Geek's Revenge Ch. 08

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Creamer
Creamer
1,645 Followers

"Bullshit," I said, calmly. "She was sleeping, that's all." Not strictly true, but close enough.

Fireball raised his eyebrows and looked at me sharply. "You got some balls, little white boy," he said. I had to admire the professionalism with which he was trying to intimidate me.

"Just sayin'," I shrugged. "But the reason I dropped her off is I wanted to discuss some business with you."

"You heard about the fresh girls?" he chuckled. "Yeah, you might want to sample some o' that. Make Peaches' pussy look like a dried up apricot." His entourage all laughed wolfishly at that, and Carla didn't move a muscle.

"No, actually, that's not what I'm interested in."

"Then what?" he asked, involved back in his video game.

"I want to buy out Carla's contract."

"What?" he asked, the eyebrows raised again.

"She says she owes you. I want to buy out her debt."

Carla gasped. She hadn't known I was planning this.

"You crazy, white boy?" Fireball asked, amused.

"My name's Coop. And no, I'm not crazy. How much?"

"Why you want a worn-out nasty ol' pussy like that?" he asked. "We got fresher pussy. Oh – wait. No, no, you ain't . . . you ain't in love with this bitch, are you?"

"Nope," I said, shaking my head. "I want to hire her. Own her contract. I got work for her. So how much?"

"Why you need a whore?" he asked, handing his controller off to one of his boys and standing. He wasn't a big guy at all, a little on the short side. But he oozed intimidation. "You tired of payin' retail? Shit, just find you a dumb bitch white girlfriend. You got cash . . ."

"If I wanted a girlfriend, we wouldn't be talking. I want to retain her, free and clear of other encumbrances. She's going to work with me on some business deals."

"Bitch can't type," he said, counting off on one hand, "bitch can't use a computer. Bitch can barely use a phone."

"The bitch knows how to use her mouth and her cunt," I countered. "That's the part I need."

He considered a moment while his replacement at the console completely fucked up the game. I told him to flick. Idiot.

"Walk with me, white boy," he said, heading out of the room. Windex opened the door for him like magic, and he led me down a flight of rough concrete steps to a fire door. Carla followed submissively behind us.

Behind the door was a surprisingly neat and well-organized office, complete with a powerful new desktop and a couple of high-end laptops. There were three or four workstations set up, and a pretty young black girl was counting a pile of money and entering date into a spreadsheet.

The chair in the middle was an elaborate executive chair in black leather, about twelve hundred bucks of CEO-grade ass cushioning. Fireball took the chair and spun around to face us, motioning me to have a seat in one of the other chairs. Carla started to take another when he stopped her.

"The bitch will stand," he said, commandingly. Carla swallowed and nodded. "So, what the fuck do you want her for?" he said, honestly curious. Suddenly he didn't seem like Fireball Junior the Pimp, but had become some guy named Bill who ran his own business. "I know you've got some development deals going—"

"She helped me close a deal on the Liberty Warehouse property," I volunteered, setting down my bag. "And I think she can be useful in a similar capacity in the future."

"Old man Foster finally sold?" he asked, a little startled. "Shit! Dad was after that place for years. Not for the warehouse, but the out-parcel across the street was next to a dry cleaners for a while. Foster wouldn't sell to a negro," Bill said, laughing. "Old money white folks are like that. How did you get him to sell?"

"Sent Peaches over for a blow-and-go, and told him that was me playing nice. Then she mentioned what might happen if I wasn't so nice. Had the papers the next morning."

"A blowjob?" Fireball asked, incredulous. "That's all it took?"

"Old money white folks don't get nearly the dick sucking they need," I explained. "I took a chance that he'd appreciate a little on the down low. But I got the papers. We break ground this Spring, if everything goes according to plan."

"What are you planning to do with the out-parcel?" he asked, innocently.

Honestly, I didn't know. It was a tiny half-acre sliver of gravel and wild shrubs left over when the City put the street through, back in the 1960s. It had been used as a kind of free-for-all parking lot for the farmer's market for years, but when they moved the market down the street to its new home people quit parking there.

"Why?" I asked, warily.

"Because you might not realize," he said, knowingly, "that my father still owns the property it abuts to the south. He bought that dry cleaner out when he retired, and always wanted to do something with it, but there wasn't enough parking. Maybe put in a barbecue joint, he's got a fondness for pork. We use the place every now and then, but it's been empty for almost ten years, now. City's on our ass about it."

