by Pynk
The driver nodded, pulled the flag to start the meter, and took off down the sloping, curved street. He was the one whom the taxi company would send whenever Money needed to go into the city. She was claustrophobic and hated the subway, so she didn’t mind the fifty-dollar one-way ride, and she knew he wouldn’t try to stiff her by taking the long way. What he knew was that she’d tip him 50 percent of the fare. His only question was, basically, which hotel?
She was on her way to play the part of Queens, the name her hobbyists knew her by.
The cab driver turned down the radio just as the story ended about the Republican Party presidential primaries and the candidates who had declared thus far. To her surprise, two out of the six were on Money’s client list, disguised as Mr. 11 and Mr. 51 in her little pink book—Philadelphia mayor Kalin Graves and New York senator Darrell Ellington, respectively. She wondered how that would play out. Just one more reason to keep things in line.
She had expected her company’s bookings to slow down with the elections about to gear up, but experience told her that pressure breeds needs, and that could prove beneficial to an agency known for guaranteeing privacy and discretion. Which was why she wasn’t worried. She sipped her brew and made the backseat her temporary office.
Money glanced at her gold Movado watch. It normally took her half an hour to get to midtown Manhattan to meet her very regular client for their 6:00 pre-work sex appointment. He was so regular, in fact, that sometimes he’d come to her home for an in-call. But being that her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Jamie Bitters, was back on again, Money decided it would be best to have an out-call for now.
Jamie was a client who, after their first time together, couldn’t wait to come back again. By the second and third times, he paid to extend the dates. He’d share pictures of his kids and talk about his childhood. By their fourth time together, he asked her out. He was a former chief deputy sheriff for New York who had been fired for using a county credit card for personal use. One week after he lost his job he filed for bankruptcy, and due to his questionable reputation he found himself unemployable.
Money knew the deal. She was his cash cow. She admitted it to herself and to him. But Jamie’s affections were at times a much-needed escape from the realities of her world. It still amounted to sex for money, only he was escorting her in her life.
In the meantime, he also stood in as the bodyguard and driver for Lip Service. He was always on standby, but was rarely called. Yet she still kept him on the payroll just in case.
Money was the eldest daughter of her half-French father, Arthur Watts, who worked as a French diplomat in London. He was accustomed to the world of politics and keeping things undercover. He spoke three languages and had also moonlighted as a spy for the Russians.
She and her family had lived in London for years and then moved to Atlanta after her father got caught red-handed with Russian hookers in a hotel room in Moscow. Funny thing was, he never got caught giving away government secrets to the Russians. But his greedy penis and the world of hookers brought him to a fast halt. He was caught on tape receiving oral sex, and was blackmailed for money. He gave up every red cent the family had to keep the tape from being leaked. But a copy was sent to government officials anyway, and he was soon fired. It was also sent to the Mrs. Life was funny that way. The same act that brought him down years ago now made his daughter, Money, a multimillionaire.
Through the fallout of the scandal, he and Money’s mother, Beverly Watts, stayed together. She was a retired high-fashion model from Sudan who traveled across the world before Money and her baby sister were born. He’d stayed with her in spite of her indiscretions as well. She’d slept with a possessive married designer who caught her and two other models in the act of a threesome. In a fit of jealousy, he fired her from fashion week in Milan, but let the other two stay on. After that, her modeling career was pretty much over.
Her mom and dad claimed not to know what she did for a living, but she knew her father’s greed and love of money wouldn’t allow him to object. Cash was what he claimed made the world go round, which was why he named his oldest daughter Money. It’s what he hungered for. He was distant when it came to anyone but his wife, which also included his daughters.
Money glanced out the window of the cab to check on their location. She looked down and pressed her middle finger along the touch screen of her phone, thinking back to her tough conversation with Midori, her independent contractor, or IC.
Four days earlier, they had talked in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel on Club Row. During that conversation, Money had a look on her face like she was pissed off, upset, and disgusted. Midori, also known by her escort name of Brooklyn, looked both sweet and worried.
As they sat on the sofa in the lobby, Money turned to Midori and said, “So tell me what happened and don’t give me some lame-ass, cockamamie story, either.”
Midori replied, “Bailey’s just jealous. He’s making up stories.”
“Oh really? What’s he jealous of?”
“He knows about Virgil.”
“And how does he know anything about your private life, Midori?”
“I guess he followed me. Maybe he’s been watching me.” Midori acted stumped.
“You guess? Midori, listen to me. This is a problem. Are you laying up with him, talking about you instead of listening? Are you breaking the rules?”
She said, “No.”
“No rule breaking, huh? Then answer me this: How is it I send you to meet Bailey at the St. Regis, and you take money from him on the side?”
“I did not.”
“Then tell me what happened in the hotel room? Why was it damaged?”
“It wasn’t damaged when I left him there.”
Money asked, “So, you didn’t tear up the room and threaten to accuse him of roughing you up?”
“No. He said that?”
“I said that.”
“You know I make enough money. I wouldn’t do that just to get some extra cash from a client. He’s the problem, not me. What I didn’t tell you is that Bailey’s guilty of escort bonding. He said he loves me,” Midori explained.
