by Jenna Kelly
"Yeah, my father was a Philippine missionary who got a little overzealous with 'spreading the word of god' through western African. Particularly with the African women, if you take my meaning. I never knew him. Then when I was two, my mother was killed during the genocide." Marissa gasped. "She gave her life to get me out of the country."
"You're joking!"
Rachel turned into Marissa, her large, dark eyes shimmering with emotion. "It's not a joke," she said huskily. Resting against the wall of the shower, she glanced down her wet body. Marissa had stopped soaping, enthralled by the other woman's tale, although she realized now that her right hand was resting on Rachel's smooth mound. "How about my tits?" Rachel suggested, the corners of her lips curling wickedly. "We can get to… that later."
"Oh, I'm… I'm sorry…" Marissa blurted, averting her eyes as heat flooded up her neck and across her face.
"S'ok, baby. I liked it."
Marissa felt her own pussy flood. This woman was so sexual! Hesitantly, she returned her hands to the warm skin just beneath Rachel's swollen breasts. They were nice. Large enough to fill the palms of her hands, and capped with hard, dark brown nipples that reminded the blonde of Hershey Kisses.
"The rest of my story's not very interesting. Same as so many other girls here in Vegas. Grew up in the Midwest, but I always had a hard time because I looked different. I fled to Vegas before finishing my last year in high school and I'd have ended up in a brothel somewhere if Kaitlyn hadn't found me and taken me under her wing."
"Geez," Marissa grunted, again lost in Rachel's narrative. Her hands idled on the dark-skinned model's soft breasts. "I guess Kaitlyn's your fairy Godmother…"
Rachel began to laugh, thrusting her tits forward. Reminding Marissa that they were naked together. Her pussy let off another surge of heat. "Not unless it's okay to fuck a Godmother. That woman's hot!"
"You… you and Kaitlyn?"
"Sensational," the exotic beauty answered, leaning forward to run the tip of her tongue across Marissa's lips. The blonde gasped, although didn't pull away. Some part of her had been waiting for this since the moment they set down in Las Vegas. She felt Rachel's hands on her hips, pulling her closer. She opened her mouth to allow the soft tongue push between her lips. For the second time that day, their tongues touched and glided against one another.
Marissa moaned into the wet mouth. Her fingers flicked across the wonderfully hard nipple, consumed in the drug that was this sexy woman. Her soapy hands kneaded the wonderful, buoyant globes.
"So good, babe," Rachel breathed, her right hand sliding down the blonde's stomach. Her long fingers skirted her swollen clit, caressing the smooth curve of her vulva. "Want it?" the exotic beauty asked; she wanted to hear the blonde say it.
"Yes," Marissa gasped, standing on her tiptoes in an attempt to force the fingers inside her. "Oh yes!"
"Say, 'Please,'" Rachel teasingly prompted, circling Marissa's clit. "'Please, Rach.'"
The blonde's voice was as out of control as her body. "Please! Please, Rach!"
"Please what?"
"Make me cum," Marissa panted, almost sobbing with desire. "Please make me cum…"
When the exotic model stiffened two fingers and pushed them into her oily pussy, she screamed, widening her legs to accept the wonderful intruders. The soft touch was perfect. Rachel knew the precise pressure to apply.
"Oh, shit!" the blonde gasped as the model teased her. Two fingers inside, a thumb on her clit. Then the beauty had her tongue, too, sucking it into her mouth like she was sucking on a cock. It was too much!
"FUCK!" the blonde cried, cumming harder, longer and louder than anything before in her young life.
"Just think," Rachel murmured, her arms helping the blonde stay on her feet as her body gave way. "If that's what my fingers can do, just wait till you experience my mouth…"
***
"I have to congratulate you," Samson growled softly into the phone. Her call was later than expected, but that was okay. Carrie's earlier phone call had told him all he needed to know.
"Thank you. I take it the girl contacted you?"
"She did. A very professional operation from what I understand," he told her. "One second, please!"
He hurried away from the bar area, through a door into the corridor leading to his office. The sound of Natalie's singing dulled behind him. The news of the new English country acid house singer had quickly spread after her first two nights. The club was full to bursting. She'd be a little gold mine for him - the more punters she attracted, the more potential clients he had for his girls.
"Problem?" Jessica asked, her voice suspicious.
"No," his deep voice chuckled. "I was in the bar and couldn't easily here you. And I gather you had no problems either. Congratulations."
"That's what you paid me for," she responded. "You expected anything else?"
"No," he laughed.
"You should congratulate the girl, too," Jessica said, thickening her false Irish tones. "She made it easy for me, though she clearly enjoys her work—"
"Good, good," his deep voice responded, missing the touch of sarcasm. He'd arranged transport back home for Carrie, but he'd really have to give her some sort of bonus when he saw her again. "The money reached your account okay?"
"Mm-Kaitlyn," she answered. "I wouldn't have executed the plan otherwise."
