Sweeter Than Honey

by Mary B. Morrison

  After Lace left the dressing room, I sat at my vanity observing the other girls. While waiting for security to come get us, I opened the gift Lace had given me earlier. “Oh my God.” What did this gorgeous sparkling Rolex mean? I love it! I thought, securing the watch on my wrist.

  There was no sense in having Lace delegate authority to me if I wasn’t going to use it. Outside of my parents, I cared about Onyx, Starlet, and my best friend, Sapphire Bleu, almost as much as I loved my twin sister, Summer, whom I hadn’t seen in months or spoken with in weeks.

  Sapphire knew more about prostitution than Lace, but there was no way I could tell my madam that my best friend was a cop. Sapphire and I talked two to three times a day. She was my mental support person, kinda like a therapist who’d allowed me to express my feelings without judgment. Sapphire admired my lifestyle while I envied hers. She was the hottest, sexiest, undercover female that got paid to arrest the types of men I serviced. Sapphire never had to suck a dick or turn a trick she didn’t want to. But endangering our lives was the one thing we had in common. Almost every day Sapphire told me stories about missing prostitutes, generally teenage runaways, who were found dead on the streets or in hotel rooms in Las Vegas, so I was sure Sapphire would flip like Madam if I’d mention working the streets. I was no fool and definitely not serious about turning a twenty-dollar trick after watching Madam beat girl six.

  I’m grateful that Sapphire has been my mentor and friend about as long as I’ve worked in this business. One day I’m gonna take her up on her offer and go with her to the firing range. Sapphire strongly stated, “Every woman needs two boyfriends: Smith and Wesson. If every woman knew how to handle a gun better than her man, I bet women wouldn’t have to worry about men beating on them. Shoot his ass, then use the one line that works in any court of law: “I was in fear of my life. It’s called self-defense.”

  Being ten years older and decades wiser, Sapphire helped me understand men better. “Against my recommendation, you can keep giving up your sweet pussy, Sunshine, but the one thing you must promise me you’ll never do is give away your pussy power.”

  I’d heard that phrase a lot lately. Must be some new movement toward female empowerment.

  Shaking my head, I wondered, What does pussy power really mean?

  Before I asked, Sapphire had answered, “Pussy power has the same effect over men that kryptonite has over Superman. Every woman has kryptonite. It’s your ability to control every man in any situation. You’ve got to believe you possess the power, Sunshine. You’ve got to believe in yourself, lovely.”

  I was glad I started talking to Sapphire at the bar that night, thinking she was one of Valentino’s girls, or else we would never have met. Funny how your future best friend can be sitting right next to you and if you never say hello, you’ll never know. Sapphire thought I was lying to her when I told her how much money I made.

  “Dang, girl, you know how long it takes me to make that kind of money? Don’t tell me anything else about this Valentino jerk, not even his last name, because it pisses me off how much money these so-called high-class pimps make off of women. What you make is cool and all, but I know it’s nowhere near what he’s getting paid. I wish I could arrest all of these opportunistic assholes, johns included, but then like on that television show we’d have to lock up the teachers, the preachers, the pimps, and the parents, and then we’d end up with a bunch of snotty-nose illiterate kids dropping out of school.”

  Sapphire had a sense of humor that could match her bad temperament, but Lace’s sensitivity earlier tonight had taken me aback. Indirectly Lace reinforced what I’d been thinking, to do something that I wanted. But what did I want out of life? Surely prostitution didn’t come with retirement benefits, and at my age, retirement seemed a lifetime away. In a few years there’d be someone prettier, smarter, and freakier to replace all of us.

  Walking over to Onyx’s vanity, I held her hand and said, “It’s okay, O, don’t let Lace get to you. You know me. I’m the wifee now and every girl here tonight will take care of the other. We’re all picking up an extra fifteen to thirty minutes to cover girl six’s johns. Including me.”

  Locking her arms around my neck, Onyx said, “Thanks, Sunny. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “O, you know what you really need to do. Leave that jealous-ass husband of yours. If he finds out what you’re doing, he’ll kill you. Then I’d have to have Sapphire kill him. Look,” I said, easing the key to my new condo in Onyx’s hand, “hold on to this. Don’t ever give your husband my address, but if you need a safe place to stay, you don’t have to ask. Just come. You don’t have to call first or let me know in advance. I want you to be safe until you buy a place of your own. Preferably outside Nevada. Got it?”

