by Dark Angel
I answer the call and sit back on my bed. I whisper in a soft, sultry voice. The secret is to keep your voice smooth as a stick of butter. "Hi, this is Misty. Who am I speaking with?"
I hear a man clear his throat. "Mike."
I wait for more but it doesn't come. "That's my favorite name for a man," I purr, urging him on. "You sound strong and handsome."
"You can say I'm strong. I work construction—concrete pump operator."
"Oh that's good because I could use a few pumps of your hot concrete. I'm so glad you called. My neighbors have been fucking all day and listening to them has made me so horny…"
"That makes two of us," he says.
"And I've got a secret to tell you. I'm not wearing any underwear."
"Is that right?" he replies, and I can almost hear a smile in the way he asks.
"I've been so horny. I can hardly stand it. I haven't had sex all day and it feels like forever. I have myself so worked up and hot that I'm lying in front of a fan, and the cold air is making my nipples hard. Do you like hard nipples, Mike?"
"Mm hmm," he mumbles, and I continue.
"What kind of girls do you like?"
"Young, blonde, and busty," he says without hesitation.
"Well, you're in luck. I'm 18, and I have long, blonde hair that goes down to my tiny waist. I wish you were here with me right now," I say, just above a whisper, and Mike lowers his voice as well.
"What would you do to me?" he asks, as if it were a shared conspiracy.
"Oh Mike, I'd make sure my lips touched every manly inch of you. I'd start by nibbling on your ear—playfully, but then I'd get more serious and move my lips down to your neck and I'd touch your strong chest—I can tell you have a strong chest just by your voice. And I'd run my tongue over your nipples, circling them a few times."
"And what else?" he asks.
"I'd let my mouth move down your body even further, my tongue resting in the deep V above the waistband of your pants. I can even taste the salt on your skin and it leaves me wanting more—so much more."
"Is your pussy wet?" he asks.
"Oh yes, you make me so wet. I'm soaking wet—it's your voice, your body—you have me so turned on, Mike. My pussy is throbbing for you. I'm in the mood to fuck."
"Cut or uncut cocks?" he asks.
"I love all cocks."
"What would you do to my cock?"
"I'd unbutton your jeans after you've had a hard day at work, and I'd slip my hand over your cock. Both of my hands would work their way up and down your shaft until you're nice and hard and then I'd place my lips on it. First kissing the tip, and then slowly basting it with my warm, wet tongue, moving up and down your manhood."
"Mm hmm, I like that," he says.
"But I wouldn't stop there. I'd wrap my lips around your cock so tightly and take you deep into my throat. I'd take it so deep that I might gag. Would you like it if I gagged on your cock?"
He doesn't answer, but I can hear him breathing heavier, so I continue.
"Do you like it when I suck on your cock like this?"
"Yes—mm hmm—more," he answers at a whisper…or is it a whimper?
"Good, because your cock tastes so good. I can hardly stand it," I say, and I can hear him jerking himself off—skin slapping skin.
"Mike, my pussy is so wet—I want to ride your cock. I want you to give it to me. I'm going to straddle your lap and lower my pussy onto your thick, hard shaft with my breasts in your face. I want you to take my nipples into your mouth."
Then I hear Mike coming, his breathing overtaking the conversation, so I decide to enact my own climax as a spectacular finale.
When his breathing slows, he asks, "Can I get your phone number?"
"Oh Mike, I'm so flattered, but my dad would kill me if I gave out my number. I'm still in high school. I'm 18, remember? Let me give you my four-digit calling code so you can call me again in private."
He agrees, somewhat reluctant, and we end the call. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Yasmine is right, I think to myself. This is much better than stripping. At least I can use my imagination during these calls. At Scorcher's, what you saw is what you got. There's no masking the fact that you're on a stage being judged. But during these calls, the people on the other end of the line have to use their imaginations too—which is also great because it eliminates my old routine —waxing, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and you name it.
