Politics. Escorts. Blackmail. Read Online Free Page A

she’d let her ICs take cash from a client, but the rule was it needed to be in an envelope and in clear sight as soon as one or the other entered the room. It wasn’t discussed or counted right away, but the IC made sure to take it into the bathroom to count it in private before clothes were removed. No refunds after the clothes came off.
    She entered the executive king room on the fifteenth floor, tossed her bag on the brown leather sofa, and turned on all the lights since the sun hadn’t quite finished hiding, but also because she knew her visitor liked it that way. Bright.
    She went into the bedroom and pulled back the rust covers, fluffing up the down pillows. The time on the clock read ten minutes to six. She sent a text to her booker. Here.
    Ten minutes later on the dot, she was stripped down to her black cotton bra and panties, stockings, and garter, curly hair flowing down her back. There was a single knock at the door. She looked through the peephole, seeing her three-thousand-dollar, one-hour client, Mr. 31, and then forwarded the text a second time. That meant he’d arrived. The reply text sounded. She put her phone down and opened the door.
    She smiled, but it wouldn’t last long. “Good to see you, Pretty in Pink.”
    He stepped inside and closed the door without saying a word. He liked to be called pretty, so he smiled.
    She looked down at his crotch. His hard-on was on. She frowned, and her voice turned bossy. “You came to my door excited. Make your dick go down, now!”
    He looked at her with eyes that asked for permission to speak.
    “Talk.”
    “I’m sorry, Mistress.”
    She nodded. “My slave.”
    He was white, portly, with graying hair that was slicked back, and he carried his usual gym bag as he stepped into the bedroom. Inside was a red wig, makeup, handcuffs, pink lingerie, nipple clips, and a paddle.
    By 6:15 he lay across the bed all dolled up, when Money the master demanded, “Turn the fuck over.”
    He obliged with puppy dog eyes, replying “Yes, Mistress” in a soft, high-pitched, passive feminine tone. He lay in a fetal position, looking scared out of his girlie wits, yet his expression said he would have it no other way. “Am I your bitch?” he asked, and then he squirmed, peeking at Money like maybe trouble awaited him. Or perhaps hoping it did.
    “Shut the fuck up. You talk when I tell you to talk, dammit.”
    The more shit Money talked, the harder his dick got under the lace fabric of his panties.
    He never tried to please Money. Never made a move to put his mouth on the skin of her pussy, or his dick inside of her. Not even his fingers.
    “And yes, you’re my nasty little bitch, all right. Now kiss my feet. And let me hear your lips smack.”
    He moved from the bed and crawled onto the floor as Money raised her high-heeled foot onto his shoulder. He took her foot into his hands and removed her shoe, kissing the top of her foot loudly.
    “I can’t hear it.”
    He smacked louder.
    “Now suck my toes, one by one, starting with my baby toe.”
    He brought his lips to her toes and worked them, smacking, licking, and sucking.
    “Punk. You’re just a sissy. A man in drag who’s a cross-dressing-ass sissy. And you love it.”
    He sucked harder.
    “Yeah, suck my big toe like I might suck your dick if you beg me, like a good little submissive.”
    He sucked it with vigor and looked up at her with wide blue eyes of pleasure.
    She was a notch below yelling. “Don’t look at me.”
    He looked down and continued his foot job.
    “One day, I’m gonna walk you around New York City like a dog, with a cord tied to your scrawny little penis that I’ll yank every time I want you to stop and sit and shake my hand like I tell you to. Take you to Central Park and make you piss on the grass. You piece of shit.”
    Being dominated was Pretty in Pink’s only escape. It was what he lived for. It served a purpose. It was his refuge from his life of being in control. His life of telling