tagNovels and NovellasBromfield's Temptations Ch. 09

Bromfield's Temptations Ch. 09

bysealawyer©

Synopsis: Jim and Bette have enlisted Sandra and Jeff to attend the swing parties at Satin Studios. During the latest party, one of the call girls (who works part of the time at Carol's direction) tells Jim what she knows of the true nature of Satin Studio's business. Jim has left her and is looking for Carol to demand an explanation.

Chapter 9: On the Job Training

Steve and Carol were in the office. Steve was seated at a small electronic console watching a TV screen, while Carol watched over his shoulder. Steve grinned sheepishly when he saw me. "I was going to tell you about this later," he said, "but since you're here, take a look."

I peered over his shoulder. I was mildly shocked -- but not surprised -- to see Bette and Sandy writhing through the final stages of their performance.

"That's only part of it," Steve said. "How do you like this?" He nodded toward the screen while he twisted a dial and flipped two switches. The scene abruptly shifted from the stage to the audience. This time he focused on two shadowy figures in the corner.

"We had better tape this," he said quietly to Carol. The camera's eye sharpened and brought into fine detail one man sucking another. A zoom lens brought the fellator's face into clear focus, even recording his five o'clock shadow. It was Carmine, his mouth stuffed with Jeff's swollen member. The optics were so good that the veins in that glistening sword, even the hairs surrounding it, were clearly visible.

I felt a sudden chill. Even though I only suspected that Carmine was linked to the Mob, I felt certain that if that tape ever left this room, we could all be in serious, perhaps even mortal, danger. "Christ!" I burst out. "What's the matter with you people! Are you crazy? If he's who I think he is, and if he even knew such a tape existed, we could be in terrible danger!"

"I doubt it," Steve drawled. "Of course, it's a gamble, but we have good odds." His face was solemn as he studied my reaction. Then he said, "Here. I'll show you what I mean. Watch the screen." He shuffled though some tapes, found what he wanted, and slipped it into the player. The screen lit up.

He had taped last Friday's meeting. The camera was above and slightly in front of me. The scene it displayed was focused so tightly that it appeared that Carmine and I were alone.

Carmine was speaking. "And as our legal adviser here, what do you say? Morals be damned. Personally, I don't give a shit what side of the law we're on as long as we stay out of jail!"

And then, there I was, looking him in the eye, smiling a smug lawyerly smile, and saying smoothly, "Don't worry. Nobody's going to jail. Even if worst came to worst, the prosecution would be in no position to take us to court!"

The scene faded. Steve looked at me.

I was stunned. A sharp physical pain shot through my stomach, and I felt the blood drain from my face. Those few words, intended merely to describe the equitable doctrine of `clean hands', taken out of context, might convince any jury that I possessed criminal intent. In an instant, my career was in jeopardy.

"Carol, get Jim a drink. He looks like he needs one." Then to me, Steve added, "Sit down, Jim. Don't take things so hard. Nothing has changed. I just wanted you to see why Carmine isn't going to hurt anybody."

Carol came back carrying a stiff bourbon/water. "If that's not strong enough. . ." she said tentatively.

I gratefully gulped half the glass's contents. The whiskey burned a comforting path down my throat. Almost immediately, I felt better. "I don't understand," I said. "I thought we were business associates -- partners, even. Partners don't blackmail each other."

Steve sighed. "Sad to say, Jim, in this business they do. You see," he continued, "when you function, as we do, on the edge of an unstable and hypocritical public's idea of morality and government's shifting notions of tolerance, you can't afford to take chances. In this business, trusting anyone without taking back collateral is foolish to the point of being suicidal."

I hated to concede the point, but I couldn't argue with his logic. "Where does that leave us?" I asked.

Steve pulled a side chair around to face me and sat inches away. Carol sat quietly behind the desk. "We -- you and us -- know how the public sees us; we've already talked about that. But now, the main thing is that we need to understand each other.

"I've been rehearsing this speech all week," he said. "This is the way I see it." He paused for a moment. His solemn face was thoughtful. "You're a nice guy, Jim. You're pleasant, smart, educated, and you seem to share our attitude toward sex. You wouldn't be here today," he went on, "if we thought otherwise.

"In short, you could be a great partner," he said slowly. "The only thing is," he added, "we don't know how tough you are. That's what we need to find out.

