Stricken Trust (Stricken Rock)

by Logsdon, S. K.

  “I’m able now.” I reach out my hand to take somebody’s phone. James places his into my palm and his back ground is of me.

  I click dial.

  “James is Emily okay?” She answers.

  “I’m fine. Thank you for the concern and room full of goodies.”

  God, it feels wonderful to hear her voice. It feels like forever.

  “Thank the lord. You sound so wonderful, Emily. I miss you baby.”

  Okay, she dumps me and now she talks all girlfriend like to me again. What’s her deal?

  “Ummm… I miss you too, Claire. How are things?” This is a weird conversation.

  “I’ve been worried sick. James has called me every day with an update. Are you sure you don’t need me to come out?

  “I’m sure. My fiancé has everything under control.” I smile at him and he smiles back as he holds Dylan in his arms talking to him. Cammy is doing something on her phone.

  “Oh good.” She breathes a sigh of relief into the phone.

  She doesn’t sound surprised to hear about the engagement. He must have told her too. Is there anyone on the planet he hasn’t informed before me? What if I said no? He’s pretty confident.

  “Did he tell you too?”

  She giggles. Oh I missed that giggle. I love Claire’s voice and I miss her. Not her love but her friendship. I miss our girl talks and fun times together.

  “Yes, he called as he was buying the ring with your mom and Stacy. He took a few pictures so I could give my two cents.”

  I shake my head. I can’t believe he did that too. Everyone was involved in picking out the ring. Even Claire.

  “Do you like the one he chose?”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful. That’s the one all of us voted on; it was unanimous. But nothing would compare to how lovely you are, Emily.”

  She must really miss me.

  We get into a long conversation on the phone and Cammy stays playing on her cell and James whispers to me that he’s leaving to take Dylan to get some hot chocolate. Which I wave them goodbye but not before I get to kiss them both. He’ll make a great dad.

  Claire informs me that her relationship with this woman is going well. That she’s sexy and an entrepreneur just like her. So they seem to have quite a bit in common. Which I’m happy to hear. Overall, it sounds like a great match. And I couldn’t be happier for her. And I tell her as much.

  As I wait for James, Cammy is still engrossed in her phone and I close my eyes. Who would have thought waking up from a four day siesta would mean you’re still tired, because I am.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  A hand is rubbing my leg.

  I open my eyes and smile.

  “Well hello, my future husband.”

  “Hello my future wife. Now, I had them bring in some beef broth and some Jell-O for you to eat.”

  I look around and frown. “Where’s my mom?”

  “She’ll be back tomorrow. You’ve slept most of the day and she came back after Cammy left with Dylan. I had Davis drive her to the condo about an hour ago.”

  He pushes my hospital table closer and I cringe. I don’t want broth. I want real food.

  “I know it’s gross but eat it and tomorrow we’ll make sure you get a regular diet after they take out the catheter.”

  I huff. “Fine. But I want a prize for being a good little girl and eating all this.” I wink at him with a naughty smirk.

  He shakes his head and chuckles. “If you eat every bit of this I’ll let you have what you want.”

  Hell yes he will! I yank the table to me, pick up the soup, dip my finger into it and test its temperature. Luke warm, so I grab it and drink it down in one long gulp. Then I grab the Jell-O and jam my spoon into it and in three big giant bites it’s down and I’m ready for some cock.

  “All done. Now give me.” I wave my hand for him to come over and push the table away.

  He laughs deep and throaty. “So eager.” He unzips his fly as he’s just out of reach from me and pulls that beautiful scarred cock out of his boxer briefs and it’s already hard as a rock.

  I lick my lips as he strokes its length up and down, teasing me. I can see the little bead of come oozing from the top and my mouth waters. Yum. I want some of that.

  “Give me him now, husband,” I bark impatiently.

  “Now, now. A sick lady has to wait for her medicine. Be patient.”

  Oh he did not just tell me to wait for that delicious cock. I can’t.

  I cough. “Oh, doctor. I think I’m sick I need some penis-cilin.” I fake cough again into my hand.

