Danny said as I turned to open the door. "Thanks. I know I haven't mentioned this, but having someone as quiet as you above me, I mean, living in the apartment above mine, it's really great. I saw the hardwood floors when I moved in, and I was afraid that I'd be hearing the clump, clump, clump of footsteps at all hours. How someone as big as you can move so quietly? Well, when I'm trying to study it really means a lot."
Wow! That was the most words the shy nerd had spoken to me in all the months since he'd moved in. Since I couldn't explain that the reason I was so quiet at night was because I wasn't in my apartment at night, I just took the compliment. Though with one reservation.
"Someone as big as I am," I asked in a fake, bewildered tone while looking down past my boobs to my flat stomach, trim hips and slender legs.
"I meant as tall as you are," Danny hastily explained. "You're nowhere near fat! You have an incredible... I mean, your body is totally... Ahh..."
"It's fine, Danny,” The laughter I'd kept in earlier bubbled out and I took pity on the shy nerd. "I was just having fun with you. Thanks for the stammered-out almost compliment. I gotta run to get to work on time but score an A on a test for me today."
My large corner apartment is on the top floor. No clumping footsteps above me to have to put up with. Closing the door behind me, I tossed my bag and keys on the table beside the door and breathed in the sweet smell of privacy. This was my first apartment, and although I didn't spend much time here, it was still mine. All mine! I could decorate it the way I liked. Paint the walls with the colors I like. Buy furniture that I like. I could even run naked through all the rooms. Cook in the nude. Throw caution to the wind and even fry bacon in the nude!
Tried that once. Hot bacon grease spattering out of the skillet had me grabbing for an apron very quickly. So, okay, probably wouldn't fry bacon in the nude again. But the important point is I can if I want to.
Going to the bedroom, I gathered all my dirty clothes and other laundry into my rolling hamper before opening the doors to my closets. The outfits I wore to and from home were for my dad and mom's benefit. The clothes I kept here in my apartment were my real work clothes. Shopping in stores far above what I could have afforded on my pay if I were an office temp had filled my closets with beautiful clothes.
Knowing who I was meeting, I picked out a backless, black dress and held it to my front. Shaking my head, I imagined what my dad would say if he saw me headed out the door for a date in a dress this short while exposing so much bra-less boob. I laid it on the bed. Hose, garter belt, and panties, also black, joined the dress.
My apartment has two bedrooms. Not needing two, I'd paid our building's super, to turn my second bedroom into a Shoes-and-Accessories Closet by lining the walls with shelves. Miller, my building's super loves me. I pay in beer and cash. Plus, I always wear tight, low-cut shirts when I treat him to lunch at a nearby diner before I ask for something.
I surveyed the choices I had and picked my ash-colored Christian Louboutin's. I like being tall and unless I'd had another growth spurt, I was still just a hair over six foot in my bare feet. The heels of my Louboutin's would elevate me to almost 6'5" and the client I was seeing this morning liked tall women. Especially tall women who don't wear panties… My panties went back into the dresser drawer.
My clothing selected, I had most of the day free to do chores. I pulled my rolling laundry hamper three blocks that-a-way to drop off at the cleaners then walked two blocks to a small corner grocery. Though small, it always seemed to have what I needed. Vacuuming, dusting and watching a couple of episodes of a show I was binging occupied me until it was time to dress.
A quick shower and then makeup... The dress went on quickly but selecting the right jewelry and purse took time. Dressed and properly accessorized, I sat to put on my heels. Putting my hand between dress fabric and skin, I lifted my boobs up to show more cleavage. My last act in the bedroom was to spritz the air three times with my favorite perfume before walking through the sweetly scented mist. After one last look in the mirror, I grabbed my purse and left my bedroom.
I don't usually go to this much trouble in what I wear for a daytime assignation at a hotel. But Tim had been my first client and since then he's requested a meeting two or even three times a month. Tim was a descent old guy in his 40s. He's in decent physical shape and is a decent fuck. He just likes to take breaks from a high stress job and crappy home life to have some fun. I didn't mind at all being that 'fun' because Tim also gave very decent gifts.
In the kitchen, I took some condoms from the tin marked SUGAR and slipped them into a side pocket of my purse. My clients seem to run about 70/30 pro about asking for condoms and it’s better to have too many than not enough. From the tin labeled TEA, I grabbed more tampons and put those in my purse. Ready for the day, I locked my door and headed for the stairs. Walking towards the entrance to the subway, I texted Marla that I'd be on time for my first appointment. Time to earn more sweet, sweet money!
I'm sure anyone reading this is pretty confused by now. After all, does anyone grow up hoping and wishing to be a prostitute... Whore... Call Girl... Sex Worker... Whatever you wish to label a practitioner of the world’s oldest profession. So how did I, a suburban, middle-income kid become one? After all, I grew up in a happy home. Two loving parents. A normal progression through school and puberty. Some friends became boyfriends. A couple of boyfriends became lovers. Just your normal age/hormonal progression from 'not interested' to 'interested' to 'nervous anticipation' to 'very eager participation'.
See? Except for always being the tallest girl in high school, I was just your normal teenage girl trying to juggle friends, school, clueless boyfriends and raging hormones. At least, I considered my life 'normal' up to a month after graduating high school.
You see, up until then I was an office temp fresh out of high school. Then one afternoon as I was walking out of the building where I'd been filing papers all day a woman approached, handed me her card and offered me a job...
**********
Eight Months Ago...
"DISCREETOFFICESERVICES.COM," I read off the card as I set my bookbag down beside a chair and accepted the coffee cup Marla offered me. "Sounds like you work for the CIA or something."
"Or something," Marla replied with a small smile, sitting with perfect posture in the high-backed, reclining leather chair behind her desk. Holding her coffee mug in both hands she leaned back in her chair. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Very attractive and poised, she still radiated a faint aura of, I don't take shit from anyone!
"I've noticed you working in the building this past week. You're a very attractive young lady. Head cheerleader and Prom Queen in high school?"
"Thanks for the compliments." I felt the heat of a blush on my cheeks. I'd never felt comfortable accepting compliments for things I'd been born with. After all, how much credit can you take for being the recipient of a lucky arrangement of bits and pieces of genetic code?
"Cheerleader, yes, but not the head cheerleader and I got enough votes to be a member of the Queen's Court but not the Prom Queen."
"You were content to be the Queen Bee, weren't you," Marla laughed.
"Well..." I shrugged. "It seemed to really mean a lot to one of my girlfriends. It wasn't worth it to me to split our group into competing factions."
"I thought so and very perceptive to know what really mattered. Anyway, about the job offer. You see, ten years ago I was sitting in a chair much like the one you are sitting in now and looking across a desk very much like this one. I was being offered the same opportunity I'm offering to you. Different office, different city, of course, but the offer was the same."
"And in just ten years you worked your way up to being the boss? Or CEO, or whatever your job title is? You must have been very hard-working."
"I was. One might say I worked my ass off to get where I am today,” Marla said with a sly smile. “Also, the job I was offered, and am now offering to you, has sort of an expiration date. You either move up to management in a few years or you leave the field entirely. Six months ago, I chose to move here to open my own agency and move up to management."
"Well, you must be doing something right. I mean, your office decor costs thousands! I measured an office to help order furniture for a new Vice-President of a company I temped at. I saw the magazine they were ordering furniture from so I know something about how much furniture like this desk costs.
"Solid cherry,” I said and ran my hand over the smooth surface of her desk. “Probably cost more than I'll make in a year on my salary."
