by Pynk
“He is handsome.”
“Fine as fuck.”
“Maybe fine as shit. But not quite fine as fuck.” Midori laughed, and they sat back down.
“Oh. Okay. Not as fine as your good doctor.”
“Not even.”
“Can’t believe they call him Bronx. That fits right in.” Her cell beeped. She looked at her phone and read the text, saying in a low tone, “Bronx is asking when he can start.”
“Really?” Midori looked surprised.
Money didn’t. She smiled and glanced over at him. His back was to her and he was still sitting alone. She said, “I’m telling him I’ll have the booker call him. And I’m keying in here that it’s both men and women.” She typed and then put her phone down. It beeped right back. She looked at it. “Bingo,” she said softly to Midori. “He said perfect. Told you.”
“Wow. I never would’ve guessed.”
“This is good. I’m convinced there’s more money in closeted clients than straight ones. He’s gonna be good for us. We’ll get him tested and ready.”
She called her booker and spoke in almost a whisper, looking around to see who might be nearby as she fingered the strands of her long hair. “Hey. I think I’ve got the match for Mr. 11. I’ll text you his phone number. Hook them up as soon as Mr. 11 is in town. His name is Bronx. I know. Thanks.” She hung up.
“Just like that?” Midori asked.
“Just like that.”
“Well, aren’t you the recruiter?”
“Of course I am. Besides, if I don’t recruit, believe me, Romeo’s ass will.”
The waiter walked up and placed their main courses before them.
“There he is,” Midori said, looking relieved. She inhaled the aroma of her seafood, then said, “You’re also my sister.”
“That I am.” Money broke out into a full smile. She told the waiter, “Thanks.”
He asked, “Can I get you ladies anything else?”
“No, we’re good,” replied Midori. He walked away and she said to Money, “One day, we’ll get our happily-ever-after.”
“If you say so, Midori. If you say so.”
Republican candidate Seth Taylor said in a speech in Washington, D.C., that Darrell Ellington is not concerned about the poor, and he does not believe that wealthy Ellington will fight for the middle class if he wins the presidency.
Twenty-Two
Money
Friday—December 16, 2011
It had been an evening of drinks and laughter, like Money and Jamie were actually best friends. They were in her bed and he lay on his back after their second round of drinks. She lay on her stomach, leaning up so she could talk to him. The room smelled like her cherry blossom diffuser. “Did I ever thank you for taking Leilani to get her car that day?”
“Yes, you did. That’s my job. I never get to do what you pay me for,” he said.
Money’s face was flushed from her buzz. “Believe me, I’d rather pay you and never need to use you, than actually need you.” Her speech was slurred. She rubbed her forehead and scratched her head, fluffing up her already tussled hair.
“I understand. I still don’t know why she used her own car to drive to an appointment anyway.”
“She said she was running late.”
He told Money, “You need to let her know, let all of them know, they should tell you when they need a ride to these appointments. I mean let you make the call about if I can get there in time or not. And for her to be drinking with a client? Not cool.”
Her eyebrows dipped. “I know. I told her that. They just take taxis because it’s easier. If we lived anyplace other than New York City, you’d have a lot of driving to do. But, Leilani’s problem is, she’s too nice. She probably didn’t say no. I guess she learned her lesson.”
“You think she’d ever be a problem?” he asked.
“Leilani? No. She’s just a glamour-puss who’s got my hobbyists going crazy.” She struggled with the word hobbyists.
He looked like he noticed. “Okay, so she’s pretty, and she can suck a dick. But can you trust her?”
“Jamie, I can’t trust anybody. No one. Not even you. I trust no one.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said, shaking his head as if brushing off the comment. “I still say you should talk to her again.”
Money looked at him like he was crazy. “Who the hell are you all of a sudden? You’re never involved in anything, you rarely call, and now after one pickup to take my girl to the impound shop, you decide to care about the confidentiality methods and business operations of my company? Give me a break.”
“What’s your problem?”
“I’ve been doing this shit on my own for years and did damn good by myself. Now you want to tell me how to run my business? So, what? You know how to do this better than me?”
“You’re kidding, right? I said two things about Leilani, and you came to that conclusion. Damn. Pardon me then.”
“Oh, you’re pardoned, all right.” She snapped her fingers and rolled her neck.
“You’re a trip.”
“I am. And so are you.”
“That’s true, too.” He nodded in agreement. “I wasn’t gonna ask you, but now’s as good a time as any, even though you’re cranky as hell. I’m gonna need about fifty thousand. Just got some things to take care of. My family in Colorado. They got in some trouble.”
Right away she said, “Jamie, fuck you. You always need money. My name is Money Watts, not Money Tree. Why don’t you use the money you get for the job you never do?”
“That takes care of the basics. This is something extra.”
“Don’t you have credit? Can’t you get a loan? Or better yet, get a real job, considering that all of your time is pretty much fucking free.”
He said, keeping an eye on her angry expression, “I’m on call, remember? I need to be available. And I make sure I am, whether you call me or not. Working would mean I’d have to give this up.”