"Well," I said, cautiously, "I'd have to talk to my partners about selling it, but . . ."

"Nah, nah, man, don't sell it," he urged. "Donate it. I can get my Daddy to deed the property to a church. Rev. Rich over at Mt. Moriah's been lookin' for a place to set up a permanent home for the Rib Joint. You know about the Rib Joint?"

Everybody in town knows about the Rib Joint. For the last fifty years or so, when the local predominantly black college has a home football game, Mt. Moriah Baptist Church sets up a big tent on the front lawn – right on the way to the stadium – and a bunch of volunteers spend hours grilling ribs and chicken, while the woman's outreach make traditional Southern side dishes in that special way that only old Southern ladies can pull off. The place was packed from morning to night, and was possibly the single-biggest fundraiser of any church in the area. The pork ribs were perfectly grilled, the sauce was a well-kept secret, and you never went away feeling like you overpaid for your meal. I'd driven out of my way several times to make it over there for the succulent, mouth-watering ribs myself. The idea of a permanent home to that venerable institution – right across the street from my future offices – set my own mouth to watering.

It's a Southern thing, ribs. If you aren't from here . . . well, you won't understand.

"Yeah," I nodded, reverently. "You can get the Rib Joint?"

"Not without adequate parking," Bill pointed out. "But if we both donated the land to the church, we can both take a write-off, plus qualify for a couple of different public-private tax incentives the City is offering for community development."

"What about zoning?" I asked, imagining a vital business across the street, instead of a vacant building. "That space is zoned commercial, not restaurant."

"Ain't no big thing," he shrugged, twisting his chair back and forth idly. "Religious organizations fall under a slightly different zoning category in general, which, if I recall correctly, includes a great deal of latitude about just what constitutes a church-run enterprise as opposed to a for-profit commercial enterprise – that way they can zone daycare and senior centers into existing church property without having to get a variance every time someone wants to open a soup kitchen in a church basement."

"Interesting," I nodded. "I'll bring it up with my partners. They were considering the space for future development, or overflow parking—"

"Which is why a land donation to the church would be a wise move," he interrupted. "Selling the parcel out-right would incur plenty of costs up-front, not to mention losing control of future development issues on the property. This way, you can lease back the parking rights during off-peak hours for a nominal fee, a low-cost alternative to maintaining the tax and insurance liability of the space. Take the deduction on the front end, pocket the City money, keep limited use of the space: win, win, win. Plus, it would be outstanding for community relations," he added.

"So what's in it for you?" I asked. Pimps and drug dealers rarely act out of a sense of community involvement. At least on television.

"Oh, we'd be unloading a property tax sink-hole," he admitted. "Rev. Rich is a big client of Daddy's, and he'd owe us big for that."

"That can't be all," I said, shaking my head.

"Let's just say that it would be best if no unfriendly parties had a hand in the restoration of the place," he said, carefully, after a moment's thought. "Plus the improvement in the property, in addition to the Liberty Warehouse development, would raise the median property value in the district by at least thirty points. We own or have interest about six parcels within two blocks of there, which would net us an increase in value of close to three hundred grand, should we choose to re-amortize or sell on a future open market."

I blinked. "You went to business school, didn't you?"

"Got an MBA," he said, proudly. "Graduated in the top ten percent."

My turn to raise an eyebrow. "Then why aren't you . . .?"

"Picking up a six figure corporate salary and driving a Beamer to work?" he chuckled. "I made more than four million, off-books, last year. That's personal, not family business. I got the cars. I got the women. I got the money. I got the house. And I just love the casual dress code," he said, picking at his t-shirt. "You can't buy that kind of security in corporate America. I figure I got five more years sellin' blow and rentin' ho's, then I can retire and work on my stock portfolio."

"That's an intriguing strategy," I conceded.

"Will you two quit the mutual jerk-off session and get back to the whole selling my ass part?" Carla finally burst out. We both looked at her sharply.

"Shut up, bitch," Fireball said, Bill momentarily absent from his features. "We're talking man-talk."

"About selling her ass," I sighed. "How much? The whole thing, too, not just . . . limited use of the space."

"Kiki?" he said to the young woman counting money. "How much Peaches owe?" The young woman looked up, then off into space a moment.

"Ten thousand, nine hundred and eleven," she said, figuring it out in her head.

"That's how much," Fireball agreed. "You pay the dough, the ho is free to go. But I don't think it's a wise investment. Carla, she flaky."

