Sadie Whyte: The Lust of my Life

by HD HOTEP

  Samuel looked at the paperwork and then glanced at his watch. He got up and locked the door and took his seat again. “Let me see your tits,” he said bluntly.

  Goldie stared into Samuel’s eyes without budging. After a moment, she began unbuttoning her skin tight blouse. She wore no bra. She maintained eye contact. Sam began fondling himself through his pants.

  “Make me cum in less than a minute and I’ll loan you $8,000 dollars for no more than 60 days. Make me cum in less than 30 seconds and I’ll loan you $12,000 dollars for the same time period. And if my dick stays hard enough to fuck you after you’ve made me cum with that pretty little mouth of yours, I’ll loan you $15,000 dollars. But no more,” Sam said, pulling his dick out. “And if I don’t get paid, you work for me until the day you die.”

  Goldie, tits exposed, sashayed over to Samuel, shamelessly dropped to her knees and went to work. In less than 30 seconds, Sam was staring at Goldie as if she’d just violently raped him, breathing like an old man with bronchitis.

  Goldie peeled out of her jeans, removed her heels, and slid down onto his thick, still rock solid, shaft. Leaving him sitting there, she rode him like a strictly dirt bike on a dune buggy race course, draining him of more precious fluids.

  “I’m about to cum,” he barked.

  Goldie jumped up and swallowed him whole. She left the empty club with $15,000 dollars and a promise to fuck Sam twice a week until the money was repaid.

  *****

  “…just need $15,000 dollars until I get my money. You can look over these court records in New Jersey. Everybody knows about our divorce. And believe me, I’m good for it,” Goldie sobbed. “I’ll do whatever it takes to…”

  Retro, 52 years old, owner of a few tow truck companies and renowned pervert, looked at Goldie with tired eyes.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be 25 in October.”

  “That’s a damned lie. I like them younger than that anyways,” he said, eyes coming alive with the smile that now spread his face.

  *****

  Goldie and Yalonda, the private party dance queens, strutted up into Club Effects with three other private dancers. Each of them were dressed like street walkers, drawing envious looks from many women in attendance. However, they were getting lustful looks from most of the men. The women turned the club out, accepting drinks from all those good Samaritans willing to purchase them.

  “You lookin for a good time,” Goldie whispered into a young gentleman’s ear.

  “I’ve hear about you, Goldie. I can’t afford you girl,” he said.

  “Bring your friends. It’s on me,” she said.

  The young man’s face lit up. “You serious?”

  “You got 3 minutes to get to the parking lot.”

  *****

  Goldie rode one man’s rod while two more were aimed at her face on both sides. She took turns slurping while bouncing up and down on the gentleman beneath her.

  “Ahhh. Ahhh. Ummh,” she moaned.

  What better way to treat herself to her last night in North Carolina. She’d left an “I’m not gay” note and a couple thousand dollars beneath Yalonda’s pillow. She’d fucked LOTS of men in Charlotte. She’d swindled many as well. Only, they didn’t realize it yet. She’d wrecked a few homes by having sex with men claimed by others. She’d smoothly maneuvered through Charlotte partying, lying, suckin, and fuckin.

  Later, on the bus to her next destination, Goldie pulled a book from her travel bag and began the painful task of reading on a higher level. This was a practice she’d kept from most of her associates. Goldie wanted better for herself. And she’d grown accustomed to putting in the work to get what she wanted.

  Chapter 6

  “Oktapussy”

  Atlanta, Georgia

  1995

  Beatrice had become a greedy kid in a free candy store. She took what she wanted. Her ability to manipulate others with ease led her anywhere her heart desired. She drove new cars, dressed like a store-front mannequin, attended numerous concerts, professional ball games, boxing main events, hair shows, and exclusive after parties. The world was her sex haven, a playground of enticing and profitable potential experiences.

  Her life had become a tremendous game of persuasion with a touch of sexual pleasure, never quite hidden in the background. A strong dose of nymphomania always in the mix.

