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escort service
This was originally posted back in 2000 under the title "Lovin
to Go." It was a Write Club Duel against I. After going
back over some of my this summer, I decided it needed a
re-write. A couple areas have been changed and expanded, but for
the most part, the plot (if you could call it that!) hasn't
changed. And of course it has a brand new, much more appropo
title. <g>
If you're not familiar with Trudy Tolliver, you can read about
her first adventure, "The Case of the Masochistic Wrestlers" at:
<http://www.asstr.org/~Souvie/wrestlers.html>
I live for feedback. You can email me at: femecrivain at netdot
dot com or use the handy form on my website:
http://www.asstr.org/~Souvie
It's "I write, you read," not "I give, you take." So please
don't post this anywhere without my permission.
= = = = = = = = = =
The Case of the Extortive Escort Service (FFF, toys, oral)
(A Trudy Tolliver Story)
by Souvie
copyright 2000 and 2002
"You need four parts sugar, six parts potassium nitrate, and a
small container like a Coke bottle, but make sure to perforate
it. Once you have all the ingredients-"
I stared at the small television as I walked into the break
room. "What are we watching?"
"How to make a bomb," someone volunteered.
"It's a new daytime show. 'Sammy!' or something like that,"
Melissa said. I sat down at the table with her, my back to the
TV set. Melissa worked in copy and we'd gone to the and
lunch a couple times. She was okay in a sort of bland, vanilla
kind of way.
"So what's new, Trudy?" she asked, offering me some of her
grilled chicken salad.
"Nothing," I said, taking a bite. "I'm thinking about taking
some of my vacation time."
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know, maybe someplace warm and exotic and far away
from Mr. Peterson's damn bellowing."
Dirk stuck his head in the doorway. "Trudy, Peterson is
yelling for you."
I smiled ruefully at Melissa and took one last bite. "Jamaica,
I think. Yes, definitely Jamaica."
= = = = = =
"You want to run that by me one more time," I said, trying to
wrap my brain around what my boss had just told me.
"What part of English don't you understand, Tolliver?" Mr.
Peterson asked, rummaging in his desk for a cigar. "You're
going undercover as an escort."
"Escort as in escort service?"
"You know of another kind?" He gave up his search, and slammed
the desk drawer in frustration. Everyone at the office knew
that Mrs. Peterson was trying to get her husband to quit his
cigars.
"Why me?"
"Because I just decided to make you this paper's new
investigative reporter. You want it engraved in stone or
something?"
"Okay, now why?" I settled back in my chair. I couldn't wait
to hear his explanation.
"You may or may not know this already, but my is
to Councilman Voeks. Someone is blackmailing him. He wants--"
"Isn't that a problem for the cops?" I interrupted.
"Normally, yes, except for the highly sensitive nature of this
whole thing. It's election year, and he's being bribed with
porno pictures."
I whistled. "Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, huh?"
He waved a hand in the air. "My swears that they're
doctored. Either way, we need to find out who's behind it so
that appropriate measures can be taken."
I interrupted again. "How can he not know who's blackmailing
him?" If this Councilman Voeks was representative of our city
government, we were surely on our way to Hell in a handbasket.
Peterson frowned. "The blackmail pictures and demand arrived
unsigned by mail. He's supposed to deliver $30,000 by tomorrow
at noon to an abandoned building downtown, or else the pictures
will be sent to the local rag mags."
"Then how does he know this escort service is involved?"
"Shit, you're full of questions today, Tolliver! Because he
goes through the escort service to get a date for society
functions when my sister's out of town. He swears the company
is legit -- never a hint of anyone coming on to him or
propositioning him -- but something doesn't sound right to me.
And that's where you come in."
He tossed some papers across the desk at me.
"What's this? I asked, picking them up and thumbing through.
"Your application for employment and some other forms you'll
need. I've already placed the preliminary calls. Actually, I
had Melissa place them for me. I need as much information as
you can get me before 11am tomorrow."