"So, in a nutshell, let me make my pitch to you. Out there," Marla began with a graceful, encompassing wave of her hand. "Out there in the city, there are hundreds, thousands, of successful men and women. They became successful because of long hours of hard work. Long hours of hard work which left them exhausted and with few opportunities to truly enjoy the fruits of their hard work.
"They had little time or energy to socialize, to date, to meet new people, to fall in love. Some of them remained single. Some settled for 'good enough'," Marla said using air quotes. "Most of my target demographic is in their middle-to-late forties and fifties. All of them are fairly well off financially and tired of being single. Tired of having settled for good enough.
"They're still relatively young. They're much better off financially than when they were younger and they're looking for the excitement now that was denied to them when they were on their way up the corporate ladder. Unfortunately for them, but fortunately for me and perhaps you, a leopard doesn't change its spots so easily. They're still stuck on that corporate treadmill. Long hours of hard work are all they've ever known for so long that getting off that treadmill seems impossible for them."
Marla shrugged her shoulders to express bewilderment at the idea that people would voluntarily work so hard. Rising from her chair, Marla walked from behind her desk to the chair beside mine and sat.
"But... Isn't there always a 'but'? But now they have corner offices and private secretaries. Very large bank balances. Nice stock portfolios. Plush houses in gated communities. Expensive cars. They have all the material things they once thought they wanted, and the damned fools are still working over eighty hours a week! The idiots just can't stop from working themselves into an early grave.
"But... There's that but again," Marla said with a laugh. "But humans don't just want material things. They also want excitement. They crave intimacy. Since my clients seem incapable of relaxing and taking the time to go out to find that intimacy, I provide them with intimacy. Any type of intimacy they desire, when and where they want. Do you understand?
It took several seconds, but the light bulb finally lit up over my head.
"You're a Madame?!"
"What's in a name,” Marla asked dismissively with a shrug. “Madame, CEO, Company President. Call girl, escort, consort, mistress, hooker, whore... All the same things. A rose by any other name... The only thing which changes is the degree of respectability the public attaches to the name.
"What would you say if I told you that all women become whores at times,” Marla asked me over steepled fingers.
"I'd say that you're wrong," I replied forcefully. "My mom would never become a whore."
"Really? Give me your definition of a whore?"
"A woman who has sex for money."
"So, you agree that if a woman has sex for compensation, she's a whore. But money isn't the only form of compensation there is. So your definition needs to be expanded. Want to know my definition? My definition of a whore would be... A woman who has sex for any reason other than her own enjoyment. Are you a virgin, Olivia?"
"Umm, no..." was all I could mumble. I was taken aback at being asked so personal a question by someone I'd just met.
"Do you think that you've whored yourself?"
"NO!"
"Really?" There was a tone of satisfaction in Marla's voice. As if she knew she'd already won our argument. "Ever been with a guy out on a date and he's all over you? He's whining about how horny he is. He's grabbing at your boobs and pawing between your legs? Trying to undo your jeans? Your bra? You don't feel like having sex but to keep the guy happy maybe you gave him a blowjob or hand job just to satisfy him? Calm him down? Stop his whining? Wouldn't that qualify as having sex not for your enjoyment but for the compensation of stopping his incessant whining? Did you ever feel you were obligated to have sex because he was paying for the date? Haven't you already whored yourself?"
Marla stopped talking and waited for my reply. Remembering some of my dates in high school and what had happened on them, I thought about her definition of a whore as a woman who has sex for any reason other than her own enjoyment. I thought about it and... Marla took my continued silence as a yes.
"Olivia, we've just met, but I'd make another bet that our experiences growing up were pretty much the same. Middle-class values. Pretty and popular in school. I was the Prom Queen by the way. We all whored for something," Marla said. She didn't say it in a gloating voice though. Her tone was of someone just stating a fact.
"You're tired of his whining so you have sex just to shut the asshole up. Maybe you think it will gain you popularity in high school. You're afraid of not having a date for the big dance so you spread your legs in the back seat for the guy who will invite you to Senior Prom. There are so many reasons other than because you wanted to have sex.
"What I do is simplify things,” Marla continued as she picked up a folder from her desk. “I discard all the reasons a woman will have sex except for one. Money." Taking a paper from the folder, she wrote on it before handing it to me. The only thing on the paper was a number.
"That is how much a woman earns every time she sees clients I set her up with. If my girl agrees to see a client, she's only obligated to spend up to two hours doing what the client wants. The number is doubled if the client wants to include someone else. Doubled for every hour or part of an hour he wants you to remain. Tripled for the third person, etc., etc. So, let's say my client needs a date, arm candy, for a corporate party. The party lasts three hours and at the end he, or she, has a friend who wants to party on into the night for another two hours..."
Marla stayed quiet as I tried to do the math. I doubled the number for the third hour and added it to the first number then added another doubled number for the third person joining the fun. That still left... I threw up my hands and gave up.
"Would you like to use my calculator," Marla asked with a laugh.
"Here, I'll make it simple," she continued. Pulling the paper from my hand, she wrote another number down and handed the paper back to me. "That is how much my girl will make for five hours of her time."
Holy Shit!!! I was speechless! A five-hour party with two guys would go a long way to paying for a semester at City College. I'm pretty sure that there are times when each of us will wonder what we'd do for a large sum of money. I took another look at the number Marla had written down. I was tempted to ask for that calculator so I could calculate the number of days I'd have to work at the temp agency to get to that number.
"Men actually pay that much," I asked as I tried to believe it. I'm not naive. But what I knew about prostitution was learned from TV and movies. Whores hanging out on street corners to do blow jobs for 50$. But the amount written on the paper in my hand was a lot more than 50$!
"I live at home,” I sighed and handed the paper back to Marla. “Even if I were tempted I could never 'date'." This time I used air quotes.
"Go out on dates every night and still work to explain how I was making money. Not gonna happen."
"Who said anything about my girls working only at night," Marla laughed. She rose and opened the blinds of a window. The city skyline was prominent.
"Out there I have six girls working right now. I still had to turn down clients. I'd have to turn down clients if I had twelve girls working every day. Some of my girls are like you. They live in the suburbs and when they are able, they come to the city and work one or two clients, sometimes even three clients a day if I can work the scheduling right.
"They might ride the same train as you. Return to a nice suburban home like you will. Eat dinner like you. Watch some shows like you. Do you want to know the only difference between you and them? They will have made much more money than you have.
"Some of my girls are proper, suburban married wives and even mothers. No children or they've kept their figures after childbirth. Kids are in school or at their grandparents for the day. Husbands are at work. She's bored so she tells everyone she's going to the city to shop and maybe see a movie. She'll let me know the date and the hours she'll be available in advance, and I'll have a client lined up for her. Sometimes two clients if she has the time. Before she returns home, I've deposited money in her private bank account from an offshore bank. Usually? I'll never even see her that day.
"There are many successful men and women who are too busy to take the entire day off. Too tired after work for a date. But maybe they can free up an hour during the day. Perhaps they're here in the city for business and want to combine business with some pleasure. I'll get a request for a girl at such-n-such time at either a hotel room or maybe their office. If a girl is available and can make it to the location in time, I send her."
Marla leaned back and went quiet to give me time to digest all she'd said. It felt as if an entirely new world had opened to me. I sure as hell wasn't a virgin. I was even on the pill because I hadn’t been shy about having fun on dates in high school.
"So, I could continue to come into the city as if I was still working at the temp agency,” I mused. “What if a girl has to be on a train at a certain time? Would you pressure her to stay for another client?"
