Authors: Scarlett Black
Ceasefire (9 page)
“You
son of a bitch,” I said, throwing myself into the chair across from Roman’s
desk. “Did you know that I had a history with Eric Landers?”
Roman
wore a slate gray suit and a matching tie. The handkerchief poking out of his
breast pocket was a deep purple. The light from his desk lamp reflected in his
eyes, giving them a reptilian glimmer. The snake chuckled at me. “You handled
yourself well, from what I heard.”
“The
history, Roman. Did you know?”
“Obviously
not until he told me.”
“You
knew what kind of effect it would have. What were you doing, huh? Trying to
put me in my place?”
“Not
necessarily.”
“What
does that mean?”
“It
means
not necessarily
. Remember, I have to see how you perform under
pressure before I set you up with my most important clients. This isn’t a
game, Kim. It’s real life. Tens of thousands of dollars change hands, based
on whether or not you can keep up your end of the deal. Mr. Landers, he was a
slow-pitch softball, an easy one to knock out of the park.”
“And
you extorted the extra money out of him because of that, right?”
Roman
rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “I saw an opportunity. He was
so…so…
adamant
about meeting you. How could I let that go without, you
know, without earning a little extra?”
“
How
?
Common decency, for one.” I crossed my legs, bouncing my foot up and down. I
was a testy cat, swishing her tail, waiting to bring out the claws.
Roman
tried to lighten the mood. “In any case, you did fantastic, that’s all I have
to say—”
“Don’t
change the subject, Roman. You screwed over a friend of mine, and I want you
to refund what you made him overpay.”
His
forehead crinkled. Eyebrows dipping inward, jamming a finger at me, he said,
“He paid what he
wanted
to pay, Kim, and do I need to remind you that
his money is covering the ten grand you owe me? Do I? Let’s get something
straight, I don’t know who you think you are, coming in here all high and
mighty like you have some sort of control over me, or that you get to tell me
how to run my business, because you don’t. You do what I say or you’re gone,
you hear me? I gave you the advance, and I gave you the forty percent because
you’re worth it, but goddamn it, you are an
asset
, and nothing more,
little girl.”
I
stiffened, felt my cheeks go red. “Little girl?” The words tasted like burnt
coffee on my tongue.
“You
heard me.”
I
nudged up to the edge of the chair, so angry that my skin was burning. “I am
nobody’s
little girl, do you understand me? I am a grown woman. I could’ve been the
vice president of a major company. I could be having sleazy bastards like you
licking my heels, begging me for a chance at this,” I said, pointing at myself.
“But
you’re not,” Roman said, quietly. “You’re just a little girl that lost her way
before she even knew which direction she was going.”
I
don’t know why I chose to do what I did. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t like
me at all. I knew better. I was smarter, and more collected, than that.
Disagreements certainly weren’t solved that way in the boardroom of a major
corporation.
Lust,
attraction, and an aching desire to prove to him, and myself, that I was no
longer a
girl
took over. Absurd, yes, but I had no power to stop it.
Some dark, salacious part of my brain had clicked on like a single bulb in a
basement, casting new light on hidden longings, burying old prudence in
shadows.
I
sprang up from my chair, climbed onto his desk, shoving the neatly arranged
contents out of the way, and then threw myself into his lap. “Is this what a
little girl looks like?” I lifted my sundress over my head, leaving my breasts
free and exposed.
“Kim—”
Roman protested with his mouth, but the growing bulge below spoke differently.
“Shut
up,” I said, putting my finger to his lips. “I’m going to show you what a
woman
can do.” I rocked back and forth, grinding against him, pulling my panties to
the side, guiding his hand down there as I unzipped his slacks and shoved my
hand inside.
He
moaned, eyes turned up toward the ceiling, caressing me.
“Feel
that?” I asked. “So smooth and soft. Do your clients really like that, Roman,
or is it
you
? Is that what
you
want?”
“Me.
God yes, me.” His mouth went to a nipple, sucking, licking, nibbling, and flicking
it with his tongue.
I
pulled him free, squeezed the shaft, and then guided him inside.
We
were in perfect unison, thrusting and grinding, hitting all the right spots.
