by Dark Angel
I order myself another cosmopolitan and vow not to think about it. Another moment that I think about David is another moment that I make myself even crazier!
Drinks and fun, and just enjoying life feels like such a relief. I haven't had fun for fun's sake in so long, I begin to wonder if, until right now on the dance floor, I completely forgot how to have fun.
It’s kind of hard to have fun when your husband is cheating on you. Then he dies, leaving your finances in limbo.
As the night turns into morning, everyone picks up to leave and I ask the bartender to close my tab.
When he returns with my bill, I see it. $254. That is the bill without a tip.
Money is disappearing quicker than I anticipated, and I realize that I've got to figure out something...and I do have a possibility of doubling what I have left.
Otherwise, how long will the remaining $746 last, I wonder. My shoulders tense and I think about how it felt to tell Jenna I wanted to drive because I couldn't afford any other way to get to Vegas. I want to never feel as horrible as being broke feels. Yes, I could have not bought all those drinks. I don't have to have new yoga clothes all the time. But the truth of the matter is that I need to be able to support myself to at least some level because I still have a house and bills that go with a lifestyle I used to have.
The husband is gone, the money is gone...and I have to do something.
Convention or not, the Copley Hotel is not paying me anywhere near what being a girl for rent does...so maybe it won't be so bad if I go ahead and really consider that drunk guy's offer. $750 an hour is already enough to make my shoulders fall down and not be so tense. I have the means to fix the problems in front of me, and the experience isn't terrible.
I think maybe I can give it another go. I just have that weird feeling that I don't know what I'm doing.
I scan around the bar, and I see that everyone else is leaving.
The bartender pops back up and I hand him the cash with a hearty tip. He hands me another cosmopolitan. "You need this...on the house," he says with a nod.
Am I being paranoid, or does he know why I need it?
Oh, that's probably crazy. I smile. "Thank you, I think I really do need it."
"Least I can do, ma'am," The bartender says. He laughs when I down the whole drink. Really classy, I know, but I need to numb the sensations that are pressing into my skull right now.
I hand the glass back to him.
"Guess you definitely needed that. Stay safe," he says.
I shiver at his words, nice as he intended them.
"I will," I say, rubbing my upper arms and wondering if I really will stay safe. I want to. Am I doing something totally crazy?
I mean, I'm considering actually fucking another guy for money.
We’re a long way from being a housewife in SoCal, that’s for damn sure.
10
David
Heading to the bar was more than about taking the edge off, and I can't believe my good fortune when I stumble upon a conversation at the bar about a “Cosmo guzzling knockout named Christina that's all tits and blonde hair.”
Sound like anyone we know?
Yeah, I think it does.
I nurse my bourbon and listen to the conversation the bartender is having with this flashy guy who just looks like, well he looks like one of those guys who probably knows “a guy” for everything. He’s one of those guys.
“Yeah, she’s the newest high-end escort in town, and she’s going it solo. Judging by how she took on the bar bill but then sweated it, I’d say she’s brand new to this and in way over her head. Nice girl. She needs your help,” the bartender says to the blonde guy.
“Wow, thanks for the heads up,” wiry blond guy says. “I’ll extend her an offer.”
I swirl my drink but I know I’m done with it for now. The bartender nods at me and I shake my head no, because I'm onto something else.
So Christina's become an escort, and she’s about to get a pimp?
Well, I’m not looking to rain on the slutty parade that’s helping Christina heal after her shitty marriage to my asshole father. Let her stand on her own two feet by getting on all fours? Not the worst plan ever. I’m hard just thinking about Christina on her knees, another man’s cock in her mouth, abandoning all her morals and letting men defile her tight little body for some money.
I told her that I’d take care of her, and I meant it.
I think I’m going to play a little game with Christina. Nothing too mean. Nothing she won't enjoy.
“Excuse me,” I ask the man, flagging him before he exits the bar. “I need to catch you before you catch Christina,” I say.
That catches his attention. He saunters toward me and flags the bartender for another drink.
“You one of her clients? If you’re trying to lowball her price or lock her in, then you’ve got the wrong pimp. Shorting my girls is shorting myself, and I’m not about that,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me.
“I’m not one of her clients, yet. But I have a proposition for you both. Get her on board. Make her trust you. Then tell her that you can get her even higher end clientele…and make her take on the rules. No touching. Only contact is cum. Clean guys. Get her to agree to it. Then, she's going to get a mystery client that you convince her to break her rules for—”
"That would be you, hot shot?” he interjects.
“Yeah, it would. Mr. Money Bags, I'll be Mr. M,” I tell him.
He can see I’m being completely seriously. He pauses, then extends his hand. “Thomas. Future pimp of Christina, apparently,” he says, and after he shakes my hand, he shows me his palm. “Show me enough of this money bags shit to make it worth my while, or I don’t see too much of a point in me doing your overly complicated seduction plan,” Thomas says with a laugh.
I open my wallet and drop enough cash in Thomas’s hand to shut him up. I watch his hand close around the money.