"Never. You are only obligated to stay two hours each time you agree to see a client. All of my clients know this and if, at the end of two hours you need to leave, that's it. It's over. I've worked for a Madame who pressured her girls to do, 'just one more'. Pretty soon she had no girls working for her. I don't intend to make that mistake."
"Your girls do anything the client wants? There are things I've never done before."
"Yes. If you agree to meet a client you are obligated to do anything he, or she, wants to do for at least two hours. On that point, there is flexibility on only a few conditions: Any act that could result in an arrest. So public sex is out! Any act that could result in bodily harm. So, whips are out. Anal sex is out if the client didn’t specify he wanted it before you agreed to meet him.
"My clients know these conditions. Clients, especially those who make appointments during the day for when they might have a break in their schedule, usually just want straight sex for some fun and stress reduction. But if I get a message that one of my girls refused any reasonable request, she doesn't get paid."
"I could do just one client a day and make way more money than I'd make working at the temp agency," I continued to muse. "Do your girls, umm, find work every day?"
"Olivia! Have you looked into a mirror lately,” Marla laughed. “You're tall, blonde, eye-catchingly beautiful and your measurements are... Impressive. I can almost guarantee that within a month you'll have every day booked with at least one regular client. Two if the scheduling works. Ten clients a week."
I did the math again. Added a zero and… That would be close to... Holy shit.
"Doing the math, Olivia?" I nodded and Marla continued. "Don't forget to add in the gifts. Your clients will be wealthy and though you may never ask for money nor discuss money with them, they almost always show their appreciation to my girls for good service in the way of gifts that average between two and three hundred dollars. Often more. Gifts are kept by the girls. I don't get a cut of those."
I had my mouth open to ask the obvious question when Marla anticipated me and answered before I could ask.
"Think about it before you ask why I don't take a cut. Knowing they get to keep 100% of gifts makes my girls try very hard to satisfy my clients. Satisfied clients keep coming back for more. I make more money from the repeat business of well-satisfied clients than I would from any cut from the gifts. Another business lesson I learned from a previous employer."
Damn! Even at the low end of tips, with just ten clients a week, two a day, that would be an extra two thousand dollars. That would boost the weekly total to... Holy fucking shit!
"Tax free?"
"You can declare as much of your gifts as you want, or none. Your salary from me? Yes, it's all taxable. No way do I want to cross the IRS. I file taxes just like any other business. As far as the IRS is concerned, I just run another temp agency for models. Pay stubs and info for filing taxes are kept here in the office. I never mail them out where husbands and others might see them. It's your responsibility to come get them if you want them.
"Tell you what," Marla added as she stood up and walked me to the door of her office. "I'm offering you the opportunity to make more money than you'll ever make as an office temp. Why not think about what I've said. If you have any further questions, you can return here. If you decide you'd like to try working for me, I'll send you out to meet your first client."
Hailing a taxi, I phoned Mom to tell her I'd missed my regular train and would be a little late. At the dinner table, I tried hard to act as if this had just been a normal day where nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Pleading a stressful day, I brushed my teeth and put on one of the many Hello Kitty nightshirts I wore to sleep in before going to bed early. But I couldn't fall asleep. Lying awake in the dark, I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd do with lots of money. Lots and lots of money...
When you think of call girls, do you think of the movie Pretty Woman? A woman getting paid to have sex with a handsome rich guy? Where's the downside? Well, the downside is that 95% of handsome rich guys don't need to pay for sex. There's still that 5% I meet and fuck some days, but today wasn't one of those days...
Muscles hidden beneath the fat of the man between my thighs tensed and flexed as he drove his cock into me with more energy than before. Oh my God, I hoped my client was finally close to coming! To help push him over the edge, I spread my legs wider and twerked my hips upwards to meet his thrusting cock.
"Do it... Come in me! Do it. Do it. Do it. Fuck me harder," I grunted out in time with his thrusts.
This was the first time this particular client had used Marla's service. She'd had no notes from previous girls on his likes/dislikes to pass on to me before I showed up at his hotel room. But he'd seemed to respond earlier to 'dirty talk' while I'd been sucking and licking his cock. Some men did and some men didn't. This old guy did. I could tell.
"You feel so good inside me. Soooo deep... So fucking deep in my cunt..." Ah-ha! He'd responded to the C-Word.
"That's it, Baby. I'm a cunt. Just a tight, wet cunt made for fucking... Can you tell how wet my cunt is for you? Just like that, Baby. Fuck my cunt just like that.
"Yea, Baby. Me and you, we both know it," I continued in a confiding whisper. "But I'm the only one who'll admit it. All women are just cunts. Walking, talking cunts begging to be fucked... Tight, wet cunts wanting to be fucked..."
I was pleased as my continued 'dirty talk' had the desired effect. The thrusts between my thighs gained strength. Gasping for breath he closed his eyes. He was sweating profusely, his face an alarming hue of red... It seemed our sex was becoming a race between the old guy coming inside me or having a heart attack on top of me. I breathed out a sigh of relief as coming inside me won.
Thighs drove his cock into me in time with his grunts of release. Fucking grunts of release became long, drawn-out groans of completion. I felt cock throbbing inside me as cum flowed. But the throbbing quickly slowed as I was fucked with a final series of short, hard thrusts. Thrusts that seconds later stopped as hips pressed and ground hard against my pussy lips in a man's primal urge to leave his seed deep inside any cunt.
I felt his cock pulse weakly one last time as he rested more of his weight on me to trail kisses over my neck. I was so glad the sex was over that I didn't even mind wrapping my arms and legs around the sweaty bulk crushing me into the mattress. Well, at least not too much.
"Oh, my God. Yes, Baby. Don’t pull out. Stay inside me. I love it. I love having your cock in my cunt," I breathed into his ear. I didn't mean it, of course. For one thing, he was wearing a condom. For another, I was just glad the heavy and slick with sweat bulk would soon move off me. Damn, I'm such a good actress.
His heavy body remained on top of me for about a minute as he gulped for air between kisses. I turned my sigh of relief into what I hoped would sound like a moan of pleasure when most of the weight of the sweaty, heavy body finally lifted off me.
As he (Dammit! What the fuck is this guy’s name!?) rested on locked arms above me, I kept my smile natural. A smile that said I was sexually satisfied and not that I was thankful that our sex and time together was over. I even tried not to mind the sweat that dripped from his chin and nose onto my tits.
"Oh, my God… That was incredible,” he whispered as his breathing became less labored though his face remained an alarming red. Still hoping the old guy (Dammit! What the fuck was the name he'd given me?!) wouldn’t have a heart attack on top of me.
I whispered back how good he felt inside me. To give me more pleasure, his hips began moving his softening cock in a slow in-and-out motion. I closed my eyes and moaned, telling him again how good his cock felt just before his now flaccid and completely soft shaft slipped from my pussy.
Well, at least he’d tried...
As he continued to hover above me, his gaze left my face and trailed down my body as if trying to commit every detail of my large breasts, narrow waist and hairless pussy mound to memory. Dipping his head, he took his time sucking on each of my tits before, with a drawn-out sigh, he finally moved from between my legs and collapsed beside me.
"My God, you're beautiful," he sighed.
Turning onto my side, I rose up on my elbow to run my free hand through his sweaty, salt-and-pepper, mostly salt, chest hair.
"You were pretty incredible yourself,” I cooed.
"Don't try to bullshit a bullshitter," was the response. "I'm a fat old man staring down the barrel of mandatory retirement."
Ah-ha! So that's what got his motor revving. If we were playing poker, I'd go all-in that it was a woman, a walking/talking cunt, leading the charge to retire him.
"Can you stay longer," I was asked. "We can have some drinks. Order room service. Who knows? Maybe go for Round Three after I rest?"