Our rhythm made music as we let our passion take over. My anger, his
frustration, they blended into a heated sense of urgency. I bit his bottom
lip, almost too hard, then leaned away and pulled his mouth to my nipples
again. His hands cupped my ass, squeezing and kneading, fingernails digging
in. He spanked me and I felt a tingle race across my skin, around my waist and
down between my thighs.
“Do
it again,” I commanded. “Harder. Punish me for ordering you around. You know
you want to.”
Roman
slapped my ass again, and I thought the orgasm would never end.
***
Moments
later, breathless, spent, and coated in a thin layer of sweat, I pushed myself
away from Roman and stood over him, watching as he used a different
handkerchief to clean himself off and tuck himself inside his trousers.
“You’re on the pill, right?”
I
hadn’t been expecting romance, but the question caught me by surprise. It was
so cold and calculating. Emotionless. I had proved myself a woman; I know I
had. And yet, he was more concerned about the possibility of getting me
pregnant. That’s when I realized it’d been a childish thing to do, trying to
prove myself to him by using my body.
Stupid,
stupid, stupid.
I
could’ve done it with my mind.
Should
have.
Maybe
I
was
young and naïve. Maybe I had no business being confident—with
him, or in a boardroom full of rich old men.
No.
No, it wasn’t true. I was perfectly capable of holding my own. Roman—damn
him—he knew exactly what buttons to push to weaken my resolve.
I
shot back, “Awfully confident that our little swimmers even know where to go, aren’t
we?” I yanked the handkerchief from his hands and used it to wipe the insides
of my thighs. “And yes,” I said, “I’m on the pill. Don’t worry about ruining
your precious—whatever it is you’re worried about.”
Roman
stood. He straightened his tie, tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “Take
your check and go, Kim. I’ll call you for the next job.”
“Fine.”
He
reached into his desk and handed me the slim, white envelope. I snatched it,
opened the flap, and peered inside. Six thousand dollars. I would’ve been
daydreaming about what to buy first if I still hadn’t been so pissed at Roman.
I
shoved my “reward” for my efforts into my purse and stomped out the door,
slamming it shut behind me. I managed a smile for Alice, but told her I was in
a hurry, that I had to “grab the little one!” and left it at that. Which
wasn’t entirely true. Michelle had offered to watch him for a couple of hours
while I went on another mysterious
date
, as she liked to call it, and
according to my watch, I still had about forty-five minutes to go.
I
needed the time to myself. I was frustrated, ashamed, and overwhelmingly
disappointed for reacting the way I did in Roman’s office.
How
ridiculous was it, trying to prove to him that I was a
woman
by screwing
his brains out? I’d never, ever done anything like it before. Not that I’d
had that many opportunities—if any at all—but I never thought I was capable of
making such a rash, in-the-moment decision that had absolutely no sense of
reasoning behind it.
Instead
of immediately getting into my car, I walked around the building and over to
the river. The same two geese that I’d seen from Roman’s window previously
swam slowly along, necks occasionally lengthening to stretch or peck at
something underneath the surface. Beautiful birds, really. Mates for life.
And
I would’ve been jealous of that fact, if I hadn’t read somewhere that their
bond was more of an impermanent ceasefire between spirited individuals, rather
than the bliss of undying love.
Was
that what was happening between Roman and myself? A temporary truce between
two, strong-willed, pig-headed individuals, mutually coexisting for the benefit
of the pair?
Was
that the wiser option anyway, instead of allowing ourselves to succumb to those
bestial urges that were only hindering our partnership? I was attracted to
him, yeah, but God, I’d made some dumb mistakes with him already. And was he
any better for giving in as easily?
If
this was going to work, it would have to be hands-off from here on. Not more
trysts with Roman. Strictly business only. It had to be that way. We
couldn’t go on like this, snipping at each other, testing nerves, testing
wills, fighting over who was really in control. If it kept up, all of those
little explosive moments in time would gather together, bundling up into a
larger and larger ball of anger, spite, and malice, eventually detonating in
one massive bomb of emotions, flattening the walls we’d built around ourselves.
