The voice on the phone—a woman I knew only as Ursala, which reminded me of the villain from the little mermaid—gave me the address, a fancy hotel on Park Avenue. I was to meet Mr. Birch there at ten that very night.
“And be prepared for anything, as always,” the voice warned me.
Preparing for Anything
I came home right away, showered, and picked out my skimpiest, sluttiest outfit—a lacy black dress that didn’t leave much to the imagine. It was all I really needed to attract a man who was into curves, I had quickly learned.
I did my makeup, giving myself a little more blush than I usually would have put on, to give myself that youthful, bosom-ful glow, which I already had from my bountiful tits and my equally bountiful ass. I looked myself over in the mirror, inspecting my reflection as if I were a piece of meat about to go on the grill. Yeah, I looked damned good. David Birch didn’t know what was about to hit him.
I caught a cab uptown and saved the receipt. Ursala would be reimbursing me later that week, of course. As the city lights drifted by, I rolled down the window, letting the cool autumn air invade the formerly enclosed space of the cab. It put me at ease, which I needed. I always found myself growing nervous before meeting a client, and especially one as rich as this one. I’d been with millionaires before but never a billionaire. He was probably a fat nerd, though. I’d found that the richer they are, the chubbier they are—years of worrying about money and excel at a desk does that to you.
The cab pulled up outside the huge, glittering hotel and I got out, standing up straight with an authoritative click-clack from my stiletto heels. I strode purposefully through the beautifully decorated lobby, filled to the brim with big, comfy leather couches and gorgeous waitresses handing out champagne like candy on Halloween. I wanted to stop for a glass but my stomach was doing somersaults, so I decided to make a bee-line for Birch’s room.
He was on the fourteenth floor, so I caught an elevator going up. I shared it with a group of Asian businessmen who murmured to themselves, shooting me glances. I felt myself begin to sweat but I kept it cool otherwise—at least, I like to think I did. Did they know what I was here for? Almost certainly: here I was, a girl by herself, dressed like a little hussy, on my way up to a hotel room—a fancy hotel room at that—at ten on a Saturday night. A time and day when most girls my age, dressed like me, would be out in a bar or club or at least at a fancy restaurant. No one stays in on a night like this. Unless they’ve got something better inside than they can find outside.
And that’s what I was planning on providing for Mr. David Birch.
I got to the fourteenth floor and marched down the hallway to room 1407—the biggest one on the floor, almost certainly. Working in this business for a while as I have, I’ve learned a few things about how hotels are designed. 1407 was a corner room facing southwest, so whoever was in it could see both Midtown and Central Park. Whoever had put Mr. Birch up in this room has money, and a lot of it. Maybe even as much as he himself has…
I knocked.
“Room service,” I called out. In my head, I crafted an imagine of what he would look like: approximately two-hundred and eighty pounds, sweaty, maybe wearing a cheap Joseph A. Banks suit (pleated pants, almost certainly) and crappy cologne. Maybe even Axe? God, but I hated Axe. Some people think that being a call girl, I must hate the way men treat me and the way they talk to me but do you know what I really hate? Having a man who smells like someone spilled Mountain Dew in a new Volkswagen grunting on top of me.
The door open and I had to keep my mouth from falling open.
Someone had stolen my chubby billionaire and replaced him with a god—a literal god, only instead of a toga, he wore a charcoal Hugo Boss suit, a crimson Brioni tie, and tawny Italian leather shoes. And instead of thunderbolts, he wielded a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and two flutes.
“You would be… Charlie?” he said softly. He had a bit of a five o’clock shadow but I could forgive that on such a youthful, practically angelic face.
Oh, I should also mention: I never go by my real name. “Charlie” is usually the name I use with clients.
“Uh, that’s right,” I said, doing all I could to keep from falling over. “I’m Charlie. Are you Mr. Birch?”
He smiled and I could have drowned in that smile.
“I am. Won’t you come in?”
I was only too happy to comply as and as I stepped into his room, my suspicions about it were confirmed: it was definitely the most beautiful, most luxurious room in the entire building, with a window that spanned two-thirds of the walls and looked out over the city. The room itself was almost sparse by comparison with the grandeur on shameless display before us but somehow, that felt fitting, as if adding more to the room would take away from one of the great visual wonders of the world.
“This is a lovely room,” I said, doing my best to sound disinterested, as if I had seen it all before.
“I quite agree. The Emir was kind enough to put my up here while I’m in town. I’m mostly based out of London these days.”
“Oooh. You’re from across the pond?” Ugh, idiot, of course he’s not. He didn’t have an accent at all!
He smiled shyly again. “No, actually. Kentucky.”
“You don’t sound Southern at all.”
“Thank you, I try—I don’t have anything against my roots but you have to affect certain styles about yourself if you’re to be taken seriously.” He poured a glass of champagne and gestured towards me with it. “I’m sure you understand quite well.”
I did and I said so.
