Dirty Daddy

"Do you like it when I suck on your cock like this?"

"Yes—mm hmm—more," he answers at a whisper…or is it a whimper?

"Good, because your cock tastes so good. I can hardly stand it," I say, and I can hear him jerking himself off—skin slapping skin.

"Mike, my pussy is so wet—I want to ride your cock. I want you to give it to me. I'm going to straddle your lap and lower my pussy onto your thick, hard shaft with my breasts in your face. I want you to take my nipples into your mouth."

Then I hear Mike coming, his breathing overtaking the conversation, so I decide to enact my own climax as a spectacular finale.

When his breathing slows, he asks, "Can I get your phone number?"

"Oh Mike, I'm so flattered, but my dad would kill me if I gave out my number. I'm still in high school. I'm 18, remember? Let me give you my four-digit calling code so you can call me again in private."

He agrees, somewhat reluctant, and we end the call. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Yasmine is right, I think to myself. This is much better than stripping. At least I can use my imagination during these calls. At Scorcher's, what you saw is what you got. There's no masking the fact that you're on a stage being judged. But during these calls, the people on the other end of the line have to use their imaginations too—which is also great because it eliminates my old routine —waxing, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and you name it.

I think about putting on a pair of yoga pants and heading to the gym, but then my eye travels to the stack of bills piling up next to my bed. Shit. Unlike Scorcher's, this job also doesn't leave me with cash in hand every night. I better go pick up my paycheck from the phone sex company headquarters, Simulated Pleasures LLC.

I quickly dress and hail a cab outside. When I tell the driver where I'm going, he gives me an odd look. Is it a look of judgment, or something else? I can't tell. I decide to ignore it and place my ear buds into my ears and stream music through my phone, drowning out the outside world.

After 20 minutes, the cab pulls up to a large, non-descript white building. If it weren't for the address, I'd never know that this is the headquarters for one of the largest phone sex companies in the country. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I'm still listening to my music, and decide to leave my ear buds in. I hand the driver the money and give him a curt smile. As soon as I leave the cab, I walk toward the building, rounding a corner.

And then I feel it—like taking a bowling ball to my back. I'm struck in the back and I try to turn around but my arms are pinned behind my back. Without my hands, I can't remove my ear buds or stop the music streaming through my phone, so it's impossible to hear what's going on around me. I'm screaming and thrashing my head from side to side, and the movement causes the ear bud on my right side to fall out. I can now feel a man's hot breath on my neck, "Shut up! Just shut up right now!" He's placing his hands over my mouth, muffling out my screams, and I bite down as hard as I can. It's my only option and it's instinctual. I feel the flesh of his fingers pinched between my teeth, and that's when he hits me; he hits me hard enough on my head to shut me up. I'm feeling dazed, but when I finally get a look at the man's face, I'm shocked.

"Peter?"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! You want to humiliate me on Facebook live and then ignore all of my calls for a week? Well, I'll show you what I'm going to do about that!"

The look in his eyes is one of pure rage and a battered ego. I'm also surprised at his strength. He was never one to work out much, and I attributed his soft body to weakness, but he's stronger than I anticipated. It's shocking, really. Without saying another word, he brings his hands around my neck and squeezes. I place my hands on top of his, trying to pry them loose, but it's not working. I can feel myself running out of breath and in a tiny voice I manage to squeak, "You're hurting me, stop!"

And just when my entire world starts to fade to black, he stops. I can't believe it. I open my eyes just in time to see another man between us now. He's big—tall, muscular, and broad shouldered. He's not the kind of guy you want to fuck with, and I watch as his fist crashes into Peter's face, breaking his nose.

"If I ever see you around here again, I'll fucking kill you," he growls, clenching Peter by the collar of his shirt, and when he lets go, Peter turns around and runs, not bothering to look back.

"Are you okay?" the man asks.

As he looks down at me, I get the vague feeling that I know him from somewhere. I'm rubbing my throat and besides being emotionally rattled, I'm fine. "I want to thank you—what you did—most people wouldn't get involved, but you saved my life." When I finish talking, I look into the man's eyes again, and I realize where I know those intense icy blues from—the cab ride from the club.

"Wait… I've seen you somewhere," I say. "You're the guy who tried to steal my cab outside of the club the other night."

"It was an emergency. I don't normally jump into other people's cabs."

"Look, I appreciate your help but I have to go."

"Wait. I'd like to take you to dinner, I—"

"I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but I hope you'll understand that I'm in no mood to be setting up a dinner … not after my ex-boyfriend just tried to murder me."

"Forget him. He no longer matters. Just say yes."

I look at him—his eyes the color of perfect weather, his strong, broad shoulders, and gentle smile—and even though I'm feeling bruised and frazzled, and I promised myself I'd never go out on a date with a man who frequents a place like Scorcher’s, I surprise myself and say yes.

42

Arsen

With a last look in the mirror I close the locker door and head out of the locker room at the New York Athletic Club. Sure, it’s filled with the same fucking fancy people that I spoke to at the Met—some of these people are still scandalized that I’m in their precious little club of theirs. But guess what? I’m now worth at least $5 billion dollars. If I want to go around joining all the most exclusive clubs in Manhattan, I have the money to buy my way in. They don’t. They’re sitting on their piles of fucking reputation and fake integrity that’s as hollow as a fucking clam shell. Probably got their house mortgaged five times over and a mountain of fucking debt. They’re probably just hoping that they die before the bill comes due so everyone will at least think they’re prosperous and dignified now. Who the fuck cares once they’re dead, right?

Well, fuck that. I told you once before when I was with Yasmine at Scorcher's and I’m telling you again. I’m always going to be fucking honest with you. You may not like what I have to say or how I say it, but I don’t give a fuck.