A Bitch In Time (Marina: Part One: Naughty Nookie Series) (2 page)

Well, well, well.

Who’d a thought it?

Senator Robert Davison has a
cock piercing. 

The eight gauge Prince Albert
on the staid, fifty-year old’s stubby five-incher is a sight for sore
eyes.  Or, it would be if I were in the blackmailing
business. 

I’d have made a small fortune
if that was my game, but who am I kidding?  My net worth is currently four
million dollars and that isn’t through bribery or blackmail.  I wish I
could say that I’d earned the money honestly and legally, but I’d be lying.

It isn’t my fault that
prostitution is a misunderstood business.  The oldest profession in the
book… you’d think people would have come to terms with it by now! 
However, society’s inability to accept it is the reason I’m in business. 
And I
do
love my job.

A high-pitched squeal cuts
through my musings, but there’s nothing odd there.  If I received a dollar
every time I heard a moan or groan, a whimper or a faint mewl, then I’d
probably have four
billion
dollars in the bank.  Not
just
four
million.

Sniggering a little at the
thought, I continue to gaze through the peephole into Jenna McCartney’s quarters. 
One of my most popular girls, Jenna rakes in nearly thirty thousand dollars a
night.  Safe to say, she works once a week.  And because clients are
perverse—and I don’t mean
perverted
; yes, there is a difference—the fact
she only works the one night, means her tips are astronomical.  She’s
wealthier than me but you couldn’t hope to meet a nicer person.  Her bank
balance hasn’t changed her nor has her status at Papillon. 

A mother, a good one at that,
Jenna epitomizes the old metaphor; salt of the earth.  She’d give you her
last penny, if you happened to need it.  But good, so-called decent folk
who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, call her a whore.

As stomach-burning,
eye-twitching as that is —the injustice of it could give me an ulcer— Jenna
gets the last laugh.  Hell, we
all
do!  That the son of a
‘whore’ rubs shoulders with the kids of the nation’s political and business
MVPs is a delicious irony we all enjoy.

I think Jenna enrolled her son
at the Pinemount High School on purpose.  She’s like that. 
Anti-authority, even if the guys and gals she fucks for a living
are
the
authority.  It floats her boat to dominate them and to be in charge of the
powers that be. 

If it weren’t for me, she
probably would be in a backstreet.  Giving guys blowjobs for twenty
dollars and getting a decent tip for going without a condom.  Beaten by
her pimp, controlled through her drug addiction, her baby boy left alone to eke
out an existence as his mother’s life imploded...  Thank God, that is so
far from the truth.

Thanks to me, Jenna is working
in a property worth fifteen millions bucks, her kid has a nanny and she can
afford to send Jeremy —an undeserving brat, if ever there was one— to a snobby
school.  She has to work one night to pay for one term at that overpriced
institution, but it is her choice.

I’m only here to
protect.  That’s my role.

Madam
.

I always get a sick thrill
from the title.  No one ever calls me it, but the part of me that is akin
to Jenna, the
anarchist
, loves the term.

Sex is an art form.  Few
people realize that.  Mostly because they’re uptight prudes, who think a
decent fuck takes place under the comforter in the pitch black.

Not here.  My girls are
artists.  Only they don’t have to die before they get the recognition they
deserve.  As well as the paycheck.  Hell, their salaries would make
most city boys’ eyes water.

The truth of it is; I’m the
worst paid person in the building.  I take ten per cent of each girl’s
fees and I have four women working a day, with a team of twenty-four on
rotation.  If I’m honest, I feel guilty about the ten per cent, but the
mortgage on this place is crippling and I have to make a living too.  The
girls don’t resent me, in fact, they’re grateful.  And I get that. 
Because of me, they’re earning six to seven figure salaries.

Something the average whore
can only dream about.

I glance over the ten-inch
dildo in Jenna’s hand and wince in commiseration. 
Ouch
.  Not
that the Senator wants my pity.  He looks as though he’s about to start
drooling with pleasure.