“When did he say that?”
“A while ago.”
“See, that’s something you should’ve told me as soon as it happened. I wouldn’t have assigned you to him. He’s good money, but he won’t be requesting you again, I guarantee you that. He’s no longer a client. I smell trouble.”
“Okay.”
“What’s up with you and Virgil, your little whiz kid from MIT? Please tell me you two aren’t still serious?”
“It’s coming along.”
“And he still doesn’t know what you do?”
“No. He thinks I’m a Realtor.”
“It’s too close for comfort, Midori. He’s Senator Ellington’s stepson.”
“Yes. And that’s something I wanted to talk to you about. See, the other night, Virgil was talking about playing around on the computer. He’s doing this tech job and with his IT training, he said he knows how to hack into e-mail. He’s talking—well, joking—about hacking into Mayor Graves’s personal e-mail account.” She gave a slim laugh.
Money shook her head. “Midori, that geeky mama’s boy is looking for something on Mayor Graves that would embarrass him and his family and cause damage to his political career. That’s called blackmail, not a joke or prank. And he’d do it just so his own mother can be First Lady, and you know I’m right. But he could also do years in prison for wire fraud and identity theft, and more. He really thinks he’d be able to get away with something like that?”
Midori replied, “He wouldn’t really do it. He was just talking. Sometimes he acts like he’s a young Bill Gates or something.” She laughed again, a nervous laugh.
Money kept a straight face. “I see nothing funny. What the hell is it you see in a nerd like him, anyway?”
“He’s nice.”
“Look at you, Midori, still looking for your knight in shining armor?
Still looking for love to take you away, like in the movie Pretty Woman, huh? You’re a love junkie.”
“No, I’m not.”
“It’s sad that your little boyfriend has no idea that the dirt he’ll uncover could be his own. If he goes through with this, he’d not only uncover evidence linking Mayor Graves to escorts, but he’d open a whole ugly can of worms that would expose his stepfather’s other life. I’m sure nobody knows that Ellington pays for sex. Not only would it expose him, but Lip Service as well. And that’s not gonna happen. I won’t let it. Virgil had better watch himself. Your boyfriend’s so busy trying to blackmail the enemy, he’ll end up destroying his own political family.”
“I’ve got him, Money.”
“Yeah, well, you’d better.”
“I do.”
“Handle it.”
“I will.” Midori then asked, “How’d you know about the room being torn up? I mean, did the hotel complain or did he tell you that mess?”
Money only said, “Don’t try to change the subject. Look at me.”
Midori did.
“You’d better handle this, and quick before I have someone else handle him. I’ve been at this for years, and I have a lot to lose. My clients have a lot to lose. I’m not going to let anyone ruin this. If you don’t fix it, I’ll do it myself with one phone call.”
“I’m begging you, no. Please tell me you wouldn’t do anything to Virgil.”
Money crossed her leg toward her. “Midori, just because you’re my sister, doesn’t mean I’m going to let you fuck this up. We’re deep in New York City politics, and right now, there’s porn and kinky sex on tons of government computers as we speak. It’s the perfect place to make money for the service we can provide. And it’s gonna stay perfect. Before I let some amateur, sorry-ass blackmail scheme happen, I’ll do what I have to do.”
Midori was silent.
Money continued, “You could learn a thing or two from Leilani. You need to stay clean—and keep this simple and easy.” She held out an envelope. “Brooklyn has been requested, so get your shit together. I’m flying you to the Florida Keys for a late dinner, and then two full days with a Long Island physician. Meet him at the Little Palm Island hotel tonight at nine. Your flight is at four. All of the info is in there.”
Midori took it. “Four?”
“Yes, four. This is a five-figure weekend for both of us. Don’t be late. And tell your little nerdy boyfriend whatever you need to in order to make this happen.”
“I’ll be there in time for the flight.” Midori stood up.
“And?”
“And I’ll keep Virgil in check. Bye.” Midori walked away, switching her grand hips.
Money shook her head, as if to shake away the memory of that conversation, and gave a long sigh, sipping her last bit of coffee. It was painful to put her foot down like that with her sister, but she had to let Midori know she was no-nonsense, and that she would not risk her freedom or her life for anyone.
She knew her sister had arrived back from the Florida Keys the previous evening and thought about calling her, but decided not to, just to give Midori a little more time to let the seriousness of it all sink in. She had already informed the booker not to respond to requests from the Navy vet, Bailey Brenner, who was catching serious feelings for Midori.
Money looked down at her phone again and saw that her booker had just sent a text that all three ICs were booked for the day. In order to give Midori time to rest up after her trip, Midori was assigned a late evening with her regular, Mr. 91.
Leilani had two appointments, one with Mr. 51, her usual. And Kemba had one with Ms. 101, a high-paying, bisexual professional basketball player who preferred pussy but liked a little dick every now and then.
Money realized it would be a good day financially, and she was prepared for the work ahead of her. Her job was to fulfill fantasies, plain and simple.
