Politics. Escorts. Blackmail.

by Pynk

  Jamie had left at 3:02.

  “Hi.” Mr. 11 whispered as usual, careful not to wake up his wife.

  “You ready?”

  “I am.”

  “You got that pretty dick in your hand?” Money asked, sounding phone-sex-operator erotic.

  “I do.”

  “Good boy. You know I wish I was there with you, licking your balls with a tongue scrub while you stroke that pretty dick. Watching you watch me suck your ball sac and teabag you, bringing my tongue down to the part where your balls end and your asshole begins. Inserting my finger in your ass and finding your spot while you feel your blood racing and your dick filling up faster and faster, looking at me like I’m a dream. Like it can’t be real that you could feel so damn good.”

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” He sounded anxious and horny.

  “Don’t say anything. I know you can’t talk. Just listen to me get you off like you like it. I don’t get to do this much anymore now that things have changed for you. But baby, you are my favorite and if I was your woman, I’d put you to bed by swallowing you every night, and you’d wake up with me between your legs, sucking you off with a good-morning hello, giving you my wet, warm mouth to swallow you down. I’d leave the covers over my head so you wouldn’t even see me, you’d just look down and see someone going to work to please you, then you could lay back and fantasize about who it is in your mind. I want you to grip that cock in your hand and imagine me sitting my juicy pussy on that cock bareback, grinding on your dick while you squeeze my ass tight and shove yourself as far up into me as you can. Imagine someone else in the room, maybe even a man, sucking your nipple and then kissing you while I ride you. I know you’d like that. I know you brought that shit up before. I know you’d like a dick in your mouth while I ride you. He’d straddle your face and he’d watch your lips stretch along his dick while you’d feel me behind him, jumping off of your dick and then taking it into my mouth, tasting my own juices. I’d hear you moan and I’d hear him moan and just as he would say he was about to come, your cum would ooze into my mouth.”

  Mr. 11 moaned and grunted, then moaned again. His next grunts were three small ones in a row, deep and fast. “Ugh, ugh, ugh.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. That’s how you like it. That’s how we do it.”

  “Ahhh.” He panted and gave a sigh. Then, as if he recovered that quickly, he simply said, keeping his low tone, “Nice. Gotta go.”

  “Ciao, baby. Be good.”

  He hung up.

  Money sent a text to her booker. Done.

  She said aloud, “Hell, I might just switch to phone sex. At fifteen hundred a pop, that’s the quickest, easiest job around.”

  Two minutes later, the booker called Money.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. 11 just called. He’ll be in town soon. He asked for an out-call, but with a guy this time.”

  “Okay.” Money was not surprised.

  “And he’s asked for a black one. You think Kemba?”

  Money replied right away, “Oh no.”

  “Not even gay for pay?”

  “No.” She paused. “I’ll work on it. I might even bring in a bi guy. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this request. I’ll let you know. Bye.”

  Money had gotten her own tune-up, made some money, and had added a new item to her to-do list: Getting Mr. 11, Kalin Graves, the mayor of Philly who was running for president, a bi guy.

  But she hadn’t forgotten about Romeo. Keeping him away from her employees, mainly Kemba, was now at the top of her list.

  Senator Darrell Ellington continues to shine as a standout during the presidential debates. Some say his charisma and power of persuasion will serve him well in garnering votes. His position on faith and family values has gone over well among conservative voters.

  Seven

  Midori

  Thursday—July 21, 2011

  Midori averaged one to two clients per day, which could add up to a minimum of fourteen thousand dollars per week if she averaged a thousand a pop. She’d wished for money before, having no choice but to depend on Romeo giving it to her whenever he got good and ready, but now that cash wasn’t an issue, she seemed focused on what it would take to get past her demons and live a normal life with the white picket fence, husband, two kids, and dog.

  If there was any prospect of who she felt would learn to love her, it would’ve been Virgil Daye—that is, if she hadn’t been lying about what she did for a living, but even he had backed off lately. She knew in her heart of hearts that there would probably be no real future with him, that the stepson of a presidential candidate could never marry a hooker. Most men would judge her, but maybe there’d be someone who wouldn’t, and they’d live happily ever after. Maybe the sex would bond them and blind them and they’d want more. Just maybe.

  The thing with her and Virgil was they hadn’t yet had sex. So the bonding theory was not in the mix, which to her signaled he must’ve genuinely cared about spending time with her, taking her out, laughing with her, and being her companion, for reasons beyond what everyone else wanted her for. Actually, Virgil was a twenty-eight-year-old virgin. He wanted to wait until he was married to have sex. Though deep down she knew that even though they hadn’t consummated their relationship, the virgin and the hooker could never be a match made in heaven.

  She ended up having lunch with Virgil and gave him his beloved ink pen. They’d talked a few times since then, though she felt he was unusually distant. They hadn’t seen each other in over a month. But tonight he wanted to come by. She promised to call after her last real estate showing of the day. He was on standby. And he appeared to be very anxious to see her, which made her happy.

