West End Girls (10 page)

Omar was a prick, and he didn't fuck good. As a matter of fact, unless you count him eating pussy, he didn't fuck at all. But Omar bought her pretty things, and she was digging that—$1800 pink Escada shoes and matching bag. Tanqueray hated to think she was being pimped for her clothes, shoes, nails, and hair. But looking and feeling good was important. Tanqueray was born poor and lived poor her whole life, but did that mean she had to think poor? That she had to look poor? Hell nah. So she was going for it.

Truth be told, Omar wasn't nothing but a pimp. Not one of those East Coast pimps who pulled up in a “biggo” Cadillac and wore big rings and gold teeth, but pimp he was, even though he didn't want to admit it. Having taken over a busted escort service from his brother that wasn't making him a dime, Omar put his brains to working a couple of years ago and started allowing his escorts to have sex with the clients. Now, he made his living trading cunts for cash.

He'd met Tanqueray when she was stripping in a club. He was there pimping his girls to the customers, until Murphy, the club owner, kicked his pimp ass out. Tanqueray was out back, taking a smoke break, when she saw it all go down. But, damn, if he didn't take one of the top dancers, Shantel, with him, and they left in a limo.

The next time he showed up, you bet Tanqueray left with him, not as his ho, but as his girlfriend.
I don't care what he does, he doesn't pimp me! Don't nobody call me a ho.
Tanqueray had repeated this montra many times.
No man controls me. No man owns me. No man calls me a ho.
And many times she'd argued with Omar on that very topic, which was why he slapped her around. Even though she fucked him that night in the limo, that was for her gratification, not his. She went with him that night for her good, not his. And now, look, she was living in the condo, not Shantel. He had it twisted big time.

Omar made a drink and went in the bedroom to change clothes for the umpteenth time today. He changed his clothes every time he walked in the door from outside. It was almost as if he had some weird fetish about the air outside being on him.

He walked back in the living room from the bedroom. “There is a party tonight for some very important people coming to town, and I want you to go.”

Tanqueray ignored him, continuing to read her latest Louis Vuitton catalog, which she had moved on to after
Essence
and
Jet
.

Omar moved within her eyesight. “Did you hear me?”

“Can you believe somebody would actually pay sixteen hunerd dollars for an ink pen? I wonder what else it does? I mean, it would have to eat my pussy real good before I spend that kind of money. How about you?” Tanqueray looked up as if just noticing his presence.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I did. Get one of your hoes to go. I'm busy.”

“Shantel is sick, and I can't get anyone to go that can carry herself like a professional, but you.”

Tanqueray stood up, slamming her magazine into the seat. “Well, I'm sure as hell not going. I'm not a trick, a ho, or a low-class working girl. I'm a classy bitch who ain't gonna go to no party and let no fat white man paw all over me, begging me to suck his dick, or dance in his lap. Uh-uh, no.” She wagged her fresh manicured finger in Omar's face.

Her high was leaving fast. She wanted to pull out the rest of her stash left from under the cushion, but then Omar would be asking how she got it, and frankly, she didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to think about it. She'd had an uncomfortable feeling about that whole deal with Dub Dub anyway, but since nothing had come up, she was trying to just let it go.

Omar's face tightened. “Tang, don't start with me. I've have been trying for a long time to treat you different than any other female in my life. Bitch, you keep this up, and our little situation here will have to change.”

“What situation? You act like you're keeping me here. I'm with you because I want to be here. I actually like you, Omar,” she said, taking on a condescending tone. “But, look here, you keep treating me like a ho, and well, you're right . . . things here are gonna have to change, if you keep that up.”

Omar stood stiff for a moment. Tanqueray loved talking him into a circle. She felt he was stupid and played him like a fiddle most of the time, which was probably another reason he beat on her, always an out for dumb people. But, thank goodness, he was a dumb man with money.

“Look, I know you are not threatening me, stank-ass bitch.” He was in her face now, gripping her hard by the arms.

