Pretty Baby Ch. 03

***

My first 'date' was something of a trial run, a last test to see if I really wanted to commit myself to being an escort. I was not obligated to take any further dates until I checked back in after my night with Mr. Dunson.

"Cleo Boaluca."

"Cleo," I said into the phone the following afternoon, after returning home from my classes. "It's Alyssa."

I could almost hear her smile. "Well, if it isn't our sweet 'Yvette,'" she said. "How are you?"

"Mmm," I sighed, leaning back on my couch. "I feel really good, actually."

Cleo giggled, sounding almost like me. "Let me tell you, you're not the only one."

"What do you mean?"

"We took a call this morning from Mr. Dunson," she said. "It's rare when a client calls back to comment on his evening. He had some very glowing things to say about you."

I blushed deeply. "He's a very nice man," I said.

"Well done, Alyssa."

"Thanks."

"So . . . ."

I breathed in deeply, let it out. "Set me up," I said.

"That's my girl."

***

James dropped me off before a ritzy steak house downtown the following Friday evening, just as the sun was disappearing beyond the towering buildings. I wore a slinky red dress with white stockings and a garter belt beneath. But no panties, of course. My client had specifically requested my undergarments. My hair was down, also as requested, and stirred in the breeze as I headed up the walk to the door. Men and women alike on the sidewalk gave me double-takes. I soaked them up proudly.

"Good . . . evening," said the Maitre'D behind the narrow host stand as he looked me over. There were about half a dozen people waiting to be seated, mostly couples, and they gave me interested looks.

"I'm expected by Mr. Cabrizzi," I said.

"Oh. Of course," the man said. "Right this way."

Once again, I felt on display as I followed the Maitre'D through the restaurant. Men stopped their conversations with friends, family, wives and girlfriends as I passed their tables. And once again, I reveled in the attention.

My client this time, Mr. Gabriel Cabrizzi, was quite a bit younger than Thomas Dunson. I put him in his mid-thirties, and was dark-haired, tall, and surprisingly good looking. He sat at a booth with a beer before him, talking animatedly on a cell-phone. He faltered a bit in his conversation as I approached, and looked me over with a sly smile.

"Hey, uh, Dan? I'll call you back. What? No, it can wait. I'll talk to you later." He snapped his phone closed and stood.

"Wow," he said, taking me in. "What did I do to deserve this?"

I smiled coyly, turned slightly, showing off my legs and butt. Not caring that dozens of people could see us, Gabriel reached out and touched my stocking-clad thigh. I didn't stop him.

"Very nice," he said, then returned his eyes to my face. "Yvette, right?"

I nodded. "Nice to meet you, Gabriel."

He took my hand, bent and kissed it like a gentleman. "Call me Gabe."

***

Gabe was really impressed with himself, that much was obvious. He went on and on about his real estate business, how successful he was, how he had become a millionaire before thirty. His phone rang several times during the meal, and he answered it each time. It was annoying, but I didn't show my consternation.

The only time he said something about me was when he commented on how 'hot' I was, how 'sexy' I was. By the time dinner was over, I was starting to hope that he would want to take me back to his hotel room and fuck, just to get the night over with.

Instead, we headed downtown, in a cab, with Gabe stroking my thighs the entire time and occasionally slipping his hand up between my legs to touch my pussy. He really wasn't turning me on with his 'man's man' attitude and crude jokes, but I pretended he did. I didn't stop him as he slipped a finger inside my pussy and commented, loud enough for the cab driver to hear, on how 'tight' I was.

We hit a couple of nightclubs, and Gabe showed me off like a new piece of artwork as we walked beneath black lights that made my white stockings glow. At one point, while dancing on the glossy black floor of one of the clubs, Gabe hitched my dress up to my waist, exposing my ass to any and everyone who cared to look -- and quite a few did -- and spanked my firm cheeks. I pretended to like it and let out fake gasps of pleasure.

Dinner and dancing out of the way, we headed back to Gabe's hotel room. Unceremoniously, he stripped naked and lay on the bed, stroking his hard penis. He was average-sized, but I had to admit he had a nice build. He shaved most of his body hair, including around his crotch. I had never seen a shaved penis before.

At last, something about him that turned me on.

He wanted to watch me strip, but told me to keep the stockings and garter belt on. I put on a little show, rubbing myself, pushing my breasts up to my face and licking my own nipples. He told me to stand in the middle of the room and masturbate. I did so, and once I called upon various fantasies and memories, managed to make myself cum.