“Oh, bullshit. You’re trying to tell me if it wasn’t for your devotion to this gig, you’d be free to get your finances in order? You’d be able to make enough money to help out your family in Colorado instead of begging me for money. Again.”
“First of all, you know I have a record. If I get a job, the first thing they’re going to do is run a background check.”
“Right. Yeah, I do know that. That’s why you work for me. But how many times are you gonna come asking me for more money? If you ask me, I say you’re up to some illegal shit.”
“Please. Like what?” he asked.
“Like you spend too much money to just be trying to live. You’re either doing something illegal, or you’re smoking it up. Shit, you might be a fucking drug addict for all I know.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, like you’d tell me.” She adjusted herself to sit up. “Jamie, sometimes I can’t deal with the way we trip. You piss me off and go away, I piss you off and don’t take your calls. Yet you always seem to come back and when you do, you’re asking me for something. Fifty thousand is a lot of damn money. It’s like I’m the one paying you for sex. You’re the only dick I get and you get a salary every two weeks out of it. But you are not fucking me good enough for all this extra money you’re asking for. Every time you get yourself in a mess, I’m supposed to bail you out. You need to cut that shit out. Ain’t no bodyguard who never guards, and driver who never drives, as lucky as you.” She kept blinking like there was a strong wind in the room. She reached over to the bottle of vodka.
He examined her flushed face. “You need to put that down.”
“Hell no. This makes me forget.” She poured the clear liquid into her glass.
“All this talking you’re doing, you ain’t forgot a damn thing. What it does is make you even more pissed at me.”
“I am, shit.” She put the bottle back down.
“Cool. So, let’s fuck it out.” He dared her. “Get in that reverse cowgirl position and see how much shit you talk the
n.”
She reached for the glass and then stopped, leaving it where it was. “Don’t talk about it, be about it.”
He got up and took a black foil condom package from his wallet and went straight for the sofa in the corner of her room. He lay back along the couch, wrapped up his dick, and said, “Here. Get on it.”
She headed straight to him with sultry but heavy eyes and climbed on top and straddled him, facing his feet. One leg was bent so that her foot was flat along the couch, and the other foot was along the pile carpeting. She took his dick from beneath her and slid it inside her pussy, sitting all the way down on it, giving soft moans for every inch it traveled.
He talked much shit. “Yeah, get you some good dick. Always making sure everybody else gets their fuck on. Hell, my girl needs to feel good, too.”
He fucked her hard at the same time he caressed her lower back and ass. She reached down and grabbed his balls, rolling them between her fingers. She felt him stiffen even more, and with her other hand she played with her hardened clitoris, pausing only for a second to bring her fingers to her mouth, licking them, and again rubbing her clit as it throbbed upon her touch.
He kept up his pace. “That pussy is hungry tonight. Look at you ride that dick. Shit.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. And then she looked back at him and said, “Fuck you.”
“Ya think?” His eyes were wide.
She sliced him with her eyes and leaned forward. She bucked her ass cheeks up and down, then reached down to touch the base of his penis, feeling the wetness that oozed from her. She rubbed her clit again and focused on tightening up her walls, using her pelvic floor exercise while he was inside.
“Grip that shit. Hell yeah.”
She was trying to turn him on and turn him out, but it backfired on her, and she could tell she was the one losing the battle. The feeling of him working so hard to fuck her back, and her fingers along the tip of her clit, made her howl as her orgasm hit. She continued to stimulate herself with her hand.
He kept on fucking her. “Uh-huh.”
She leaned back, flinging her hair and focusing on the roll of her orgasm. “Uhhh.”
He became still and rubbed her back. “What next?” he asked, working up a way to continue in another position.
“I’ve got you,” she said, rising up to face him, then sitting down and inserting him again. She was extra juiced up.
“Yeah, you want some more, huh?”
She cut her eyes again and rubbed her breasts, adjusted one to her mouth, and began sucking her own tittie.
“Hell yeah.” He put his hands on each side on her waist and guided her movements, carefully easing her down as he pressed inside, carefully giving her the dick.
She stopped playing with her breasts and concentrated on the feeling, saying, “Uh-huh. You’re just trying to get me to say yes to that money you need.”
“No.” He worked her with his stiffness.
“You’ll have it tomorrow,” she told him with lust on her flushed face.
He didn’t say thank you verbally, but sped up his stroke as she bounced up and down upon him, looking like she could blame her buzz on the dick more than blaming it on the alcohol.
She asked out of nowhere, “If something ever happened to me, would you be there?”
“Hell yeah.”
She closed her eyes. “Fuck you.”
“Ya think?” he asked again.
“Hush. I like the noise you make when you shut the fuck up,” Money said from a place deep inside, as he buried himself inside her.
He managed a quick laugh and seemed to work extra hard to earn his money, fucking Money like she was his full-time woman.
Like it should have been if it could have been, love.
The only female candidate for president, Marla Goins is expected to withdraw upon admitting her addiction to prescription pills. Darrell Ellington, who celebrates his fifty-eighth birthday today, wished her well in her fight, and vowed to create a panel to investigate and prosecute prescription drug abuse, if he’s elected president.