She looked at his hands, and the tight clutch he had on her. “You gonna bruise me? How is that gonna look for your important white clients to see your escorts all beat up? You gonna just appear to be some dumb black pimp daddy, slapping your shit around, not caring about nothing. You want that?”

Again she spun his head and left him questioning himself. He loosened his grip.

“Exactly.” Tanqueray wasn't a fool. She knew how far to go and figured she had reached her limit. It was time to try switching gears now. “Now, if I go tonight, you gonna do something special for me?” She moved away from him and headed back to the large recliner she had been lounging in. There, she bent over slowly, making sure he got a bird's-eye view of her ass. He loved her butt. It was her best banking asset.

“Special?” he asked, softening his tone.

“Yeah, I mean, what if that fat fuck wants to get on me, and I do it?”

“I'm not telling you to fuck 'im. Matter of fact, I don't think I want you to.”

“But you know he's gonna wanna fuck me. They all do.”

Tanqueray knew the conversation was going to make him horny. He'd tried this move before, sending her out to work a party, but she wanted no parts of that mess. Dancing was good enough for her, and she brought in a lot of money just working the pole. She was a stripper when they'd met and wanted that to be the only title on her resume. She'd be naked for anybody for her own money, but fuckin' for somebody else's pocket . . . no, she wasn't having it. She would rather just lay up under Omar and get all the benefits of being a ho without really hoin' and for the last few months, it had worked. Sort of.

She turned to him. “They all want to fuck me,” she said, moving her lips slowly as she formed the
F
-word. It was like hypnotism, watching him move toward her.
You're so easy
. She slid into his embrace “Yeah, baby, why don't you fuck me first?” she whispered, her lips moving on his cheek.

She could feel his hands roaming her backside, sliding into her jeans and squeezing her ass.

She wrapped her arms around his neck to allow him to do what he wanted inside her clothing. He had a clothes fetish, and liked doing freaky shit with her toes and stuff like that. First, he would take off her shoes and suck on her toes, licking each one slowly. Then he would pull off her pants, but not her thong. She would always wear a thong with some kind of jewel or sparkle. He liked sparkles, but what he liked better was an edible thong, which she had on now. He'd then put her shoes back on, nibbling away at the thong until he opened the narrow crotch, exposing her golden clump. She'd dyed her pubic hair golden one afternoon on a whim before going on stage, and the men went nuts, so she kept it that way.

She could feel Omar's teeth against her tender lips and overly sensitive clit. Finest had worked her muff over, and it hadn't had much time to recover. She'd sat in the bath for nearly an hour, but nigga had worked his shit
.
She could only hope Finest hadn't stretched anything outta shape down there.

After Omar tasted every mole, every hole down there, he would usually have her dance naked to only the rhythm in her head, while he beat his monkey. Sometimes, she would give him a special treat and bend over in front of him, wiggling her hips while looking at him from between her thighs. Once or twice, he creamed right then and there, pulling on his dick so hard, she swore it would come off his body.

Sometimes she would dance, squatting low with her legs wide open, as if she was gonna take a piss. Omar loved that and would dive on the floor underneath her and have her sit on his face, while she swayed her hips back and forth, bouncing up and down on his waiting tongue.

That's gonna be a workout,
she thought now, thinking that this might be one of those times, while she dropped it right in front of him like it was on fire.

Omar grinned at her. He just moved back from her and sat on the sofa jacking off.

After one or two more of her sexy dips and gyrations, she showed off some new moves she'd been working on.

Omar wanted her to climb up on him so he could eat her out and jack off out while he pinched and squeezed her butt.

Surprisingly enough she had a mild orgasm, but that was because Finest was on her mind.
Damn, that Finest could eat some pussy,
she thought, fighting with all her might not to call out his name, while Omar slurped and goggled at her lower mouth.

Finest had been a mistake, one she didn't want to think about anymore, not if she wanted to stay out of the ghetto. She had no money, and here it was the eighth of the month and she'd not figured out any other way to get money for Sinclair.