"Wipe your cum on my cock, baby, then suck it," he commanded.

Dutifully, I did so, stroking his stiff penis with my slick hands. Once his dick was sufficiently coated, I went down on him, getting on my hands and knees beside him on the bed. The taste of my own cum on his cock fueled my efforts, and I lapped it all up. Gabe stroked my stocking-clad thighs and spanked my ass as I blew him, making my cheeks sting. I moaned and whimpered around his dick with each burning slap.

And the strange thing was, it turned me on.

I sucked him until he was about to cum, at which point he pulled my wet mouth off his cock and had me lay on my back. He got on his knees beside my head and jacked off furiously, finally spurting his pungent cream all over my face and in my mouth. He pushed his dick between my lips and I sucked the last little bits of cream from him, swallowing with a sigh. His cum was conspicuously heavy on my cheeks and chin.

"Leave it on, baby," he said, gazing upon my sperm-coated face. "Don't wipe it off."

Gabe rolled a condom down his penis, which remained hard, and got between my legs. I felt his cum separating and running down my face and along my neck as he pounded away. The kinkiness of the situation turned me on, and I wrapped my legs around him, fucking him back eagerly. He varied the angles of his thrusts, hitting all my pleasure centers and making me gasp and cry out in pleasure. Maybe Gabe was a rude, crass, self-impressed asshole, but he sure knew how to fuck.

He kept it up for a good half hour, talking dirty the entire time, telling me what a 'hot young bitch' I was and how 'nasty' I looked with his cum dripping down my face. He loved the feel of my stocking-clad legs and licked and nipped at them while fucking me. He howled like a banshee when he ejaculated into the condom, his orgasm helped along as I squeezed him tight with my PC muscle. I came as well, bucking under him, giving in to the purely physical act of fucking.

He pulled off the condom after slipping out of my swollen pussy, and held it over my mouth. I stuck out my tongue to catch the dribbles of semen he squeezed them out of the rubber, moaning for effect as his cream slid down along my tongue. Tossing the sticky thing aside, he kissed my cream-smeared mouth and told me to swallow.

Gabe fucked me two more times that night, once before the mirrored doors of the closets, bending me over and grabbing my hair and tits. He pounded me hard and fast, making me cry out in passion as I spurted my orgasm all over his groin. Then he had me suck my cream of his cock and lick it up from his balls and abdomen before getting me to ride him until he came.

After his third orgasm, we took a shower together, and Gabe took me again under the warm spray. He had me roll the condom down his dick with my mouth, something I had never done before and was a little awkward at, but Gabe just chuckled and smoothed the rubber down the rest of the way with his hands. Then he slammed me against the tiled wall and pounded me deep.

Gabe liked it rough, I realized. And I couldn't deny that I was into it, as well. I clawed his back and bit his neck and chest, making him tremble and grunt appreciatively. I clamped onto his nipple with my teeth when he came, howling and ejaculating deep inside me.

Then he sat on the toilet and watched me shower. I put on a little show for him, acting like a model before the camera. I didn't make myself cum, but I massaged my clit and nipples for Gabe's benefit and spent a few minutes thoroughly soaping up and cleaning my anus. Gabe seemed to like that, but his libido seemed sated. He did not try to take me again.

Afterward, Gabe reclined on the bed, smoking a clove cigarette as he watched me reapply my makeup and pull my stockings back on. I liked feeling his eyes on me as I went through my ritual. Getting dressed was as sexy as getting undressed, I realized. I purposely waited until the last minute before slipping on my dress.

"How old are you, Yvette?" he asked me.

I looked to him in the mirror. "Eighteen."

He laughed, rolling his eyes. "Damn. No wonder you're so tight!"

His comment was rude and offensive, but I kept smiling. "Did you enjoy your evening, Gabe?"

"Fuck, yeah," he said, sitting up. He flicked ash carelessly onto the floor. "You like doing what you do?"

I pursed my lips in a coy smile. "Of course."

"'Of course,'" he echoed. "So, how much?"

I frowned. "How much for what?" I asked.

He chuckled. "Don't give me that. I'm a millionaire, babe. How much to own you?"

I bristled and stared at his reflection, my smile fading. "I'm for rent, Mr. Cabrizzi," I said. "Not for sale."