  It was late afternoon, almost rush hour, and she took a taxi to Park Avenue South and Twenty-Ninth Street, for a 6:00 appointment in a luxurious room at the Gansevoort Hotel.

  Mr. 21 lived there. She’d had regular appointments with him for the past year. He always insisted she come to him. He was a Homeland Security executive, single, and was the one she called the “bitch” man, because he had such a fascination with the word. He also had another fascination.

  She’d arrived at his chic apartment and headed straight to his bed. She stretched her hands back toward the silver studded headboard, wearing nothing but a smile. He liked her to lay nude first.

  He sat upon the silver leather sofa. The glowing embers from the granite fireplace added to the allure. He wore boxer shorts and his dark penis poked through the opening, aimed straight at her. He looked at her and she just looked back. She knew to say nothing.

  Finally, he spoke with his regular kinkiness, always smelling like he wore too much Armani Code cologne. “Look at the pretty-ass bitch in my bed.” The only sound other than their voices was the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.

  “Yes, I am. And waiting for you.”

  “Oh, you know I’m gonna have to fuck that shit.”

  She tried her best to look excited. “Yes, you are.”

  He stood, grabbing a condom from the chrome table and letting his dick wear it. He stepped along the wood floor of the bedroom. She propped a purple pillow under her head.

  “Turn over so I can see your fat ass.”

  She obliged.

  “That is a pretty damn sight there. Bitch’s ass is big and round and young.”

  “I know you’re an ass man.”

  He watched himself in the wall mirror while mounting her as she lay on her stomach. As he inserted himself, she eased him in by doing a circle grind, milking him with a tight grip. She made sure to keep her legs straight while taking his dick for a ride.

  She ground and fucked, and felt his penetration wall to wall. Though he was short, he had a wide dick. It always hit just the right spot to put pressure on her G spot, causing more of a sensation than she really wanted from him. She tended to play off her sensations until she was ready for his finale, but she was feeling it.

  He said suddenly, “Okay, bitch. Get in the shower
.”

  They both got up and stepped into the chocolate-tiled, open glass shower together.

  His penis was at full attention. She faced the wall behind him. He stood behind her and rubbed his penis on her ass. He then took a step back and turned the water down, all the way to cold.

  “Ahhh.” He tightened his jaw and clenched his teeth, seeming to make sure the sprays of water hit his dick.

  She knew what he was about to do. What he’d always do. What he paid double for. It was what made her dread seeing him.

  It was his machismo water sports game that did something for him. Something that continued to prove to her that men rented women for sex not just because they couldn’t get laid, but also so they could live out the fantasies that most women would judge them for. They paid so someone would play along.

  He turned back toward her as his dick had become semi-flaccid and stood with his legs far apart.

  She closed her eyes.

  He released a stream of pee on her backside while she stood, wishing with all her might it was over.

  The temperature of his pee was warm and the flow was strong.

  “You like that shit, bitch?”

  “Uh-huh.” Lying was part of the game, as was resisting the urge to turn around and slap the shit out of him.

  He didn’t even ejaculate. She always figured he’d do that later. He then said what he always said after he did his business, “You can leave after your shower.” He stepped out and she turned the water up to hot, wanting to wash off his cologne and his urine and his presence. She turned up the force of the spray, washing, wishing, wondering. Why?

  Fifteen minutes later she was in the cab.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough that she had to put up with such disrespect for the money, she got a text from freaky Bailey Brenner, requesting an appointment with her directly at midnight.

  Can’t was her only reply.

  Bailey replied, Why not?

  She didn’t respond. She texted Virgil, Be home in an hour. See you then.

  Virgil replied, C u then.

  She texted, Can’t wait.

  When she got home, she tried her best to get herself together in time for Virgil’s arrival. Not only her body, again making sure to scrub herself clean from her client’s degrading urine, but also her mind, getting the word bitch out of her head. Getting herself in the mood to act like she’d been selling houses, not pussy. And not her self-esteem.

  By eight that evening, she sat in the living room of her one-bedroom Upper East Side apartment at the Lucerne.

  Wearing a shorts set, she stepped barefoot along the butterscotch carpet of her living room and headed to the limestone entryway at the front door.

  “What’s up?” Virgil asked, as she opened the door.

  “Hi.” She gave a half smile and hugged him.

  He hugged her back, walking in as she closed the door. He made his way to her sectional, looking normal, but as soon as he sat his face went serious.

  She noticed the change as she sat beside him. “What?”

  He said, flat out, “I need to say something important. I’ve wondered what was up with you. I’ve wondered about you for a while now. And I can’t believe you put me and my family in the position we’re in.” It was like every word was rehearsed.

  She angled her stare. “Virgil. What are you talking about?”

  “Midori, I’m done. With us.”

  “Why?”

  “Just know that.”

  “You came over here to break up with me?”

  He sat forward with his elbows along his knees. “We were never together really. Just dating. I never told you I wanted a relationship.”

  She looked as though she begged to differ. “We both know the deal. We’re a couple. You wouldn’t come here using the term done if in your opinion nothing was ever started. That’s game playing.”