Okay,
I thought, that’s it then. No matter how much you want to give in to
temptation, that was the last one. You’ve got nothing to prove to him. He
wants you to try so he can knock you down. Well, no more, Roman. I hope you
enjoyed it, because I’m done. I’ll be your asset, for now, but only long
enough to rub it in your stupid, gorgeous face when I walk out the door.
***
I felt good, confident, as I drove
out of the parking lot. Problems become less of a problem when you’re able to
identify what the core issue is. Acknowledgment and discovery are half the
battle.
Now
that I’d learned my trouble with Roman was two-fold—unbridled desire and a
maddening need to ensure my worthiness—it was easier to see what I needed to
do. It didn’t matter what I tried to show him, about my “adultness,” or what I
could’ve and should’ve been, had my life turned out differently. He would
treat me the same, regardless. An asset. A tool. A widget that he could
offer to his customers for however many dollars they were willing to pay.
I
don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier. I should’ve, back when he explained to
me the kind of women that he had on staff (or controlled) at Midnight Fantasy.
PhDs, lawyers, scientists—it occurred to me that they’d likely gone through the
same thing that I had.
“
You’re
exceptional
.”
“
You’re
absolutely stunning
.”
“
I’ve
never had anyone like you walk through that door
.”
“
Just
take your check and go. I’ll call you
.”
All
of those powerful, intelligent, confident women probably thought they had Roman
under their thumbs as well. Either they didn’t know how easily he manipulated
them, or they did and didn’t care, simply because the money was too good to
pass up. In a way, I hoped for the latter, but expected the former.
I
turned right at a stoplight as the pitter-patter of a warm summer rain left its
glistening drops on my windshield.
So,
Kim, what’re you going to do about it?
If
I had known what my next idea would lead to, I would’ve immediately pulled into
the nearest parking lot and discarded it in a trashcan like a fast food bag.
We
all keep secrets.
Way
down deep, hidden somewhere in the darkest corners of our minds are things that
we wouldn’t dare ever tell anyone, not another living soul. Maybe these are
things we don’t even know about ourselves until the moment arises, like how you
might actually get excited by rubbing peach pie on a senator’s chest and
squeezing his nipples, but discovering that fact is something you’ll never tell
anyone. Because, like,
ohmygawd
howembarrassing
pleasedon’tjudgeme
,
right?
The
thing is, initially, I actually enjoyed participating in these kinky rituals a
few times a week, especially after what I discovered.
It
wasn’t about uncovering some hidden desire of my own. I don’t think I could
dig deep enough to get turned on by wearing a bunny costume or have an orgasm
simply by having some balding old man lick my stilettos. No, for me, it was
about the control, it was about being the one to give them
what
they
wanted,
when
I wanted to give it to them. Delaying that gratification.
It
was about how much that gratification was worth to them.
Usually
around once a week, some exceptionally wealthy CEO would place an order for
someone to take along as an actual dinner date, either for decent conversation
or to put up some façade for a client he was trying to impress. Those were
enjoyable. Almost fun.
But,
for every lighter, wine-filled evening like that, there were five times as many
that were slathered in the darker, repressed side of humanity.
Most
of the guys (and, honestly, a couple of women) had gotten so used to getting
what they wanted, sexually, for the longest time, that they could no longer
become aroused by the simple things. And by
simple
, I mean even
threesomes and orgies and milder taboo situations. One woman was boring. Two weren’t
enough. Three or more, writhing, naked, oily bodies weren’t sufficient. They
had to stumble way down in the depths of their subconscious to find something
forbidden to get their cocks working again.
I
didn’t have to participate in any of these outrageous, multiple-female
fantasies where every hole was filled with some kind of object or semi-erect
penis while a politician or billionaire begged for Mommy to spank him.
Thank
God.
It’s
weird, the limits we have. Some, if not all, of Roman’s harem—these doctors
and lawyers and MBAs—had no trouble walking into a hotel room with some
ultra-rich hip-hop star and putting on a lesbian show while he penetrated them
wherever he wanted; no orifice was off-limits. Not as long as the check was
big enough. How they did it and went home at the end of the night with their
heads held high was beyond me.
I
guess they could’ve said the same thing about my situation.