“Christina’s worth it. Plus, the higher end clients mean your cut is bigger, so you’d have reason enough for it anyway.” I pull out more money. “Give this to Christina when you pitch her the offer. Tell her that it is an advance. She’s burning through too many cosmopolitans and thongs, it would seem.”
I can’t help but smile thinking about Christina with a fistful of cash and a lighter heart — that’s why she was so filthy with me on the phone, she wasn’t stressing out over every little thing. She didn’t contest the will, fine, but my fucking prick of a father left his wife to sell her goddamn body.
Christina’s making good on the situation, so I’m going to do the same. Soon though, she’ll be all mine.
11
Christina
The next day, I attend the hospitality convention. I exude an air of calm professionalism, networking with potential clients at the Copley Hotel booth, and selling a number of event packages—wedding, galas, and even a trade show. But in the back of my mind, I can't shake the events of last night.
Jenna walks into the booth, twirling her Copley Hotel employee lanyard in one hand. She approaches me with an almost imperceptible skip to her step.
"Guess what? Matt wants us to meet up again tonight!" Jenna shrills. "Isn't that exciting!"
Jenna had always been an especially bubbly person, but today she seemed as if she was charged by a couple hundred Duracell batteries.
"Who's Matt?" I ask.
"Remember? The hot Australian built like an oak tree?"
"Oh, right." I do remember. Perhaps it is best to get out with friends again and try to erase last night's memories from my consciousness—like vacuuming crumbs from a tight crevice. So, I agreed to her request to meet up with my friends again, this time at a poolside nightclub.
That night, without knowing any VIP club hosts working the venue, I pay the $25 entrance fee. I wear a tight, black, off-the-shoulder mini dress, gold earrings, and black pumps. Men eye me from various corners of the venue and I feel a renewed sense of desirability and power.
A
DJ spins house music from a large poolside cabana, and young people are in party mode—lively with the possibilities that the night holds. I order a cosmopolitan from the bar, and marvel that I could almost be old enough to be the mother of some of these people, and then order a second drink in quick succession. Looking at the bill, I see I have already spent $25 on just two drinks. With the entrance fee, I am down $50, just like that.
Money runs through my fingers like nothing, and I’m going to go flat broke on my way back, it seems. It looks like my prostitution stint may finance now but it won’t touch later, and that’s disheartening. That tightening feeling in my chest threatens to take over. I told myself I wouldn’t whore myself out anymore, but now I can’t stop thinking about the loss of income if I don’t.
I think about the man I promised to meet tonight. If I go through with it, I could make another $750 in one hour. I already fucked a guy once, so what the hell is once more? It wasn't bad. It could be a quick in and out. The more I rationalize how easy the money could be, the more I realize it would be ridiculous to pass up this opportunity.
I will go through with it after all.
But there is one issue. I told the man that I am the best in the business. What if he is left disappointed? I don’t have any security. Being alone with this strange man in his room puts me at risk. I will be vulnerable. If I underperform and he gets upset, he could forcefully take his money back, or worse. And this isn't something I can report to the police.
I decide to leave the poolside club and slip out before my friends arrive. I order an Uber to take me to a nearby lingerie store, Provocative Honey. I need to make a splash with this man tonight.
The Uber driver smiles when I step into the car, drumming his pudgy fingers on the steering wheel to the tune of the radio. When he pulls up to the curb to drop me off he says, "You be safe tonight," as if foreshadowing some unseen predicament.
Those words would make me shiver with fear, if I let them. I determine to not internalize his comment as a foreboding prophecy, and shake it off as I enter the store.
After surveying my options, I invest in lingerie that is both classy and sexy. I think this client will be impressed. And with a new resolve, I head to the man's room at the Cosmopolitan Hotel.
Standing in front of the elevators, I dig the napkin out of my purse to figure out what room number the man wrote down.
"Shit," I whisper. The number is hard to read. Is that a 3 or an 8? I hold it at a few different angles and decided that the napkin reads ‘814.'
The elevator opens at the 8th floor and I step out. I follow the rooms until I find myself standing in front of room 814. I flip my hair over one shoulder, straightened my mini dress, form my mouth into a sexy smile, and hope I have the right number.
I knock. I stand there for a few minutes, but no one comes to the door. I stare at the napkin again. Am I at the wrong room? I try to knock once more, this time a little louder. Still nothing. I hear nothing beyond the door.
Just as I turn to leave, I hear the lock jostle, and the door swings open. Standing there is the man expecting me, in a business suit, smelling of a light cologne that gives off hints of the Mediterranean—citrus trees, a salty ocean, and a faint, deep woodsy smell that reminds me of a camping trip I once took in the Sierras, and it makes my heart leap. His hair is perfectly groomed, and he greets me with a wide, white smile. "Don't you look delicious?”
“I could say the same about you," I reply and I step into his room.
"Before we start, put the money on the table," I instruct.
This man cleans up much nicer than I would expect, based on the drunk version of him I met last night, but I can't get too comfortable. If he doesn’t really have the $750, I will leave immediately.
