Almost at the same moment, we moved and turned our phones off.
“Time is up,” Mocha Latte said kindly, yet professionally. “Unless you want to pay for more.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m calculating how much time I have in my head. It would be cutting it close.”
“Never know when we will hook up again. Especially like this.”
The client squeezed her thighs, hummed, looked at the clock. “Another half hour.”
“I only charge by the hour.”
“You’re going to have me so broke.”
“Once again, your broke and my broke are not the same broke. The one percenters’ broke means they have to put their Lamborghini in the shop and drive the Porsche to the pier to board their megayacht.”
They kissed some more. Soft, sweet kisses. Mocha Latte was working her. She looked at me while I watched them, and she winked at me. This wasn’t real. Not for Mocha Latte. It was real for the client.
Mocha Latte said, “Another two hundred for my friend, if you want him to stay with us.”
“That was spontaneous. Inviting him. Hadn’t planned on that.”
“Yeah.”
“I enjoyed him. It felt genuine, like he was really into me. I liked that.”
“And if he can rise to the occasion, you can enjoy him some more before your flight.”
“You enjoy him?”
“Our relationship is professional.”
“You’re sexy. He’s handsome. You looked like the perfect couple at the bar.”
“You watched us?”
“For a couple of minutes. Saw you two laughing and talking. It looked very intimate. I wasn’t sure if he was a customer, or if you had met someone while waiting. Was nervous about coming to you.”
Mocha Latte hummed, wiggled again. “You ready for more?”
“I have a better idea.” The client grinned. “I want to watch him make you climb the damn walls.”
Mocha Latte stopped wiggling. “He’s here for you, not for me.”
“You’ve been with me in ways no other lover has ever been with me. You watched me with him. No one has ever watched me before. Now I want to watch you with a man; see what you’re like with a man.”
“He’s here for you.”
“Everything has a price.”
“He’s your treat, not mine.”
“How much would that cost?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. To watch him please you, how much?”
Mocha Latte inhaled sharply. “That will cost a lot.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Twice my normal rate.”
“I’ll pay fifty percent more.”
“Double.”
“Fifty percent. Your emolument will be your standard plus an additional fifty percent.”
“Seventy-five percent more is my bottom line.”
“Fifty is mine.”
“I’m worth it.”
“Be reasonable.”
“Double. You can afford it.”
“Fifty. Unless you’d rather I take my coins back home, or maybe elsewhere.”
“Okay. But you have to do a sixty percent increase over my normal as a compromise.”
“Includes kissing?”
“No, kissing him costs more.”
“Why?”
“It’s as dangerous as unsafe sex. Over eighty million bacteria are transmitted during one kiss. I could catch meningococcal meningitis. I’d die in twenty-four hours. You’re a doctor. You know I’m not spitting bullshit. Eighty million bacteria passed in one kiss. Kissing is dangerous. Kissing strangers is a risk.”
“You didn’t get the MCV4 vaccine?”
“Eighty million bacteria.”
“Never mind. Okay. Sure. How much for kissing?”
Mocha Latte told the doctor the extraordinary price for the prescription.
“Why so much to kiss?”
“I just told you.”
“You kiss me.”
“The fee is built into the price you pay.”
“Kissing should be free.”
“So should health care and college tuition, yet I have to pay for both.”
“Fine. I’ll pay.”
Mocha Latte stalled the negotiation. “You have that much? Or should I get my credit card reader?”
“I have cash. Be worth it.”
Mocha Latte said, “My condoms are in my bag.”
The client said, “No. Bareback. I hate watching sex when they wear condoms.”
Mocha Latte paused, shook her head side to side, like that was a deal breaker, but she bit her lip, and I saw her wrestling with her financial goals and inner demons before she answered, “That doubles the price.”
The client hesitated, sighed like the price was too high, but dropped more money on the nightstand.
Mocha Latte went to count the money, still naked and in high heels, her taut ass unintentionally moving in a seductive manner. I felt a chill. Talking money in the middle of sex changed the energy in the room.