  Beatrice, as Goldie Kaan, had milked Charlotte as a teenager. She’d ventured into California as Ms. Evelyn Foster, meeting lots of connected people. Her antennae always up, she’d stumbled upon a racket of “basketball” wives almost two decades before the reality show came out. She’d been paired up with a loaded “bench warmer” beneath a three-year marriage contract. Her money would be managed by the orchestrators of the racket, and when the “irreconcilable differences” were finally cited as the causes of the staged “divorce”, Evelyn would walk away with an agreed upon amount of funds.

  However, Evelyn, always hell bent on playing by her own rules, got close to her new husband to the point of actually getting him to reveal the access codes to his bank accounts. Evelyn had run him through the mill, stinging him for more than $500,000 dollars and fleeing Cali, a happily “married” girl.

  She’d relocated to a small, quiet town in Delaware, studying and reading hours while living off of her accumulated wealth. After acquiring her GED, she’d taken a few correspondence college courses and a few etiquette classes.

  One day, she’d felt pretty bold. She wanted a degree right away. She wound up in the Dean’s office of a local college campus.

  “It doesn’t have to be an affair. It can be on your terms, discreet, ongoing if you like. Or we could make it into one SERIOUS night stand,” she’d said to the Dean, her eyes glued to his, her hands making contact with his chest and sliding downward toward his less intelligent head.

  “I’ll make you a very happy man, satisfied over and over again, Mr. O’neil,” she’d persisted, a free college degree in her sights.

  He’d been frozen, petrified, as if the scarecrow jacked up on a wooden stake. She’d seen it in his eyes. He’d almost given in. But…

  Mr. O’neil had called security and had “Ms. Leona Lane” arrested for trespassing and other minor offenses.

  Upon her release from jail, she’d hooked up with International Escorts, LLC. She’d purchased $8,000 dollars’ worth of clothing and dived into her new role. She took lessons, learned the ins and outs, and soon grew to be one of the top requested escorts of the company. African-American escorts, that is. However, Beatrice, still masquerading as Leona Lane, began stealing the company’s tricks. The company was charging them as much as $6,500 dollars per date. Leona would only receive $900-$2,500 dollars of said amount. Leona began charging them $4,000 dollars even and keeping all the spoils of her labor. She was also unbridled, lewd, depraved, in as much as she was willing to do for a horny man… or woman.

  She’d been exposed in her treachery by other escorts of the company. She was threatened with violence and soon fled Delaware driving her new 95 SS Impala with the LT-1 Corvette engine and rear wheel drive. It wasn’t the typical vehicle of choice for a young, dainty, high class escort. But, it said something about Leona’s personality. For, underneath it all, Beatrice Miller, AKA Goldie Kaan, Leona Lane, Bee Bee, Evelyn Foster, etc., had a powerful engine with LOTS of horses under the hood. She was trained and ready to go.

  “I’m self-taught and I can’t be bought baby,” she’d often say to a trick who was either unwilling to pay her price, unable to afford her, or simply asking for too much.

  If men, the players and pimps, considered themselves dogs by nature, Beatrice considered herself to be a female dog to the fullest. She was THAT BITCH!

  At the moment, Beatrice, AKA Charise Gables, was in Atlanta, Georgia in the doggy style position with nine and one half inches of dick thickness in her rectum. She mouth-fucked another well endowed gentleman while also riding another larger member.

  “Mmmmmh, Mmmmmh,” she
moaned, getting into her performance to the fullest. She stared into the camera, a large rod in “every hole,” seductive, whorish, craving, and loving it.

  “This bitch is nasty,” Byron Blount, the producer/director of the movie, whispered into Dave Winthorp’s ear.

  “I’ve got to be honest with you, Byron. When you get ‘em like that one, you’ve got to keep ‘em. She’s a fuckin animal. A pretty fuckin animal,” Dave said.

  Charise made every man spit all over her sweat slicked body before slowing down, even for a second. Once she’d completed the final scene, she left the room wearing a thin robe, staring at Byron with an “I-told-you-so” expression in her eyes.

  *****

  “Look Byron, I want my own movies and an exclusive contract, complete with a pay increase per movie. Let’s be honest; I look better and I fuck harder than any bitch you’ve got out there. My fans love “Ms. Oktapussy.” Put together an official contract for me Daddy,” Charise said.

  “Do you know what the three hottest commodities in this country are, Charise?” Byron asked, lighting a thick cigar, a bored expression on his face.

