Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 03

"What's your problem?" I ask.

"Women like you," she says.

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough already. You make it harder for the rest of us to be taken seriously."

"Maybe you need to take your anger out on the world where a woman has to do things like this to get ahead," I explain.

"I never had to. Women like to think we're these fragile Fabergé eggs. Pretty to look at, easy to break, only for display. Sleeping with the boss for a promotion isn't just part of the program, it's a shortcut. Women don't have to do it, they do it because they can," Bianca says with a soul crushing scowl.

"Men don't need to do it," I say.

"That's not how it works. Men don't do it, because they generally can't, not because they don't have to. There are plenty of men who would suck a dick for a raise, but no one wants them to suck their dick. So, the men must work for it, while we always have the option to fuck for it. We actually have the advantage."

"Plenty of women are coerced into it, and don't talk because they fear no one will believe them."

"What color is the sky in your world? Women believe that, because they keep hearing from other women no one will believe them despite every major case being believed regardless of evidence."

"Are you, like an MRA or something?" I ask.

"No, I'm just a sister who has watched countless women googly eye my brothers. No matter what you tell yourself, hypergamy is a female invention," she says, and stops looking at me to get back to work. I want to say more, but she takes a call, and starts actively ignoring my presence. What a bitch.

I leave the building and walk to my car with the uniform. I check my phone in the parking lot, seeing two calls were forwarded while I was away. There is also a message from Matt he sent about three minutes ago. I smile while opening the message.

We need to talk.

That's the message you send right before you break up with someone. I'm getting dumped before we even started dating. One and done? Got what he wanted from me, and that's it? I called him yesterday because I needed something, so I catch myself off guard when this message truly bothers me.

I call him, but the call stops after two rings and goes to voicemail.

"Fuck you too," I say, and end the message.

--

Saturday - April 9, 2021

-Lady Smith-

I draw a lovely sign saying Keith Whitmore with a small whiteboard after I park the car. I've been instructed to park in the short-term lot, make a sign, and go meet the client near baggage claim. He's coming off a United Slight from New York and write the flight number down to make sure I'm at the correct carousel.

I look like every other chauffer, only I don't have the hat like a elevator operator. People start pouring out of the terminal, and I check my phone while I'm waiting. Matt had tried the rest of the day yesterday to say it wasn't what he made it sound like. I should just call him back, but I've always been bad at this. The worst part is that I'm fully aware I do it. When a guy pisses me off, I just ice him until he's tired of being left out of the cold and bails. Then I get mad when he leaves.

While I cyberstalk Matt, I sense a presence near me, and pocket my phone.

"I'm Keith," the man says.

Old enough to be my father with salt and pepper hair. Not old like he needs Viagra. Polo tucked into khakis with a black belt and matching shoes. Could be worse.

"I'm your driver. Any baggage?" I ask, keeping up appearances.

"Just the carry on," he says, motioning a little to the small suitcase he's dragging by a handle.

"Right this way," I say.

I lead him to the car, put his bag into the back, and take the driver's seat. Instead of taking the back seat, he takes the passenger seat.

"You could sit in the back," I say. He touches the inner part of my right thigh, rubbing his hand up and down, and gets a little closer to center every time it goes up again. I look at his hand and see the silver wedding band.

"You're hotter than Ryan described. Didn't do you justice," he says, and I exhale slowly. The difference between creepy and flattery is context.

"Which hotel?" I ask.

"No hotel. I have a house," he says.

"Where?" That hand found the middle. His two center fingers and now pushing against the pants.

"Right off twenty-seven, I'll tell you when to turn," he says.

Twenty-seven is right off the airport, and he literally lives just down the road. I was barely on it before we turned and began driving up to the incredible homes on mountain view. The ones owned by everyone who doesn't live in Montana full time. We pull in front of the garage and tells me to leave the bag in the back for now.

He takes me to the sunroom, which is one giant window facing the city of Billings. We're up in the mountainous region, so the view is breathtaking. I can see an outdoor patio with comfortable furniture and a gas bonfire for the colder months. A massive television is mounted to the wall with a soundbar and wireless surround sound speakers in the corners. Stone flooring in the sunroom and fluffy rugs underneath the leather furniture and hardwood tables.