Shaking my head at the sight,
I move on down the passage, knowing that all is safe and well in that
particular room.  Well, it is for Jenna.  Not so much for the
Senator.

But I’m not interested in
him.  Just Jenna and the rest of my girls’ safety.

Anna, my assistant, and I take
it in turns to wander down this corridor twice an hour.  When I bought
this story, all nine thousand square feet of prime residential property, I made
it so that all of the rooms were linked by a back passage that I could use to
monitor the inhabitants without their knowledge.  Not so, I could get my
kicks, but to protect my girls. 

A small window built into a
door on the back wall means I can look in and make sure all is well.  If
anything nonconsensual is going down, and after four years in the trade, I know
what
is
and what
isn’t
, we intercede.

And by we, I mean me, charging
in there like Dirty Harry on estrogen patches with my nice, big nine-millimeter
pistol.

I have a few high-ranking
officers of the law in my little black book, but I prefer to deal with these
issues in-house as it were.

A few men have offered me
exorbitant sums to be able to walk down peep-hall, as Anna and I call it. 
But privacy is part and parcel of the service we offer.  Even though it
hurt to turn down fifty grand to let a voyeur get his rocks off by peering
through a window, I had no choice.  I had to think of the money I’d have
lost if the guy weren’t a voyeur, but some kind of political spy.

What goes down in these rooms
could make or break the government itself.  We get all sorts here. 
From the rich to the astronomically powerful.  They pay the sums they do
to ensure their perversions are kept hushed up.  Not once has anyone’s
dirty little secret been revealed to the public.  And that makes my
business a hot commodity.

It’s been a busy day, a
stressful evening and the night looks set to be just as frantic.  Each
room is booked until three in the morning, I’m already tired and it’s just
turned midnight!

Yawning, I wander down to the
next room and look through the window.  Until I started this gig, until
the peep-hall existed, I didn’t realize I had voyeuristic tendencies of my
own.  But I guess most people do, they just don’t have the opportunities I
do to get my kicks.

There’s one girl in particular
that does it for me every time.  And it isn’t
her
, although she’s
an attractive woman, it’s the service she offers.  Known as the ‘Queen of
Deepthroat’, you can guess where Millie’s talent lies! 

Pulling out my cellphone, I flicker
through the appointment schedule and a smile hovers over my lips as I notice
two things.  Firstly, that two doors down, Mike Baylis is with Millie and
the entrepreneur has one of the hugest cocks I’ve ever seen.  Aside from
that, he’s a decent guy.  Always pleasant when he pays the bill and quick
to give me punts on the stock market. 

Watching Millie swallow that
huge ten-incher is enough to turn anyone on!  Well, it is
now
. 
I remember just standing there, feeling like I’d been kicked in the head,
wondering where the hell she put it all the very first time I watched! 

The second thing to widen my
smile is in four days and counting, I’ll be seeing Nathan.

The thought of watching Mike
and knowing that soon I’ll be with Nathan, is enough to have
every part of me quivering with
hunger
.

There’s a spring in my step as
I wander down the hallway.  Anna, my PA, is into the Femdom act more than
I am, whereas I prefer to watch the Dom/sub role-plays. 

Rosalie is one of my most
popular girls and she’s in the Grunge Dungeon. 

There are two BDSM rooms at
Papillon; one is all heavy-duty hardware with an industrial edge to the
design.  Pipes, handcuffs, ropes and rudimentary equipment, where the guy
gets off on the more brutal side of the scene.  The other is more
traditional. 

Leather and whips, PVC, St
Andrew’s Crosses…

The Grunge Dungeon is the
former. 

Glancing into the peephole,
the first thing to pop into my line of sight is a bright red, and I mean
bright
—it’s almost glowing— butt.  I wince at the sight and cup my own ass in
commiseration.  The other girl, Jessie, is totally in it for the
money.  Whereas Rosalie is a born sub.  She gets off on this
stuff. 

