Bad Behavior #1: Tales of an American Gigolo

by Childers Lewis

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

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  Copyright - #1

  Chapter 1

  Bastien

  THE WOMAN beneath me moans. I press deeper into her soft, wet heat. Her hips jerk upward, wanting more, needing more, and I aim to give it to her. With three thrusts, I take her to the edge and hold her there. She’s close, so close, and so am I. The bite of her fingernails stings down my back. I hiss as my balls tighten and try to think about something other than the burning need to climax.

  “Harder, Bastien.” My real name is Jamie, and for a second, I think she’s talking to someone else. The raw edge to her voice tells me everything I need to know about her state of mind.

  “Jesus, you’re tight today.” I double the pace, driving my pelvis into her like a jackhammer. Another fiery pulse of release licks up the back of my legs. I try to think about something other than coming. Baseball. In my head, I run through the names and stats of the Cubs starting lineup. The fire recedes to a simmer. My thoughts drift from baseball to cars, and now I’m hot again. She tightens slender thighs around my waist. Damn. If she doesn’t get off soon, I’m going to bust a nut before she does, and that just can’t happen. This isn’t about my pleasure. This is about her, her needs, her desires, her fantasies.

  “I’m almost there,” she warns. Her tits bounce with every slam of my body against hers.

  “I know you are, baby. So am I.” With a huge amount of effort, I withdraw. We both groan in frustration. I flip her over, onto her knees in front of me, fist a hand in the hair at the nape of her neck, and shove into her hard enough to make her grunt. A shudder ripples through her body and clutches around my cock. I ride out her orgasm, waiting until her cries die away, then spill into the condom between us. The relief is immediate and welcome.

  After a few seconds, we break apart and roll onto our backs, chests heaving, covered in sweat. I remove the condom, tie it off, and drop it onto the floor next to my shoes to take care of later. Blood is still thundering through my veins. I close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing. Beside me, a lighter flicks. The flame sizzles against the tip of a cigarette. Ms. D inhales, holds it for a second then exhales slowly.

  “I’m getting married next week,” she says.

  "Oh?" My eyes snap open. Geneva Danvers is my oldest and best client. She's the reason I got into this business, to begin with.

  "Yes." She sits up in bed, holding the sheet over her breasts. Her shoulder length, silver hair stands out around her head from my clutching fingers. Intelligent blue eyes meet mine. She hands me her cigarette. I take a long drag and hand it back. “But nothing is going to change with us.” She draws an invisible circle in the space between us. “He lives on the west coast. I’ll be here. We can continue like usual.”

  “A long distance marriage? Really?” A smile tugs my lips. This is so typical, so Geneva. “How’s that going to work? You’re in Chicago. He’s there. Sounds difficult.”

  “It’s going to work great.” She smiles back, and I’m struck by her beauty. Even though she’s a good thirty years older than me, she’s one hell of a woman. Fine-boned, long-limbed, graceful. “He has a corporation in San Francisco and comes here on business a couple of times a month. This way, we enjoy the tax and social benefits of marriage, while maintaining our individual lives.”

  “Nice.” I sit up and let my toes curl into the sheepskin rug beside the bed. The room is monochromatic, minimalist, with a few luxurious touches here and there. A wall of windows displays a panoramic view of Chicago from the sixtieth floor of the luxury skyscraper. This is just one of her many homes. I’ve been to most of them, but this is my personal favorite. “I’m going to take a shower. Care to join me?”

  “No. Go ahead. I’ve got a few things to take care of.” She stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand and grabs her laptop.

  When I come out of the shower, she's wearing a set of silver silk pajamas. The thin fabric outlines a figure taut from exercise, a body I know as well as my own. I walk across the room, naked, knowing she likes to watch me, and dress slowly in front of her.

  “We’ll have to skip next week,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “But we can pick up our regular schedule the following week.”

