Copyright 2012 By A. Rozelle
So I suppose there’s a thin line between fuckin for love and fuckin for money, but damned if I know where it is anymore. After all, women give it up every day without the exchange of currency, but that’s not to say nothing changes hands. It’s usually for love. Sometimes it’s for respect, sometimes to get a better job, a nicer car, more help with the housework…fuckin your man for the shit you need, fuckin your boss for the promotion…it’s all an exchange. Panties never, ever come off for free. Ever.
My point is this—if you had bills, I mean like serious bills, you were tired of repos and shit getting cut off-tired of robbing Peter to pay Paul, tired of ducking phone calls and leaving mail unopened cuz you know it’s just another bill you can’t pay- wouldn’t you do something just a little out of the ordinary, just a little to the left of where you usually walk to get some relief? Here’s how the shit goes down…
I pull up to the curb and hand the keys to the valet, who looks at my raggedy ass car like “Bitch, you gotta be kidding me.” But fuck him. Valet is free for ladies all night and there’s no way in hell I’m walking all the way across the parking lot in six-inch stilettos. If he’s offended now, just wait til he brings me my shit later and gets no tip…anyway, I put the ticket in my purse and pull out my ID. I hand it to the bouncer, who barely glances at it and grunts something as he points to the door. I’m assuming the grunt is Neanderthal-speak for “go in”.
I walk into the way too crowded club and try to find Rochelle. I know in the back of my mind it’s pointless to be looking for her cuz it’s only eleven o’clock and we were supposed to meet at ten-thirty. That bitch is chronically late, so I won’t see her ass for at least another hour. I don’t appreciate the wait, and I wouldn’t mind telling her so, but how you gonna talk shit when you’re borrowing money? I grab a seat at the bar and look around.
The Sahara Club is one of the nicer clubs Rochelle (my best friend) hangs out at. It’s in the lobby of one of the most exclusive high-rises in the city. Rochelle’s not the fliest chick I know, but she can sniff out a dude with money like a drug-sniffing police dog. And this is supposedly where the big ballas hang. I was a little pissed when she said I would have to meet her here to get the money she was gonna loan me, but she claimed she was meeting some big time NBA player here. But, again—how you gonna talk shit when you’re borrowing? So, here I am.
The decor is about what you’d expect. Huge bar in the center of the room, bunch of couches and lounge chairs, some private tables, over-crowded dance floor. I don’t really get all the sheer curtains and shit, but hey—I guess that’s how the upwardly mobile party. I look around and see the usual suspects: gay guys looking for DL brothas, gold-diggers looking for their next baby-daddy, businessmen tryna unwind before they go home; the folks you’d find in any club on any given night.
“This is exactly why I don’t hang out in clubs,” I say to myself, fighting my way to the bar. To tell the truth, I’m also just a lil too broke to be kickin it- which is why I stay my ass at home.
I sit down and take a look at myself in the mirror. Not too bad. I clean up alright. Simple black dress, black strappies, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Not too much make-up, just enough to make my caramel skin glow. Some lip gloss and chandeliers earrings… I’m looking like I fit right in, even though I’m sitting here considering whether or not to take out my very last ten-dollar bill and order a shot.
Thankfully though, I don’t have to resort to that. The bartender spreads a napkin in front of me and plunks a drink down on the bar.
“Compliments of the gentleman in the booth,” he says, pointing across the room. I follow his finger to some clown in a leisure suit wearing waaaayyyy too much jewelry. And just when I think it can’t get worse- he smiles. Ewwww. The bartender and I both laugh at the same time. I consider sending the drink back and telling him “thanks but no thanks”, but then I remember that I’m broke as hell, probably a good while from seeing Rochelle, and I could really use a drink. I hold up the glass in his direction, mouth a quick “thank you”, and take that shit straight to the head. I feel like my chest is gonna explode.
“What the fuck was that!?” I ask the bartender, Mike, who’s laughing his ass off.
“A Yeager Bomb,” he says, still laughing. “And you may want to wait a while before you drink anything else. It’s gonna hit you pretty hard in a minute.” Five minutes later, I find out he is not bullshittin’. I am fucked up.