"I wish I had more time. If I did I wouldn’t say no to a repeat,” I lied. I sure as fuck didn’t mean it about the repeat. “But I can’t stay longer today, Jim.”
That's his name! JIM! He'd introduced himself as Just-Call-Me-Jim!!
"Unfortunately for both of us, I have to get going,” I continued.
Feeling relief I'd remembered Jim's name, I patted his chest as I sat up beside him. Just-Call-Me-Jim watched my tits sway as I reached up to finger-fluff my hair out of my face to lay down my back. I was used to men looking at my big tits. I gave my hair a few extra finger-fluffs to give him a good, long look.
Remembering that time was passing by, I reached to circle the condom on Just-Call-Me-Jim's cock with my thumb and forefinger. I milked the small, soft shaft to let the last bit of cum join what was already in the condom before removing it. Leaning over, I pulled as much shaft from his thick crotch hair as I could. The fragrance of my pussy from the crotch hair filled my nose as I filled my mouth with limp cock.
My tongue moved Just-Call-Me-Jim's cock around my mouth while I sucked it clean. The mixed taste of cum, latex and spermicide would never make it as an ice cream flavor, but it no longer bothered me.
Wow, just look at me now, I thought as I lifted my mouth away from Just-Call-Me-Jim's crotch. The girl who only a few months ago wouldn't even consider letting a boyfriend come in her mouth.
After a last suck and lick, I slid off the bed and walked to the bathroom.
I tossed the condom into the toilet and decided to give Just-Call-Me-Jim my own little sign of approval to take his mind off his pending retirement. My handbag was on the sink counter and I retrieved my lipstick from a side pocket. Leaning closer to the mirror, I applied a thick coating of red to my lips.
I walked back into the bedroom where Jim was still resting. With a shit eating grin but without a word of explanation, I took his limp cock in my hand and pressed my lips hard against head of his cock. Satisfied with the bright red kiss emoji I’d made, I walked back to the bathroom.
"What's that for," Jim laughed curiously.
"You've heard of wounded soldiers receiving the Purple Heart? I just awarded you the Red Dick. It's what I give to men who gave me a good fuck."
Honestly? It hadn't been a good fuck. Just-Call-Me-Jim certainly wasn't a good lover, but I gave him bonus points for enthusiasm. Besides, Just-Call-Me-Jim's net worth had to be large. I wanted to see if his wealth translated into a large gift for me!
I have no idea why I started leaving a red kiss on the cocks of men who’d pleased me. But it became 'my thing' when I noticed that men who'd received it began requesting me more often. Spending more time with men I liked meant spending less time with men I didn't like. Recipients of the Red Dick also seemed to give me larger cash gifts, too. Win-Win-Win for me!
Back in the bathroom, I wiped off the lipstick with tissue. Tossing the tissue into the toilet, I gave tissue and condom a watery grave.
Just-Call-Me-Jim seemed to admire the view as I walked past the bed to go into the main room where the mini-bar was. Just-Call-Me-Jim traveled with his own special brand of scotch. A brand I'd never heard of. I poured two-fingers of scotch neat into his glasse and half-a-finger with ice in mine. Sitting on the side of the bed, I handed one glass to my client.
"Pussy," Just-Call-Me-Jim labeled me, looking pointedly at the ice in my glass. "Only pussies drink scotch over ice."
"Yea, well. In case you haven't noticed yet, I have a pussy," I whispered back before leaning over and sliding my tits over his chest to share a scotch flavored kiss.
Almost like magic, a hand appeared seemingly from nowhere to grasp and fondle one of my tits. I let my boob be played with while we shared kisses between sips of scotch. I drank mine quicker than I usually do and rattled the ice in my glass as I pulled away to stand up.
"Want more," I asked as I held my glass up.
"Definitely," Just-Call-Me-Jim answered, his eyes on me and not my glass. "Spend the night with me."
Wow! That was quite an offer. Marla charged different rates for her girls and I knew what she charged a client for me to show up for a couple of hours. What she would charge for an entire night of my time wouldn't be cheap! Maybe it would be pocket change to Just-Call-Me-Jim, but to me...
I gave serious thought to calling Mom and telling her I'd been invited to go to the movies and spend the night with a girlfriend from work.
But I shook my head to dispel the vision of what my bank balance would be if I agreed. Instead, I took our glasses back to the mini-bar. I poured me another half-finger and topped off Just-Call-Me-Jim's drink. Smiling, I handed him his glass. I carried my drink into the bathroom.
"I'd love that much money but I'm still gonna say no to spending the night," I answered making up an excuse while raising my voice to carry over the sound of running water as I wet a washcloth with hot water. "Wanna know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I already know what will happen," I answered while surveying the damage in the mirror. My makeup was ruined. There was dried spit and cum on my cheeks, chin and tits.
Our missionary sex had been the second time my client had come. The first had been after a blow job that had turned into my being mouth fucked beside the suite’s couch. Just-call-Me-Jim had covered my face with rope after rope of thick cum. I swear the old guy must've saved up his cum for a year to have that much in his balls!
I'd used a finger to move most of the cum into my mouth but, looking in the mirror, I could see where I'd missed some. 'Shit! What is it about men that they can’t hit an open mouth two inches from their dick,' I mentally groused as I used the damp washcloth to begin cleaning from my face to my tits.
"You're tired from just having sex. I'll keep feeding you scotch. You'll order a lot of food from room service." I began explaining while rinsing out the washcloth to clean my face again while checking for any remaining cum.
Turning on the shower, I adjusted the temperature and pulled my hair up. I used a scrunchy from my handbag to hold my hair in a knot. A quick wash to clean the cum from my pussy, thighs and ass crack took very little time.
"You'll fall asleep and sleep until... I'd guess midnight," I continued to explain while in the shower. "You'll wake up horny and I'll suck you off. Some more bourbon and you'll fall asleep again."
I stepped to lean against the door jamb where Just-Call-Me-Jim could watch me brush out my hair.
"You'll sleep until morning," I told him. "Meanwhile, I'll be binge watching one of my shows on your dime."
Slipping my dress over my head, I fluffed my hair out and did a quick touch-up of my make-up. Straightening my dress again, I exited the bathroom and had to laugh. Just-Call-Me-Jim was standing almost naked beside the bed. Almost naked because he'd found my thong panties while I'd been in the bathroom dressing and cleaning our sex from my face and between my legs. My thongs were now dangling from the thick bush around his limp cock.
"Thank you for finding those for me," I managed after stilling my laughter. Closing the distance between us, I was reaching for the panties when Jim pulled me close.
"Are you sure you need to leave," Just-Call-Me-Jim asked as his hands kneaded my ass through my dress. "We can have some drinks… Order that room service..."
Damn. Except for being four inches shorter than me and two-hundred pounds heavier, Just-Call-Me-Jim hadn’t been an entirely unpleasant fuck. He certainly had stamina as long as he didn't have a heart attack. Plus, the kitchen in this hotel made wonderful food. But I shook my head in a slow no.
"No, I'd rather leave you happy now than pissed off tomorrow because sometime tomorrow you'll check your credit card charges. Yea, it won't be much more than pocket change to you, but you'll end up thinking how I ripped you off. Paying for all those hours and only getting one lousy blow job."
Letting him down gently with a kiss, I reached between us to close my fingers around a very used shaft that wasn’t showing even the smallest signs of life. After squeezing and slow stroking for a few seconds, I moved backwards until his hands reluctantly let go of my ass.