This
isn’t the bright idea I had—that fiasco came later—but initially I decided that
if I were to be Roman’s
asset
, then damn it, I was going to do it on
my
terms, not his. But, I had to find a way to keep the checks coming—mouths
don’t feed themselves—while avoiding the all-but-inevitable governor’s penis
getting shoved in who-knows-what hole.
So,
a couple of days later, I went back to Roman with a suggestion. I’d take on
the kinkiest jobs, the ones that didn’t involve sexual intercourse. The ones
that the other women shied away from because the weirdness factor was simply
too high for comfort.
He
thought it was brilliant. He hated struggling to find someone willing to do
those kinds of things. Honestly, it was a win-win for the both of us.
Roman
would have someone on staff that would be specifically dedicated to the kinkier
side, and he felt he could charge more because, as he’d said, I was absolutely
stunning. Would his clients be able to find anyone as ravishing as me (he
really laid it on thick that day) anywhere else, willing to help them fulfill
their unmentionable fantasies?
Maybe,
maybe not. I didn’t know, but I wasn’t about to discourage him.
Here’s
why: no sex. I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. Oral, anal,
vaginal, they were all off the table. Plus, if Roman was able to charge more,
it meant I earned more for less physical work, less invasion, than the others.
All
I had to do was somehow wash my mind clean at the end of every night.
Could
I do it? Anything’s possible. Well, almost.
***
His name was Walter Wickam III, and
he was a big time oil magnate out of Houston. Somewhere in his mid-sixties,
his hair was cloud-white, which really contrasted against the sun-browned tan
of his wrinkled skin. We met in the lobby, and he wore a ten-gallon cowboy
hat, a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate, and cowboy boots that were shined
to a spotless perfection.
I
liked him after a couple of drinks in the hotel bar, because he was warm,
funny, and had a gentle way about him that reminded me of some grandfatherly
type you might see on an evening drama.
Things
change.
We
stood in the glamorous hotel room with a shimmering chandelier, silk sheets,
and a bottle of bubbly chilling over ice. It was the kind of place where the
chocolates placed on the pillows cost more than what my car was worth. The
lights were still up, glaring bright, which I was partly thankful for so I
could keep an eye on him, but at the same time, it revealed every crease, furrow,
and saggy bag of skin on his naked body in too much detail.
One
thing the other ladies tried to teach me was…don’t judge the client. We all
have our imperfections and it’s not about
you
, it’s about
them
.
You’re selling a fantasy. At the end of the night, you get to walk away with
your perfectly toned body and your perfectly coiffed hair. You get to walk
away from these desires and maddening obsessions. They don’t. They look in
the mirror and nothing has changed, it’s only an hour later. They’re still as
broken as they were before you knocked on the door, but at least they’ve been
satiated, for now. That’s what keeps them coming back, and that’s what keeps
the money flowing.
And
since Dubya Three, as he liked to be called, was my first, I had an insanely
hard time turning off the judgment button. It didn’t help that he tried to
pull a bait-and-switch. The truth is, he disgusted me, and what he was asking
made it worse.
“You
want me to do what?” I said, arms crossed, while my lungs tightened and the air
became hard to breathe.
“Come
on, sugar,” he said, tipping the cowboy hat higher on his head. “I ain’t
asking for much, and besides, I paid good money to have a night with the pretty
little likes of you. That Roman, he was right. You’re something else.”
I
have to admit, I
did
look damn good that evening. I had my hair up
again, revealing the long, slenderness of my neck and the dangling diamond
earrings—the new ones I’d splurged on, because I wanted to look the part—and a
sparkling silver dress that hugged every curve and accentuated them when the
shadows moved just right.
“How
‘bout it?” he said, taking a step closer, hands out, almost pleading.
“You’re
serious.”
“Yeah,
uh, yes ma’am.”
I
was so baffled I couldn’t form a proper question. “How—wh—what? I didn’t even
know…why?”
Dubya
Three frowned and bared a set of white dentures that shined brighter than a
spotlight. It wasn’t friendly. “He said you wouldn’t ask questions.”
“He
also said that you only wanted me to spank you with a hairbrush and light a few
candles.”
Dubya
Three took another step closer. “I mean to get what I paid for. Roman said
you were willing.”
“You
didn’t pay for what you
want
.”