  Listen to me trying to advise my girl. Maybe helping others was my calling. I was a pretty good motivator. My mother always taught my sister and me that in every situation, we had to protect one another. I felt the same way about O and Starlet. Sapphire was my only friend who appeared to be in control all the time.

  Onyx’s eyes filled with tears as she hugged me tight. We didn’t need to exchange another word. I’d duplicate the spare house key hidden under my car mat. For different reasons, Onyx, Starlet, and Sapphire each had a key to my condo.

  Click.

  Security opened the dressing room door. One by one we piled back into the limo, where we were blindfolded again. I remained silent until we arrived at our nightly spot referred to as Immaculate Perception, but no one knew the street or the address. Once we heard a heavy gate close, the bodyguards removed our blindfolds. The cemented walls were so high the only thing I noticed in the distance was the glowing red needlepoint that topped the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino.

  Inside, there had to be at least fifty horny men of varying nationalities. The moment they saw us, lust filled their eyes. As usual the mumbling and pointing started immediately as we modeled along the sparkling platinum carpet that twinkled like stars.

  Pointing out ten different men, I inquired about their preferences, paired them up with the girls of their choice, then listened to Reynolds instruct the remainders, “Make yourselves comfortable in the casino area, gentlemen, or at the bar. If you want to walk around, you are welcome to observe other couples, but you cannot participate unless invited. You are also restricted to activities on the second floor. The third floor is off-limits and reserved for private, top-paying regulars. If I catch you in unauthorized areas”—Reynolds flexed his biceps, then continued—“I’m throwing you out permanently. If you need a picker-upper of any kind, see me.”

  Utilizing the word regular was one of our incentives to have those egotesticle johns pay more for our services.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be back to fuck all of you too,” I said with a wink, sashaying up the staircase. “At Immaculate Perception you get what you pay for.”

  Those idiots stood down there cheering like they’d won the megalottery.

  Making my way to the Presidential Suite on the third floor, I entered a room so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.

  “I swear, the more money these guys pay, the stranger they are.” Sometimes I wished I had normal johns like the other girls instead of servicing the highest-paying clients.

  I tapped the light switch. “Oh, shit.” This was a first. That fool had a black satin bag over his head gathered with a drawstring around his neck with a hat on his head. Two tiny holes were cropped so close all I saw were his dark pupils. Probably some preacher or deacon from my parents’ church or a big-time baller with a wife and kids.

  “I want you to dance for me,” he said, reclining on the sofa while setting the white fedora next to him. Fingering his single-breasted jacket with one hand, he opened his white jacket, spreading his long-lean thighs, then massaged the crotch of his white pants.

  Pressing the power button on the remote, I turned on the music and began swaying slowly in the space in front of him. Biting the tip of my nail,
I lowered my gaze, then moaned, “Mmmm. I can’t wait to taste you.” Gliding my fingers over his slick bag, I wanted to yank it off.

  “Don’t touch my head, bitch. Just do as I say.”

  Relinquishing my kryptonite in exchange for my salary, I seductively straddled his lap, rotating my ass on his hard dick. “Tell me how hot you’d like me.”

  Sliding my thong to the side, he released his dick from behind the zipper and rubbed the head on my ass. I prayed, Not another night of anal penetration.

  “Turn around. I want you on your knees, bitch. And I want you to take all of this dick,” he said, squeezing his shaft at the base, then continued, “inside your hot mouth. I miss you, baby.”

  Whatever, freak.

  Kneeling before him, I reached for the gold and black condom packet on the coffee table.

  “Uh-uh. That’s not how we do it. I want to feel you,” he said, stroking his engorged head on my glossy lips.

  Leaning my forehead into his stomach, I began licking, spitting, and groaning while working my hand up and down his shaft. Proudly I’d learned how to master giving a blowjob without letting them cum in my mouth.