He chuckled. "We'll see, babe, we'll see. Any chick can be owned. It's just a matter of price."

***

I called up Cleo again the following day. "I'm not gonna be owned, Cleo!" I declared before she even finished saying hello.

"Well, good morning to you, too."

I sighed. "I'm sorry," I said, and made an effort to calm down. "Good morning."

She chuckled. "I'm assuming you're referring to Mr. Cabrizzi," she said. "You know, I went back and forth about setting you up with him."

"What the hell was he talking about?"

Cleo sighed heavily into her phone. "Sometimes, a client will offer to 'buy out' a particular girl. Essentially, he has to match an amount equal to twice what a girl would make for a given period of time, if she worked every day—"

I winced. It was too early in the day for such double-talk. "Cleo."

She was quiet a moment. "He's offered $350,000 to own you for six months," she said.

I was struck speechless, clutching the phone tightly in my hand.

"You would get two-thirds of that," she continued. "A little over two hundred and thirty grand."

"Holy shit," I breathed, finding my voice at last.

"Now, being owned means that you have to always be available for him . . . and for anyone else he brings along."

I swallowed nervously. "What do you mean?"

"Well, he might want you to entertain business guests. It's not uncommon for owned girls to do gang-bangs, or cater to certain fantasies. These types of men seem to enjoy that. It doesn't matter what time of day or night, if he wants you, you have to be ready. There are no headaches, and being on your period doesn't mean you're safe, either."

I swallowed nervously. "Jesus."

"It's not often we get an offer like this," said Cleo. "Especially not for a girl as new as you. But I get the feeling Mr. Cabrizzi wants you while you're still 'fresh.'"

I was trembling. "D-do I have to say yes?"

"No, of course not," said Cleo quickly. "It is entirely up to you. If you say no, it's not going to ruin your standing with us."

"Wh-what do you think I should do?" I asked her.

"Do you like him?"

I hesitated for a moment, remembering the night before. "Well, he's kind'a rude . . . ."

"If you agreed to be owned by him, you would stay with him, in his house. You'd basically be a kept woman. A sex-slave. And Gabriel Cabrizzi lives out of town."

I shuddered. "I'd have to withdraw from the semester."

"Yes, you would."

"You don't think I should do it, do you?"

"Honestly? No. Not at all. I know Gabe. I know him very well. He wants you because you're young and still have that innocent look. Guys like him, they want to take cute young things like you and twist them around, abuse them."

I trembled, imagining all sorts of cruel and degrading scenarios. "I don't wanna do it," I said.

"I didn't think so," said Cleo, her voice soft again. "I already sent a reply on your behalf this morning."

I laughed into the phone, feeling relieved. "You're like my big sister, you know that?"

"I know, honey. I'm gonna look out for you."

I let out a sigh of relief, reached for my cigarettes. "Okay, so . . . got another one for me? Someone normal?"

Cleo laughed. "Well, now that you mention it, there's a businessman in town who would like a little company tonight . . . ."

***

Throughout the rest of spring, I averaged four dates a week. Most were businessmen, but a few were locals who had the money and nothing better to do than enjoy an eager teenaged girl for the night. I went to parties, restaurants, public functions and private clubs in my role as escort, and became more and more adept at conversation and high society. I developed quite the sharp wit and learned a few things about business, enough to impress my dates and their friends.

I gave myself willingly to every man I was paired with. On rare occasions, James dropped me off at a client's house, where I remained for the night, acting as private dancer and personal slut, satisfying my client in every way he wanted before calling James to pick me up in the wee hours of the morning.

Many of my clients were courteous and respectful, treating me like a princess to be admired. Others were crass and rude, seeing me as little more than a high-priced hooker from which they were determined to get their money's worth. I always managed to find something attractive or arousing about nearly every man I was with, and more often than not enjoyed the sex I shared with them, whether it be tender and sweet or rough and animalistic. I liked it both ways.

But some men -- a very small percentage of those I spent time with -- had no redeeming qualities, and while I bucked and thrashed against them like the eager little whore I essentially was, faking my orgasms, I couldn't wait for such dates to be over.

Cleo told me she was careful to pair me with men whom she thought I would like, but when it came down to it, she really did not know every man's tastes and preferences, especially among newer clients. Sometimes, my clients were the result of a roll of the dice, as it were. Sometimes I hit jackpot, sometimes I did not.