"I know swinging preachers who are even more idealistic than you," he continued, "but most of them will cut and run at the first sign of trouble. I need someone beside me who won't.

"The question now is, are you willing to take the necessary chances a business like this requires? We're not manufacturing auto parts, you know. Face it. We operate in an environment where we knowingly skirt the law most of the time. That's why we think it's important to find out what you're made of.

"I know you won't like it, and I'll be frank with you; If word about this test should leak out, I expect you would be in serious trouble. On the other hand, it's not too late, even now, even knowing what you do about me and that," he gestured toward the console, "to back out.

"If you want to put things back where they were, just say so. I have enough confidence in your integrity that I'll even give you the tape you just saw. We'll shake hands, and never see each other again."

His voice took on a deeper tone. "On the other hand, if you decide to stay, you know you'll be putting your balls firmly in our hands. What will it be?"

My mind raced in a circle. Common sense argued that I could spend the rest of my life comfortably drafting wills and probating estates; that I could grow old fussing with codicils and interpreting testamentary intent. My gonads, on the other hand, urged me to spit in convention's eye, throw away my carefully constructed career plan, and plunge headlong into a world of XXX videos, of cocks and cunts, pussy and playboys, swingers and porno queens.

It isn't every day a man has to face hard truths about himself as Steve was forcing me to do. For the first time, I understood and began to sympathize with those lawyers whose careers are spent serving organized crime as house counsel. For most of them, the lure was undoubtedly the power and excitement the job entailed, compared to the alternative boredom of a routine law practice.

Although some Puritans might disagree, I'm not an amoral person. I couldn't work for organized crime, for instance, partly because I find profit based on human misery repugnant, partly because large sums of money have no particular appeal, and finally because, quite frankly, I knew I lacked the stomach for it.

Steve's proposition, on the other hand, offered endless, harmless sexual excitement and ultimately, a possibility of shaping community values toward more realistic sexual attitudes.

"This is a big decision," I said. "Could I have five minutes to discuss it with Bette?"

Carol spoke for the first time. "I'm afraid not," she said. "This has to be your decision. What will it be?"

I took a deep breath and made, what was for me, an irrevocable commitment. I was to lose count, in the days that followed, of the number of times I bitterly regretted that decision.

"Yes," I said quietly, "I'm in."

Steve's grin broadened. "Wonderful," he said. "But just remember," he added, his smile fading, "I now have your balls firmly in my hands."

"And mine," Carol chimed in. Looking at me levelly, she added, "Your first assignment is to turn Bette and Sandy out."

"Turn them out?" I asked stupidly.

"Yes," she said impatiently, "make 'em go out and peddle their cute little tails. Turn them into call girls, put them on the street; get them into an escort agency. I don't care. Just make 'em go out and trick for you."

"I could never do that!" I said indignantly.

Steve held his hand out palm up and closed his fist. Carol said, "Do you want to see that tape again?"

Then I knew I had truly crossed the Rubicon. I understood now, all too well, why he had allowed me to watch him tape Carmine sucking Jeff's member. He wasn't threatening Carmine. He was blackmailing me.

My face must have betrayed my feelings. "I think we all need another drink," Steve said to Carol.

"Be right back," she said cheerfully.

As soon as she left the room, Steve tapped me on the knee. "Carol gets carried away sometimes," he said. "I would have been more tactful, but when you think about it, there isn't a hell of a lot of difference between tricking and swinging, now is there?"


"The only real difference is the girl's motive, and that's not always clear. For instance, what about your friend, Grace, at the Ten/Thirty Club? She wasn't there because she wanted to be. She was there because her old man wanted to trade her for another man's woman. That's what wife-swapping is. Remember that barter is the oldest form of commerce there is. Don't you see? In effect, he was turning her out."

I did see. He was right, and my conscience breathed a very small sigh of relief.

Carol came back into the room carrying a tray with three tinkling glasses. "How are you feeling, gramps?" she asked, "Gotten over your righteous attack yet?"

It was impossible to stay angry with Carol. Her bubbling good spirits always repaired what injuries she had inflicted with her sharp tongue.

I sighed, "I feel like a virgin who has just been raped by Godzilla."

"Now you understand why we girls get mad when you smug bastards talk about relaxing and enjoying it," she said grimly. Then she smiled again. "Would it help if I told you that as part of my initiation into the business, Steve turned me out, and I had to trick for him for almost a year?" She paused, and grinned. "I learned to like it, and I still turn a trick once in a while, just for the hell of it," she added, "and because it's exciting."