Taking my panties with me, I checked first that I wouldn't sit in a wet spot. Sitting on the edge of the bed we'd occupied only a short time before; I lifted one foot and then the other to carefully slip my panties past my stiletto heels and up to my knees. Standing up, Jim watched in silence as I pulled them up until the tiny triangle of silk covered my pussy and adjusted the fit. Pulling the hem of my dress back down, I snagged my handbag and began making my way towards the door to the hall.
"I'll make you a deal," I said jauntily, stopping to face Just-Call-Me-Jim. With my heels on I was almost eight inches taller than he was and the extra height gave me more confidence. "Instead of me taking you for a lot of money just to watch you sleep, I'll spend an hour with you for every two pounds you lose between now and the next time we meet. You gotta be honest though."
"Do I still have to pay you for those hours?"
"Fuck yes! I may be easy but I ain't cheap! But at least you'll be going into the deal with your eyes open. You won't go away thinking I ripped you off. Oh, and you agree not to return to my city until you've lost twenty pounds," I stuck out my hip and let my hand outline my body from chest to hips. "For losing twenty pounds, you get ten hours of this."
"Wait. Wait, let me understand this. I have to go on a diet. I have to fly back here. I have to pay you..."
"Double my regular rate," I interrupted.
"Double?!"
"Damn straight, Skippy. If you can afford to fly your private jet here for a booty call, you can afford to pay me double."
"Deal," Just-Call-Me-Jim answered and handed me the envelope he'd had in his hand all this time. I put it in my handbag without comment.
"Deal," I agreed. "You'll go home. Go to a doctor. Go on a healthy diet and return after losing twenty pounds."
"I diet. I fly. I pay double... Seems like I'm doing all of the heavy lifting," Jim jokingly complained as his hands grasped my ass cheeks to pull me closer. "And what will you do to make it all worthwhile?"
"You do all that and for ten hours..." I leaned in close until my lips were fluttering softly on his ear to whisper in what I called my Triple S voice - Soft, Sultry and Suggestive. "For ten hours I will suck you, fuck you and Rock... Your... World in ways you've only dreamed about."
I pulled away and we took the last steps to the door and kissed again.
"A safe, healthy diet or deals off! Don't even think about returning for at least a couple of months," I said.
"I will! Damn, you've given me the best incentive to lose weight I've ever had. I will definitely be back," Jim promised as he opened the door for me. I slipped through the door and added a little extra sway to my hips as I made my way to the hotel elevators in case he was watching. I felt good. Getting Just-Call-Me-Jim to lose even ten pounds would do wonders for his health.
Stopping in the Ladies' Room off the hotel's lobby, I checked that our last kisses hadn't smeared my lip gloss before retrieving Just-Call-Me-Jim’s envelope from my purse. I don't count 'Gifts' in front of clients. Seven crisp Benjamins. Very nice! Added to what my first client had gifted me earlier in the day, plus my share of the fee Marla charged each client for my time... The Louis Vuitton purse and matching shoes I've been wanting were soon to be mine!
Giving Marla a call as I waited for the doorman to flag down a taxi, I gave her a quick run-down on our service's newest client. His likes and dislikes, etc. Marla would make notes. She got a hearty laugh at the deal I'd made with Just-Call-Me-Jim.
"Ten hours of your time at double what I normally charge a client? I love it and so will your bank account if he follows through!"
I heard the clickety-click of a keyboard in the background and Marla told me that my share of the fee this client had been charged for my time and body was now deposited into my bank account. Another very profitable day was over. Relaxing in the back seat of the taxi, I gave a relieved and satisfied sigh.
I won’t say I’m proud to be a Call Girl, but since I was, I was glad I worked for Marla. She ran a small, very exclusive business out of an office downtown where beautiful girls were discreetly offered to very wealthy clients.
Marla ran a completely cashless business. Money would be transferred to an offshore bank from a client's credit card. As she'd once told me, 'If their credit card doesn't have a high enough limit to pay my fee then they're not wealthy enough for me to waste my time on.'
A series of bank transfers would then automatically occur and upon receiving word that my meeting with a client was successfully completed, my share of the fee would be transferred into my banking account from a different offshore bank.
So, I never had to discuss money with clients. If I was sent by Marla, it meant my time was already paid for. I had my share of the fee no matter what as long as I’d followed the rules. But what made me try hard to satisfy my clients were the nice gifts they gave for great sex. Wealthy clients meant large gifts. My gifts averaged three-to-four-hundred-dollars. On one very good day, after seeing two clients, I'd gone home with over a thousand gifted dollars in my purse. All cash and tax-free. The money Marla deposited into my bank account was taxable though, darn it!
Glancing at my watch in the taxi I knew I was cutting it close, but I would make it on time to catch the train to the burbs. I had the driver drop me two blocks from my Brownstone. I've had clients try to track me down outside of work and now I take precautions. Just in case a client ever went through my purse, I only carried a fake ID with a fictitious address.
I unlocked the street door and went inside the apartment building I was dropped off in front of. I walked through the building before exiting out the back door. Taking shortcuts through parking areas, I hoofed it as quickly as I could in four-inch heels to my building. Inside, I took off my heels, checked my mailbox (empty) and ran the stairs to the top floor as my nod to cardio.
Locking my door behind me, I stripped off my 'Work Clothes'. Clothes my parents would never have approved of me wearing in public. Hundreds joined other hundreds in the large, decorative tin marked FLOUR on my kitchen counter. Smaller denominations and loose change got tossed into a pretty lacquered box I’d found in an antique shop.
From a small drawer beside my stove, I pulled out an even smaller baggie. I'd fucked two clients today. Questing between my legs, I found the string and pulled out the tampon I'd inserted to stop the lubricant I’d used and my own pussy juice from wetting my panties. The tampon went into a baggie and the baggie went into the trash.
After washing my fingers, I carried my clothes into the bedroom. Thongs went into the laundry hamper and dress went into the Dry Cleaning Only box. All the jewelry my mom would never believe I could afford on what I could've earned as an office temp was left on my dresser. My watch was the only indulgence I allowed myself to wear at home. It was exhausting enough to remember to change my earrings. Luckily, my parents wouldn't know a four-thousand-dollar Cartier Rose Gold watch from a ten-dollar Wal-Mart Swatch.
Turning the water on in my shower, I twisted my hair into a bun and pinned it. I brushed my teeth until any lingering smell of bourbon and sex was gone and my breath smelled minty fresh. I took a quick but thorough wash under the warm water to remove sweat, any undiscovered cum and any lingering smell of sex. (My mom had the nose of a bloodhound.)
I was toweling off when my phone rang. Damn, I'd forgotten to turn it off after calling Marla. As expected, it was Mom. I'd told her the plausible lie that employers didn't want to see temp workers on the phone. So I kept my phone off during the day. It was after 5 pm. I couldn't plead work to not answer.
There was no reason for Mom's call except to be sure I was going to be on time for supper. But my mom is a talker. She can talk forever about nothing. I put my phone on conference call and placed the phone on my bed as I dressed in the 'Suburban Clothes' I'd worn when I left the house this morning.
Once dressed, I shook my hair out of the bun and finger-fluffed it out. I vigorously applied my brush to make certain that no cum was left clumped in my hair. All the while I was giving appropriate responses to Mom. She was happily telling me a story about something I had no interest in that was happening to no one I knew. Dressed and ready, pleading having to run for the train, I hung up.
My Brownstone apartment is in a perfect location. Three short city blocks from the train station and two blocks the other way from an entrance to the subway. Another thing that made it perfect was the nearby Coffee Clutch I stopped at on the way to the train station. Strong coffee and a gooey pastry would keep me going until dinner. My stomach argued with me and I lost. I bought two pastries. I hadn't eaten all day.