I think about putting on a pair of yoga pants and heading to the gym, but then my eye travels to the stack of bills piling up next to my bed. Shit. Unlike Scorcher's, this job also doesn't leave me with cash in hand every night. I better go pick up my paycheck from the phone sex company headquarters, Simulated Pleasures LLC.
I quickly dress and hail a cab outside. When I tell the driver where I'm going, he gives me an odd look. Is it a look of judgment, or something else? I can't tell. I decide to ignore it and place my ear buds into my ears and stream music through my phone, drowning out the outside world.
After 20 minutes, the cab pulls up to a large, non-descript white building. If it weren't for the address, I'd never know that this is the headquarters for one of the largest phone sex companies in the country. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I'm still listening to my music, and decide to leave my ear buds in. I hand the driver the money and give him a curt smile. As soon as I leave the cab, I walk toward the building, rounding a corner.
And then I feel it—like taking a bowling ball to my back. I'm struck in the back and I try to turn around but my arms are pinned behind my back. Without my hands, I can't remove my ear buds or stop the music streaming through my phone, so it's impossible to hear what's going on around me. I'm screaming and thrashing my head from side to side, and the movement causes the ear bud on my right side to fall out. I can now feel a man's hot breath on my neck, "Shut up! Just shut up right now!" He's placing his hands over my mouth, muffling out my screams, and I bite down as hard as I can. It's my only option and it's instinctual. I feel the flesh of his fingers pinched between my teeth, and that's when he hits me; he hits me hard enough on my head to shut me up. I'm feeling dazed, but when I finally get a look at the man's face, I'm shocked.
"Peter?"
"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! You want to humiliate me on Facebook live and then ignore all of my calls for a week? Well, I'll show you what I'm going to do about that!"
The look in his eyes is one of pure rage and a battered ego. I'm also surprised at his strength. He was never one to work out much, and I attributed his soft body to weakness, but he's stronger than I anticipated. It's shocking, really. Without saying another word, he brings his hands around my neck and squeezes. I place my hands on top of his, trying to pry them loose, but it's not working. I can feel myself running out of breath and in a tiny voice I manage to squeak, "You're hurting me, stop!"
And just when my entire world starts to fade to black, he stops. I can't believe it. I open my eyes just in time to see another man between us now. He's big—tall, muscular, and broad shouldered. He's not the kind of guy you want to fuck with, and I watch as his fist crashes into Peter's face, breaking his nose.
"If I ever see you around here again, I'll fucking kill you," he growls, clenching Peter by the collar of his shirt, and when he lets go, Peter turns around and runs, not bothering to look back.
"Are you okay?" the man asks.
As he looks down at me, I get the vague feeling that I know him from somewhere. I'm rubbing my throat and besides being emotionally rattled, I'm fine. "I want to thank you—what you did—most people wouldn't get involved, but you saved my life." When I finish talking, I look into the man's eyes again, and I realize where I know those intense icy blues from—the cab ride from the club.
"Wait… I've seen you somewhere," I say. "You're the guy who tried to steal my cab outside of the club the other night."
"It was an emergency. I don't normally jump into other people's cabs."
"Look, I appreciate you
r help but I have to go."
"Wait. I'd like to take you to dinner, I—"
"I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but I hope you'll understand that I'm in no mood to be setting up a dinner … not after my ex-boyfriend just tried to murder me."
"Forget him. He no longer matters. Just say yes."
I look at him—his eyes the color of perfect weather, his strong, broad shoulders, and gentle smile—and even though I'm feeling bruised and frazzled, and I promised myself I'd never go out on a date with a man who frequents a place like Scorcher’s, I surprise myself and say yes.