"Quite," Samson's deep voice grunted. "And I believe I got two for the price of one..."
"Consider it a bonus, no extra charge," she told him, knowing the call, had lasted too long, even if she had stolen the cell phone. "You know how to contact me if you need me."
***
Reagan hated the thought of not being able to see David tonight. Hated even more that Big Jack was forcing her to do a private party. Forcing? That wasn't quite true. He'd left the final decision to her, but only after reminding her that each assignment brought her a step closer to repaying her debt.
So tonight, instead of continuing her morning conversation with David, she'd be at her first private party, dancing for whoever was there, and fucking the host, too. She really did hate this life. Hate Big Jack. And hate that useless ex-boyfriend who'd left her in such a mess.
Her text message to David had been brief, but what else could she say? She'd find some way of explaining this to him when she saw him again. Her heart raced as she made a beeline for the elevators, cutting through the Rio's lobby. She'd die if she ran into the Englishman!?!
Despite the crush of people at the late hour, her paranoid mind imagined every eye was cast in her direction. Judging. Criticizing. Condemning her as the whore that she was. She felt another lick of heat sear across her scalp. If they were looking with a cluck of disapproval not far from their tongues, she could hardly blame them. Last week, she felt the same way: she'd shake her head and think, "I'll never be like that…"
She'd built this illusion that what she did at Midnight Hot was different than this. Somehow better. She danced in a club, turned tricks on the side, but always in the relative safety of the club. This felt different.
Her finger shook as she pressed the up button in the elevator lobby. A couple of elderly tourists got into the mirror-lined lift with her. She took a deep breath and refused to meet their judgmental eyes, imagined or not.
The reflection in the bevelled mirror of the elevator doors said it all. Maybe they thought she was a business exec, she thought hopefully. Big Jack had explained what she should wear and had paid for the slutty power suit she'd chosen himself. She'd be wearing it a lot, he told her.
Charcoal grey and clinging to her curves, the tight skirt barely covered the tops of her black thigh-highs and the short, matching blazer offered a scintillating display of freckled cleavage.
Her long, red locks had been swept up into a messy bun, held in place by a pair of black chopsticks. She adjusted her fake, plastic-rimmed glasses and thought, "Yeah, business exec my ass." The way their eyes scowled as they exited made it clear that they were nobody's
fool.
As she headed for a huge suite on the top floor of the Rio, she wondered what was in store for her. Honestly, she had no idea. Some of the girls like doing these private parties. The thrill, the money. They were the girls Reagan had little in common with. Inside, she knew this just wasn't a good idea!
The elevator emptied her into a short hall with only three doors. She could hear loud music thumping behind one. Room P100. Her destination.
She froze. Could she do this? Could she really do this? She hesitated outside the door. Last chance, honey, a voice in her head whispered. Turn and leave now 'cause there ain't no going back.
The redhead took a deep breath to steady her quivering heart. When she wrapped her knuckles against the dark, wooden door, her hand no longer shook.
The sound of partying was a low roar on the other side of that door. For a moment, she thought that no one heard her knocking—the need to leave increased. Maybe fate was giving her one last chance.
Then the door opened.
A shirtless man leaned against the door jam, giving her a slow once-over. A hand-rolled cigarette hung from his mouth, but it wasn't tobacco burning on the tip. "Well, well," the man leered, plucking the joint from his mouth and finally meeting her eyes. "You must be Reagan. Come on in!"
The redhead suppressed a shiver of disgust as he stepped to the side, averting her eyes from his, but knowing they'd returned to her tits.
The interior of the high-roller suite was much more opulent than the doorman would have led her to believe. On the far side of the enormous space, tall windows offered a one eighty-degree view of the City That Never Sleeps.
She lost count of the people in the large room, mostly guys but a few women, too. The loud music reverberated around her head. And everywhere, the air permeated with the saccharine sweetness of marijuana smoke. This was a much heavier scene than she'd anticipated. "Through there," the shirtless man told, her, nodding at a side room.
Three guys and a young looking blonde sat on the plush sofas of the lounging space. A fifty-inch flat panel television was mounted to the wall. A close-up shot of a vein cock going into a glistening pussy was showing, although the recorded sounds of sex were drowned out by the hard-pounding music.
A young man with bed-head hair and Slade-cut black suit approached her, one hand in his pocket. His smile was too smooth for Reagan's liking. "Well hello there, pretty one," he said with an affluent accent that made her think of spoiled rich kids. "Reagan, right?"
"And you're Mr. Lyons?" For some reason, she'd imagined a much older man. Not this guy. She'd consider him attractive were he not paying for sex. He had an Indy-rocker look to him.
The young man smiled at the use of "Mr." "Let's go with 'Paul.' Please, join us."
She hesitated, cursing herself for showing weakness. If she was going to get through this night, she had to rise above her meekness. She had to be someone else. "First, we need to take care of business." When she said it, her voice was steady.