I stopped flipping through the papers and pointed to one of
them. "I never had a physical."
"It's required, I guess to make sure the employees are in good
physical health. I had Dr. Rosetti fill out one for you."
"Dr. Rosetti from the county morgue?"
"He's a licensed doctor. It'll hold as long as no one goes
checking his AMA license." His chair squeaked as he rolled it
back and stood up. "Now shake your ass and get."
= = = = = =
I stopped at my apartment to get a small bag of clothes
together. According to my cover I was Trudy Thicket,
fresh off the bus from Kansas and in desperate need of a job and
place to stay.
I was debating on whether or not to change out of my jeans when
Remy stuck his head inside the door.
"Okay, you are home. The outer door was open so I just let
myself in," he explained, leaning against the doorjamb.
"Yep, but not for long. Whatcha need, Remy?" I gathered my
hair up in a ponytail.
Remy lived in the apartment below me, and was a private
investigator. The epitome of "tall, dark and handsome," he was
the subject of most of my late night erotic dreams. I'd never
tell him that, though. We had a nice, simple, friendly
relationship and I liked it that way. From all indications, he
did, too. Sometimes fantasies are nicer when they never come
true.
"I don't need anything."
Remy never just lets himself in. He looked about as nervous as
a class jock at a high school reunion. I looked him dead in the
eye and raised my eyebrows.
"Okay," he said, smiling sheepishly. "My apartment is being
painted tomorrow and I wanted to know if I could crash here for
the night?"
"What about Maria?" Maria was his current love du jour.
"She's got to go out of town, her mom's sick."
"Why don't you crash at her place then?"
"We haven't been dating that long. Plus she's shy and well, I
don't exactly feel comfortable asking her."
I shrugged. "Okay then."
"There's just one more thing."
I sighed. There always was. "Which is?"
"I don't want her to know I stayed here. I don't think she'd
get jealous, but like I said -"
"Yeah, yeah, you haven't been dating that long." I zipped up
my overnight bag. "I won't be here tomorrow night anyway, so I
don't see a problem. I'll give you the extra key now, and you
can just lock up when you leave."
He grinned and hugged me. "Thanks, Trudy."
"No problem. Oh, while you're here, got any suggestions for
subtly altering my appearance? I don't need anything drastic or
permanent -- just something so that I wouldn't be easily
recognized." My had been in the paper recently because
of a big wrestling case, and I didn't want to take the chance
that anyone at the escort service would recognize me.
"Hmmm. I've got that long black wig I wore last year when I
was investigating a company for insurance fraud. You could wear
that; it's not one of those super cheap ones where you can tell
it's a wig. And you could touch your eyebrows up with mascara.
That way it won't look like a dye job."
"Thanks, Remy, you're a lifesaver!" I kissed him on the cheek.
I could have sworn he blushed. "You go downstairs and find that
wig, and I'll just do the mascara touches and be down shortly."
= = = = = =
Discriminating Delights was in a high-class business slash
residential section of downtown. It was not what I'd been
expecting. The office was in a renovated colonial style home,
traces of wrought iron fence posts framing the front
entrance. The trim was done in a light pink color with a gazebo
off to the side, a profusion of roses climbing up the trellis.
I walked up the brick path and through the large oak doors. A
receptionist in a room off the foyer took my name and asked me
to have a seat. I looked around, feeling like a hick on her
first time to the big city. The understated elegance of the
whole place had me wondering if I'd gotten the address right.
"Mrs. Coopersmith will see you now." The secretary's voice
broke through my perusal of the room.
I shouldered my overnight bag, and walked through the door that
the secretary had gestured to. An woman was inside,
sitting behind a large desk, and she smiled and stood as I
entered. "Trudy, so nice to see you. Please, have a seat."
I sat in one of the plush chairs in front of her desk, and
automatically handed her the sheaf of papers that Mr. Peterson
had prepared for me.