“Anyway, Charlie… I understand you’re mine for the night.”
I put on my sweetest, sexiest smile. “That’s exactly right. Anything you’d like. Anything at all.”
“In that case, I’d like you to masturbate for me.”
His for the Night
Fair enough. A little upfront. I stood up and lowered my thong, wiggling my thick legs as my black thong slid down my legs. I flung my panties at him and he caught them with one hand, smiling as he did so. He dropped them to the side and held out the bottle of champagne.
“And use this.”
I raised an eyebrow. Not the weirdest request I had ever gotten but certainly up there. Nonetheless, I didn’t blink as I took the bottle from him. I hiked up my dress and began to rub my pussy, working on running my fingers up and down my slit as he watched. I always felt especially naughty when I rubbed myself in front of someone else.
“Do you like this?” I whispered silkily, spreading my pink parts for him.
“I do,” he said softly. “Almost as much as your classmates will like it on Monday.”
I froze. “What?”
“I’ve got cameras all around this room. I want you to know, Charlie… Latoya, whatever your name is… That you’re in my world now. And if you make one wrong move, I’ve got my systems set up to forward the video of this encounter to everyone on your student network.”
I swallowed hard, nervous. “What kind of sick game is this?”
“This is my game, Latoya, darling, and you’re playing by my rules. Now, I suggest you fuck the living shit out of your cunt with that champagne bottle.”
As terrified as I was, I positioned my pussy at the tip of the bottle. I get wet pretty fast and, I’m ashamed to admit, knowing what power he had over me only made me wetter. God, but I was turned on. As I lowered myself onto the bottle, I threw my head back and let out a low, deep moan. This was incredible. His icy stare only made it better as my weight drove me down, drove the bottle deeper into my wet, tight depths. I wanted to scream but I was afraid of what he would do.
“It’s so big…” I whimpered.
“How does it feel, Latoya?”
“Charlie…” I whispered. I didn’t want him to use my real name.
“Oh, no, no, no… You’re my little Latoya tonight. How is it Latoya?”
“Charlie…”
“Latoya,” he said, his voice suddenly no longer soft, no
w full of power. “How do you like that bottle of Veuve Cliquot 2008 in your cunt?”
“I love it, Mr. Birch,” I finally moaned. “I love the way it feels inside of me.”
“Good girl,” he said, and his softness had returned. “That’s a good Latoya girl. Let me see you fuck it like a good little Latoya girl.”
I nodded and began to ride it, lowering myself before pushing off the bottle, savoring the way it rubbed and scraped my insides, hitting my g-spot, rubbing along my inner pussy walls. I held onto the bottle with both hands to keep it steady and my clit ached and screamed for attention, so I pressed it hard against my wrist, rubbing myself against the bone and sending electric waves of electric pleasure through my hot, burning flesh.
“Mr. Birch… Fuck me…” I moaned. I knew that men loved to hear things like this but I meant it this time. I could only imagine what his cock would be like. If it wasn’t as big as this bottle, I was definitely going to be disappointed.
“In due time, Latoya. I want you to make yourself cum. You have thirty seconds.”
I gasped and began to ride the bottle faster and faster. I could see Mr. Birch’s lips moving, counting down. I focused on his lips for as long as I could, imagining them licking my clit instead of just driving my throbbing little nub into my wrist and that alone was enough to finally push me over the edge. I saw his lips form the word “one” as I threw my head back and screamed, falling back on the couch, the champagne pouring into my pussy as my cunt spasmed and convulsed around the cold bottle, cold bubbles filling my pussy and mixing with my pussy juices.
I lay on the couch, gasping for air, only barely aware of Mr. Birch approaching me and of the champagne flowing out of my pussy and dribbling down my legs, getting my dress soaked. Yeah, I’d be sending him a dry cleaning bill.
Suddenly, he was between my legs, slurping at my thighs, licking up my juices and the champagne.
“What should we call this cocktail? Latoya and champagne?”
“I… I don’t know…”
“A Screaming Liz?”
I smiled faintly. The room was only just beginning to stop spinning but it threatened to start up again as his tongue worked its way into the crook of my thighs, sliding along my soft, sensitive skin, slurping at the champagne. God, but it felt good. And then, his tongue slid over my pussy and he began to suck, pulling champagne out of my pussy. The potent cocktail flowed into his mouth as he sucked and he slid a finger up, between my generous ass cheeks, pressing it into my tight back hole. I gasped, feeling the sudden intrusion, and clenched up. I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d had clients before who wanted to do things with my butt but that was usually not in the contract. This time, however… I knew it was anything he wanted.