  “Game playing?” He put his hand toward his chest. “Me. Okay. Where were you today?”

  “Working. I told you I had a showing.” She kept her sights on him, rarely even blinking.

  “What were you showing, your nasty-ass pussy?” His face wore a snarl.

  Her eyebrows raised and she gasped. “What?”

  He began to speak louder. “Don’t sit there like you’re an angel. I know you went to the Florida Keys to fuck a doctor for money. You’re a damn ho.” He looked away and then back at her. “And your sister is your fucking pimp. This is some bullshit.”

  She felt her heart racing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Give it up. Stop with the bullshit.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Midori asked, then waited, knowing she was 100 percent busted. “My gosh.”

  He continued his rant. “Oh please. And to top it all off, there really is some shit going on with Mayor Graves, but not the racist crap I was talking about. Even my stepfather is mixed up in your little service you have going on. This shit can blow up in my face and screw up my family. You knew, and still you kept me in the dark just to have me in your life while playing this shit off. The question is, what is your problem?”

  She fought to focus on how he was adding up all of the information correctly, wondering how he came up with the truth. “Okay. Wait. Obviously you did something to find that all out. Question is, what have you been up to? You’re pointing the finger at me, but you’re the one talking about breaking into e-mail accounts.” She looked as though a light bulb had been turned on. “Hold up. That damn ink pen. Was that some kind of bugging device? Did you record me that day I talked to my sister? Did you put that pen in my purse on purpose?” She looked at him differently. “Why, you sneaky asshole.”

  “First of all, why would you worry about whether or not I’m recording something if nothing I say is true?” He came to a stance, reaching in his pocket for his keys. “Whatever. Bottom line is, I can’t see you anymore.”

  She stood and pointed to the door. “Then get the hell out.” In her heart she wanted to beg him to understand, but couldn’t get past his deceit. She couldn’t believe he’d been recording her.

  He walked toward the door.

  She added, her eyes beginning to water, “You’re trying to start something between us out of something that’s really no big deal.”

  “Oh, it is a big deal. You and your sister will be arrested.”

  “And you and your family will be ruined. Like you’re going to say something anyway. Can’t believe you have the nerve to blame me when your stepfather has the problem. He’s the one who feels the need to go outside of his marriage and cheat on your mom with rented pussy. You need to be at home talking to him.”

  He looked back at her as she followed behind him, and cut his eyes. “Thanks for admitting that all I said was right. I needed you to say just what you said.”

  “Whatever. You could’ve told me all of this over the phone. You’re wasting my damn time.” She felt a tear fall and wiped her cheek.

  He stood at the door, his hand on the knob. “I told you in person out of respect. Respect is something you never showed me. And yeah, your time is worth about what, five hundred dollars an hour? I’ll send you a check.”

  She wanted to say fifteen hundred, but instead she asked sarcastically, “Are you recording this, too?”

  He yanked the door open. “Maybe.”

  She put her hand on the door, waiting for him to cross the threshold, still playing off her feelings. “Get the hell out of here. You are a straight-up mess. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Who am I? I’m a man who wanted to get to know you but doesn’t want to take a chance on turning a ho into a housewife. But maybe that’s the very question you need to ask yourself. What would make you think I’d want a whore as my woman? That was a fantasy on your part that will never, ever come true.” He looked like he was trying hard to nail her to the wall with his words.

  All she could say was “Fuck you.”

  “Glad that never happened. With your nasty ass.” He
stepped away and was down the hall in a flash.

  She yelled at his back, “Don’t act like I’m the only problem, Virgil the virgin. You and your family can do a good enough job of fucking up without me. You wiretapping fool.” She slammed the door and began to cry, voice still raised. “I can’t believe he recorded me. If Money ever found out she’d kill me and him. Shit.”

  Midori grabbed her purse and took out her phone, sending a text to Bailey. When and where?

  He replied back immediately. 2 hours. The Roosevelt. I’ll send you the room number later. Love you.

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she prepared herself to leave in an hour. Her tears came in full force from her feeling the loss of her only chance at being in a normal relationship with a companion, someone who would check on her and care about her well-being, who was interested in her, and who until recently would take her to dinner and dancing, making her laugh. It was over now, all because she lied about who she really was.

  So she did the only thing she knew how to do, which was show up and spend time with somebody who unconditionally wanted her body for the hooker she was, since she couldn’t have anyone who wanted her for her heart.

  Other than maybe Bailey Brenner.

  In a recent interview on NBC’s Today show, Mayor Kalin Graves challenged Senator Darrell Ellington, saying Ellington sponsored a controversial “sex education in schools” measure. Ellington replied in a statement saying he was not a sponsor, but he did vote in favor of sending the bill to the Senate. However, the bill was never voted on.

  Eight

  Virgil

  Friday—July 22, 2011

  The six-thousand-square-foot, natural stone estate home that Ursula and Darrell Ellington lived in was in affluent Scarsdale, in Westchester County. It was the very district that Senator Ellington served.

  The senator’s home office was large—so large, in fact, that it was only a tad bit smaller than the actual Oval Office at the White House.