Again, that smooth smile. "Of course, the money," he said, tipping his head forward slightly. He pulled a wad of hundreds from the back pocket of his tight, black jeans and counted off 25. Reagan glanced first at the shirtless man, who'd answered the door. He gave her a wink before finishing off his spliff. Her gaze switched to the group who'd been watching the porn. They were now watching her and the money exchange. Her face went bright red.
"Twenty-five large," he said, handing her the stack of bills and grinning as he returned to the rest to his pocket. The money was nothing to him. It was everything to her.
She'd never felt more objectified than at that moment. Why did thoughts of David come to her mind, combined with a strong desire to make a run for it?
"So, Reagan…" Paul said smoothly, his eyes undressing her, stripping off that sexy power suit. He turned and wandered over to the sofas where the rest of his friends were sitting. "Why don't you dance for us… to start?"
Reagan shivered as he smiled at her. It wasn't the dancing that worried her—it was what came afterwards. She slipped the cash into her purse and set it carefully on the sideboard by the door. Her breath was coming short. She felt her head go soft and light; like she was going to pass out.
Control it, Reagan, control it. You can do this. She took a deep breath, surveyed the group once again—four guys and one girl. The shirtless man was still standing beside her. He'd lit up a new joint and grinned stupidly when she looked his way.
"Here," he said, adding, "take it," when she hesitated.
She reached out and took the joint, setting the rolled cigarette between her full lips and sucked deeply. Maybe this was a way of giving her confidence, drowning out the thoughts of what lay in store.
Many of the girls she worked with at Midnight Hot were heavy addicts of one thing or another. For most, it was sex, although the staff had its fair share of drug addicts and alcoholics. Reagan had insulated herself from that lifestyle, primarily by dissociating herself from the rest of the girls. For her, it was a regular job, one that she left behind when she exited the building.
Sure, she drank from time to time. She'd even smoke a cigarette every once in a while, especially if she was out drinking. But that was the extent of her dabbles and she'd never intended to take it further. Only now, she was feeling the floor fall out from beneath her and she needed some support.
Sashaying forward, burning dubie in hand, her hips found the hard beat coming over the speakers. Her strides were hesitant as she placed herself before the porn-spewing television and her audience.
This was just like any other performance on stage, she told herself, only her stage was much more intimate. Turning her back, she swung along to the music, her legs shoulder-width apart, she fell into her comfort zone once again. The catcalls came: "You're so fucking hot" or "Take it off, baby!" She tuned them all out and went through her motions.
The pot hit her right between the eyes. Like a wave crashing against a beachhead. And yet, instead of making her fall flat on her ass, it energized her. The music was no longer filtered through her ears. She absorbed it. She was one with it.
The marijuana was just what she needed, she realized. It was relaxing her, helping her get through this. Hell, not just get through it! The music, the weed, and the situation all began to make her really fucking horny! Maybe she could actually find a way to enjoy the experience.
Silhouetted against the large television screen and its tawdry acts of lust and sex, she stripped. The black sticks that held her red locks in place went first. Encouraged by their cheers, she tossed her thick waves. This wasn't that different to dancing for Big Jack, except the audience was more vocal. She liked that!
Next, she peeled off the small blazer, slow enough for her to tease them with the dainty white half-cup bra that barely held her large breasts in check. She twisted and spun, undulating to the changing highs and lows of the electronica. Her short skirt rode up her legs, baring the tops of her stockings and the pale flesh of her thighs. Useless, the skirt went last.
"Nice g-string, baby!" someone exclaimed. "Why don't you come over here and sit in my lap!"
Time to take things to the next level, she thought, a trickle of sweat forming from her forehead. She took another pull. If this was what it took, she'd give it her best shot. Flipping her hair, she skipped up to the guy who'd shouted out, swivelled, and grinded into his lap, just as she'd done with Big Jack.
She took a drag off the roach for extra confidence. The gasped, sitting back on the sofa as he received his lap dance. He was a gentleman, keeping his hands to himself as she teased him. That was good, but disappointing, too. She needed to feel his touch, tangible evidence that she was hot.
The next guy gave her all the proof she needed. He couldn't keep his hands off her and eventually, it was all she could do to keep shifting and twisting to keep him away. When he managed to get her bra strap unhitched, she slid off of his lap, but still made a show of tossing it across his face as she shook her wonderfully full tits.
She'd gone from reluctant, hesitant, and nervous to confident, horny in a few short minutes. That's what pot could do for you, she told herself
The next guy was Neil, who was looking stoned and excited. His hands immediately went to her swells as she lowered her ass onto him, feeling his cock swell in the crevice of her buttocks. She didn't stop him—she couldn't stop him. She was getting high on the weed and the more she floated, the less she cared.
As she grinded her hips into his erection, he pushed a finger beneath her g-string. "God, you're sexy," he whispered as two fingers found her clit. Her body went stiff with shock as a mini-orgasm washed through her body. She whimpered as he fingered her, nibbling lightly on her pierced ear.