Twenty-Three
Leilani
Thursday—January 12, 2012
It was a new year. The holidays had come and gone, and the political race geared up with less than ten months until the primaries. The list of Republican candidates was down to four, with the only female having dropped out of the race. Campaign promises had been made and already broken, and another promise was broken, too. Darrell Ellington was back for more Lip Service on the side.
“I really didn’t expect to hear from you,” Leilani told Darrell. She closed the front door to her luxury condo on Twenty-Eighth Street in West Chelsea. They’d agreed to meet when he called from Cincinnati the previous day. “Haven’t seen you in so long, but I’m glad you’re here.”
He was the same dapper politician she’d been watching on television, the senator who was now one of the top candidates. “Yeah. I was going to do the hotel thing, but I just decided to have my driver bring me here. He’s waiting downstairs.” He stood dressed for the cold weather in a trench coat, scarf, and suit. He talked fast and looked less relaxed than before. Yet, he was there nonetheless.
Leilani wore only a large white T-shirt. “Your driver? He’s cool like that?”
He stood in the entryway. “He is.”
“Where does he think you are?”
He looked down at her legs as he spoke. “Told him I needed to sign some financial papers so I can get ready to release my tax return information.” He took off his coat and scarf and hung them on the wooden coat rack.
She said, “Okay. I guess that means you won’t be here long.”
“True.”
“I keep seeing you on the TV and Internet. I’m glad your campaign is going well.”
His reply was only, “You got anything on under there?”
“No.”
Then he said, “I’m ready.” He unbelted his dress pants and they fell to the floor, then he pulled down his underwear, stepping out of both. With his dick in hand, he stood before her. She got on her knees before him, smiling.
He looked down and the first thing he did was bang his dick on her lips, saying, “I saw that done in a movie and thought of you. Suck it.”
“My pleasure.”
“And by the way, it’s my birthday. Make it extra special.”
She kissed his dick and gave him bedroom eyes in her living room. She said in a sex-kitten voice, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
“Oh, yeah. Uh-huh.” His ego was out of control.
Leilani began licking his upper thighs, wrapping her hand around the bottom of his shaft. She opened her mouth wide and bobbed her head, making sure to twirl her tongue, twisting her left hand and using her right hand to alternate directions like she was wringing out a towel.
“Yeah.”
She continued to squeeze her hands before dropping them and taking his entire penis into her mouth. She looked up at him as he looked up at the ceiling, hands on hips, being served for his birthday just as he wanted it.
She licked upward to the head of his penis and made it wet, bringing him to the edge.
“Back up,” he said in a panic, stopping the flow of sperm by squeezing his tip, just under the head.
She was prepared to drink him, but he quickly moved himself backward.
He asked fast, “Where’s your bathroom?”
She pointed.
He hurried down the hall to her bathroom, holding his dick.
She heard him give a long moan as he ejaculated into the toilet water. Then there was the sound of the toilet flushing and the sound of running water in the sink. He walked back in, and stepped back into his underwear and pants, belting himself up, looking just like he did when he arrived five minutes earlier.
He asked, “You made the charge on the credit card?”
“I did,” she said, standing by the door.
“Good.” He opened the door and stepped out.
She said, qu
ietly, “Happy Birthday,” again.
He only smiled and left, not even offering a wave, thank-you, or parting glance.
She closed the door and leaned her body against it for a moment, then went on about her day. She got ready to head out to her weekly spa treatment of a massage, wax, and facial, having just had one of the top five most talked-about politicians in the country in her living room, receiving oral sex.
She knew that if it came down to it, she’d have to suddenly catch a case of amnesia about knowing the senator. He was cutting it close, and she had a feeling that day would come soon. Things would probably blow up and she’d be caught up in the sandstorm. But the thought of what type of spotlight the explosion might bring turned her on a bit, got her excited.
She knew she was living dangerously. She also knew the senator was just another man who couldn’t help thinking with his dick and not his mind.
Men.
The president refused to pick a winner for the Super Bowl, but said he’s expecting a good game. Two of the Republican candidates, Darrell Ellington and Robert Sally, attended the game in Indianapolis, making themselves available for photo opportunities with the press.
Twenty-Four
Kemba
Super Bowl Sunday—February 5, 2012
It was Super Bowl Sunday, and the New York Giants played the New England Patriots in Indianapolis. New York was abuzz with pride. The energy was electric in the town and fans showed their New York Giants pride at every corner. The sports bars were packed and most TVs were tuned in to the game. Beryl and Kemba decided to skip the outside elements of the cold and stay inside for a cozy, warm Super Bowl party of their own with their fifty-five-inch plasma.
An empty pizza box delivered by Presidential Pizza rested on the glass coffee table.
They’d watched the first quarter, and the Giants were up by nine. “That’s the way,” Kemba said with certainty. He wore his GMEN T-shirt, representing, even though he’d known the city of New York for only a little while.