She put her empty travel mug into her oversized purse that had its usual contents; bottled water, her iPad, ID, credit card reader, regular and large condoms, lube, makeup, baby wipes, cell phone, a device to detect cameras and wires, and Altoids. She was plucked, waxed, lotioned up, and dabbed with subtle body oil between her breasts. She never wore anything potent enough to leave a scent on her date. She was ready to perform.
By 5:34, Money looked up. The cab driver had already made a right at Sixth Avenue and slowed to pull up to the small, elegant hotel in the theater district.
“Fifty-two dollars even,” he said, as he turned off the meter.
Money had her regular seventy-five dollars folded up and ready. She handed it to him, grabbed her bag, and exited, wearing her tight, white skirt suit. She headed into the hotel as the cab pulled away.
One thing she knew about going to a place of business, as opposed to a private residence, was that the employees, doormen, whoever, would see it all. Money knew that the more confident and nonchalant she seemed, the quicker she could check in, get the keycard, and head up to the room as though she was on routine business. She never dressed too flashy. No loud colors. Just a business suit or conservative dress and high heels, hair up in a bun, smiling.
She engaged in insignificant chitchat while paying for the room at the front desk, then took the keycard and headed up in the elevator. Same old same old.
As far as the cost of the date, she’d already run the transaction through the credit card scanner on her iPad. She preferred credit cards as long as the hobbyists didn’t have a problem giving their billing information. Since 80 percent of her clients were regulars, it worked because most had special personal-expense accounts set up. Besides, she considered Lip Service too high-end for the risk of cash exchanges like solo escorts or girls on the street. Every now and then she’d let her ICs take cash from a client, but the rule was it needed to be in an envelope and in clear sight as soon as one or the other entered the room. It wasn’t discussed or counted right away, but the IC made sure to take it into the bathroom to count it in private before clothes were removed. No refunds after the clothes came off.
She entered the executive king room on the fifteenth floor, tossed her bag on the brown leather sofa, and turned on all the lights since the sun hadn’t quite finished hiding, but also because she knew her visitor liked it that way. Bright.
She went into the bedroom and pulled back the rust covers, fluffing up the down pillows. The time on the clock read ten minutes to six. She sent a text to her booker. Here.
Ten minutes later on the dot, she was stripped down to her black cotton bra and panties, stockings, and garter, curly hair flowing down her back. There was a single knock at the door. She looked through the peephole, seeing her three-thousand-dollar, one-hour client, Mr. 31, and then forwarded the text a second time. That meant he’d arrived. The reply text sounded. She put her phone down and opened the door.
She smiled, but it wouldn’t last long. “Good to see you, Pretty in Pink.”
He stepped inside and closed the door without saying a word. He liked to be called pretty, so he smiled.
She looked down at his crotch. His hard-on was on. She frowned, and her voice turned bossy. “You came to my door excited. Make your dick go down, now!”
He looked at her with eyes that asked for permission to speak.
“Talk.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress.”
She nodded. “My slave.”
He was white, portly, with graying hair that was slicked back, and he carried his usual gym bag as he stepped into the bedroom. Inside was a red wig, makeup, handcuffs, pink lingerie, nipple clips, and a paddle.
By 6:15 he lay across the bed all dolled up, when Money the master demanded, “Turn the fuck over.”
He obliged with puppy dog eyes, replying “Yes, Mistress” in a soft, high-pitched, passive feminine tone. He lay in a fetal position, looking scared out of his girlie wits, yet his expression said he would have it no other way. “Am I your bitch?” he asked, and then he squirmed, peeking at Money like maybe trouble aw
aited him. Or perhaps hoping it did.
“Shut the fuck up. You talk when I tell you to talk, dammit.”
The more shit Money talked, the harder his dick got under the lace fabric of his panties.
He never tried to please Money. Never made a move to put his mouth on the skin of her pussy, or his dick inside of her. Not even his fingers.
“And yes, you’re my nasty little bitch, all right. Now kiss my feet. And let me hear your lips smack.”
He moved from the bed and crawled onto the floor as Money raised her high-heeled foot onto his shoulder. He took her foot into his hands and removed her shoe, kissing the top of her foot loudly.
“I can’t hear it.”
He smacked louder.
“Now suck my toes, one by one, starting with my baby toe.”
He brought his lips to her toes and worked them, smacking, licking, and sucking.
“Punk. You’re just a sissy. A man in drag who’s a cross-dressing-ass sissy. And you love it.”
He sucked harder.
“Yeah, suck my big toe like I might suck your dick if you beg me, like a good little submissive.”
He sucked it with vigor and looked up at her with wide blue eyes of pleasure.
She was a notch below yelling. “Don’t look at me.”
He looked down and continued his foot job.
“One day, I’m gonna walk you around New York City like a dog, with a cord tied to your scrawny little penis that I’ll yank every time I want you to stop and sit and shake my hand like I tell you to. Take you to Central Park and make you piss on the grass. You piece of shit.”
Being dominated was Pretty in Pink’s only escape. It was what he lived for. It served a purpose. It was his refuge from his life of being in control. His life of telling people what to do. His life of making decisions and being respected. His way of letting it all go, being free, freaky, and feminine as opposed to masculine and dominating.