Mocha Latte hesitated. “What do you want to see? MFF? Mediterranean? HTUMA?”
“Kiss. I want to see you kiss. Be boyfriend and girlfriend. Act like you’re lovers.”
“HME.”
“Yes, honeymoon experience.”
The client sashayed back to me, her eyes on fire with power and desire, took me in her mouth like she owned me. She had oral skills, was performing for Mocha Latte, and that competition had me higher than Mount Denali. Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts, absolutely.
The client said, “I want a show. I want to see what you’re like with him, with a man, my love.”
“I should have brought the strap-on.”
“It’s not the same. Not even with butt plugs.”
Mocha Latte rested on her back, waited for me. The client kissed me over and over, each kiss a sweet, gentle breeze, and each thirsty kiss took my breath away. I went to Mocha Latte, crawled to her and looked into her eyes as I traced my fingers along her marathon-running legs. This was different, being sent to make love to a woman, being commanded to make love to a woman like I had no say in the matter. We had become temporary slaves.
The client told me, “Downtown. Go downtown. I want to see that. Want to watch her face.”
I looked at Mocha Latte’s beautiful sex. It was smooth, a slit across faultless skin. It looked like it had never been intruded. I gave her my tongue, tasted her. The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice. I gave Mocha Latte my mouth, swipes of tongue, fingers, and lips. One at a time, her arms fell to her sides, as if an act of submission. Her breathing thickened, each exhale a sweet hallelujah. Soon she jerked, moaned my name. Flesh against flesh felt good. Her hands moved down to the top of my head. She relaxed into the heat of the fire. The client told me to stop, to get inside her, and I moved back between Mocha Latte’s thighs, worked my erection inside her. It was like a firm handshake. She was tight. She made sounds like it hurt so good, like it hurt too good. I liked that.
The client whispered, “Kiss him like you’re in love. Kiss her like you need kissing badly.”
Kissing her felt odd, unmotivated by my own lust, but directed by the lust of another. But as we kissed, lust woke up and put its claws in her. Same happened to me. It went on and on, was powerful, almost impossible to stop. I kissed her, sucked her neck, stroked her.
Mocha Latte held my face, trembled. “Jesus, Brick. Okay. Okay. You got me. You got me.”
“I got you?”
“You got me. You’re about to make me come. You’re gonna make my pussy come.”
The client whispered, “Now pull out, stop stroking her, and go down on her again.”
“I’m about to come, and it’s a big come.”
“Pull out before she comes.”
We kissed and moved like we didn’t want to stop, but the command broke that spell. It was hard to back away, but I did. Mocha Latte rocked like it had hurt for me to stop when I did. My breathing turned shallow as I parted Mocha Latte’s legs again. Her back arched when she felt my soft tongue against her raging fire. She held my head, held it like she was trying to keep it in place, like she needed my tongue to go eleven inches deeper. She wiggled against me, rolled her hips, strained, desperate to come. Her whimpers and groans sounded bleak, distant, like she was falling, like she was out of control. She squeezed her breasts, shook and clawed at the bed, nails dragging the material. She covered her face, muffled her sounds, before she held the back of my neck. She put the palm of her hand to my forehead, pushed me away as she shivered, stopped me from savoring her into the heart of an orgasm.
The client went to her, touched her, kissed her. “Oh, that was nice. Now I need him inside you.”
“I can’t right now.”
“You can.” She picked up Mocha Latte’s mask, put it back on her. “I paid you, and you will.”
The client picked up the other mask, put it back on, then changed her mind, put it on me, made it fit the best she could. She picked up her phone and aimed it at Mocha Latte, recording. We performed facing each other. Stared into each other’s eyes, inhaling, exhaling. Being inside her felt like nothing I’d ever felt before. Her nostrils flared. Her left leg quaked. She closed her eyes, panting like she was drowning. I was on top, on my knees, had her ankles on my shoulders. The client put the camera away and kissed Mocha Latte while I obeyed her commands.