"She's a coke whore," I said, flatly. "I'm aware of that."

"You got the money?" he asked, shaking his head doubtfully. "Or I can do check or credit card. In good faith, understand."

"Cash," I agreed, pulling out my bag. I counted out ten thousand in one-hundred dollar bills, then glanced at Carla and counted out another five grand.

If Carla's eyes were as wide as dinner plates, Fireball seemed to take everything in stride – until I went past the agreed-upon price.

"I know I'm a good negotiator," he said, "but fifteen grand for a ten-grand whore is just takin' advantage of a white boy."

"The change is for a few things. A couple of eight-balls for Carla – I'll take those when I go. The rest is for insurance."

"Insurance?" he asked, curious. "Whore insurance?"

"Carla insurance," I corrected. "If she gets out of line, her contract temporarily reverts back to you for . . . corrective purposes. Consider it outsourcing my training program."

Fireball chuckled amiably. "I like your style, Coop. Very well – bitch gets out of line, we go get her and put her back into line – with a slightly enlarged and inflamed sphincter." Carla shuddered visibly. "Other than that, she's yours. Kiki? Gimme a double eight," he said, and within five seconds two small bags of cocaine were laid in front of him. "Kiki's my little sister. She runs my books."

"She has an MBA, too?"

"Nah, nah, just a CPA. But she keeps me straight with Daddy. Kiki, say hello to the white boy."

"Hey, Coop," she said, casually. "I know you, actually. I was two grades behind you in high school. I remember you. Smart," she said, with a nod of satisfaction. "I like smart white boys."

"I remember you, now!" I said, snapping my fingers. "Only it wasn't Kiki, it was—"

"Claudia!" Bill and Kiki groaned at the same time. "My momma and her stupid Latin names . . ."

We chatted back and forth a bit about high school, mutual acquaintances, etc. Carla was quiet throughout the whole thing – Claudia had been a bit of a nerd herself, back in the day, although you'd never know it by looking at her now. I'm sure Carla didn't want to remind us both she was a bitchy cheerleader, back then, so she kept her mouth shut.

"So!" Fireball clapped, after he had counted the money into a bank bag and Kiki had set up an "account" with the code word "Geeky White Boy" for me in their system. "I know you just bought a whore, but . . . feel like a blowjob on the house?" he asked, expectantly.

I was confused, and he saw it and clarified. "Not Peaches' tired old mouth – let me get those two new ho's down here and suck us off real quick. You game?"

I shrugged. Who doesn't want a free blowjob from a freshly broke-in whore? "Sure, why not? To seal the deal," I reasoned.

"Kiki, it gonna piss you off we get freaky in here?" Bill asked his sister respectfully. She didn't even look up from her monitor.

"Nah, it's your office. I'm good, y'all go ahead."

Bill nodded and then stuck his head outside the door and hollered upstairs. Carla just stared at me in shock.

"Here they come!" Bill said, excitedly, as he ushered in two young girls, no more than a few months over eighteen. They looked artificially excited and had the glazed and hazed look in their eye that told me they'd just "powdered their nose."

"Dude, this is Babygirl," he said, introducing a slightly plump brunette with sexy dark eyes and medium sized boobs, "and this is Ellie Mae," he said, offering a buxom blonde whose hair was done up in long braids, and she wore a tight tank top and Daisy Dukes. She looked like a coked-up slutty version of the Clampett girl on TV. "So which one you wanna try?"

Decisions, decisions! "Let me take Babygirl," I decided, finally. "You know how to suck a cock, honey?"

"Since I was thirteen years old!" she agreed, automatically dropping to her knees while Fireball positioned Ellie Mae in front of his captain's chair. Both ladies dug our cocks out with a mixture of enthusiasm and giggles – I could see why they were so popular. By the time Babygirl's big soft lips and hot, wet mouth engulfed my cock head, I was happy to endorse their career path.

She began with an intense sucking on just the head, while her fingers toyed with my scrotum, all but ignoring my shaft. She included some welcoming moans and groans that felt magnificent, and her tongue danced slow, lazy circles around the glans until I was about squirming in my seat. She looked up lustily at me, re-adjusting her position so that she could get far more of me in her mouth. I looked up over her bobbing head at the sight of Fireball getting his wang eagerly sucked by Ellie Mae, his hands hanging on to her braids as he gave her instruction and verbal encouragement – this was as much a tutorial as a cum-break.