  “Poor patient. What will I ever do?” He shoots me a crooked smile and I begin to pant in torturous anticipation. I never thought in all my years I’d love to suck dick. But I do. Oh so much.

  “I need you to administer my medicine into my mouth… please doctor,” I purr.

  He takes a step and squeezes the head of his penis. A few weeks ago and he wouldn’t have ever thought to even show me it, let alone tease me. He’s coming around. I love it, almost as much as I love him.

  “Don’t waste that juiciness, doctor. I don’t want to miss out on all my medicine. Unless you’d like to administer more afterward.” I wag by eyebrow at him and bite my lip, staring innocently into his eyes.

  I reach out and he finally gives in and gets up onto the side of the bed so his cock as at my mouth level. I swirl my tongue over the bead of silkiness and swallow it with greed. Encasing his head with my lips, I savor his flavors and pull it back out.

  “Doctor I’m a little achy. Can you please do some work so I can get my medication in a timely manner.” I ask, running my velvet tongue around and around his thick fleshy head.

  “Would the patient like the doctor to administer by injection?”

  I nod and he grabs the back of my head and pushes his length all the way into the back of my throat and his body shudders. I purr in my chest, loving the feeling of being filled by him.

  Slowly he humps his member in and out of my eager awaiting mouth. I grab his ass with my hands and knead the softness with my fingers. I love touching him. Picking up the pace, he starts to grind into my mouth and I moan as I can feel his cock stiffen more.

  “I’m going to feed you sweetheart. Do you want some?” He moans lightly.

  And I nod, sucking harder.

  “Oh yes, sweetheart. I’m going to come.” He thrusts into my mouth hard and his deliciousness is injected into my mouth in long hot bursts. I swallow him down drop by drop and suck onto the tip, taking every bit down into my stomach.

  Pulling back, his beautiful manhood falls and he hides him back into his pants. I whine but I know I can have more later.

  “Cuddle with me.” I pat the space beside me and scoot over so he can fit. His body is huge but I’m going to make room. I want to be with my Teddy Bear.

  “Anything for you, my perfect lover.” He scoots in next to me and cradles me in his arms. My head on his chest. My favorite place in the entire world. I inhale in and just like always, he smells perfect — like cedar and mint. Like my perfect soothing man. Calvin James, my soon to be husband. Who I’m going to cuddle and love on as he stays with me and we enjoy each other the best we can in this crappy hospital room for the next few months awaiting the arrival of the babies.

  Thank you for Reading Stricken Trust

  Book #3 of the Stricken Rock Series

  Stay Tuned for Stricken Resolve the final installment of the Stricken Series.

  Artful Attractions

  Book One of the Attraction Series

  Now Available

  ~Chapter One~

  “Alexis Tylah Monroe—hurry your ass down here, we’re going to be late.”

  “Jesus, Becka. It’s not like Brian can’t wait. We aren’t due to meet him until ten anyhow,” I yell down the hall from the bathroom. I’m getting dolled up, so sue me.

  Becka, or should I say Rebecca Anne Davis, is my roommate and coworker, going on four years. We met through Brian, our b
oss — or, that’s what I call him. I think the politically correct term is pimp. Now before you go and get your panties all in a bunch, Brian is not the stereotypical pimp who hits his prostitutes and makes them fuck anything with two legs. First of all, we aren’t technically prostitutes. We’re escorts. High paid, highly functional, and educated. Yes I said it, educated. And I don’t mean 401 ways to give the best blow job.

  I attended NYU for four years while landing this gig two years into my schooling. I graduated with a bachelor in Art History. Money was tight being on my own in New York City while attending college. I met Brian one night when I was cocktail waitressing at a small high class lounge— you know, the ones where all the rich business men go afterhours. I was pawed and hit on hundreds of times a night. I guess dropping the tray and working for someone who pays me well enough to get pawed at was the smartest career choice. Let’s face it; there aren’t a ton of job openings in the art history department, so I’ve stayed an escort. But it’s not like I don’t get to use my knowledge. Brian typically pairs me with high profile clients or rich business men who are attending galas or other cultural events. Sure, I actually know the difference between neoclassical and neo-expressionism art. And most of my dates consist of men who think ‘that, that blue blends nicely with that red.’ It’s simple for them and complex for me. Nonetheless, Brian thoughtfully pairs me to those types of clients.