The client whispered, “That’s me inside of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like the way I feel? That’s me hitting it from behind, kitten. Raise your ass up for me. I wish I had my toys. Would love to see you being filled by your friend and me with my strap-on at the same time.”
Mocha Latte cursed and hissed like it ached, frowned like she felt little spasms.
Mocha Latte moaned, “Stop.”
The client whispered with power, “Don’t stop.”
“Stop trying to make my pussy come. I’m going to come too hard. Don’t make my pussy come like that.”
“Make her come; make her come hard.”
Mocha Latte started to come, and when the orgasm was at its height, another orgasm pulled her under, held the first orgasm where it was while the second one expanded, drove her wild, had her seeing Jesus and calling God, and then while that two-level orgasm had her in a heaven she never knew existed, a third orgasm started, pulled her deeper, held the other two in place. Maybe five minutes later, she came out of the third-level orgasm, moaned and her legs shook, shook her into the second-level orgasm. She held on to me, couldn’t top singing my name, had to get through that orgasm, had to ride out the first-level orgasm to return to normal. She had been to a new place.
Mocha Latte was shaken. “What . . . what . . . what just happened?”
It took me a second, but I caught my breath. “You okay?”
“Am I sleepwalking?”
“No, this is real.”
“What. Happened? How did you . . . how did you . . . ? What was that? It felt like I was out of my body, like I was out in space, floating among the stars, part of the universe, a part of the Holy Spirit.”
The client’s voice trembled with envy and concern. “Let her breathe.”
Mocha Latte panted, sweated, licked her lips, blinked a dozen times.
The client traced her fingers along Mocha Latte’s smooth skin. “Let her catch her breath.”
Mocha Latte’s alarm went off. The thirty minutes was over.
The client looked at her watch, thinking, then said, “I paid for a full hour, right?”
Mocha Latte licked her lips. “You. Could be late. For. Your flight.”
“That’ll be my issue. Thirty minutes. Ride him again. Give me what I paid for, my love.”
The client put me back inside of Mocha Latte.
Mocha Latte moaned, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. My pussy fixing to come hard again. My pussy gonna come so damn hard.”
Mocha Latte’s expression, the gaze in her eyes, told me what I knew, that I didn’t have a small cock. Hadn’t ever had a small cock, not that I could remember. In school, when I was in PE, when other boys saw me naked in the communal shower, or getting dressed in the locker room, many wanted to see it; not in a sexual way, but in a way that said they hoped to have a dick like mine one day. Girls heard about it and giggled in the hallway. Some girls wanted to see it, touch it, or, on a dare, taste it. More than a few wanted it inside them. Teenage girls could be fast whether they were white, Mexican, or black. So could women. When I was fourteen, my middle school teacher had heard gossip about my cock, had heard fast little girls talk about it getting hard as a brick and being a fat one, and she wanted to see it. She told me I had a cock like most men would never have. I was fourteen, and I had become overexcited, had lost control when I came, had tried to bang the fire out of me, and I had made her bleed. I learned to be better, and she taught me not to jackhammer like I was all about the nut. I learned to watch the woman, feel the woman, listen to her moans, read her body, and take her to orgasm. I watched Mocha Latte, felt her, listened to her moans, read her body, and took her back to orgasm. The first time I had made a girl come, it scared me. The way she howled and trembled. Mocha Latte did that now. Was again in an orgasm wrapped in an orgasm wrapped in an orgasm. I’d been with women who had no problem with my size, like Christiana. Like Penny. But the ones who did, I had to be careful never to use it to make them feel more pain than pleasure. One level deep. Two levels. Then three. The client cried out, moaned that she wanted to feel what Mocha Latte was feeling. She pushed Mocha Latte away from me. The client mounted me. I took her from hurricane level one to three, soon to five. Then, as she became the second warrior splayed out on the battlefield, she saw I was in distress, that there was only one true resolution to my agony, and she gave me permission to set free the bloat of orgasms that had become a monster of storms inside of my body, but she told me to do that with Mocha Latte, directed me to come inside her. She paid the additional fee for that too. Finally, I allowed my strength to become my weakness, and I started to come. My moans, my growls, were like a starved bear coming out of hibernation. I needed to bust a nut before I lost my mind. She coached me as I took Mocha Latte back to level two, made her lips quiver, made her body quake. The client kissed my neck as Mocha Latte came, held on to me until the end, as I did what was commanded, as I let out hums that made me sound like a man in pain, as she moaned my name while I busted the nut of all nuts and rocked the room. The alarm sounded.