  “Of course I do. My mouth, my pussy, and my ass. I’m hot shit Byron and I wanna be treated like it,” Charise responded with a slow, articulate, authoritative tone.

  “Not quite little lady. It’s more like drugs, main stream religion, and my favorite, pornography. And you, Charise, have jumped into my world of porn.”

  “Yeah, you’re fine. You can take lots of dick. And you do make the rest of my bitches look a little… less qualified, I admit. You can make a lot of money in this industry. There’s plenty to be made. But if you get too greedy, I won’t lose any sleep when you’re gone. I’ll sell an elephant fuck fest to a blind mouse.

  Plenty of bitches can fuck and look pretty, Charise. They come and go. The porn industry is like a machine. A tire blows, we replace it,” Byron said, blowing thick smoke into Charise’s face. “But you might be worth what you’re asking for, depending on what you’re asking for.

  Most of my actresses who come in here demanding the same shit believe they’re worth it too. But they’re not. Come see me Wednesday.”

  *****

  Charise sat in the attorney’s office with a fresh contract from Byron Blount straight off the presses. She’d been granted the exclusive rights to her own ‘Oktapussy’ XXX movies. She’d be paid a lot better than most of her coworkers. And why not, she thought. The few movies she’d made under Blount Object Productions were flying off the shelves. She’d created an enormous fan base. And she’d really jumped into the industry simply to stroke her own ego and to feed her insatiable sex habits.

  “So, what is it exactly that you’re asking for?” Maurice Reynolds, Esq, asked.

  “I’m about to make a few movies. I’ve got an exclusive contract and my sales are guaranteed. By the time this contract is due to be renewed, I should be about $100,000 dollars richer, Mr. Reynolds. I’m an adult movie star with a very large fan base. I’m one of the few adult actresses who can leave men unconscious after having sex with them,” she said, rubbing her left hand up her exposed thigh.

  “What I need is a $75,000 dollar loan against the future earnings of my contract. Could you hook that up for me? I’ll pay you in cash and in quality time, if you’re up for that,” Charise said.

  Mr. Reynolds gazed at Charise with blank eyes. He tapped his fingers on his desk for a few seconds before speaking.

  “Ms. Gables, you have no identification. You have no proof that you are who you say you are. But you do have an authenticated, verifiable contract. I could get you a loan against your contract, but you’ll have to give me something stable to ensure that you won’t simply disappear once I pull a few strings. Get me a commitment from Mr. Blount for at least 80% of this contract and I’ll cut through all the red tape. My fee will be $15,000 dollars, due to the unorthodox nature of this transaction, which will come off the top of your loan amount,” he said.

  “I don’t think that will be a problem, Mr. Reynolds. But agree to allowing me to get Mr. Blount to guarantee 80% of the loan amount, not the contract amount, and we’ve got a deal,” ‘Charise’ said.

  *****

  There was something about the game Beatrice had chosen to play as a way of life. Anticipating a trick’s next move. Playing on people’s sexual desires. Allowing others to build trust in her so as to smash through their guards. Lots of sex and cashing out. Beatrice enjoyed what she did with a passion. She burned bridges quicker than a crack addict with a full blown case of ‘get-high-or-die-tryin’!

  She leaned back in the first class seat of the passenger plane, opened a Vogue magazine, and smiled to herself.

  I’m so selfish, she thought with a smirk.

  “You’re so smart. Won’t you settle down. Have a baby,” she’d been told by an associate.

  “I’d NEVER get pregnant, unless I was in love. And I’ve NEVER been in love,” she’d replied.

  Beatrice wasn’t about being locked down, broke, or dominated. She was a free spirit. A female renegade who enjoyed reveling in the fruits of her ill-gotten labor. But deep down inside, she actually entertained the thought of settling down, being in love, and having a beautiful little baby. But such thoughts were VERY deep down inside of Ms. Beatrice Miller.

  Mr. Reynolds had been the third of five lawyers ‘Charise’ had gotten to acquire a loan, backed by the same contract. She’d only had to sleep with three of them. Mr. Blount had placed his name on the line for her. But she didn’t think twice about it. This is what she did. And she was damned good at it.