And now she couldn't even sell what was left of Omar's blow. She'd snorted most of it, and had big plans to snort all of it. No money, no blow, nothing. That's what Tanqueray got for fooling with a freak, flag-flying, wannabe drug dealer/bootlegger like Dub Dub. Now she had to figure out how to get some money. Sinclair was counting on her to handle the business at home.

Ohhhh shit!
Tanqueray's mind was brought back from wandering when Omar hit a couple of tender spots with his teeth.

With her cooing and purring right on time, Omar must have believed she was having a good earthquaking orgasm and gave her butt one good slap, as if proud of his performance. He liked to smack her during “intercourse.” Sometimes he got too rough and would slap her face and leave a mark. Pulling off her lower lips, he looked pretty smug.

Tanqueray looked down and noticed his limp dick. He was done. He'd apparently come all by himself, as was common for him.

He pulled on his sweatpants and went in the kitchen. He wiped his mouth with a paper towel and had a shot of bourbon. “So I want you ready at seven,” he finally said in a cool tone. “My client expects us at the party on time.”

“What!” Tanqueray exploded. She pulled her jeans back on, thinking he might have changed his mind about the whole thing—hoping he had.

“You think you got all the shit fo' free? Bitch, you owe me, and you about to start paying. Yo' pussy might be golden, but it ain't gold.”

Within an instant, Omar dispelled any ideas she had about him being an idiot. He was a sly one, and she had just gotten caught in a trap of her own making.

“You think I don't know you been snortin' my blow? You don't think I know you try to sell some?”

“What?”

“You must not know who I am. After all this time, you must not know. Baby, I own the streets, the Palemos, the West End, all the way to Lompoc. Hell, I run the show!” Omar threw back his drink. “And, girl, I will beat your ass if you ever think you can stiff me again. I'd beat it now, but you about to attend a party that's gonna bring me some money.”

After a long silence, Omar must have realized her resistance. “I'm going with you! You just have to be nice with the white man and, you know, touch him, laugh at his stupid-ass jokes and—”

“Omar, no.” Tanqueray stomped into the bedroom and flopped on the bed.

Omar followed her and turned her around. “Girl, did you not hear me? I own you.”

“You don't own shit!”

Omar let loose a backhand across Tanqueray's mouth. He smacked his lips. “I didn't want to do that. Dammit! Lemme see if you're bleeding.”

Tanqueray shook her head, but he pulled her hair, forcing her to look up at him. She wasn't bloody but felt her lips swelling just a bit.

He smiled and kissed her, big and sloppy. He pulled back from the kiss and grinned, wickedly. “Girl, you fine as they come. Got my dick hard again. Shit!”

Tanqueray could tell he wanted sex, and she knew this time he was gonna be rough. He'd tasted a little violence and was getting off on it. Ripping the halter-top from her body, he took one of breasts in his mouth and sucked like a hungry pig, making similar noises.

She was hoping to reason with him. “Omar . . .”

He raised a hand to quiet her. Then he pulled her from her jeans and mounted her, without the customary foreplay or any violence. His crooked member entered her without delay, and within a moment or two, he jerked to a finish, coming inside her, which wasn't the norm for him. Tanqueray was surprised he'd actually done her like a normal man.

Omar tucked his member into his sweatpants and headed into the walk-in closet.

Stretching her neck to be nosy, she saw the Neiman Marcus box coming from the closet. Curiosity had the better of her now.

“Well, I guess I'll need to get nasty Shantel in this dress.”

“Wait, Omar.”

“Look at you.” Omar grinned. “You can take a girl out of the ghetto, but then again, did I?”

Tanqueray slid off the silk sheets naked and ran over to the box he'd sat on the large wing chair. She couldn't keep the giggle from her voice. “Shut the hell up and let me see what's in the box.”

Tanqueray slowly lowered her arms after the silky red dress fell along her curves. Omar did have good taste, despite his rotten ways. She couldn't help but be excited to have such an expensive garment on her body. Stroking the fabric, she nearly had an orgasm. Delayed, but what the hell.