Fast forward an hour and a half later, and I’m still pretty buzzed, but I’ve got enough sense left to be pissed that Rochelle’s still not here. I’m thinking about leaving cuz I’m sick of turning down idiots and losers, including the one that thought that one drink bought him admission to my panties…ick…
So I’m grabbing my purse and I’m about to leave, when the finest man I have ever seen in my life walks up to the bar and orders a scotch. I don’t know shit about scotch, but I’m assuming it’s the good shit cuz Mike makes a big ass deal out of pouring it…
“Would you like to run a tab Mr. Illias?” The guy shakes his head yes; he’s on his cell. The bartender calls him by name, so now I know he’s a regular. And I’m no gold-diggin skank, but I do know an Armani suit when I see one.
He’s about 6’1” with a cocoa complexion and brown eyes. He has full lips and perfect teeth. My eyes travel downward. He’s not exactly thick, but he’s not at all skinny. More like athletically built. Broad shoulders, long legs. Can’t help but notice that suit fits really nice. I’m feeling a little warm…
He puts his phone down on the bar to pull out his black card. Oh shit… I look at the screen and notice the name “The Britton Agency”. He picks up his phone and I’m guessing the conversation must be getting deep because he decides to finish it here at the bar instead of at his private table. He slides onto the stool next to mine. I decide to give Rochelle another few minutes.
“Look,” he’s saying, “I know this isn’t your fault…” His accent, which I can’t place, is hypnotic. “But I spend a lot of money with your agency, and my assistant made the arrangements quite some ago. Yes…yes, I understand. Listen, I’m having trouble hearing you. I’m going to call you back in one hour and I trust the problem will have been resolved.” He hangs up. I get the feeling he’s used to getting his way. He picks up his drink and goes to his table.
“Who’s that?” I ask Mike. “And what’s he so pissed about?”
“That-” Mike says with the dramatics in full effect, “is Mr. Hasan Illias. He’s a banker from Morocco and one of the richest men you or I will probably ever meet in person. He’s pissed cuz his girl didn’t show.”
“His girl?” The story’s getting interesting.
“Mr. Illias flies in for business once a month. He has meetings for like two days. His last night here, the agency sends a girl to meet him here, they go up to the penthouse suite, and she leaves the next morning with a lot more money than she came with. You feel me?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
Now- this is the point in the story where a much more sober and much less broke person would have picked up her purse, slid off the stool and taken her ass home. I’m sure you’ve guessed- that’s not what happened.
“What exactly do these chicks look like?” I ask Mike.
“The hotness,” he says, looking up at the ceiling like he’s envisioning one of them.
“White, Black, Asian?” I’m getting impatient, cuz a plan that should not be forming in my mind is forming…
“All kinds,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “but all bangers…not unlike yourself”, he says, giving me the eye.
“Negro please,” I think to myself. He must sense he has no chance at all, cuz he laughs and says “You can’t blame a brother for trying.”
“Yes I can,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But get back to the agency chicks. Are they tall and skinny, short and petite, what I’m saying is —could I pass for one of them?” He looks at me, finally figuring out what I’m asking.
“You could pass,” he tells me, shaking his head. “Matter of fact, I thought you were the one when you came in here.”
Bingo! That’s exactly what I needed to hear. Mike pours me a drink.
“It’s on the house. You’re gonna need it.”
I take the drink down in one swallow, hop off the stool and pull myself together. I head in the direction of Mr. Hasan Illias, banker from Morocco’s table, thinking the whole time that I’ve lost my fuckin mind….
I approach him and stick out my hand.
“Mr. Illias?” I flash my brightest smile. “Hello. I’m…” (pause) “Tatyanna.” It’s the most exotic name I can think of on the spot. I take one last, deep breath and smile again. What the hell am I doing!? Fuck it.
“I’m from the Britton Agency. So sorry about the mix up. I’m new, and I thought we would be meeting in the restaurant. I was sitting at the bar waiting for the call from the agency. I was just informed that you’ve been waiting for me. Again, my most sincere apologies.”
Now here’s the thing about me: I’m versatile. I can swing from ghetto bitch to high-class broad in a split second. And I can be pretty convincing, if I do say so myself. It’s one of the perks of growing up in a white neighborhood and going to mostly white schools all my life. I can spit it all—from Ebonics to very proper English, and I might not be able to find a good man to save my life, but I’ve proven that I can keep a man’s attention for at least one night.
So I’m standing there, holding my breath and smiling like Tyra fuckin Banks, and he’s giving me this strange look. And damn, this man is beyond sexy. Why this dude is paying for pussy, I can’t figure out. Finally, he takes my hand and kisses it. He rises and pulls out the chair opposite his.