"Y'all crazy!" Kiki said, shaking her head amused. "You can't go five minutes without gettin' your dick sucked, Bill!"

"Perks!" he smiled, broadly. "Maybe if you got your cobwebs cleaned every now and then you—"

"Don't finish that sentence!" Kiki warned. "Y'all just go on and get your nut and let me work!" Despite her protests, however, I could see her stealing glances as me as Babygirl sucked me off so diligently. I was intrigued by that, even as I was spiraling closer and closer to exploding in Babygirl's mouth.

Carla didn't look very happy, despite her recent turn in fortune. I caught her eye and winked, and coaxed a blush from her while she watched, absently.

"Oh, yeah!" Bill said lustily, as he forced Ellie Mae's head down on his cock faster and faster. "Oh, yeah! Suck it, bitch, suck it!"

"Nice!" I sighed, pulling Babygirl's lips down to the base of my dick by steering her bobbing head. "Very nice! Gonna blow – you'd better swallow, sweetie!" She made an affirmative-sounding noise in her throat, which was all the encouragement I needed. She grabbed the base of it with her fist and started a gentle rhythmic stroking that followed her lips closely. The extra pressure and friction was just too much – I grabbed her ears and pistoned her up and down, leaning back to lodge as much cock in her eighteen-year-old mouth as possible before I finally spewed a powerful load of sperm into it. Her mouth transformed to a tight vacuum as she swallowed down every droplet, her head not slowing much at all. When she sensed I was done she sat back on her heels and gave me a spermy smile, her hand still slowly stroking the last few drops out.

"Thank you!" she said with a satisfied sigh. "That was nice! You taste good!"

"Ah! Ah! Ah! AH!" Bill moaned, and cut loose with what was apparently a prodigious load across his new employee's tongue. She struggled a bit but swallowed it all, too, looking up self-consciously to see if she had pleased the boss adequately. Then she turned and gave Carla a bitchy little smile. I could see why she was sensitive about these new girls.

"Oh, man, thanks for that, Bill," I sighed as Babygirl put my cock away. "That hit the fucking spot! Before they go, though," I asked, as the girls rose, wiping their lips, "I'd like to hire one of them for a little job – on my account, if you don't mind."

"I'm in no mood to argue," he sighed, pleased with himself. "Whatcha want? Someone to lick your asshole?"

"Nah," I shook my head. "I want . . . Ellie Mae, I think. I want her to eat Carla out."

That took a moment to sink into the little blonde's head. Her face wrinkled into an unpleasant expression of disgust.

"No!" she protested. "I ain't no fuckin' dyke!"

"Bitch, you a dyke if I say you a dyke!" Bill asserted forcefully. "Man wants his bitch serviced – he's paid his money. Eat the bitch out!" he commanded.

"But . . . but . . ." Ellie Mae said, her lip quivering. "I'm not gay!" she said, miserably.

"What, you think all my clients got cocks?" Fireball asked, evilly. "Just wait until the students are back. You gonna get to know Dyke Park real well," he chuckled. "You gonna be ass deep in horny ol' cunt before you know it!"

"Yeah, just wait until the Berthas get you," Carla added with a snicker. "You're gonna fall to your knees and thank God for the next time some brotha wants to fuck you in the ass!"

"So get to lickin'!" Fireball repeated. "Now, bitch! Babygirl, you stay and watch. You'll find it . . . instructional."

Ellie Mae looked like she was about to burst into tears, but another stern look from Fireball and she slowly slid to her knees in front of Carla, who was silently gloating at the turn of events. She slid her skirt up her thighs slowly, until her panties were in clear view. Kiki had stopped even a pretense of working and turned around to watch.

Ellie Mae looked around for any kind of support, any reprieve at all – and found none. Bill glared at her. Kiki and I looked at her expectantly. Babygirl was fidgeting uncomfortably, but was quite unwilling to intervene. And Carla – Carla was eagerly anticipating the act. She tugged aside the crotch of her panties and hung her legs over the arms of the chair to give the prostitute protégé unrestricted access to her twat.

"Lick my pussy," she commanded with the same air of superiority she had used on countless nerdlings in High School. It was honestly the very first trace of the old Carla I'd seen since I first picked her up. "Lick it now, you stupid little bitch!"

With that she grabbed the back of Ellie Mae's blonde head and pulled it into her shaved snatch, while the younger girl squealed in protest. Carla was unrelenting, however, pushing the girl's head around until her mouth found just the right spot.

Creamer
Creamer
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