by Dark Angel
I let those wicked thoughts shoot a brief thrill through me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
From a bar at the back of the casino, I notice a man staring in my direction. He has dark-blonde, slicked-back hair. His gaze puts me on edge, so I look away. I try to engage in small talk with the girls, but despite refusing to look in the strange man's direction I can still feel his presence.
His stare is not a flirtatious one. It is thick with intent. I wonder why he’s targeting me, out of all the beautiful women in the room, why me? I am with friends, so he can't be assuming I'm a prostitute.
I decide to turn around and see if the man is still staring at me. Sure enough he is and this time, he subtly curls his finger, urging me to come over.
I shake my head to say 'no.' There is no way I am going to walk over to that creepy man. I feel like nothing good will come of that encounter.
The night rolls on. I dance with friends, enjoy drinks, laugh at a few stories, and nearly forget about the man. But when I look in his direction, he is still sitting in the same spot, his deep gaze burning into my brain. Again, he motions for me to come over to him.
This time, more angry than afraid, I excuse myself from my friends, telling them I need to pee. Once out of their sight, I head over to the insistent creeper.
He tries to extend his hand to me, but I keep my distance.
"What do you want?" I snap. "Do you have a fucking problem?
"I heard what you've been doing," the man says, as if this no context statement is supposed to mean something to me.
"I think you've confused me with someone else," I say.
"No, I'm not," the man replies. "I know you're the newest high-end escort in the area. Don't play stupid with me."
"I don't know how you heard about that," I reply, and continue, "But I'm not doing that anymore, especially with you. End of story."
The man laughs, stroking his mustache and giving the slight hint of a smoker's cough, "I'm not interested in fucking you. I heard you're high end. I hear everything regarding your types of services in this area. I'm very good at what I do. I also heard that you are going at it alone."
I shake my head, half-heartedly shaking him off.
But the man continues, "That's both incredibly dangerous and also financially irresponsible."
"You know what—let me stop you right there," I say. "I really don't know what you're trying to get at, and it doesn't matter anyway. I'm done."
The man sighs, and leans back into his chair, "That's a shame because with the right management you could be raking in a couple grand a night for yourself while having the protection you need. I guess you are making more than two thousand a day at your current job then if you're not doing this anymore."
He says this with the hint of a dare.
I am shocked, both by the fact that there's a guy sitting here, offering to be my pimp, and also by the fact the he is suggesting I could make $2,000 per night for my work, which if I'm honest with myself, I find kind of exciting and enjoyable.
But what am I thinking? I realize that I am leaving Las Vegas the next morning. I won't be back for another year, not until the next hospitality convention rolls around. I also kind of have a life back home. I turn and start to walk away, but the man quickly chimes in, "You're not from around here, are you?"
I refuse to answer the question, but I know it is written all over my face: he's right.
The man continues, "If you can get out here for just one weekend a month, I can make you five thousand per weekend."
This stuns me. I stand here, trying to wrap my head around that number. But I can't just sneak off to Vegas, move around my hotel shifts, and become a high-end escort with a pimp and everything. Right?
"I can't," I reply, turning on my heels to leave.
"If you change your mind," the man extends his hand, "Take my card. My name is Thomas."
13
Christina
It’s been two weeks.
My hidden cash is shrinking, and before long, it will be gone completely. I can’t bear the thought of being stuck in this house every weekend until I can’t afford it anymore, already having to take a seasonal cut in my hours at the hotel. Sliding further into a tighter budget would be stifling and soul crushing.
One night, I finally take out Thomas's business card. I flip the glossy rectangle through my fingers, reading off:
Thomas B., 702-669-7399 // 702-NOW-SEXY
I mull over my options in my mind and decide to call him. Maybe he is right. Is it really possible to make $5,000 in a single weekend and have the necessary protection?
"What would it be like to work for you?" I ask as soon as Thomas picks up the phone. I don't have time for small talk and want to cut through the crap.
"Hello doll," he replies. I can almost hear him smiling.
"You get an 80 percent cut," he says. "I keep 20 percent, and in exchange I'll curate the clientele. You don't have to worry about a thing, honey. You'll have more wealthy men than you'll know what to do with."
I stay silent for a moment, contemplating what he’s just told me.
He continues, "Also, those men you fuck—yeah, they'd never dare fuck with you. I can promise you won't end up a corpse in a suitcase. You won't be a sad statistic, doll. These men will treat you right, or they'll pay the consequences and everyone knows I'm not a pimp you want to fuck with. I'm not a person someone wants to screw over, I can promise you that."
I don’t know what to think. Am I really going to do this? This all started by chance and now I feel like my life is spiraling in a direction that I can’t put the brakes on. I already fucked two men for money and I enjoyed it, though I definitely worry about the fact that the instant the sex felt even a little good that I couldn’t stop thinking about David.
This is easy money, but I never dreamed I would meet a pimp and make a career out of this. But having met Thomas during my time in Vegas is making me reconsider everything. With protection, could I do this once a month? And what would I do about that unavoidable tingle between my legs – the one that I felt every time I whore myself out – the one that makes me imagine it isn’t a cock of a random man that I’m pleasing – but a much more familiar one.