“Please”, he says, “Sit. What country are you from my dear?” he asks me.
“I was actually born in the United States,” I tell him, feeling more relaxed.
“Interesting,” he says, “you look like you could be from my country, or perhaps from Ethiopia or Egypt.”
“Thank you very much,” I say. “That’s quite a compliment. I hear African women are the most beautiful in the world.” He smiles, looking more relaxed himself. “You would fit in perfectly on the streets of Casablanca.”
And now I know I’m in the door….and I’m thinking that it don’t matter where they come from, all men talk the same shit when they wanna get some.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks me.
“Sparkling water,” I tell him. No way I’m drinking anything else tonight. Throwing up is so unsexy. He looks pleased with my request. The conversation continues while he drains another $300 bottle of scotch. I’m doing my best Oprah imitation, and it’s pretty obvious when he’s ready to leave.
Now here’s the point in the story where a person that was getting some on a regular would have thought twice about getting up from the table, getting in the elevator and going to the top floor…but it’s been more than a few months, I didn’t even like the last asshole and I could use some stress relief. Fast-forward ten minutes…
I’m in the penthouse suite, looking around. I have to say, I have never seen anything like this in my life; I gotta tell you, it’s a long way from Motel 6. The suite is bigger than my whole damn apartment. Two bedrooms, a living room… this shit is off the fuckin chain. And the view— amazing. Mr. Millionaire is in his room changing and I’m standing at the window, looking out over the city and wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into and what’s gonna happen next…although it’s far too late to worry about it now.
He comes out of the bedroom and—I swear—I’m trying to be professional and not let my mouth hang open, but damn! He is fine as hell! He motions for me sit down on the couch. I thought I would be nervous about this part, but the wetness between my legs tells me this isn’t gonna be so hard to do after all…
He’s wearing a silk robe, no shirt, some silk pajama pants with the drawstring…damn. I stare at his chest and all I can think of is how nice it would be to slide my tongue across it, sucking and nibbling on his nipples until they were rock hard and licking my way down to his navel…shit…it’s getting hot in here.
So I’m thinking $500 maybe $600 for the night and it’s all good. I wondered if maybe I should ask for the money up-front, but then I realize if he uses this agency all the time, they probably have his card on file or something. Shit! If that’s the case I’m fucked! And for free, at that!
But then my eyes find his lips and I think: what the hell- I do this shit for what I hope will turn out to be love all the time. All of the sudden, it occurs to me that he might be on some R. Kelly shit. What if there’s like whips and chains and shit in the bedroom? I sit down on what must be a very expensive couch and slide off my shoes.
“Relax habibatay. That means “my love” in my language,” he tells me. “There are no torture devices in my room.”
How the fuck did he know what I was thinking? He gives me another long, hard look and stokes his chin.
“I am a very powerful man, with a very demanding position. In my country, women are trained from their youth to please men like me. If I wanted a sex slave, I could get that at home. When I travel and my business is concluded, my only wish is to assume the role of servant. My only desire is to please you. Please, allow me to fulfill your most erotic wishes. That-” he says, looking into my eyes, “is my pleasure.”
All I can do is nod. I’m actually speechless.
And this is the point in the story where I really do become Tatyanna. I don’t know if it’s the Yeager Bomb, the ambiance in this palatial room, or the way my pussy is throbbing like it has a pulse of its own that makes me decide, but all I know is that for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to think. I don’t want to concentrate. I just want to give in to what I’m feeling and let myself experience whatever happens.
I always thought I should save this me for marriage or shacking or whatever dude thought enough of me to at least call me his girl, but maybe this is better. To be someone I can let go of in the morning if I don’t like the shit she gets into. But for tonight…fuck it—it’s on…
He sits down on the opposite end of the sofa and reaches for my feet. He gives me the slowest, most erotic massage I have ever had and I can’t stop myself from reaching down and easing my dress up. My right hand slides inside my panties and my fingers are instantly soaked. He looks at me and I can tell he’s happy with what he sees. I close my eyes and my left hand works its way under my bra…my nipples are harder than they’ve ever been…it almost hurts…I can feel him whispering something in Arabic and my fingers get even wetter. He parts my legs and climbs in between them. He takes my hand and sucks on my fingers until they’re clean.