"What do you do?" I ask after taking it all in.

"Venture capitalist. I invested in several natural gas companies in Montana and North Dakota. Loved the region, decided to get some property," he says. He comes up from behind me, reaches over and starts sliding my jacket off. "Drink?"

"I don't drink on the job," I say, and he finishes taking my jacket from me. He drapes it on the back of a chair on his way to the kitchen which overlooks the room, it being built three steps over the sunroom. He makes himself a drink, carries it with his fingertips back to the sunroom, and sits on one of the leather chairs.

"Strip. Slowly," he says, taking a sip and placing it on the armrest balance between his thumb and index finger. I fold up the collar to start with the tie first. "Keep the tie on. I dig the Avril Levine look."

The buttons go slow. I slide the shirt off my shoulders. I was told not to wear a bra, so now the tie is loose and between my breasts.

"Damn those are some nice titties. You get any work done?" he asks.

"All me," I say. He pulls his pants to his ankles and starts jerking himself off.

"Keep going," he says.

I face away from him and pull down my pants while bent over. I slide my panties over just a little to tease him and put them back in place. I step out of the pants and face him again.

"Put the shirt back on, leave it unbuttoned," he orders. I comply, making sure they just cover my nipples, leaving him inner side boob. "Say I'm sorry I didn't do my homework."

The fuck?

"What's my teacher's name?" I say, thinking I have to be some schoolgirl in mind's eye.

"Not your teacher. Stepdaughter," he says. This guy watches too much porn.

"Did I also not do my chores?" I tease.

"Say it!" he shouts, and I tense up a little. I collect myself and try to remember what being scolded felt like. I face the ground and look up at him with only my eyes.

"I'm sorry I didn't do my homework," I say, then look at the ground again.

"Young lady, what I have told you about looking at me when you apologize."

"I'm sorry," I say, then slowly look up again. "I know you said you'd take my phone, but I need it. Please don't take my phone away."

"I'm going to have to tell your mother," he says.

"No, don't," I say, playfully panicked. "It could just be our little secret." I start slowly walking toward him and lean over to rub both his thighs. "You keep this secret, and I won't tell mom about you watching me when I sunbathe." His expression tells me that one hit a little too close to home. "I know you watch me, that's why I do it."

"You naughty girl," he exhales.

"I'll study really hard, just let me keep my phone, and don't tell mom about that math test."

"What do I get if I don't tell her?"

"I don't tell her about this."

I start sucking his dick, slowly at first, then gradually start increasing tempo with my hand. I pull it out and look up at him.

"You like that daddy?" I ask, and he nods. "Can I keep my phone?"

"You can keep anything," he groans as I resume. "Play with yourself." I reach between my legs and slide my hand under my waist band. "Play for daddy."

"Does daddy have a condom?" I ask, and he doesn't even break scenario.

"Daddy doesn't like condoms."

"Daddy doesn't want to explain why I'm pregnant."

"Daddy will pay for an abortion."

"Threshold crossed," I say, standing up. He grabs me by the tie and yanks me back down.

"I'm paying top dollar for this. Say daddy I love you, please don't come in me, and take it dripping out of your pussy like a pro," he says. I'm dig my fingers under the tie to stop it from choking me. "Say it."

"No condom is extra," I say. I'm scared to attempt just to leave. For a guy like this, a few hundred bucks is nothing, and he'll pay just to get the scenario moving again. I'm going to at least get my money's worth. "Three-hundred. Creaming me is double."

"Fine. Get back in character."

"Daddy, you're hurting me," I say, without skipping beat.

"Because you never listen. Just like your mother," he says. That one hit a little close to me. He stands up, his drink falling off the chair, and drags me a few feet on my hands and knees. On all fours, he holds me down by the back of my neck and slaps my ass.

"Bad girls get punished," he says, and spanks me again. Firm, full palm slaps that I feel radiate heat afterwards. I'm all for the occasional spanking, but not like this. "Say it."