Her butt is wiggling around as
her Dom for the next two hours, a corporate lawyer from downtown with a client
list to end all client lists, spanks her with a flogger. 

Faint mewls escape her throat,
as she wriggles and writhes.  Her hips jerk about in an angular dance to
avoid the pain.  But Johnson, the attorney, is having none of it.

Her legs are spread to an
uncomfortable degree something that only adds to the awkwardness of her
pain-evasion dance.  She’s balancing on the balls of her feet, toes arched
off the floor with two heavy-duty cuffs about her ankles and a bar keeping the
awkward distance between her thighs.  She’s bent over a pole —something
that’s almost like a ballet dancer’s
barre
but five feet away from the
wall— at a perfect right angle.  With her butt in my direct line of sight,
her pussy is too.  Rosalie is bare.  Smoother than silk.  But at
the moment, bright-red whip lines mar the silken skin.

I always feel both turned on
and discomforted by these scenes.  A part of me wants to bring a halt to
the proceedings.  How can Rosalie be enjoying this?  How can this be
anything other than torture?  But she has never said her safe word. 
Not once in the four years of the business being open. 

The dungeons are the only
rooms with speakers.  We only switch them on, when a girl is in there and
only so that we can be aware of her rescinding her consent for whatever shit is
going down with the client.

Anna would have sent me a
message if Rosalie had even whispered her safe word—
tomato
.  The
speakers were sensitive.  They picked up the sound of a footstep. 
And they’d cost me a bloody fortune!  Worth it, though.  A guy had
once been on the brink of strangling Jessie, when she’d managed to squeak out
her safe word and we’d saved her.

Even with all our security
protocols, accidents can and do happen.

The part of this scene that
turns me on is the sheer in-your-face brazenness of it all.  As I look, a
huge, bright green dildo separates the tender lips of Rosalie’s pussy. 
Lodged deep inside, with every wiggle and jerk of her hips, it flops about and
moves to a rhythm of its own. 

Despite myself, watching
Johnson and Rosalie, I can feel my own blood start to heat.  At the very
start of this venture, I often wondered if I was a pervert.  Now, I
realize I’m just human.  Someone who reacts to blatant visual stimuli and
Christ, you’d have to be dead from the waist down to
not
react.

Just in front of the neon
green vibrator, I can see a piece of clit jewelry dangling down and before
that, two bobbing, weighted balls hang suspended from Rosalie’s breasts. 
While I’d never want to be in that position and I
really
mean that, it’s
still a turn on.

As I watch the jiggling dildo,
the wriggling hips of one of my most popular girls, my body urges me into
action.  My fingers curl into claws in an attempt at self-restraint and
only after I suck in a breath and force the feeling away, do they settle for a
quick pinch of my nipple, which has budded through my white silk shirt.

The slight sting makes me wish
Nate were here.  That I didn’t have to wait what seems like an endless
amount of time until I see him again.  You’d think after all the sex I see
on an hourly basis; I’d get sick of it.  But I don’t.  If anything, I
appreciate it all the more.

My mouth waters as Johnson
releases his cock from the leather cage that is his fly.  His big fist
wraps around the meaty length of his erection and he jerks it, tugging the
foreskin back and forth a few times, before he strides over to the
barre
and ducks underneath.

I have to look away as he
pushes it into Rosalie’s mouth.  Not because I’m disgusted, not because
I’m revolted, but because my belly is churning and
not
with sickness.

Clenching my jaw, I move away
from the peephole and force myself to walk down the hall.  It’s only
because my visit with Nate is so close that I’m feeling this way.  Still,
it’s damned hard to walk away. 

Cell in hand, I type out a
text. 

Nate isn’t really one for
mobile technology.  For the most part, he leaves his cell uncharged and on
the top of his dresser with his loose change.  Still, he turns it on every
day, because he knows I send him messages.