  “Okay. Works for me.” In truth, I can use a little time off. The last few months have been a whirlwind of activity. I bend to drop a kiss on her cheek. One of her hands slips an envelope, my payment, into the back pocket of my jeans and something else, something bulky. I reach into my pocket and draw out a set of car keys. They dangle from a gold fob. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a little something extra, for being so sweet.” The fingertips of her left-hand trail over my ass, ending in a pat.

  I narrow my eyes. She’s always been generous to a fault, but this—this is something new. “You’re lending me your car?”

  “No, I’m giving you a car.” An indulgent smile curves her lips.

  “I can’t take this.” Payment for sex is one thing; a car is something entirely different. It’s too permanent, too tangible. I hand the keys back to her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She shoves my hand aside. “It’s yours, darling. Free and clear.” As a Cook County judge, she's used to giving commands and being obeyed. "Take the damn car. Enjoy it. Life is too short." Her voice softens, and so does the hardness in her eyes. "You work hard, Bastien. You’ve earned it.”

  I don’t mean to brag, but I’m good at what I do, and I take pride in my skills. I also have a natural head for business. Combining the two assets only seems natural. My success is based on the simple matter of supply versus demand. Women crave a good fuck. Not awkward fumbling under the sheets or a quick grope and poke. They want ball-slapping, headboard-banging, finger-clutching sex by a man who knows what he’s doing. Turns out, they’re also happy to pay for it.

  I take the keys. Hell, I’m no fool. My pride smarts for an entire thirty seconds, but the sting disappears the minute I set eyes on my prize. A cobalt blue, sleek and shiny, Lexus SC sits in a reserved space on the ground floor of the parking garage. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, next to a woman’s face when she comes. I trail my fingertips over the glossy paint and sink into the buttery leather seat with a moan of pure hedonistic pleasure. Behind the steering wheel, I take the envelope from my back pocket and thumb through the fat stack of hundred dollar bills, all fifty of them. Not bad for two hours of work, and a new car to boot.

  It’s hard to believe. Four years ago—hell, last year—I was penniless, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and damn near suicidal. Today, at the tender age of twenty-four, it feels like I’ve got the world by the ass, and I’ve got to tell you—it doesn’t suck.

  A few days later, I’m in the gym at my apartment building. The girl on the treadmill next to mine keeps looking at me. I punch up the speed and ignore the slide of her gaze over my body. I run for thirty minutes. She matches my pace, and I’m impressed. Not a bad looking girl. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a breast man. Her tits jiggle inside a snug pink athletic bra. Nice. If I hadn’t just finished a night of marathon fucking with two women, I’d be all over that voluptuous body of hers, but I'm tired, my refrigerator is empty, and I need to pick up my dry cleaning after the workout. At the end of my run, I stop the machine and hop off, pausing to wipe down the surfaces before heading toward the elevator and my apartment upstairs. Her footsteps ghost mine. She boards the elevator with me and gets off on the fourth floor. I continue up to the twentiet
h floor where I shower and change clothes, drink a protein shake, before heading to the street.

  When I come out of the building, she's waiting by the curb for a taxi, dressed in a short, straight skirt and white blouse. She shoots me a smile, and I smile back because that's the kind of guy I am—friendly.

  “Heading to work?” she asks. Her voice is sweet, melodic, tainted with innocence.

  I shake my head. “Running errands.”

  “I’m Chloe.” She extends a hand, and I take it. Her grip is surprisingly firm and warm.

  “Nice to meet you.” I don’t give her my name. Names only lead to trouble.

  “Would you like to get some coffee? I don’t have to be at work for another hour.” Round, hopeful eyes lock on mine.

  I stare back at her, feeling like a wolf in the presence of a sacrificial lamb. The sinner inside me wants to accept her offer, but the saint draws rein. I’ve been down this street before, and it leads to heartbreak—for her.

  “There’s a place around the corner, I think. I just moved here a few weeks ago.” She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her small, pink ear. “I still can’t find my way around.”

  “It’s that way.” I point in the opposite direction. In spite of my reservations, I can’t help smiling at her wholesome appeal.