She took the papers, and started rifling through them. She
asked me some basic questions: Where was I from? How long had I
lived in Dallas? Why did I want to be an escort?
I'd rehearsed what I would say on the drive over, so I answered
her with confidence.
Mrs. Coopersmith put me at ease. With her upswept hair, chic
suit and friendly demeanor, she reminded me of someone's well-to-
do grandmother, not the owner of a successful escort service and
potential blackmailer. I wondered what was wrong with her.
"Well, Trudy, all your paperwork is in order, and your physical
checks out just fine. I'm willing to take you on a one week
trial basis if you're still interested."
"Oh, I am!"
"Good." She looked at the top paper again. "I understand that
you don't have any place to stay, is that right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Her laugh was as clear as newly spun glass. "Please, just call
me Constance. We're not that formal here at Discriminating
Delights."
"Okay, Constance."
"Very good. Now, I'm writing down Cynthia's address. She's one
of my most popular and she's got a spare room you can stay
in until you get on your feet."
"Are you sure she won't mind?"
Constance handed me a piece of paper with an address on it.
"She won't mind if she likes her job." She smiled and stuck out
her hand. "Welcome to our family."
= = = = = =
Cynthia lived in an upscale condo with an Olympic sized
swimming pool directly behind it. I thought that if most of the
escorts had similar places, I was in the wrong line of work.
A wearing workout clothes answered the door. "Hi, you
must be Trudy. Constance called to let us know you were coming
over. I'm Priscilla," she said, stepping aside to let me enter.
From what I could see of the condo during Priscilla's quick
tour, it was almost as nice as the company's office.
Priscilla led me upstairs to a room at the end of a long
hallway. "This is your room. I'm right across the hall,
Cynthia's roommate, more or less."
The room was huge. I could have fit my whole kitchen just in
the closet alone.
While I put my clothes away, I kept glancing at Priscilla from
the corner of my eye. She looked awfully familiar, but I
couldn't quite place her. "Where is Cynthia?" I asked, placing
my empty bag under the bed.
"It's her turn to do the grocery shopping. She should be back
soon."
The phone started ringing and Priscilla reached across my bed
to the phone on the night table to answer it.
The conversation was brief and she scribbled something down on
a piece of paper. When she hung up she said, "That was
Constance. You've got a date tonight. Mr. Adams will pick up
you at 8pm, for the opera."
"Already?" Damn that was quick.
"Yes, it doesn't take long for her to 'initiate' you to the
business." She laughed. "If you stay in this line of work, one
thing you won't lack for is a date. Do you have something to
wear?"
"For the opera? No."
"You're about Cynthia's size. I'm sure you can find something
in her closet that's appropriate."
"I've got it!" I said, snapping my fingers and giving a
Cheshire grin. "You're Priscilla 'Princess' Carver aren't
you?"
Her face turned a pale white. "Oh, God." She sat down on the
bed. "I knew someone was bound to recognize me."
"Your face was plastered in all the papers when your
threw that 21st birthday bash for you last year. It's not
everyday the of the premier oil baron of Texas turns
21."
"You're not going to tell my what I do for a living, are
you?" she asked in a quiet voice, looking up at me with worry in
her eyes. "He thinks I'm modeling."
"I won't tell," I answered, sitting beside her and putting my
arm around her shoulders. Call me crazy, but the cute little
waif was already starting to grow on me. Maybe because she
reminded me of the kid I'd never had.
"I need to tell you something before Cynthia gets home,"
Priscilla said in a low voice.
"Priscilla, get your bitch ass down here and help put up these
groceries!" The front door slammed shut, and I could hear high-
heels tapping across the tile floor.
"Too late," Priscilla said with resignation. "Coming!" she
yelled back and left me sitting there on the bed.
I wondered what she'd been about to say.
= = = = = =
Within the first five minutes of talking to Cynthia I'd come to
the conclusion that she was a self-centered, stuck up little
cunt. She'd informed me that if I was to be staying there, it
was her way or the highway.