For the most part, however, I was enjoying myself. The majority of my clients were gracious men who treated me well and appreciated what I did for them, both in the bedroom and out. I even earned a few regulars, men I liked that I allowed to request me (Cleo said I could list some men as 'favorites,' so that when they called the service, I was one of the first to be made available for them).

Life was good. I worked when I wanted, took time off when necessary to devote to studying. The money I made insured I would never have to worry about my bills. I felt in control of my life.

***

The end of my first year of college brought about a sense of relief. I had studied hard for my finals and was rewarded with three As and two Bs. My grade point average sat at a very comfortable and respectable 3.6.

As the summer began, I was anticipating taking a vacation to Mexico, or maybe a Mediterranean cruise. I could certainly afford it, after all. Through Cleo, I had opened a 'corporate' account into which I deposited most of my money, some of which was invested and slowly began earning me dividends. I was free to draw upon the account whenever I wanted.

I decided to take some time off from 'dating.' While I enjoyed my profession, I felt I needed a break from the parade of men. I wanted to enjoy being, as Cleo said, 'little old me.'

In the meantime, Julie and I had become pretty close friends. While I had not told her about my profession, over time she began to wonder why I never dated guys from school and where I went three, four or five nights a week. Whenever she came over, she commented on my clothes and decorations -- while I heeded Cleo's advice about being too gregarious in my spending, I still liked to surround myself with certain creature comforts -- and it was obvious she was beginning to suspect something.

"What do your folks do again?" she asked one afternoon, a week after finals. We sat watching TV and eating popcorn, just a couple of teenagers. I liked my 'girl time' with Julie. It was a relaxing contrast to the evenings I spent as a 'society girl.'

"My dad's an electrician," I told her. "Mom works at a real estate office."

Julie nodded. I could tell her wheels were spinning.

I sighed, picking up the bowl of popcorn from my lap and setting it on my new claw-footed mahogany coffee table. "Just say it, Julie."

She gave an innocent look. "Say what?"

"Or . . . ask, whatever," I said, frustrated. I met her gaze, waiting.

She took a breath, making her full breasts swell, and looked away a moment. A little smile crossed her face. "You don't have a job," she said. "And when you did, you lived like a typical college student. Now, it's like, every time I come over, you've got a bigger TV, or better furniture . . . you've gone from two mattresses stacked on the floor to one of those 'SleepNumber' beds with six-hundred-count sheets. Not to mention all the new jewelry, and those clothes in your closet . . . ."

"You've been in my closet?" I asked, defensive.

She gave a sheepish, apologetic look. "I snuck a peek, once," she said. "Look, I'm not trying to intrude—"

"Oh, really?"

Julie stared at me. "What's going on?" she asked softly, full of concern for me.

I looked away and lit a cigarette. "Nothing."

"Where do you go at night?" she asked, pressing the issue. "I mean, sometimes I'd call at one, two o'clock in the morning on a school night, and you don't answer."

"Maybe I'm sleeping," I said wryly.

"You don't have a boyfriend," Julie continued, then laughed sharply. "And you don't have a girlfriend. But sometimes, when I'd see you in class, you'd have that look."

I tapped my cigarette, not looking at her. "What look?"

"Like you got some," she said knowingly. "And got it good."

I sighed, pulled on my cigarette. I realized my hands were shaking a little.

Julie uncurled from the floor and crawled up on the couch, facing me. "Look, Alyssa," she said emphatically. "I'm not the National Enquirer. I'm not gonna go blab your secrets to anybody. I'm just your friend. And, to be honest, I'm a little worried about you."

I bit my lip, contemplating whether or not to tell her the truth.

"Are you having an affair with a married man?" she asked, her lips curled in a devilish grin. "Or . . . one of the professors?"

"Julie . . . ."

"Come on, tell me!" she insisted. "I swear, I'll never tell anybody! Promise! So who is it? Professor Karnowski? I've seen the way he checks you out—"

I finally looked to her. "You really wanna know?"

She bit her lip, big brown eyes glowing. "Yeah," she whispered.

I took a deep breath to steel myself . . . and told her.

***

Julie stared at me in disbelief once I was finished. Her mouth hung open in shock. I could tell she thought differently about me now. I hoped it wasn't a bad thing.

"You . . . you're a . . . call-girl?" she asked breathlessly.

I nodded, and lit another cigarette. I blew a plume of smoke into the air, watched it dissipate in the air as a breeze blew through the open balcony door. "Yup."