  “Oh. Right.” Twin patches of red bloom in her cheeks. “I keep getting lost. The city—it’s so big. I’m from a small place in Indiana, you know? Chicago is on a completely different playing field than my hometown." I lift an eyebrow, and her blush deepens. "That was way too much information, wasn't it? I'm sorry." She rolls her eyes, and I fight back the urge to laugh at her cuteness.

  “You’re fine. No worries.” The phone inside my jeans pocket vibrates. I send the call to voicemail then give Chloe a nod before heading toward my car parked at the end of the block. Once I’m behind the wheel, I take a second to listen to the message. It’s Geneva calling with a referral.

  As I hit redial on the phone, I watch Chloe. She tries without success to flag down two cabs. Neither gives her the time of day. She glances at her watch. Her shoulders droop. A woman’s voice answers on the other end of my call.

  “Good morning, Bastien,” she purrs. “How’s my boy this morning?”

  “Great. Enjoying my new car. How are you?" As I run a finger around the leather stitching on the steering wheel, Chloe hops up and down on the curb, waving at an approaching taxi like a mad woman. I chuckle.

  “Honey, if I got any better, it would be illegal.” Her cultured voice washes over me. “But enough about me, I’m calling because I have a friend who’d like to meet you.”

  "Cool. Appreciate it." Good old Danvers. Not only did she save me from taking a wrong turn in life, but she is also responsible for half of my clients. Without her, I'd still be selling pot on a street corner in Garfield Park. "She's down with the terms?"

  “Yes. No problem.” She hesitates before speaking again. “Her husband is out of town on business. If you could work her in, she’d be very, very grateful.”

  I only accept new clients by referral. A guy in my line of work can't be too careful. Word of mouth is the best and safest advertising. "Okay. I'll see what I can do."

  “Shit, I’m late for court. I’ll see you Thursday.” She hangs up the phone, and I punch in the new prospect’s number.

  “Hello?” A woman answers on the second ring.

  "Hi, I'm calling for Mrs. Smith." Most women don't give their real names to protect their privacy, not at first.

  “Yes, this is Mrs. Smith.” The voice is soft-spoken, has a Texas drawl, and shakes a little. Obviously, she’s nervous, so I try to put her at ease. She clears her throat. “Are you—the consultant?”

  “Yes.” That’s me. Manwhore. Gigolo. Escort. I’m all those things and then some. “When would you like to get together?”

  “Is tonight okay?” I hear the frown in her voice. From the cadence of her speech and the precision of her diction, I’d peg her for an unhappily married woman in her forties. Probably got a few kids, husband works all the time, looking for a little heat between the sheets.

  “Sure. Tonight’s fine.” I’d been looking forward to a night off, but I never turn down a new customer. “And you understand how this works? Do you have any questions?”

  “No. I understand.” The woman drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Can you come over, say around nine?”

  “Sounds perfect. Is there anything specific you’re looking for? Toys? Role play? Whatever floats your boat.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Embarrassment is palpable in her tone. “But I like—I like it a little rough. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. No problem. I’ll give it to you any way you like.” Because customer service is number one in my book. I smirk, thinking of all the ways I’ve done women in the past. No request surprises me anymore.

  “What do you look like?” The chagrin in her undertone fades away to be replaced by curiosity. “Geneva—Ms. Danvers—she said you’re hot. I just wondered…” Her voice trailed away.

  “I’m six-four, a hundred and eighty pounds, dark hair. I work out every day, and I'm in excellent shape." These kinds of questions don't bother me. I'm not cheap, and she has every right to make sure she's getting her money's worth. "And in case you're curious, I've got plenty of horsepower under the hood."

  The woman gives me her address. I jot it down on a notepad then end the call. When I look up, spring raindrops splatter on the windshield. Chloe is still standing on the curb, her purse poised over her head to fend off the rain. Oh, what the hell. I can’t leave the girl out in the elements, can I? The car starts with a growl. I ease up to the curb in front of her and roll down the window. “Get in. I can drop you.”

  “Um, are you sure?” She rolls her lips together then tugs the lower one between her teeth. “You’re not a serial killer or anything, are you?”