  He pulled my hair, lifting my head. “I said suck my dick. And lick my balls. I want it all. You’re not clever, bitch. I want you hotter than a summer day in July. I paid fifty thousand dollars for five hours and I want you all to myself all night long. I want to feel my dick against your esophagus and I want you to swallow every drop of my cum. I’m gonna fuck you doggy-style, upside down, and I’m saving that swing over there for last or maybe I’ll have you put those hot stones in my ass, then fuck the shit out of you on the balcony so everyone in North Las Vegas can hear you scream while I shoot this cream up your ass. I’m your daddy now, bitch. You do as I say.”

  Sadly enough I was immune to the profanity as it was part of many men’s fantasy to call a woman a bitch while having their dick sucked.

  Hmm, North Las Vegas, that’s where I lived off Martin Luther King and Ann Road. They say most accidents happen within a one-mile radius of your home. Was I passing where I worked on my way to the strip?

  Hmm, there was something about the way he said “summer” that made me think of my sister. Five fucking hours? So much for me helping out Onyx. This was gonna be one long-ass night. I knew what to do to his ass.

  “Mmmm,” I moaned, softly, kissing his plump head oozing with precum. “You have the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen.”

  “Then lick it, bitch,” he said, palming the back of my head.

  “Like this?” I said, twirling my tongue around his balls. “Or like this?” I asked, slowly trailing a line of spit up his shaft. Desperately I wanted to snatch that bag off his damn head so I could see his face. I lowered my mouth over his head, sucking gently, then harder, then a lot harder.

  “You want it rough and fast or slow and succulent?”

  Before he answered, I eased my mouth over his entire shaft and swallowed hard several times.

  “Oh, shit! Bitch, you making me cum without my permission. Back the fuck up.”

  Tightening my throat, I lifted my head, drawing all the cum out of him. His body shivered. I trickled his sperms back onto his dick as I continued stroking him.

  “You taste so good,” I lied. “Relax, you’ll get your money’s worth. I’ll get him back up in a few minutes with this,” I said, placing his hand on my bare pussy.

  Making my way to the bathroom to spit out the sperms that didn’t make it to my stomach, I heard him say, “Damn, baby, you’ve learned a lot.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Sunny

  What started out six months ago as a brilliant get-rich-quick scheme unexpectedly transitioned into the worst decision of my life! An epiphany, a paradigm shift—I didn’t care what one called it, I wanted to quit! Who in the hell did I fuck last night? That bothered me all day because obviously he knew me.

  What in the world was I thinking?

  Voluntarily putting my pussy on auction to the highest bidder left me feeling slimier than a green snail crawling on its belly.

  Preparing for another night of prostitution in the glitzy and oh-so-seemingly glamorous city of Las Vegas, I sat in front of my designated vanity—surrounded by lights and cameras—incapacitated by depression. Fear weighed so heavily on my neck and shoulders that my head practically hung in my lap. I wanted to lift my eyelids but I couldn’t. What if I gazed into the mirror of my soul? What would I see? Who would I see? Definitely not the sweet, innocent little girl I…I paused, then exhaled.

  The men I had sex with, like the one last night, never saw my inner beauty. All they wanted was “Action!” And as long as I was the center of attention, I allowed those men to do whatever they wanted, including making me feel worthless.

  Take one! Take two! Cut! Action! Sunny, that’s my girl, one more time, from the top. Move your ass. Let’s go! Action, baby, action! You’re a keeper, doll.

  Yeah, but for how long?

  Willingly I played the leading role, the fool, some may say, but they don’t know me! I’m a good girl. Maybe too good.

  Slowly I swiveled my vanity chair one hundred eighty degrees. I lifted my head, but I couldn’t dare face the mirror ’cause I knew he was there. Not physically. Not visibly on my shoulder with a red pitchfork. His presence was mental. Ready and waiting to intimidate me once more. So instead of finding the courage to face my fears and quit what I never should’ve started, I listened to his haunting voice resounding in my ear.

  Imagining how Valentino set his prices, the auctioneer inside my head shouted, “Can I get ten…ten…can I get fifteen for this fine specimen of a woman?…Fifteen to the gentleman in the corner…twenty up front…can I get twenty-five for a night of unforgettable pleasure?…Twenty-five to the man right here…can I get thirty if she gets real dirty?…Thirty to the distinguished man in the blue tailor-made suit…can I get thirty-five?…Thirty going once, going twice, sold, to the gentleman in the blue tailor-made suit for thirty thousand dollars!”