"Some of us do a little work on the side," she explained
while she sifted through her closet, looking for something that
would fit me. "You live here, you're going to do it, too. If
not, I call Constance and your ass is back on the street."
"What do you mean by 'a little work'?" I already had a pretty
good idea, but I wanted to hear her say it.
"You look pretty smart, Trudy, I'm sure you can figure out what
I mean." Cynthia tossed me a black strapless gown, floor length
-- a Versace, if I guessed right. It probably cost a month of
my salary. "Ruin it and you'll pay me for it." She crossed to
her dresser. It was only when she started to sort through her
keys that I noticed one of the drawers had a lock on it. She
unlocked it and took out a small wirebound book. "For the after
hours stuff we all have code names. Yours will be . . .
Trixie, I think." She wrote something down. "I've got an
appointment with Sam tonight, about 1am or so. It's a two-
person job so you'll come with me. That way I can watch you in
action and know if you're going to give me any shit." She
snapped the book closed and gave me a look that practically
dared me to make trouble. "Any questions?"
Without a word, I turned around and walked back to my room. I
flopped down on the bed and sighed. Remy, hunk extraordinaire
and star of many of my wildest fantasies, was spending the night
in my apartment, and I was stuck being an escort for some
stranger. Life wasn't fair.
= = = = = =
Mr. Adams turned out to be a kindly gentleman, a retired
lawyer who was so polite to me, you'd have thought we were
related. He took me to see Phantom of the Opera and I had one
of the best times I'd had in a long while. He told me all about
his son who'd taken over the firm and just opened a branch
office in Ft. Worth, how his had died recently of cancer,
and how his granddaughter had just been accepted to Vassar.
He dropped me off back at Cynthia's condo and gave me a chaste
kiss on the cheek. With a smile and a wave, he climbed back
into the limo.
I had less than 30 minutes until the "1am or so" that Cynthia
had mentioned earlier. I went up to my room to change clothes.
She hadn't said what to wear, so I grabbed one of the few
outfits I'd brought: denim mini-skirt, blue western-style
and some low sandals. I went to walk back downstairs when I
noticed that Priscilla's light was still on. I tapped quietly
on the door and then opened it. She was laying on the bed,
dressed in a frilly nightgown, an open book on the bed in front
of her.
"How was your date?"
"Surprisingly, I had a great time."
She smiled. "Good. I'm sorry I didn't have time to warn you
about Cynthia earlier."
"It's okay," I said. "Are you in her little book?"
The smile became a laugh. "Oh, no! Cynthia told me early on
that I was 'butt ugly' so thankfully I'm spared from having to
sell myself."
"Are all the escort in on it?"
"No, just those that want to be. The exception is anyone who
stays here with Cynthia is automatically drafted into it."
"No one busts her?"
"They could go to Constance, but she wouldn't believe them.
Cynthia is her niece."
That explained it.
Cynthia appeared in the doorway. "You ready?"
I nodded.
"Then let's go."
= = = = = =
"Oh yeah, that's it baby, right there. Fuck me with your long
tongue. Mmmmmmm Don't stop now. Fuck it!"
Sam turned out to be short for "Samantha." She was built like
a linebacker, talked like a sailor, and handed enough money to
Cynthia to make Midas smile with glee. I was quickly learning
more than I'd ever wanted to know about sex. We'd gone
through several toys, some I couldn't identify, and both my ass
and felt like they'd gone ten rounds with Evander
Hollifield. Sam liked to give as good as she got.
Cynthia had taken perverse pleasure in telling her how much I
loved doing women, and vice versa. Now, with my ass stuck up in
the air like the Goodyear blimp, and my face being squeezed
between Sam's meaty thighs, I wondered if I'd have a blister on
the end of my tongue come morning. It seemed like I'd been
tongue-fucking and clit-licking Sam for hours.