CHAPTER 24
BRICK
MOCHA LATTE, THE client, and I rushed to clean ourselves, hurried to get dressed, and left Room 1237 like we’d heard the starter gun for the LA Marathon. The women waited out front while I retrieved Miss Mini; then I sped the client to LAX. She was in the back seat with Mocha Latte, getting soft kisses, the kind that shared bacteria, and they made promises to meet again soon. The client hopped out at Delta like a paratrooper being dropped behind enemy lines, running like her marriage, job, and life depended on it. Mocha Latte moved up front, and I drove away, not saying a word. Right away, Mocha Latte counted the money she’d made, then stuffed it into her bag.
When I hit the madness on Century Boulevard, Mocha Latte said, “Brick. Can you drive around for a few?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Anywhere safe. I need to clear my head. I need to deal with my thoughts. My demons. My doublethink. I need to deal with my contradictions, my hypocrisy, the lies I tell myself.”
I doubled back, took us down Sepulveda, and headed north toward UCLA.
Mocha Latte was in the same foul mood I had seen two nights ago, when I met her. Her demons had arrived, screaming
her name. She pulled the purple wig off, then threw it out of the window. She did that as if she were throwing away that personality, as if she were jettisoning the woman who had been buck wild in the hotel room.
Her hair was short, curly. Now she looked like a professional money-hungry woman out on the town.
She took a breath, and in a delicate tone said, “I told you to stop.”
“You told me to obey the queen. The queen told me to keep on keeping on.”
“I didn’t plan on doing the Roc and Shay with you.”
“Well, I was in Barstow minding my own business.”
“She did that to control me.” She took a deeper breath. “Never seen that insecure bitch act that way before. It is always just me and her. Women are hypocrites. Women are abusers. Women are liars. Just like men.”
“That’s what money does. Money is power. And man or woman, the powerful act the same.”
“I don’t give a fuck how many letters you’ve earned behind your name, I’m not a slave.”
“You were good with her. It seemed natural. She is crazy about loving you.”
“I don’t even like women like that. Had to learn. It felt like a better choice, to be honest.”
“A better choice in what way?”
“Safer with women than with men, on many levels. But women . . . we are so emotional.”
“I never noticed.”
“Shut up.”
* * *
—
A HALF HOUR later, I pulled up to valet parking in front of Sweet Chick, another hot chicken and waffle spot, this one gourmet and cofounded by hip-hop legend Nas. Mocha Latte didn’t ask any questions. She just eased out of the car when the valet opened her door and followed me inside like she was my woman. The moment we stepped into the restaurant, it felt like we were in the hippest part of New York City. The place was small, but swanky and sexy with the sweetest music playing. Joyce Wrice finished singing “Good Morning” and Mahalia started singing “Sober.”
After we were seated, Mocha Latte ordered the Quinoa Bowl: poached persimmon, macadamia nut, Greek yogurt, kale, roasted tomatoes, and curried vinaigrette. I ordered the grilled chicken sandwich with heirloom tomatoes, pickled shallots, iceberg lettuce, and Kewpie mayo with a side of fries. She ordered a glass of pinot noir and was done with the wine before the food came. When our feast arrived and we started to throw down like we were beyond famished, she looked at me. We stared at each other, knowing what we’d just done.
The Business of Lovers Page 16