  Long before anyone had heard of an ‘Adele’, at 23 years of age, Beatrice Miller had begun setting ‘Fire to the Rain.’

  “They’re all tricks…”

  Chapter 7

  Fuck You, Pay Me

  Dunn Loring, Virginia

  2007

  “Houston. Allison Houston. Yes. I’m contacting you because I believe you’re the beneficiary of a half of a million dollar life insurance policy… Yes… I don’t know why you never received your portion, but you’re still entitled to it… Yes… Were you related to a Stephanie Gertrude Shields?... Yes, at least eight years ago… I’m so sorry… But on another note, it appears that you are entitled to $125,000 dollars… Yes… Well, these types of funds are held just like cars are impounded… There are fees for holding the funds… Yes… Yes… So, before the funds can be released to you, you must first pay, in your case, a $5,000 dollar fee.

  I have no idea why they operate this way, but they will not just release the funds and deduct the fee, which would make so much more sense… Yes… Isn’t that insane?... Ha Ha Ha… OK… Make it out to Independent Insurance, Inc… No, thank you… You too… Yes… No more than 90 days… OK… Bye Bye.” Click.

  Beatrice, AKA Allison Houston, hung the phone up, pulled a Virginia Slim from its pack, lit it, and reclined in her leather office chair. She spun around and exhaled, now facing the window of her leased office space. Lifting her left hand, she admired her recent manicure. She wore a white $3,500 skirt suit by Chanel with $600 heels by Hermes. She slid closer to the window, reclined further, and crossed her legs, smiling to herself. She’d just hit her 9th trick in 12 days for more than 2,500 dollars a pop.

  Beatrice saw through to people’s flaws like window panes. She was about her business. She’d fucked, scammed, and raked dry the best of them. She’d traveled the country, wreaking havoc with her cunning, crooked mind, her charm, her elegance, and her unyielding insatiable appetite for sex. She’d found that people had come looking for her. She’d heard that she was wanted. But she wasn’t who anyone believed her to be. She’d always been able to flee prior to being hit. On record, her fingerprints revealed that Beatrice Miller was Evelyn Foster, Charise Gables, Leona Lane, or Goldie Kaan, depending on which state one chose to check the records in.

  ‘Allison Houston’s’ smile grew brighter with her memories. People were so gullible and so horny that she couldn’t comprehend how
any attractive person could ever miss out on the American Dream. She shook her head, full of silky faux blond hair, and glanced into her reflection in the window, glimpsing her hazel eyes. Eyes that were just as unreal as Independent Insurance, Inc.

  Allison spun back around, cut off her computer, and took a few more puffs of her cigarette. She got up and headed for the door after retrieving her purse, a provocative pep in her step.

  On the way to her navy blue 2006 convertible BMW, she caught a gentleman staring at her as if she’d just leapt over a building.

  “Excuse me Ms., I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, side stepping in front of her.

  “Oh, no problem. There are plenty of people I haven’t met. Some of them I wouldn’t care to meet. It’s too hard to trust people, you know,” she replied instantly, meeting eyes with the gentleman briefly. She attempted to move around him, reaching for the door of her car.

  “Well, my name is Bernstein. Lyle Bernstein. I’m an investment banker. I work across the street. And you can trust me when I swear to you that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said seriously.

  “‘Allison’ paused, her car door open. Batting her lashes and blushing a little, she turned her head slowly until meeting Mr. Bernstein’s honest eyes. She looked him up and down and stood up straight. “Mr. Bernstein…”

  “Lyle. Please call me Lyle,” he interrupted.

  “Lyle, that’s got to be the most flattering thing anyone’s ever said to me. Thank you,” she said.

  “I’m not into flattery, Ms…”

  “Houston. My name is Allison Houston.”

  “I’m not into flattery, Ms. Houston. I apologize for my straight forward approach but, my God, you’re inhumanly gorgeous. May I call you?”

  When he’d said the words ‘investment banker’, he’d unwittingly ensured the answer ‘yes’ to the question he’d just asked. ‘Allison’ admired his Stacey Adams shoes, his leather briefcase, and his Brooks Brothers suit. He had ‘trick’ written all over him.