I noticed that she said nothing about her business arrangement with June and Jacky. I wondered if she intended to add Bette and Sandy to her stable after I broke them in. Inwardly, I flinched at the thought.

We finished our drinks. Despite Steve's logical argument, I still felt like a monster when I went back into the recreation room, burdened with my new assignment.

A group grope was going strong, and I wondered, as I searched the crowd for Bette, if Steve was recording this scene for posterity. Why ask? I knew he was. Bette might have been in the pile, but she wasn't in sight. Sandy was, however, and I felt a strong twinge of guilt as she motioned me over.

Her eyes were wide and excited. "I've never seen anything like this," she said. "I want to get into it, but I don't know how."

"Follow me," I said as I slipped out of my clothes. "You don't need to dress for this." I piled my clothes neatly next to the wall, and motioned for her toga. She looked around, and whipped it off, handing it to me. A pair of freckled arms encircled my neck, and a pair of warm tits rubbed my back. I turned to properly greet my Irish friend.

"Shure and begorra," I said.

"You silly man," she said as she fastened her open mouth on mine. She nibbled on my lips and gradually pried them apart with her insatiable tongue. They teach good kissing on the Emerald Isle.

We tongue wrestled for a moment, and Bridget sank to the floor, pulling me down with her. Almost immediately I felt a familiar mouth claim my manhood. Bridget was stuffing a breast in my mouth, but I got a quick glimpse of Sandra's pale golden head happily bobbing up and down on my member.

I reached for Bridget's secret place with my left hand, and slipped three fingers into her. She began moving up and down on my hand.

I heard a slight grunt, and felt Sandy's jaws tense around my cock. I opened my eyes. The pudgy gangster (if that's what he was), Richard, had mounted her from behind. Another female mouth claimed my right nipple. Who, here, knew how sensitive my nipples were?

I felt a finger in my rectum massage my prostate. Bridget retrieved her breast, and deftly rolled a fleshy thigh over my head. Then she mashed her wet, swollen, soggy pussy against my mouth. I guess I deserved it. It was hard to say how many loads of male seed she was carrying, but judging by the viscid string of semen that drooled out of her and landed on my chin, she had just been fucked at least once by every man in the room!

I reclaimed my hand and wiped the slime off my chin. Bridget was getting impatient. She began rubbing that revolting, yet strangely exciting, wet mop over my nose, eyes, mouth and chin.

Perhaps it was Sandy's loving efforts, or perhaps it was that finger in my rectum. But suddenly, I wanted to take as much of that dis- gustingly worn womanhood into my mouth as I could manage. I sucked her labia clean, and began to explore her inner lips with my tongue.

The combination of Bridget's cunt, the mysterious finger on my prostate, and Sandy's skillful sucking -- especially when she tickled the underside of my glans with her tongue -- soon caused me to feel that familiar pang in my loins. Bridget pulled back so her clit was over my tongue. She leaned forward, one hand on Sandy's back, the other on the floor. Although the sounds were muffled by her thighs clamped against my ears, I heard Bridget's familiar cry, and my libido responded.

I began involuntary thrusting motions as my seminal gush flooded Sandy's mouth. She took the mouthful and swallowed. Then she began licking and cleaning me off like a mother cat with new kittens.

Suddenly, I was too sensitized for her to continue. I slid out from under the ladies and kissed Sandy in gratitude. Richard didn't much care for these distractions, but as I kissed Sandy I whispered to her to check Bridget out when she had the chance.

As I wandered into the kitchen, I looked back. Bridget was flat on her back, her feet in Richard's face, while Sandy sucked and licked her tunnel clean.

Bette was standing near the sink, absently rubbing her right breast against Alex Sofer as he stirred their drinks. She had the soft contented look of a satiated woman, and I thought guiltily of the assignment my new partners had laid on my unwilling shoulders. I felt terrible. I wondered if I would ever see that happy, trusting look again. I knew I had to do it. But not tonight.

I slipped up behind her and pinched her bare ass.

"Ouch!" she said, turning and favoring me with a frown. "What'd you do that for?"

"Nothing, yet," I said with a theatrical leer. "How's it going? Having fun?"

"Sure am. How about you?"