  And my dear friend Becka gets the jocks and sports nuts. She’s arm candy for rich men who attend Knicks games and poker tournaments. And every one of our clients come in all shapes and sizes with larger wallets or smaller. But you can’t pay for a date with me if your pocket book consists of tens and twenties. My cut is $175 an hour to escort and sexual favors are on a case by case basis. And yes, if you’re hot I’ll blow you for less.

  Most people think escorts screw every night and get paid little to do it. They also think that the clientele are fat, balding, middle aged men with no sense of humor. Sure, I do get those types, but the rich and sexy float my way more often than not. Some wonder why those men need a date when they look as good as they do. But the truth is they don’t want the strings. If they take a female friend on a date, those women expect to be doted upon and get offended easily if their date walks off to chat with a hot waitress. I could care less. I provide a service of sex appeal, companionship, intellectual conversation; if needed and sex; if the price is right.

  Growing up in the Midwest, I wasn’t raised wrong. My parents were divorced but I had both of them, and they love me, and my two sisters. I’m the middle child. My older sister Hannah is now twenty eight and married with two kids. And my younger sister Beth is twenty one and studying to be a teacher. I don’t hate either of them and actually I like Beth. Except my life here in New York is secret. I can’t tell my family about my career path. This isn’t Pretty Woman, it’s not a fairytale. I’ve never stood on a street corner and I’ve certainly never met a rich man who wanted to spend hundreds of dollars on me for nothing in return but friendship. I’ve gotten gifts, yes. But I’ve had to work hard to procure them.

  “Woman, I said get a damn move on it. We need to take the bus to head into the city,” my roomy, says popping her head into the bathroom doorway.

  I’ve spent the past hour showering, applying my ‘work’ makeup and dressing the part. We meet with Brian our boss once a week. We get our client list and specifics, some of which consist of great lengths of work. If a man prefers a slut, he gets a slut in a short dress and hooker heels. If they order a homegrown country girl, I transform into the wholesome girl I was raised to be, but failed at miserably. Long dresses, short dresses, heels, long hair, short hair, you name it, and we go through it. It’s specific work. Most men don’t care what we dress like as long as we are hot. But you get those types who want a blonde with a pixie cut. That’s where Becka’s and my wig collection comes in handy.

  I have copper brown hair that’s long and straight. I don’t dye it because truth be known I actually enjoy my hair color. My eyes are a hazel green and I’m not fat or super skinny. My breasts are average and my skin is golden. I don’t go to the lengths as some of my colleagues do to perfect their appearances. I don’t do spray tans, fake nails, eye brow waxes, bikini waxes or anything that costs a fortune. I pluck my own brows, I paint my own natural nails, my skin is naturally a golden tan color and I sure as hell shave my own pussy. And I don’t mean bald like a twelve-year-old little girl. That’s a hard line for me that I don’t cross. If a man prefers a bare pussy, they can go elsewhere. I shave it all and leave a landing strip, which like my hair is a copper brown color, not black.

  “I’m about ready,” I inform the not so patient roomy of mine. We are almost like sisters and nearly the same age. I’m twenty five and she’s twenty six. She’s a natural blonde bombshell with fake tits and a curvy body to die for. Her legs are lean and long and she looks fabulous in red. We have four other colleagues that Brian handles and, to be honest, we can’t stand them. It was luck of the draw that we actually clicked as well as we have. Four years and two apartments later we are living in a clean part of Queens in a two bedroom one bath single story apartment. It has a big living room, galley kitchen and a sizable breakfast nook. It’s about nine hundred square feet but it suits us well, and we’ve stuck to this place for the past two years. Our neighbors are quiet and our landlord is a hot Filipino man by the name of Armando. Before he married his wife six months ago our rent was paid in sexual favors. Now we pay the bill, which is fine with us. It’s not like Becka and I can’t pay in cash. We work on average three nights a week and I typically rake in a couple grand a week. We’re not like hookers who get $50 for a BJ. My average rate is $700 for one and sex is $1200 minimum. If you’re grossly unattractive, smell bad or have terrible manners, sex will cost you $2500. And trust me—they pay it. I’m damn good at my job and have repeat happily satisfied customers.