  No, but I’ve been called the devil a time or two. “Not even close.” I open the passenger door and wait for her to hop inside.

  After she gives me the address of her office, we ride in silence for the next block. She smells like citrus and honey, a lethal combination. Her scent fills the cockpit of the Lexus, mingles with the new car smell. While I drive, she lowers the visor and peers into the mirror on the back side to smooth her hair.

  “This is a nice car,” she says. One of her hands caresses the soft leather covering the console. “What did you say you do?”

  “I didn’t.” I wait for her to ask again, but she doesn’t. “I’m in marketing and sales.” It’s not a lie. I consider my body as a product, and like any other business, it takes a lot of promotion to maintain a decent income.

  “Really? That’s a great field. I have a degree in English Lit from Indiana University, but I’m working for my grandmother right now. My family thinks you have to be in business or you’ll starve to death.” She flips the visor up and shifts in the seat to face me. I try not to gawk at the smooth skin of her bare legs. She’s curvy in all the right places, and I have an inexplicable urge to put my hand on her thigh. Instead, I curl my fingers around the gear shift. “Where did you go to school at?”

  “Eastern Kentucky. On a baseball scholarship." I had completed one year before I got injured and returned to Chicago. It seems like a lifetime ago—someone else’s life.

  “You must be doing really well to afford a car like this. I’m barely making enough for rent. This city is so expensive. Of course, my grandmother wants me to live with her, but I said no way.” She pauses for breath, and I have to laugh at her genuine enthusiasm. After the jaded women I deal with, it’s refreshing. “You should see my apartment. It’s the size of a postage stamp. Is yours like that too?”

  I’m saved from answering because we’ve reached Chloe’s destination. I stop the car at the front doors and put it into park. Chloe drops a hand on my wrist, and it's like a thousand jolts of adrenaline shoot up my arm. She jerks her hand away and flexes her fingers like she's been stung. />
  “Thanks for the ride. I owe you. Maybe I’ll see you around the building sometime,” she says.

  “Yeah. Maybe,” I reply. She gathers her purse and climbs out of the car. “Hey, can I give you some advice?”

  “Sure? What?” She bends down to look inside the car, giving me a view all the way down her top.

  “Don’t accept any more rides from strangers.” Her breasts bob with her laughter. I try not to stare. I hate guys like that, always ogling women.

  “Okay. Got it.” With a smile, she shuts the car door behind her.

  I watch her ass as she walks around the front of the car and toward the building. Her buns are like two melons in a tube sock, rubbing and jiggling against each other. I adjust my cock behind the fly of my jeans. I’m full-on hard and ready to go. But never with her. Never with anyone inside my apartment building.

  I start the car and merge into traffic, downshift, and race through the intersection on the yellow light. Then again, rules were made to be broken.

  Just to be clear, I like to fuck. A lot. It’s one of the reasons I’m so successful in this business. If a woman needs me to ride her all night and into the morning, my dick is more than happy to comply. Oral sex, anal, role play, kink, masturbation, threesomes, couples—I’m down with it all. Most of my customers, however, want standard missionary with a side helping of foreplay and pillow talk thrown into the mix. Whatever gets their rocks off. Makes no difference to me as long as they pay cash—in advance.

  Mrs. Smith says she likes it rough, so I decide on a pair of ripped jeans, heavy combat boots, and a tight black T-shirt beneath a black leather jacket. I don't bother to shave, choosing the scruffy, just-got-out-of-bed look, and mess my hair up with some gel. Like an actor assuming a role onstage, my wardrobe sets the tone of our encounter. I can’t be a hard ass dressed in a pink polo and khakis.

  I throw a box of condoms into a leather backpack, a couple of different kinds of lube, mouthwash, and a vibrator—because, well, you never know when you might need one. Some women are difficult to get off the first time, and even I need a little help. There's no shame in a bit of battery operated assistance now and then. I'm anxious to meet a new client, but looking forward to it all the same. My dick's been semi-hard all day at the prospect.