69
ARSEN
With a last look in the mirror I close the locker door and head out of the locker room at the New York Athletic Club. Sure, it’s filled with the same fucking fancy people that I spoke to at the Met—some of these people are still scandalized that I’m in their precious little club of theirs. But guess what? I’m now worth at least $5 billion dollars. If I want to go around joining all the most exclusive clubs in Manhattan, I have the money to buy my way in. They don’t. They’re sitting on their piles of fucking reputation and fake integrity that’s as hollow as a fucking clam shell. Probably got their house mortgaged five times over and a mountain of fucking debt. They’re probably just hoping that they die before the bill comes due so everyone will at least think they’re prosperous and dignified now. Who the fuck cares once they’re dead, right?
Well, fuck that. I told you once before when I was with Yasmine at Scorcher's and I’m telling you again. I’m always going to be fucking honest with you. You may not like what I have to say or how I say it, but I don’t give a fuck.
I hand my gym bag over to the attendant at the bar, who takes it to the cloakroom.
“I have a young lady who will be meeting me outside the Club,” I tell the maître d and he nods and proceeds to go check.
That’s right. I figured what better way to put Ashley at ease than by asking her to have a drink with me while we’re surrounded by a bunch of rich old men. Oh right. Let me clue you in on a few things. Gorgeous Stripper from Scorcher's whom I rescued a few days back—her name is Ashley Lane. Used to work at Scorcher's but literally, it was her last day working on the first day I met her. Now she works at Simulated Pleasures as a phone sex operator. She has no fucking idea who I am or the fact I own the whole fucking thing. And honestly, I’m not in any mood to tell her.
Just seeing me in the gym would've made you laugh hysterically. There I was with my tattoos squatting hundreds of pounds. Benching the weight of some people. And these ancient men, with their big egos out in the real world just stared at my physique as they walked on a treadmill. Each of them looked at me jealously. And when I went to shower, I knew all eyes were on me. Well on me, and my fucking foot long pleasure stick. It dangled from my crotch like a sex snake.
If you’re rolling your eyes at me thinking it’s fucking lazy that I invited a girl to have a drink with me at my gym, then you can fucking stop. The New York Athletic Club is more than just a fucking gym. It's got 2 bars, 3 dining rooms, a drawing room, 3 libraries, hotel rooms to spend the night, and two formal ballrooms for events.
It’s also got a swimming pool, gym, shooting range, and fucking art gallery. A fucking art gallery. So yeah, you could say that it might be a fucking nice place to take a girl on a date. Especially if it’s a private fucking club that she normally wouldn’t have admission to.
“Your lady friend is waiting in the lobby, Mr. Hawke,” the maître d informs me and I nod my head and walk out toward the foyer. Yes, I’m hurrying. Because I want to fucking see her, okay? Told you I’m honest.
And Jesus fucking Christ, this girl does not fucking disappoint. She’s standing there in a black dress that’s tight without being indecent. It ends just above the knees. She’s got stockings and black heels on. Her hair is made and she’s got makeup on and it makes her look fucking sexy.
I feel my cock twitch just by looking at her fucking gorgeous body. The way those slender legs are holding up her frame. I want to suck them one at a time until she squeals. That waist. Fuck, that ass. The dress is just tight enough to hug her curvy ass and I want to take each ass cheek in each hand and fucking squeeze them. God fucking dammit. Those fucking tits. Her dress ends in a wraparound strapless top but it showcases those marvelous tits like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
“The way you’re looking at me, its like you’ve forgotten what I look like naked,” she says to me with a smile as she walks up to me. She hesitates and I decide for her, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. I can smell her perfume. It’s intoxicating.
“It’s like seeing you for the first time,” I tell her. You notice what I did? I didn’t fucking swear. See? I can be fucking civil if I need to.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Hawke,” she tells me with a teasing smile.
“Then what about vodka?” I ask, taking her hand and walking her into the bar that I came from. “Because this place makes the best dirty martinis in New York City.”
Ashley gasps as she sees the interior. Yeah, this is how the fucking other half lives all right. The bar is fucking plush. The wood at the bar is polished to perfection.