The house and suburb I'd grown up in was barely a thirty-minute trip by train. I used the time to relax, ignoring the admiring looks from the same old guy I saw on the train many evenings. I'm six-feet tall with long, blonde hair and a slender build. Except for my boobs. They aren't slender. They're 34DDs that strain the buttons of any blouse I wear.
Big boobs can rarely be hidden except under a Winter coat. It was late Spring so I just tried to ignore the attention from men that my looks, height and big boobs drew. I've had four years to practice 'ignoring' since my fourteenth birthday when my boobs finally stopped growing.
It’s an easy fifteen-minute walk from the station to our home. On nice days I ride my bicycle. Today was a nice day and soon I was coasting to a stop in our garage. Entering the house, I tossed my bookbag on a chair.
"I'm home, Mom,” I yelled. “What's for supper?"
**********
The next morning my phone rang as I stepped from the train onto the platform. My commute from the suburbs to the city was ending in its predictable way. A call from Mom to catch up on my life since I'd gone to sleep the night before. Because I was always up and away from the house before Mom and Dad were up, morning phone calls now took the place of the conversations we used to have over breakfast before school.
The usual pleasantries followed but soon segued into predictable themes - When was I going to look for a better job than being an office temp? A job that offered benefits and security. Was I still uninterested in going to college? She'd just begun to express wishes that I'd find a guy, 'I'm not getting any younger. Grandkids would be nice to have around while I'm still young enough to enjoy them.'
At that point, stating that I was about to enter the subway, I hung up and checked my messages to make certain I had the correct time for my first appointment. I had plenty of time, so I stopped at the Coffee Clutch for coffee and a sugary pastry to snack on as I slowly walked towards my apartment. An apartment my parents knew nothing about.
I've given serious thought to 'officially' moving out of my parents’ house and to the city. I was almost nineteen and out of high school. Many girls I'd graduated with were finishing their freshman year of college. Others had jobs and were living on their own. A few were already married! One was already pregnant in her third trimester. Money was no longer an issue, but... But the city was only a short ride by train from our suburb.
If my mom knew I had an apartment she would drop by at all hours of the day, any day of the week. Maybe I’d get a call after she was already on the train. I'd never be able to keep my secret life a secret. Instead, I considered my apartment as just a very large closet where I could change clothes and wash. I still lived at home in the bedroom which had been mine since I was sleeping in a cradle. Mom and I still rode bikes together. Shopped together. Gardened, talked, and watched weepy-eye Lifetime/Hallmark movies together. To keep Mom happy, I even went out on dates occasionally.
My Dad? Oh, he huffed and puffed and bellowed like an elephant wondering, 'When are you going to leave the damned nest so your mom and I can have some damned peace and quiet around here!' But on Saturday mornings after falling asleep on the couch during a late-night binge of watching the aforementioned weepy-eye movies, I'd find a blanket covering me and Dad making a huge breakfast while bellowing, 'Eat you idiot child and put some meat on those skinny bones so you have the energy to find your own damned place and leave me in peace!' Yeah, I've had Daddy figured out and wrapped around my little finger since I took my first steps.
Thinking of steps, I looked at my watch and increased the pace of mine while licking my fingers clean of gooey syrup. I was on the steps leading to the rear door of my building when I met Danny leaving.
A senior in college, Danny lived in the apartment below mine. With un-kempt hair that always needed to be cut, seeing him made my fingers itch to reach for a comb and scissors. Even dressed in his usual jeans and wrinkled t-shirt, he still looked delicious in a rumpled, un-made bed, shaggy sad-eyed sheepdog kind of way. I knew he had a little crush on me and wanted to ask me out. Schoolwork, part-time jobs, lack of money, and a crippling case of shyness kept him from asking.
After exchanging 'Heys', I was reaching for the doorknob when I heard him stumble and almost fall with the thud of a bookbag hitting the sidewalk echoing in the street. Grinning, I tried very hard not to laugh. I just knew he'd turned his head to check out my butt and tripped. I stopped at the door and watched as he fumbled for his dropped bag.
"You okay, Danny?"
"Ahh, yeah. Just clumsy, I guess," he answered while trying to keep a furiously blushing face turned away as much as possible. Danny changed the subject by pointing to my coffee. "You know, Olivia. It'd be cheaper to brew coffee instead of going out to buy one every morning."
"I know. I guess I just like the taste,” I replied. I'd made up the story of going to the Coffee Clutch for coffee when Danny had met me coming in as he was going out once too often.
"Hey, Olivia," Danny said as I turned to open the door. "Thanks. I know I haven't mentioned this, but having someone as quiet as you above me, I mean, living in the apartment above mine, it's really great. I saw the hardwood floors when I moved in, and I was afraid that I'd be hearing the clump, clump, clump of footsteps at all hours. How someone as big as you can move so quietly? Well, when I'm trying to study it really means a lot."
Wow! That was the most words the shy nerd had spoken to me in all the months since he'd moved in. Since I couldn't explain that the reason I was so quiet at night was because I wasn't in my apartment at night, I just took the compliment. Though with one reservation.
"Someone as big as I am," I asked in a fake, bewildered tone while looking down past my boobs to my flat stomach, trim hips and slender legs.
"I meant as tall as you are," Danny hastily explained. "You're nowhere near fat! You have an incredible... I mean, your body is totally... Ahh..."
"It's fine, Danny,” The laughter I'd kept in earlier bubbled out and I took pity on the shy nerd. "I was just having fun with you. Thanks for the stammered-out almost compliment. I gotta run to get to work on time but score an A on a test for me today."
My large corner apartment is on the top floor. No clumping footsteps above me to have to put up with. Closing the door behind me, I tossed my bag and keys on the table beside the door and breathed in the sweet smell of privacy. This was my first apartment, and although I didn't spend much time here, it was still mine. All mine! I could decorate it the way I liked. Paint the walls with the colors I like. Buy furniture that I like. I could even run naked through all the rooms. Cook in the nude. Throw caution to the wind and even fry bacon in the nude!
Tried that once. Hot bacon grease spattering out of the skillet had me grabbing for an apron very quickly. So, okay, probably wouldn't fry bacon in the nude again. But the important point is I can if I want to.
Going to the bedroom, I gathered all my dirty clothes and other laundry into my rolling hamper before opening the doors to my closets. The outfits I wore to and from home were for my dad and mom's benefit. The clothes I kept here in my apartment were my real work clothes. Shopping in stores far above what I could have afforded on my pay if I were an office temp had filled my closets with beautiful clothes.
Knowing who I was meeting, I picked out a backless, black dress and held it to my front. Shaking my head, I imagined what my dad would say if he saw me headed out the door for a date in a dress this short while exposing so much bra-less boob. I laid it on the bed. Hose, garter belt, and panties, also black, joined the dress.
My apartment has two bedrooms. Not needing two, I'd paid our building's super, to turn my second bedroom into a Shoes-and-Accessories Closet by lining the walls with shelves. Miller, my building's super loves me. I pay in beer and cash. Plus, I always wear tight, low-cut shirts when I treat him to lunch at a nearby diner before I ask for something.
I surveyed the choices I had and picked my ash-colored Christian Louboutin's. I like being tall and unless I'd had another growth spurt, I was still just a hair over six foot in my bare feet. The heels of my Louboutin's would elevate me to almost 6'5" and the client I was seeing this morning liked tall women. Especially tall women who don't wear panties… My panties went back into the dresser drawer.