He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and carefully counts out the money, ensuring that I can see each bill as he places it down. When the full amount is accounted for, I am more comfortable touching him and I wrap my hand around his tie. I stroke his chest and take a step back, strutting seductively across the room, the same way I lured men at the Spearmint Rhino many years ago.
Without hesitation, I kiss his neck, and bring his fingers to my face, sucking them hard, at first just the tips, and then shoving them deeper into my mouth. He draws his body closer.
Just from my experience the previous night, I am learning fast and feeling increasingly confident on how to perform my new, short-lived job.
"I have a surprise for you," I purr. I slowly peel off my dress, revealing the black lacy lingerie underneath.
The man stares at me with a hungry lust, and I know I picked the right ensemble. His eyes give him away. They burn with intensity.
I know that every move will need to be perfect and that I will have to go all out in order for this to be worth the man's money.
I crawl atop his bed and turn onto my back. I arch my back and squeeze my breasts. Slowly, I scoot to the end of the bed, and hang my head off the edge. "Come here," I whisper. My hair flows down, nearly touching the carpet.
The man walks closer until his hips are level with my face. I unhook his belt, unbutton his pants, and slowly draw his zipper down, one notch at a time. I think I feel his leg tremble.
He can barely stand the anticipation.
I place my hand inside his boxers, moving my fingers back and forth. Then, I put his cock inside of my mouth.
At first he is soft and warm. He closes his eyes and draws his head back, hardening under my touch. Then, as a new desire flames in him, he reaches down to touch my throat, first a gentle touch, and then with a firmer squeeze. He now has both hands on my neck. "Can you take this?" he asks, and plunges himself deep into my throat.
As he grows harder and bigger, his pace quickens, and each thrust travels deeper.
I give him hungry moans, as if I can't get enough of him. I cup his balls, pinching the extra skin and rolling them between my fingers.
He grabs my breasts and pulls them toward his mouth. He bends down to suck on them, rolling his tongue around and over my nipples as if they were a delicate meal, making them tight with lust.
He retracts, walking stiffly to the nightstand, grabbing a condom, unrolling it down the shaft of his cock, and then climbs on top of the bed.
Instinctively, I get on all fours, offering him an unobstructed view of my ass. I wiggle toward him, taunting him to take the first plunge.
Instead, he draws his face near, dragging his tongue between my legs—long, strong strokes, applying just enough pressure.
I grab a fistful of the comforter in each hand, taking shorter, quicker breaths.
He grabs a chunk of my hair, pulling it back as if mounting a horse, and he presses himself into me, harder and deeper with each thrust. He is in control.
He rams his cock into me with a quickening pace. I curl my toes and feel an orgasm close. David’s face pops into my mind when the pleasure starts to overtake me. With each new penetration, the client’s balls slap my clit in a consistent rhythmic dance, and I feel the orgasm washing over me. My body caves, braces for it, and my muscles contract. David’s face, the thought of his touch, washes over my body and drenches me with shaking lust.
What the fuck?
I just came from a stranger that’s paying money to have sex with me. While I imagined the handsome and rugged face of my stepson.
Yeah, morals have left the building.
The man keeps depositing his cock as deep as he can plant it and holds one final thrust balls deep, one hand gripping my ass, and the other grabbing one breast.
I realize that I put more effort into fucking this stranger, this client, than I had anyone else…except David, of course.
The man pulls off his cum-filled condom and throws it into a nearby wastebasket. "My god," the man says, his body relaxed and drained.
I nod. The job is done and I turn off the seductive charm. I grab the money, quickly dress, and leave the room without a further word.
The sensation of an orgasm sweepin
g through my body as thoughts of David threaten to weaken my knees now, and I close my eyes and remember how good it felt to have David inside of me. How hot it was to watch him come when we were on FaceTime. I head back to my room, a weird feeling in my mind that David is somehow close. My breathing catches in my throat and my heart races at just the thought that David could be near. It is a foolish thought of course, but I head off to my room and peel off my clothes, letting the hot water stroke my body the way I wish David could.
12
Christina
The next night, on the last day of the conference, I attend an after party with my co-workers. There is an open bar, and Jenna already has a glazed look in her eye. Clearly she’s taken advantage of the free drinks, and I don't blame her. I'm about to do the same.
"Where have you been these last few nights?" Jenna asks me with a cute little hiccup.
I feign ignorance. "What do you mean?" I can't help but laugh.
"I mean that you've been like a disappearing act!" Jenna says, raising her eyebrows. "You're here one minute and gone the next."
"Oh, that," I say with a shrug. "My back pain has had me going back to my room to lie down until my pain medicine kicks in. Which I shouldn't be mixing with the booze, I know..." I let my words trail off because I know that the more details you give in a lie, the more likely you are to basically destroy your own little scheme. I so don't need Jenna to know that I came to Vegas and became a prostitute!
"You are too young to be so old!" Jenna laughs. "You are turning into my grandma."
I can barely suppress a laugh at Jenna's comment. Her teasing couldn't be more ironic and farther from the truth. If only she knew what has been happening these last couple of nights. I can't decide what would shock her more, knowing that I have been whoring myself out...or knowing that I not only fucked my stepson but that I want to fuck him again.