And literally every fucking face turns to the two of us. To the son of the smut lord and the fucking gorgeous woman on his arm. Women stare at us hungrily, and their husbands look at me jealously. Fuck ‘em.
“Let’s get a table?” I ask Ashley, but I’m not really fucking asking because I lead her over and sit her down.
“It’s a nice place,” Ashley says as she looks around. “I’m surprised.”
“Surprised that I would come here?” I ask.
“Surprised that you’re going through the effort,” she says and smiles at me. “Oh don’t get me wrong. I totally appreciate it and love the fact that we’re on a real date.”
“What the fuck would we be doing otherwise?” I ask. I’m fucking sorry but I can’t help myself.
“Fuck,” she says, and her eyes are looking right at me. I’m silent. “A part of me thought we’d get right down to that and this was some elaborate hotel so you wouldn’t have to go far.”
“I live at One57,” I tell her. “So I’m literally a block away.”
Ashley rolls her eyes. “Well that makes sense now,” she says.
“You think someone like me isn’t able to take girls on dates?” I ask a bit curious where this conversation is going.
“You stole my cab,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Coming out of a strip club. Which is all I know about you. Sorry for not expecting more out of you.”
I laugh. She smiles at me. You’re probably looking at me thinking I’ve gone fucking crazy. Laughing at what she said.
But don’t forget. I’m the one in control here. Not her. My laughing is just a sign that I’m not fucking threatened. Because I’m not.
“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” I ask. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re going to say. But she said ‘fuck’ first.
“Waiting to see how you’re going to try and fuck me,” she says and leans back as the waiter brings our dirty martinis to the table. He gives her a sidelong glance, obviously hearing the last part of our exchange. Ashley smiles and twirls her hair in one finger absently.
“What do you do?” she asks me.
I raise my glass. “Steal cabs from women outside of strip clubs so I can rescue them from ex-boyfriends during the day.”
She smiles and raises her glass and we click in a toast. “Thank you for the other night,” she says to me.
“Don’t mention it,” I tell her. “I was just passing by.”
“I hope you know that it doesn’t entitle you to sleep with me or anything like that,” she says to me, staring into my eyes.
“I don’t think it entitles me to anything,” I say to her and she looks at me with curiosity. Where am I taking this, she’s probably wondering. “But I know you’re still wondering what it would be like if I fucked you.”
If I
’d gotten up and whipped out my 12-inch cock and waved it around, Ashley wouldn’t be any more surprised it seems like.
“That’s what I’m wondering?” she asks me, her eyes wide.
I nod my head. “Since you got on your way over here. You’re also wondering about these tattoos you can faintly see underneath my shirt the way your eyes are moving.”
Ashley takes a sip of her martini and leans closer on the table toward me.
“What else am I thinking?” she asks, this time into a bit more of a smile. “I’m curious because you seem to know so much better than I do.”
“You’re thinking if my apartment is only a block away, how you can legitimately end up giving me an opportunity to ask you to come up,” I reply back to her, not breaking her stare.
“So you can fuck me?” she asks, pretending to make sure.
“So you can cum till you pass the fuck out,” I clarify for her.
“That good?” she asks back with an arched eyebrow.
“Even better,” I parry back to her.
She pauses for a moment. “So didn’t you just give me the opportunity to legitimately give you the chance to ask me to go to your apartment?” Ashley asks with a twinkle. “When you brought up the whole fact of bringing it up, can’t I take it?”
I smile. This was fucking easy I think to myself as I beckon the waiter and get up. But unlike most girls, this one knows what she’s doing. She might end up being quite a bit of fun.
We’ll see. Like I told her—and you—my apartment is literally a block away.
She gets out of her chair.
“Are you taking me up on my legitimate chance?” she asks with amusement. “Are we going to your apartment?”
“I figured I’d show you around,” I tell her. I know what I’m doing. I’m the one in control, remember?