My clothing selected, I had most of the day free to do chores. I pulled my rolling laundry hamper three blocks that-a-way to drop off at the cleaners then walked two blocks to a small corner grocery. Though small, it always seemed to have what I needed. Vacuuming, dusting and watching a couple of episodes of a show I was binging occupied me until it was time to dress.
A quick shower and then makeup... The dress went on quickly but selecting the right jewelry and purse took time. Dressed and properly accessorized, I sat to put on my heels. Putting my hand between dress fabric and skin, I lifted my boobs up to show more cleavage. My last act in the bedroom was to spritz the air three times with my favorite perfume before walking through the sweetly scented mist. After one last look in the mirror, I grabbed my purse and left my bedroom.
I don't usually go to this much trouble in what I wear for a daytime assignation at a hotel. But Tim had been my first client and since then he's requested a meeting two or even three times a month. Tim was a descent old guy in his 40s. He's in decent physical shape and is a decent fuck. He just likes to take breaks from a high stress job and crappy home life to have some fun. I didn't mind at all being that 'fun' because Tim also gave very decent gifts.
In the kitchen, I took some condoms from the tin marked SUGAR and slipped them into a side pocket of my purse. My clients seem to run about 70/30 pro about asking for condoms and it’s better to have too many than not enough. From the tin labeled TEA, I grabbed more tampons and put those in my purse. Ready for the day, I locked my door and headed for the stairs. Walking towards the entrance to the subway, I texted Marla that I'd be on time for my first appointment. Time to earn more sweet, sweet money!
I'm sure anyone reading this is pretty confused by now. After all, does anyone grow up hoping and wishing to be a prostitute... Whore... Call Girl... Sex Worker... Whatever you wish to label a practitioner of the world’s oldest profession. So how did I, a suburban, middle-income kid become one? After all, I grew up in a happy home. Two loving parents. A normal progression through school and puberty. Some friends became boyfriends. A couple of boyfriends became lovers. Just your normal age/hormonal progression from 'not interested' to 'interested' to 'nervous anticipation' to 'very eager participation'.
See? Except for always being the tallest girl in high school, I was just your normal teenage girl trying to juggle friends, school, clueless boyfriends and raging hormones. At least, I considered my life 'normal' up to a month after graduating high school.
You see, up until then I was an office temp fresh out of high school. Then one afternoon as I was walking out of the building where I'd been filing papers all day a woman approached, handed me her card and offered me a job...
**********
Eight Months Ago...
"DISCREETOFFICESERVICES.COM," I read off the card as I set my bookbag down beside a chair and accepted the coffee cup Marla offered me. "Sounds like you work for the CIA or something."
"Or something," Marla replied with a small smile, sitting with perfect posture in the high-backed, reclining leather chair behind her desk. Holding her coffee mug in both hands she leaned back in her chair. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Very attractive and poised, she still radiated a faint aura of, I don't take shit from anyone!
"I've noticed you working in the building this past week. You're a very attractive young lady. Head cheerleader and Prom Queen in high school?"
"Thanks for the compliments." I felt the heat of a blush on my cheeks. I'd never felt comfortable accepting compliments for things I'd been born with. After all, how much credit can you take for being the recipient of a lucky arrangement of bits and pieces of genetic code?
"Cheerleader, yes, but not the head cheerleader and I got enough votes to be a member of the Queen's Court but not the Prom Queen."
"You were content to be the Queen Bee, weren't you," Marla laughed.
"Well..." I shrugged. "It seemed to really mean a lot to one of my girlfriends. It wasn't worth it to me to split our group into competing factions."
"I thought so and very perceptive to know what really mattered. Anyway, about the job offer. You see, ten years ago I was sitting in a chair much like the one you are sitting in now and looking across a desk very much like this one. I was being offered the same opportunity I'm offering to you. Different office, different city, of course, but the offer was the same."
"And in just ten years you worked your way up to being the boss? Or CEO, or whatever your job title is? You must have been very hard-working."
"I was. One might say I worked my ass off to get where I am today,” Marla said with a sly smile. “Also, the job I was offered, and am now offering to you, has sort of an expiration date. You either move up to management in a few years or you leave the field entirely. Six months ago, I chose to move here to open my own agency and move up to management."
"Well, you must be doing something right. I mean, your office decor costs thousands! I measured an office to help order furniture for a new Vice-President of a company I temped at. I saw the magazine they were ordering furniture from so I know something about how much furniture like this desk costs.
"Solid cherry,” I said and ran my hand over the smooth surface of her desk. “Probably cost more than I'll make in a year on my salary."
"So, in a nutshell, let me make my pitch to you. Out there," Marla began with a graceful, encompassing wave of her hand. "Out there in the city, there are hundreds, thousands, of successful men and women. They became successful because of long hours of hard work. Long hours of hard work which left them exhausted and with few opportunities to truly enjoy the fruits of their hard work.
"They had little time or energy to socialize, to date, to meet new people, to fall in love. Some of them remained single. Some settled for 'good enough'," Marla said using air quotes. "Most of my target demographic is in their middle-to-late forties and fifties. All of them are fairly well off financially and tired of being single. Tired of having settled for good enough.
"They're still relatively young. They're much better off financially than when they were younger and they're looking for the excitement now that was denied to them when they were on their way up the corporate ladder. Unfortunately for them, but fortunately for me and perhaps you, a leopard doesn't change its spots so easily. They're still stuck on that corporate treadmill. Long hours of hard work are all they've ever known for so long that getting off that treadmill seems impossible for them."
Marla shrugged her shoulders to express bewilderment at the idea that people would voluntarily work so hard. Rising from her chair, Marla walked from behind her desk to the chair beside mine and sat.
"But... Isn't there always a 'but'? But now they have corner offices and private secretaries. Very large bank balances. Nice stock portfolios. Plush houses in gated communities. Expensive cars. They have all the material things they once thought they wanted, and the damned fools are still working over eighty hours a week! The idiots just can't stop from working themselves into an early grave.
"But... There's that but again," Marla said with a laugh. "But humans don't just want material things. They also want excitement. They crave intimacy. Since my clients seem incapable of relaxing and taking the time to go out to find that intimacy, I provide them with intimacy. Any type of intimacy they desire, when and where they want. Do you understand?
It took several seconds, but the light bulb finally lit up over my head.
"You're a Madame?!"
"What's in a name,” Marla asked dismissively with a shrug. “Madame, CEO, Company President. Call girl, escort, consort, mistress, hooker, whore... All the same things. A rose by any other name... The only thing which changes is the degree of respectability the public attaches to the name.
"What would you say if I told you that all women become whores at times,” Marla asked me over steepled fingers.
"I'd say that you're wrong," I replied forcefully. "My mom would never become a whore."
"Really? Give me your definition of a whore?"
"A woman who has sex for money."
"So, you agree that if a woman has sex for compensation, she's a whore. But money isn't the only form of compensation there is. So your definition needs to be expanded. Want to know my definition? My definition of a whore would be... A woman who has sex for any reason other than her own enjoyment. Are you a virgin, Olivia?"
"Umm, no..." was all I could mumble. I was taken aback at being asked so personal a question by someone I'd just met.
"Do you think that you've whored yourself?"
"NO!"
"Really?" There was a tone of satisfaction in Marla's voice. As if she knew she'd already won our argument. "Ever been with a guy out on a date and he's all over you? He's whining about how horny he is. He's grabbing at your boobs and pawing between your legs? Trying to undo your jeans? Your bra? You don't feel like having sex but to keep the guy happy maybe you gave him a blowjob or hand job just to satisfy him? Calm him down? Stop his whining? Wouldn't that qualify as having sex not for your enjoyment but for the compensation of stopping his incessant whining? Did you ever feel you were obligated to have sex because he was paying for the date? Haven't you already whored yourself?"