  My working name is Tylah. Like strippers who go by Bunny and Candy, I use my middle name. And all my regulars or semi-regulars call me Ty. Joseph is my favorite repeat. He’s married and has three kids, which believe it or not, we do talk about. We meet once a month, sometimes twice if he’s really lonely. His cock is huge, and he’s a very talented and giving lover. And the best part is he always takes me to an expensive hotel, brings me flowers, orders champagne and I come five times in a given night. He’s the kind of man you beg to have as a customer. His body is rock-hard from working out daily and he’s tall and lean with dark hair and doe eyes. A babe by anyone’s standards and we’ve been seeing each other professionally for the past eight months. At first Joseph used Carmen, our exotic coworker. She’s from Argentina and twenty-nine but looks twenty. She’s hot and sultry and a complete bitch if you get to know her. After two times with her, he ordered Brian to change it up for him. So I took her $2500 a night spot and have been his monthly girlfriend, as he calls me, ever since. Last month I got a $300 tip from him. Which I turned around and spent on more shoes and clothes.

  In our apartment, Becka and I have a giant closet in my bedroom which is the master. We share it to some degree, mainly in the shoe department. We both wear size eight and that makes for one hell of a shoe collection. It’s huge, with at least a hundred and fifty pairs. We can occasionally share clothes but I’m shorter and she’s tall, and I’m a size six and she’s a four. So things sometimes don’t fit right.

  I walk out of the bath in my jade green skin tight dress that I needed Crisco to put on. Okay, not literally, but it’s tight. Thankfully I have a curvy body and a flat stomach to pull it off. Although my ass is a little bit bigger than I’d like. I’ve tried to make it smaller but it just won’t shrink.

  “It’s about fucking time, woman,” she scoffs tapping her four inch black stiletto on the hard wood floor.

  “I’m sorry, but someone took a thirty minute shower and used up too much hot water. The last five minutes I was stuck rinsing my conditioner out in ice water. So don’t give me that shit.”

  “
Okay, well let’s go.” She opens the front door, I snatch up my black purse from the table and out the door we go. I decided to go with silver heels tonight which shine so sexy in the moonlight.

  We walk one block to the bus station. Hop onto that and take it to the train station. The train takes us into Manhattan and we take the subway five stops to our destination. It’s nine forty-five and Brian’s apartment is only a few blocks from the station. The nice thing about working mostly nights is the subway and trains are clear and seats are actually available, because riding on a subway in four inch heels standing up is not a good idea. That’s how you twist an ankle. Ask Mary, one of my other coworkers, who’s done it twice in the past year.

  “Where the hell have you two been?” Carmen bitches once we hit the steps to come into Brian’s apartment. She’s outside on his second story balcony. Brian lives richer than we do. His apartment is huge and beautifully decorated with its oriental rugs, leather couches, real art pieces; that I’ve helped select, and a giant office with a presidential desk. We conduct most of our business in the living room but for private one-on-ones he takes us in there.

  I put her on ignore and Becka rings the bell. Mary opens the door in a short pair of shorts and silver sequined tube top. She looks like a stripper. Which is a nicer word for trashy. Hey, I’m not saying my moral compass is pushing due north, but damn there is a huge difference between strippers, prostitutes, and us.

  “Hey Mary.” I smile and walk past her into the living room. Looks like we’re the last ones to arrive. Brian’s passing around our schedules. He prints them off on his computer and they’re all in detail, including the breakdown of our cut and his and our hours of operation. It’s very professional.

  Brian approaches us. “Rebecca,” he greets and kisses both of her cheeks. “Alexis.” I lean in and we exchange the same affection.