Maybe
I should’ve been a little afraid. My security detail, Saunders, stood outside
the room in the hallway, far enough that damage could be done before he could
reach us. But, no, I wasn’t scared. I was pissed off that the cotton-top
raisin in front of me was trying to break the rules and had the audacity to
question why I questioned him.
“First
off,” I said, marching over, smelling the faint hint of aftershave and bourbon,
“Roman doesn’t own me. He’s not here. I am.” I shoved my finger into his
bony chest. “Second, when you called in, you asked for a spanking and for me
to pour hot wax on your balls. That’s what you ordered, and now you try to
come in here and switch it up on me, completely? How do you think this works?”
He
hung his head, rubbed his face, then took off the cowboy hat and let his hand
drop to his waist. His bravado, gone. “Yeah, well, uh—”
“Spit
it out.”
In
control.
My
room.
“I
was a bit embarrassed, ma’am, I just thought that maybe, I mean, I couldn’t say
anything to Roman because I thought I’d never find somebody to do—look, can we
work something out?”
“I
doubt it. Maybe if you’d been honest up front, given me some time to wrap my
mind around it, but you can’t just waltz in here and expect to get what you
want just because you tell somebody to give it to you. I don’t care if that’s
how things work for you outside those doors, out there in the real world, but
in here, inside these walls, this is my world. I’m president, queen, CEO, and
dictator.”
Dubya
Three nodded. “While that’s true, you’ll learn, young lady, that even those
people can be swayed, given the proper motivation.”
“And
what would that be?”
“I’ll
give you an extra fifty grand, cash, under the table, that Roman don’t have to
know about. All yours, and he won’t see a dime of it.”
Somehow,
I managed to hide how lightheaded I’d gotten. Fifty thousand dollars. To me,
that was two years worth of salary, but to him, pocket change.
In
a sense it disgusted me that I was salivating over so little, especially after
learning what I had missed out on with Eric, all while this rootin-tootin Texas
hillbilly was offering to give me a handout like some beggar or bribe me like a
crooked politician.
Where’s
the line between morality and necessity?
But,
still. Fifty grand. He probably had that much in his wallet. The things I
could do with that kind of money—all in a measured way, of course, since I
couldn’t arouse suspicion with Dreama, Michelle, or anyone else I knew—but holy
shit, I could do this one thing and walk away. I could tell Roman that it was
too much for me, that he was wrong, I wasn’t special, and I could spend my time
hunting for a quality job.
Would
it be any different, though? Were there any jobs out there that I was meant
for? Would I hear the same old song and dance again, that the board members
were “concerned” about my qualifications, my employment history, and my
personal past?
I
don’t know. I really don’t. But with Dubya Three, I saw an opportunity.
Chances were, most people that talked to Roman would request one thing, and
want
another. They had their limits of what they were willing to admit to, while
their true desires remained concealed. It would be my job to find out what they
were, and then upsell them without Roman’s knowledge.
I
could walk away with so much more, just because I dared to delve into their
most perverted dreams. Could I handle it? Could I be a part of their sordid
psyche and then walk away clean? I had to try.
If
I were able to do the kinds of things people
really
wanted, and get them
to pay me on the side for it, then I could easily save up enough to be fine for
years to come. Dreama, my friends, they’d all wonder and worry about me, how I
was able to support myself and Joey on retail salary, but of course they’d
never know I could live comfortably for the next decade, or longer.
All
of this raced through my mind while I stared at the old cowboy and that sad,
pleading puppy-dog look in his eyes. His bottom lip quivered and his hands
shook. It was such a look of pitiful resignation that I think I might’ve given
in, even if he hadn’t been offering me so much.
“Fifty
thousand,” I said. “Cash.”
His
face brightened. “It’s in my briefcase, over by the television.”
“Show
me.”
Nude,
with parts sagging and swaying, he padded over to the briefcase, scampered back
with it, and revealed stacks and stacks of bills once he popped it open. “All
yours.”
I
nodded and took a deep breath.
And
that’s how I ended up in a farm girl costume, giving him a golden shower, while
he barked and rolled around on the floor like a coonhound basking in the sun.
After
that, it was fairly easy to turn the judgment dial down to zero.