Marla stopped talking and waited for my reply. Remembering some of my dates in high school and what had happened on them, I thought about her definition of a whore as a woman who has sex for any reason other than her own enjoyment. I thought about it and... Marla took my continued silence as a yes.
"Olivia, we've just met, but I'd make another bet that our experiences growing up were pretty much the same. Middle-class values. Pretty and popular in school. I was the Prom Queen by the way. We all whored for something," Marla said. She didn't say it in a gloating voice though. Her tone was of someone just stating a fact.
"You're tired of his whining so you have sex just to shut the asshole up. Maybe you think it will gain you popularity in high school. You're afraid of not having a date for the big dance so you spread your legs in the back seat for the guy who will invite you to Senior Prom. There are so many reasons other than because you wanted to have sex.
"What I do is simplify things,” Marla continued as she picked up a folder from her desk. “I discard all the reasons a woman will have sex except for one. Money." Taking a paper from the folder, she wrote on it before handing it to me. The only thing on the paper was a number.
"That is how much a woman earns every time she sees clients I set her up with. If my girl agrees to see a client, she's only obligated to spend up to two hours doing what the client wants. The number is doubled if the client wants to include someone else. Doubled for every hour or part of an hour he wants you to remain. Tripled for the third person, etc., etc. So, let's say my client needs a date, arm candy, for a corporate party. The party lasts three hours and at the end he, or she, has a friend who wants to party on into the night for another two hours..."
Marla stayed quiet as I tried to do the math. I doubled the number for the third hour and added it to the first number then added another doubled number for the third person joining the fun. That still left... I threw up my hands and gave up.
"Would you like to use my calculator," Marla asked with a laugh.
"Here, I'll make it simple," she continued. Pulling the paper from my hand, she wrote another number down and handed the paper back to me. "That is how much my girl will make for five hours of her time."
Holy Shit!!! I was speechless! A five-hour party with two guys would go a long way to paying for a semester at City College. I'm pretty sure that there are times when each of us will wonder what we'd do for a large sum of money. I took another look at the number Marla had written down. I was tempted to ask for that calculator so I could calculate the number of days I'd have to work at the temp agency to get to that number.
"Men actually pay that much," I asked as I tried to believe it. I'm not naive. But what I knew about prostitution was learned from TV and movies. Whores hanging out on street corners to do blow jobs for 50$. But the amount written on the paper in my hand was a lot more than 50$!
"I live at home,” I sighed and handed the paper back to Marla. “Even if I were tempted I could never 'date'." This time I used air quotes.
"Go out on dates every night and still work to explain how I was making money. Not gonna happen."
"Who said anything about my girls working only at night," Marla laughed. She rose and opened the blinds of a window. The city skyline was prominent.
"Out there I have six girls working right now. I still had to turn down clients. I'd have to turn down clients if I had twelve girls working every day. Some of my girls are like you. They live in the suburbs and when they are able, they come to the city and work one or two clients, sometimes even three clients a day if I can work the scheduling right.
"They might ride the same train as you. Return to a nice suburban home like you will. Eat dinner like you. Watch some shows like you. Do you want to know the only difference between you and them? They will have made much more money than you have.
"Some of my girls are proper, suburban married wives and even mothers. No children or they've kept their figures after childbirth. Kids are in school or at their grandparents for the day. Husbands are at work. She's bored so she tells everyone she's going to the city to shop and maybe see a movie. She'll let me know the date and the hours she'll be available in advance, and I'll have a client lined up for her. Sometimes two clients if she has the time. Before she returns home, I've deposited money in her private bank account from an offshore bank. Usually? I'll never even see her that day.
"There are many successful men and women who are too busy to take the entire day off. Too tired after work for a date. But maybe they can free up an hour during the day. Perhaps they're here in the city for business and want to combine business with some pleasure. I'll get a request for a girl at such-n-such time at either a hotel room or maybe their office. If a girl is available and can make it to the location in time, I send her."
Marla leaned back and went quiet to give me time to digest all she'd said. It felt as if an entirely new world had opened to me. I sure as hell wasn't a virgin. I was even on the pill because I hadn’t been shy about having fun on dates in high school.
"So, I could continue to come into the city as if I was still working at the temp agency,” I mused. “What if a girl has to be on a train at a certain time? Would you pressure her to stay for another client?"
"Never. You are only obligated to stay two hours each time you agree to see a client. All of my clients know this and if, at the end of two hours you need to leave, that's it. It's over. I've worked for a Madame who pressured her girls to do, 'just one more'. Pretty soon she had no girls working for her. I don't intend to make that mistake."
"Your girls do anything the client wants? There are things I've never done before."
"Yes. If you agree to meet a client you are obligated to do anything he, or she, wants to do for at least two hours. On that point, there is flexibility on only a few conditions: Any act that could result in an arrest. So public sex is out! Any act that could result in bodily harm. So, whips are out. Anal sex is out if the client didn’t specify he wanted it before you agreed to meet him.
"My clients know these conditions. Clients, especially those who make appointments during the day for when they might have a break in their schedule, usually just want straight sex for some fun and stress reduction. But if I get a message that one of my girls refused any reasonable request, she doesn't get paid."
"I could do just one client a day and make way more money than I'd make working at the temp agency," I continued to muse. "Do your girls, umm, find work every day?"
"Olivia! Have you looked into a mirror lately,” Marla laughed. “You're tall, blonde, eye-catchingly beautiful and your measurements are... Impressive. I can almost guarantee that within a month you'll have every day booked with at least one regular client. Two if the scheduling works. Ten clients a week."
I did the math again. Added a zero and… That would be close to... Holy shit.
"Doing the math, Olivia?" I nodded and Marla continued. "Don't forget to add in the gifts. Your clients will be wealthy and though you may never ask for money nor discuss money with them, they almost always show their appreciation to my girls for good service in the way of gifts that average between two and three hundred dollars. Often more. Gifts are kept by the girls. I don't get a cut of those."
I had my mouth open to ask the obvious question when Marla anticipated me and answered before I could ask.
"Think about it before you ask why I don't take a cut. Knowing they get to keep 100% of gifts makes my girls try very hard to satisfy my clients. Satisfied clients keep coming back for more. I make more money from the repeat business of well-satisfied clients than I would from any cut from the gifts. Another business lesson I learned from a previous employer."
Damn! Even at the low end of tips, with just ten clients a week, two a day, that would be an extra two thousand dollars. That would boost the weekly total to... Holy fucking shit!
"Tax free?"
"You can declare as much of your gifts as you want, or none. Your salary from me? Yes, it's all taxable. No way do I want to cross the IRS. I file taxes just like any other business. As far as the IRS is concerned, I just run another temp agency for models. Pay stubs and info for filing taxes are kept here in the office. I never mail them out where husbands and others might see them. It's your responsibility to come get them if you want them.
"Tell you what," Marla added as she stood up and walked me to the door of her office. "I'm offering you the opportunity to make more money than you'll ever make as an office temp. Why not think about what I've said. If you have any further questions, you can return here. If you decide you'd like to try working for me, I'll send you out to meet your first client."
Hailing a taxi, I phoned Mom to tell her I'd missed my regular train and would be a little late. At the dinner table, I tried hard to act as if this had just been a normal day where nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Pleading a stressful day, I brushed my teeth and put on one of the many Hello Kitty nightshirts I wore to sleep in before going to bed early. But I couldn't fall asleep. Lying awake in the dark, I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd do with lots of money. Lots and lots of money...
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