  The john’s filthy-rich salty spit licked onto my grimy skin burning my self-esteem into green mush forcing me to crawl back into my shell. Forget him. Tonight this wasn’t about him or them. It was about me.

  Pivoting in my chair, I stared at the black-tinted windows surrounding the dressing room. I couldn’t see a thing. No one could see in. None of us could see out. I was tired of this shit, knowing something was wrong when Lace hadn’t shown up at the casino to meet us or at Valentino’s mansion to do her job. I knew she couldn’t be trusted. No one in this type of business can be trusted.

  I whispered, “I hate myself.” Refusing to do another inspection, I said to the group, “Y’all get dressed.”

  Why did I think I knew it all? Right now, I could’ve been at home in my room watching my favorite TV show, Project Runway, fixing my favorite cereal, Cocoa Puffs, waiting for the milk to turn chocolatey while chatting on the phone with Sapphire, or relaxing rereading my favorite book, So You Call Yourself a Man, by Carl Weber.

  Why didn’t I listen to my mother and stay home like my twin sister until I graduated from college? No, I had to open my big mouth. “Mom, you’re too old to understand my generation. Things are different for us. We don’t go to church three times a week. I got this. I can make it on my own…besides, I’m grown. Mom, please stop telling me what to do.”

  Dangling my red leather strapless diamond-heel stiletto on my French-pedicured toe, I laughed inside to keep from crying. Nodding, I thought, You had to be a smart ass, didn’t cha? I’m entitled to make mistakes, aren’t I? Right now all I want is to call my mommy and say, “I’m sorry.” Oh my God, what if my dad answers the phone instead?

  Retrieving my hot-pink cell phone from underneath the gold thong I was wearing, I watched them get ready, including my best friends, Onyx and Starlet. Everyone was oblivious of my “I can’t do this anymore” attitude. Eleven drop-dead-gorgeous females scurried around the dressing room fussing over which high-priced outfits to wear.

>   I don’t wanna be wifee anymore. Where’s Lace? Where’s my madam?

  Discreetly, using my camera phone, I snapped a few pictures of the girls getting dressed. I sent Sapphire a quick text: My place at 6 a.m. Then I took pictures of the room and a few of myself sitting in front the bright mirror. This was my finale.

  “I got myself into this mess. Surely I’m slick enough to get out.” Quietly I reprimanded myself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Not so long ago someone cared about more than my wicked tongue, my beautiful spirit, and my exotic looks. I’d heard them say, “Is she black? Is she white? Man, with an ass like that she’s gotta be Brazilian.” Who honestly cared? My high school sweetheart, that’s who. But his menial busboy income, ordinary looks, down-to-earth western drawl, and laid-back personality weren’t enough for a girl like me who was told every single day, “Wow! You’re gorgeous.”

  I wanted more out of life than a thirty-dollar date—more money, more clothes, more fun, and more drugs. Actually, I needed more and more XTC to get me through the night, nights of not so pleasant pleasantry. Tossing my head back, I swallowed two small pills.

  Lost and confused, I hopelessly stood on an invisible auction block. No one made me stay, yet I couldn’t take the necessary two steps down to walk away and leave this lifestyle forever.

  What was I afraid of? Better question, who?

  Hiding the metallic phone between my palms, I felt the mental shackles weighing heavily on my spirit. Incarcerated, held prisoner in my mind, all because Lace introduced me via a conference call to a man who’d told me he could show me how to make a quick dollar, quote unquote, some real money, utilizing the best asset God gave me: pussy, one of the few commodities I could simultaneously sell and maintain possession of my entire life.

  Objectively I agreed but subjectively Sapphire was right. Why was I selling my pussy to make money for a man? A man I didn’t know, hadn’t seen, didn’t love, and recently hated with such passion that vomit percolated in my throat like hot lava. During my initial telephone interview, that man, Valentino James, and that woman, Lace, whom I’d grown to like, failed to highlight my intellect, my loving spirit, or my independence. From my first day of work, they did all the thinking for me, including Lace telling me last night that I had to get out of the business. I felt Lace really cared about me. Maybe the talk we had at the casino bar was her discreet way of telling me she was quitting and leaving me in charge.