“I am doing this, yes, thank you,” I tell Thomas.
“Good, you won’t be disappointed. You can text me, anything you need. Let me know when I’ll see you again and don’t worry too much. Think about it all and get me a solid time,” Thomas says.
He’s not laying the sales pitch on thick, and that’s because he knew he had me from the moment I dialed his number. That’s fine. He says that he knows what he’s doing, and if he heard about my little amateur stint, well then he probably knows everything he says — and he can take me pro.
The weight of the world can be lifted from my shoulders for a moment. And if I enjoy the next client more because I'm thinking about David?
Well then so be it.
14
Christina
I let Thomas know I’d be coming and now that the day I chose has finally arrived, I drive through the desert with my windows down, the wind twisting like fingers in my hair, and the cacti standing and waving like cowboys. I think I could get used to this—the shifting landscape, the solitary drive, and the anticipatory unknown.
Day turns into night, and when I finally see the Vegas strip in the distance, it resembles a jewel-encrusted necklace spread out across the horizon and holding secrets too good to keep. I feel ready for the work ahead.
Thomas is waiting for me in a location directly off of the Vegas Strip. The place, Frankie's Tiki Room, is housed in an unassuming white building. It looks like any other building until you walk inside. The décor resembles something from the South Seas, but with more kitsch—hand-carved furniture and excessive amounts of bamboo. Polynesian pinup posters adorn the walls, while taxidermied puffer fish and brightly colored antique glass fishing floats hang from the ceiling. Exotica music and cigarette smoke mingle, furt
her rounding out the atmosphere.
"Well, ain't you a sight," Thomas says, sitting in a dim booth resembling a grass hut. "Sit down doll, let's talk business."
I sit, sliding into the vinyl booth and ordered a drink, the Wild Watusi.
"Nice choice," Thomas remarks. "I'm drinking the Bearded Clam because even if I don’t like the real thing, I don’t mind getting tipsy to an alcoholic one.” He chuckles. Then he hands me an envelope.
"What's this?" I ask.
"An advance," Thomas replies.
I open the envelope, thumbing through the bills as I count it all out. It is $1,000. I wonder if this is a standard practice, to receive an advance from a pimp.
"Why are you giving this to me?" I ask.
"Because you are going to take on some special jobs," he replies.
"What does that mean?" I ask, my mind racing with thoughts.
"Well doll," Thomas explains, "These men won't be touching you…but they get to finish on you. You’re going to get them off with your mouth, without ever touching them”
"What the fuck are you talking about?” I’m confused right now. What the hell kind of creeps does he plan to set me up with?
"Relax," he says. "These men are clean, not at all creeps, I promise. They will pay a whole hell of a lot more for something even more exclusive.”
I light a cigarette to calm my frazzled nerves. Holding the smoldering tip between my red fingernails, I say, "I can't do it. I…don’t know how to be a whore that doesn’t let a man fuck me!”
Thomas laughs. “Don’t have so little faith in yourself. I mean, I hear the way you move, you’ve got this. Between those lips and those hips, just let a man blow it on your tits and you’ll be set. This is a fantastic opportunity.”
"An opportunity?" I interrupt. “I must be out of my mind—I can't believe I thought I could do this."
"Like I said, this is an opportunity," Thomas continues. "If you do this, I assure you that you will be bringing in $1,500 an hour—not even a neurosurgeon makes that kind of damn money!"
I remain silent. The dollar amount is outrageous. And Thomas is right—no one made that kind of money in an hour—in a day maybe, but an hour? My thoughts are momentarily broken when a waitress brings Thomas's drink to the table. She lights it on fire, giving him a seductive hula dance before blowing it out.
“Gotta love this place," he grins. "Now pull your head out of your ass and listen to me. $1,500 an hour is serious business. You're going to be making more money than you know what to do with, doll. You can handle this. I know an enterprising woman such as yourself can handle a new challenge, am I right?”
I inhale, taking another second to ask myself…can I do this?
I answer the only way I know how. I give him a lascivious smile.
“Yeah,” I reply huskily. “I’m in.”
15
Christina
I knock on the door of my first client, a paunchy man named Carl who is supposedly a successful orthodontist in Ohio. As soon as I step inside, I realize that he booked himself a penthouse suite. The room offers sweeping views of Las Vegas Blvd., and in the center of the room sits a pool table.
Carl seems to be trying too hard to set the mood for me, and has lit what seemed like a dozen candles all over the room. Internally, I chuckle and think, You have to be fucking kidding me.
But I keep my demeanor professional and immediately ask him to put the money on the table. He walks over to the pool table and spreads out each of the hundreds in an overly emphatic gesture.
I walk closer to him. ”Let's get to work, shall we?" I say with a playful smile.
He slowly unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants. Carl doesn’t touch me, and I know I better step up my game to be sure he’s getting his money's worth.
I honestly expect to panic a little but I don’t. I reach for my clothes, pulling them off just as slowly. I push the straps of my dress down, letting my tits spill out, and then I pull myself up onto the pool table, spreading my legs.