I can’t breathe…
Slowly, he slides my panties off and eases them to the floor. He starts kissing behind my knees and I can’t believe I never knew how good that shit could feel. I’m barely conscious as he works his way up my thighs, alternating between blowing and kissing so softly I can barely feel his lips touch my skin. I want him inside me so bad I’m starting to squirm.
“Patience,” he whispers, grabbing my hips to hold me in place.
Again- I’m trying to be professional, but I have no idea what that means, since this is not my real job, and all I can do is moan and run my fingers through his curly salt and pepper hair. It occurs to me that this is what I always knew sex could be…the only thing I want more than having him inside me is to hear him moan with the same ecstasy he’s making me feel. As much as he wants to please me, I want to return the favor: to be his servant as much as he wants to be mine I want to fulfill his desires, even while I’m on fire with my own. I’m actually torn between wanting to give and needing to receive. The dilemma makes me even hotter…
When his lips brush against my clit, I almost fall off the sofa. I’m so far past wet I’ve escalated to creamy. He laps and kisses like I’m going to melt and when he inserts his tongue, I know it’s just a matter of seconds before I lose whatever control I have left.
Somewhere, way down in the pit of my stomach, I feel myself begin to shake and before I can stop myself, I’m screaming and moving my hips with the rhythm of his movements while he’s forcing his tongue as far inside me as it will go, and I’m feeling myself cumming with more force than I could have ever fantasized—even in my wildest masturbatory fantasies. He licks and swallows every slippery drop like his life depends on it and I don’t know how much longer I can wait to feel him inside me…
Shit! I’m supposed to be working! I briefly remember this fact, as I slip back into my semi-conscious state. He rises from the sofa and takes my hand.
He leads me to the window and turns me until I’m facing the sparkling city lights again. He places my hands flat against the glass and lifts my dress over my head, dropping it to the floor. He unhooks my bra and reaches around with his left hand to pinch my nipple in-between his thumb and finger while he palms my ass and then slides two fingers of his right hand inside my pussy. The moisture is running down my legs… his hand… his arm. I push out my ass and move with his hand. And now I can’t help it—I’m cumming again. He pulls out his fingers and puts them to my lips. The taste of my pussy makes me dizzy with lust. I wanna fuck him so bad I’m about to scream… again.
I know I have to switch things up, or I’m not gonna make it. I turn to face him. I don’t think call girls are supposed to kiss, but his lips are so full and soft…I can’t help it. What starts out as a soft peck turns into my body melting completely into his while lick my juices off of his tongue and nibble on his bottom lip. I bend down and kiss his neck and I can feel the groan stuck in his throat. I trace a trail with my tongue down the middle of his mocha colored chest, just barely grazing his nipples with my fingertips until I can feel him shiver under my touch.
I position myself on my knees and find myself face to face with the most gorgeous dick I have ever seen. There’s just no other way to describe that shit. My mouth is watering when I kiss the tip and slowly take the head into my mouth. I can feel the vein rising as he grows longer and even harder—if that’s possible—and I take the whole thing in, as far to the back of my throat as it will go. Then, I forget about technique and just enjoy the feel of it on my lips. The taste, the heat…
He grabs my shoulders and lifts me to my feet. He turns me around and I hear a condom wrapper rip. I press my face against the cool glass, push my ass out and brace myself. When he plunges into me, I have to remind myself to take my next breath. I can’t believe the way he fits. He grabs my waist and proceeds to fuck me like…damn, I don’t even have a metaphor to describe it…it’s that good. I’m biting my lip feeling those tremors again…
“Tell me!” he says, hitting a spot I didn’t even know was there. “Tell me how you want it.”
“I…I…” Shit! I can’t even get the words out. He reaches around to massage my clit and we both realize at the same time that my hand is already there. I guess this is all he can take, cuz he cums so hard I can feel it through the rubber…
I vaguely hear my phone ring as I drift off to sleep in the most comfortable and luxurious bed I have ever slept in. Probably Rochelle, wondering what happened to me. When I wake up, I’m alone. There’s a note on the nightstand…
Shakran jazeelan. (Thank you very much). Last night was the most enjoyable night I can remember having in a long time. I found you charming, captivating and very skilled, although it was obvious to me that you are not really in this line of work. I can only imagine your need must be very great for you to have taken such a risk. You are as brave as you are beautiful. Atamanna an araki ahaniyata (I hope to see you again). Don’t worry- I will find you.
Next to the note is an envelope with fifty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills in it…