He continued to lick me, fingering my tight asshole. His tongue was amazing, like satin rubbing along my most intimate parts, working its way into the creases of my pussy lips and exploring, always exploring, never ceasing in its pursuit of my pleasure. My eyes rolled back in my head as he began to lash my clit with the tip of his tongue, moving it around, teasing it, flicking it, and with each passing second, my impending orgasm drew nearer and nearer. Suddenly, I felt it start to rise from deep within me. This orgasm was harder, tighter, and I came with a scream, my juices flooding his mouth as my hips shook. My ass tightened around his finger and it very well could have popped off inside of me. I groaned, pressing my hot, wet snatch up, into that glorious mouth, into that hot epicenter of pleasure that rained down kisses and licks, kisses and licks that only exacerbated the ecstasy.
As I came down from my orgasm, the room was still spinning, more or less. I sighed and flailed around, finding my champagne flute. I downed what remained of the sweet, fizzy liquor and noticed Birch pouring me another glass from the bottle that had just been inside of me. I drank it without thinking.
“Now, sweet little Latoya, how about this?” he asked, pressing the bottle to my lips. Without a second thought, I wrapped my mouth around it, fellating it, bobbing my pink, plump lips along it as if it were Birch’s cock. I imagined his meat in my mouth. I imagined sucking him, encouraging the cum to flow out of him, to invade my mouth and fill up my throat. It was such an arousing thought and I knew it could only be moments away.
“Bend over the couch,” the billionaire ordered. I was all too ready to comply. I bent myself over the back of the couch, my leaking cunt on full display for him along with my bare ass. I heard him undo his belt and slide it through the belt loops of his pants. My heart beat faster and faster as I awaited what I knew was coming, undoubtedly…
With a crack, his belt sliced across my ass. God, but he knew how to use that belt. I let out a strangled cry and squeezed my eyes shut.
“Oooh, Mr. Birch. It hurts.”
“It’s supposed to,” was his only answer as he prepared for another strike. It came with a crack and a slap. I drew a vicious gasp as pain flashed through my body, like a flood of lava suddenly washing over me. Even the air itself hurt my ass as it stood there, display and throbbing.
“You’ve been a very bad girl, Latoya,” Mr. Birch whispered, barely audible.
“H-how?” I asked.
“You never told Ron that you made out with his brother, for one thing. Back in sophomore year of high school.”
The belt shot across my ass again and I screamed, as much from the pain as from his words: how did he know that? Ron was my first serious boyfriend but I liked his older brother much, much more. I had made out with his brother in the car late one Friday after a football game while Ron went to get burgers. How the hell could Birch know that?
“H-h-how do you know that?”
“I know a lot about you, little Latoya.”
“What else do you know?” I demanded but I was simultaneously terrified to find out. My swollen ass, red with welts from the belt, wiggled in fear. Mr. Birch wound up and took another lash at it, eliciting a strangled groan-yelp of pain from my lips.
“I know that you lusted after your mother’s boyfriend when you were eighteen.”
I gasped again. I had only told one or two of my closest girlfriend’s that.
“And that you had masturbated to a picture of you two together. You imagined him taking you, hard, rough, telling you that you could never tell your mother. Am I wrong?”
“No,” I whispered, the tears pooling in my eyes.
“And I know you traded sex for help on an exam last semester. Twice,” Mr. Birch said, reaching a hand out to stroke my tender ass. It throbbed as he touched it and I involuntarily shied away before forcing my butt to remain where it was an accept his touch, as terrifying as it might be. “Am I wrong?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“What were you thinking as you lay there, letting that nerdy nineteen-year-old boy get his jollies in your pussy? Were you proud of yourself, Latoya?”
I shook my head.
“Did you think to yourself, ‘Oh, my parents’ hard-earned money is really going to good use here,’?”
The tears were falling now and when I didn’t answer quickly enough, I received another sharp strike with the belt. It lashed across both of my cheeks and I all but collapsed.
“No! I didn’t think that at all! I felt terrible. Stupid and terrible!”
“There, there, there…” Mr. Birch said, stroking my burning cheeks. “Poor, poor, poor little Latoya.”
I sobbed.
“I want to go home. The deal’s off. Fuck you. I don’t know how you know all this.”
“Oh, but Latoya… You can’t go home. You’re mine now. For better or worse.”
The thought thrilled me, even as I hated him. No matter how much I despised him in that moment, when I looked back at him and saw him in that suit, perfectly tailored and arranged, as if he had just stepped out of a board meeting, I could think of nothing but tearing it off him and ravaging his body.
“I’m yours now,” I said and I hated myself for saying it but the words were so delicious, I could have cum right then and t
here, all over again.
“That’s exactly right. Now, stay bent over.”
Going Harder
I heard him undo his pants, his zipper sliding down. He spread my cheeks open and then I felt it, against my sensitive pussy: his manhood, thick and long, girth larger than the bottle, larger than perhaps anything I had ever had before. How could a man like that have such a big cock? I wondered this as I felt it start to slide into me, start to invade my tightness. I prided myself on still having a pretty tight pussy, because after all, I wasn’t your usual street corner hooker. I worked for a very discerning agency and I only worked a few times a month as it was. Besides, I was still young and men loved the way my pussy gripped their cocks when they sank it into me.
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