“Do you like watching me play with my tits?” I ask Carl while I grip them, bringing my tongue to swirl along each nipple.
Carl’s cock is in his hand and he’s already jerking quickly.
“My pussy is so wet, Carl,” I tell him, saying his name in the most erotic way I can manage. I wonder if this isn’t totally emasculating for him, but at the same time, I feel powerful knowing how much he’s paying me to touch myself and make sure he gets to come on me from whatever I do during our time.
I drop one of my hands down, trailing down and lifting up my dress. I yank down my panties and throw them at Carl — he can touch the panties and feel how wet I got thinking about doing something so wildly immoral as this for money — and then I spread my legs, wide. My time at the Spearmint Rhino as a stripper means that I’m capable of doing quite the spread.
I watch Carl’s eyes as he looks at my bare pussy.
“Stroke your cock and think about how my pussy aches, Carl,” I instruct. I peel my dress off and rub my inner thighs, tease all around my pussy.
Then I turn around and give him full view of my ass and pussy, my tits in view too with the way I’m arching right now. I squeeze my own ass and trail my fingers down to my wet slit, sliding my fingers through to lube them up.
I slide a finger inside my pussy and I start to moan. I’m really banging it out for the cheap seats, but I also am getting a huge rush from the fact that I can hear him grunting already.
“Fuck, yes, fuck that perfect pussy,” he begs me, his voice going hoarse.
I slide my now soaked finger out of my pussy and slide it in my ass, then bring the fingers of my other hand to my pussy. I moan ridiculously. “Do you like seeing me stuffed, Carl? Do you want to come all over me while I’m being such a bad girl?”
I am about to continue, but then I hear Carl gasping like he’s going to suffocate, and a hot stream of cum lands on my ass, dripping down my fingers and my cheeks.
Carl has good aim, I’ll give him that.
“Mmm, thank you, Carl,” I say, pulling my fingers out of my holes and scooping it up and licking them. Thomas says his clients are clean, and I hope so because I taste the saltiness of cum on my fingers — cum that isn’t mine.
“Fuck, that was perfect,” Carl says.
I turned around and when I’m about to get off the table, Carl hands me several tissues and my clothes. Well, that was thoughtful.
“Have a good night,” I tell him, nodding and taking the tissues and clothes. I don’t know what else to say to him, and I kind of want to get out of here as soon as possible. Sure, Carl did nothing so terrible, and this wasn’t so hard, and the pay is amazing…but once again, my body burns, unsatisfied and all I can think about is David. I am going to text him, of all the things that I don’t do, as soon as I get back to my hotel room.
“You too!” Carl says.
I can’t believe how much money this guy paid for this, but he seems to be thrilled, so I’m definitely not sticking around to get him to fill out a comment card.
I wipe myself off, leaving the tissues on the pool table so that I don’t have to needlessly investigate Carl’s room for a trash can, then I pull back on my panties and my dress, then I head out the door, glad the job is over and seemingly successful and I go.
I pick up my phone to text David. I know I never text…and I know that I have a slew of texts from him, but I don’t let anything in my mind dissuade me from texting him.
Thinking about you.
Okay, so not the filthiest text ever. But I had to start somewhere. The message quickly change from ‘Delivered’ to ‘Read’ and I expect to see the three dots on the phone that mean that’s he’s writing a response. Instead, my phone starts ringing. I deeply regret texting him before I got back to my room.
“You do know how to text,” David says. There’s something sensual in his voice that stops my heart for a moment.
“I do,” I say stupidly.
“I think I’d rathe
r hear you,” David says.
My insides melt at those words. I don’t know why I'm so hung up on him, or how he brightens my whole day if I so much as think about him, but I just know that I never want this feeling to go away.
16
Christina
Just the sound of David’s voice makes me so wet that I actually shiver. I get into an Uber to take me back to the hotel that I’m staying at tonight, and I listen to David’s words.
“I’ve been thinking about you, too. You rushed off the phone with me after being so happy to spend time with me,” David says.
There’s something about the words he’s saying—they sound playful, but he’s anything but. My whole body stands at attention.
I don’t say anything. Partially because David has me stunned, and partially because despite the fact that I’m a prostitute now, I kinda don’t want to scare my Uber driver with whatever filthy thing would come from my lips right now.
“Your hotel room synced on the family calendar, I thought I’d surprise you and show up…you heading back to your room?” David asks.
Holy fuck.
“Yes!” I exclaim.
“Good. Tell me your room number and I’ll be up there shortly to fuck you,” David says.
My heart thunders so loudly that all I hear is the blood rushing to my ears for a moment.
When I get to the lobby of the hotel, I see him right away. David and I manage to stand still the whole time before we get to the room, even keeping our composure in the elevator.
It is a hell of a thing—I came here to earn a pile of money in Vegas, and the old family calendar that ironically my cheating husband insisted on linking to our hotel and flight booking accounts outed me. When we get inside the room I yank off my dress quickly and David’s mouth crashes against mine.