"Daddy, don't come in me," I say. I feel him adjusting behind me, and my panties being tugged to the side. He's at the precipice. "Daddy, don't come in me."

He pulls the tie back, arching my back, and penetrates me deep. He goes hard and fast with no build up. He's in, and he's drilling. The tie loosens up, but only so he could grab both of my ass cheeks.

"Say something," he orders.

"What are you doing daddy? What if mom comes home?" I say, half-heartedly.

"She won't. Our little secret Hailey," he says. Now I have a name in this scenario. I don't know why I thought the rich guy would be classier than my normal customer.

"Fuck me harder than you fuck her," I say. "I love you daddy."

"I love you too Hailey," he pulls me backwards into reverse cowgirl, and I balance with my hands on his thighs. "Ride me. Make daddy come."

"Please don't come in me."

"I want to see myself dripping out of you," he says.

"You can see it drip on me. I want to know what it tastes like," I say. It tastes like shit, number one, but I'd rather deal with gargling mouthwash than cleaning up a different mess.

"Daddy's coming."

"Please don't come in me daddy," I say, and there he goes. I feel every hot squirt of him. I play along for now. "It feels so good daddy."

"You feel too good. Daddy's not done yet."

He has no cool off period. His dick stays hard, and I'm fucked for so long I look for a clock. Ryan said this isn't an hourly job. The client is done when he's done, and he's not done. Not even close. Missionary on the couch. Doggy over the coffee table. Cowgirl on the chair. He has a lot of pent-up daughter issues to vent. He vents them deep inside me one more time. I don't remember the last time I got this sweaty during sex.

He's dropping straight into me when I'm on the couch with my ankles to my ears. He grunts into me and lets me go. We both catch our breath.

"Holy fuck," he says, collapsing into the chair naked. "Get my bag out of the car. I'll have your money by then."

I poorly get dressed in my clothes and retrieve his bag. By the time I get back, there is a thousand dollars in twenties on the kitchen counter. Take it and leave I'm told. As I walk out, I see the picture of his family. His wife, and a teenaged stepdaughter by the looks of it. The girl is wearing a white blouse with a black tie in her private school uniform. He wanted to fuck his stepdaughter by proxy.

I call Ryan on speaker as I pull back onto twenty-seven.

"No fetish huh?" I ask immediately.

"None that he mentioned."

"Fuck you. He didn't know my ground rules. Now I have a gallon of jizz to deal with, and Plan-B to buy because I am not having that guy's kid on accident."

"Center console," he says. I double check the road, then take my eyes away to open the console. There is already Plan-B in the car. "Already texted, said he loved you."

"He loves the idea of me," I say, hang up, and swallow a pill.

--

Sunday - April 10, 2021

First thing in the morning I get a call for a car lockout. I load up the tools for the day in my car and start driving out to the location. The call was somewhat unusual, because the woman was calling on behalf of someone else. The man locked his phone in the car as well, and a Good Samaritan called me for him. I get to the parking lot of the grocery store, and start doing laps, looking for someone trying to flag me down. I call the number back, and the woman says she already left, but the man was toward the middle of the parking lot under a light pole. I drive to each one until I suddenly jolt to a stop.

Matt stands in the middle of the lane, and I groan. Clever way to get me out here. I crank the window down and stick my head out.

"Move or I'll run you over," I warn.

"We need to talk," he says.

"I know what that means. You had your fun, and now you're trying to be nice about it because you're a nice guy. I'm not going to be part of your guilt therapy."

"I'm sorry I ignored your calls, but you need to listen to me. I couldn't answer," he pleads, placing his hands on my hood. I rev the engine, bumping the car forward into his legs. "Stop."

"Move."

"Not until he you listen to me."

I rev again and he jumps on the hood. Are you fucking kidding me? I drive five feet and brake hard. Matt goes tumbling over the top, disappearing from my view. I see other people looking at us, and I sigh, killing the engine and stepping out.

"Do we need to call the cops?" someone asks.