Boy, if you only knew! I thought. Aloud, I said, "OK, but the crowd doesn't seem as lively this weekend."

"Or maybe you're getting jaded," she said.

Alex smiled at this domestic exchange. He turned to Bette. "Ready?" She took his hand, but looked back as Alex towed her into the hall. "See you later," she mouthed before disappearing around the corner.

I fixed myself a good stiff drink, and went outside to sit on the diving board under the stars.

"You bored, too?"

I hadn't seen the woman before she spoke. "Oh, a little," I said. "Look, I can go sit someplace else if you'd rather be alone."

"No, no," she said. "I'm glad to have someone to talk to. It's just that over-stimulated glands will only do so much for me. Then I have to back off."

"Is that what you think we are? Merely a bunch of over-stimulated glands?"

"No, that isn't what I meant." she said. "I meant my glands would do only so much for me. That's all."

"Well," I said, faking a deep sigh, "I'm glad we got that cleared up."

She giggled. "What's your name?" she asked. "You sound nice."

"I'm Jim Bromfield," I said. "And you?"

"We met earlier," she said. "I just didn't know your name. I'm June, Carmine's escort date, otherwise June Carpenter." She extended her hand.

We shook hands. Even though this was the second or third time for me this weekend, it still seemed bizarre to be shaking hands with a naked lady.

"You know what I do. How about you? How do you make ends meet?"

"I'm a lawyer," I said. How much longer will I be able to make that claim? I wondered to myself. "Not like Perry Mason; more the Pickwick Papers kind." I said. "I draft contracts, wills, do estate planning, that sort of thing. Not very glamorous or exciting I'm afraid."

"No, but I'll bet it's steady. That's the thing a girl in my line of work misses -- stability."

"I didn't think you girls liked talking about your work." I said.

"We don't mind talking about it. We just don't like being asked about it."

"I don't see the difference," I said.

"A john pays for a service. OK?"

"Right"

"All at once, he wants the service and a bedtime story that will make him feel morally superior to go along with it. You got it?"

"On the other hand, once in a while, a nice sympathetic, interesting guy like you comes along. Know what's on my mind? I want you to like me. You know what I do for a living; for some reason, it's important for you to know why. Now do you see the difference?"

"Sure. One's business, the other is friendship."

"Right on, Jim."

"What do you want me to understand?"

"How I can do what I do and keep my self respect."

"I'd like very much to hear about that, June," I said with genuine sincerity.

"It's simple. I spread my legs the same way and for the same reason a plumber picks up a wrench. It's a job. Period. Don't get me wrong. I like to fuck. Sometimes I even get off when I'm fucking a john, although that doesn't often happen.

"On the other hand, I like the uncertainty and the excitement of tricking. I'm like a salesman. I enjoy the challenge of closing a deal.

"Oh, there's a down side, all right," she quickly added. "And it's more than just a constant worry about disease -- even AIDS. There are real physical risks. I've had a couple of close scrapes with serious wackos.

"Without a pimp, I'm strictly on my own when I go to some guy's hotel room. If I get hurt or beat up, forget the cops. They'd just laugh. If my bruises show, I have to stay out of sight for a few days. The truth is, we sex workers have a tough life."

"Well, tell me this," I said, "suppose you could wave a magic wand and become a school teacher, say, or a bus driver, whatever. Would you do it?"

"Probably not." She paused for a moment. "There isn't anything else I could do that would pay as well. Don't get me wrong. The Life has its problems, but I've got to think of my old age. Old whores are a sad bunch. We don't have a pension plan, which means I've got to look out for myself. That's why I don't keep a pimp. Your pimp, if you're dumb enough or weak enough to need one, will get you hooked on something just so he can control you.

"This is a long answer to a short question but I'm stashing a lot of money in mutual funds; that's my retirement. I'll keep tricking as long as I can, and then, we'll see." she paused again, looking at me with closer concentration. "What kind of a lawyer are you, again?"

I told her.

"Could you help me do some long range financial planning?"

"Sure. Give me a call. I'd give you a card, but I don't seem to have any pockets on me right now."

She giggled again. "I like you, Jim. Want to fuck? It's on the house tonight."

"I'm getting chilly," I said. "Let's find a quiet corner where we can lie down and talk this over."

We found an empty room. June turned back the coverlet, and we laid down. "I am curious about one thing," I said, thinking of my new responsibilities.

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