"No, we're fine. Lover's quarrel," Matt says once he gets back on his feet. "She's mad because I'm dumb," he explains, and that somehow defuses anyone from calling the police. A man attacks a woman in public and they call the National Guard. A woman can hit a man with a car, and everyone laughs. Shit, maybe Bianca has a point.

"What?" I ask. Matt holds his back where he landed, grunting as he bends himself sideways to stretch it. "Seriously, what?"

"You're being investigated," he says. How does he know that?

"I'm sorry what?"

"You remember what I said I do?" he asks.

"Kind of. Some finance guy," I say, knowing it's an oversimplification, but not sure what I'm oversimplifying.

"I'm a criminal finance consultant. The Billings PD hired me to consult on a case they're building against a biker gang called the 9^th Legion. Why is your face on their wall with the gang?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"They're who you owe money to, aren't they?" he says. I guess that was a plainly obvious observation all facts considered.

"Yeah, and? I made a bad bet, borrowed from them to pay it. Learned the hard way not to bet against Tom Brady." Forty-three-year-old quarterback goes to a team that hasn't been to the playoffs in thirteen years. Figured that was safe bet he'd lose to Aaron Rodgers.

"I need to tell them about us," he says, and I grab his arm.

"No you don't. Leave me the fuck out of it."

"Lady, it's not a matter of if they find out, it's when. I need to get in front of it, and so do you. You want out? This is a way out," he pleads. Once again, he's asking me to become a snitch.

"They put you up to this?" I ask, and he flinches back. "They fucking did, didn't they? You already knew when you met me?"

"No, I didn't."

"Stop fucking lying to me!"

"I'm not lying!" he shouts, and I punch him in the chest. "Stop!" I keep swing. He grabs my arms to contain me. "Stop for second, listen to me. I know what's it's like to feel like you're drowning. Like the only options are more bad ones."

"You're a fucking accountant. What the fuck do you know about any of this?"

"Do you know why I was arrested? I was an accountant for the Sinaloa Cartel," he says, and I don't know what that is. "Mexican drug cartel. One of the worst. The kind that hangs people off bridges and kidnaps the families of FBI agents. I was making two million dollars a year, with a sign on bonus of looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. I've seen some horrific shit, stuff you could never imagine. I got out by helping the FBI, turned informant, took a plea deal to make it look like I just got caught. Matt isn't even my real name."

I slowly let my arms fall, and he lets me go.

"Is anything about you true?"

"Everything else is, just my name isn't. I do have a cheating wife, and a daughter named Rose. That's real."

I believe him. He's doing this not at the behest of the police, but because he cares about me. He barely knows me, but he cares enough to not want me in the kind of danger I've put myself in.

"I can't go to the police."

"Why not."

"Because I can't. They always promise you shit. Immunity, reduced sentences, that they'll find who killed your dad, but they don't. They never do. You become their pawn, and the pawn always dies first. I'm tired of being used, and I don't think the solution is submitting to another user."

"I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I'll just say you should reconsider," he says. That worked out for him, but I don't see it working for me. He had information on someone they wanted more than him, and still had a use for him after the dust settled. I'll get thrown out like a used condom.

"Don't tell them about us."

"I'll make something up. Half-truth."

"Say nothing."

"Like I said, matter of when, not if. I used my burner phone to call you, but if they saw me when they were surveilling you, they might already know."

"Shit," I say, and relent he might as well at this point. "Not as an escort. They're already gunning for me on that."

"Like I said, half-truths. Where do you like to eat?"

"What?"

"Time and place we met, get the story straight." I get it.

"Queen of Hearts. Diner downtown. All bar seating on stools. You sat on the jack, I was on the queen. Waitress was named Dinah. I ordered dippers with toast and bacon. You started the conversation by saying your daughter dipped her toast in the yoke as well."

"Damn, you just come up with that?" he asks, and I nod. "Not bad. What happened next."

We spin a good yarn for several minutes down to the smallest detail possible. Once satisfied, we repeat the story, and agree to only meet again if necessary. I drive away from him and start crying at the first red light that stops me. I can't believe I let myself like him that much.