While I was getting up close and personal with every hair on
Sam's bushy mound, Cynthia was using a strap-on to go at me from
behind. Every time she rammed the fake penis into my pussy, it
shoved me forward deeper into Sam's crotch. If Cynthia was
trying to make me come, we were going to be there a long while.
Or so I thought.
I jumped as I felt a vibration against my clit. I came up for
air and looked down between my legs. Cynthia had picked up a
small silver vibrator and was using it against my clit while she
continued to fuck me from behind. Okay, maybe I would be coming
soon.
"Get back here," Sam growled, she reached to take a handful of
my hair and I quickly bent back to her pussy. The last thing I
needed was my wig coming off. I don't know how it'd stayed on
this long -- Remy must have used industrial strength tape.
"Yes, baby, give it to mama. Make me squeal like your pig,
honey. Fuck this good." Sam went back to her verbal
encouragement, gripping the bed sheet in both hands and grinding
her hips up against my face.
I could feel my own orgasm imminent, all because Cynthia had
found my one weakness -- the vibrator on the clit trick. I
bucked my hips in counterpoint to Sam, trying to reach that
exalted plateau.
"Ungggggghhhhhhhhhhyeahhhhhhh!" Sam screamed, her whole body
stiffening. I quickly raised my head before it got crushed in
the viselike grip of her legs.
Cynthia applied her tools with more vigor, and my own orgasm
swept over me like a rush of icy hot water. I cried out in
pleasure, and swore I could see stars at the periphery of my
vision.
I collapsed on the bed, out of breath and out of energy. Sam
leaned over and smacked me on the ass. "Damn you're a hot
little piece of ass. This one's a keeper, Cyn."
That was not what I wanted to hear.
= = = = = =
I awoke at 8 o'clock the next morning, feeling soreness in my
limbs that had nothing to do with the hard mattress I'd slept
on. I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed some cold water
on my face. I didn't have much time to find out who was behind
the blackmail scheme, and I needed my wits about me.
Stumbling back into the bedroom, I tugged on a pair of
sweatpants and a tank top. I gathered my hair up in a loose
knot on top of my head, and headed downstairs to find something
to eat. A wad of cash on the dresser stopped me in my tracks.
Cynthia must have left it there while I was passed out from
exhaustion. I quickly counted it -- $1675. Damn! I never knew I
was that good. I shoved the cash down into the bottom of my
dufflebag, and headed down the hall.
On my way downstairs I noticed something that hadn't really
registered with me the previous day -- along the walls were
beautiful photographs of prominent American landmarks. There
were some fantastic European scenes mixed in among them, but
what was unique, other than the quality of the photos, was that
Cynthia was in every one of them. She must really have traveled
to. . . .
I let the thought trail off as I started playing back the
events of the past twenty-four hours. I backtracked and knocked
at Priscilla's door. She opened the door, hair all sleep-
tousled and eyes barely opened. "Trudy."
"Priscilla, you said your thinks that you're modeling.
What makes him think that? Just your word?"
"No, I send him some pictures every now and then."
"Do you go to a studio to have them taken?"
She frowned, clearly wondering what was up with all the
questions. "No, Cynthia takes them."
"And she does such a good job, your dad thinks they were
professionally done?"
"Well," she chewed her bottom lip, "she scans the pictures in
and then uses this high-tech photo manipulation program to make
them seem like they're ads that would appear in magazines."
I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my system in full
force. "Is Cynthia home now?"
"No, she usually goes to the gym every morning for a couple of
hours."
"Excellent." I hurried back down the hallway to Cynthia's
room. Lucky for me, the door wasn't locked.
"What are you doing?" Priscilla asked, following me into the
room.
"Trying to catch a blackmailer," I answered, deciding to start
at the computer desk. I already knew where she kept her tally
book; I needed to find the disk she kept the pictures on.
Deciding to trust Priscilla, I filled her on who I really was,
and what I was doing there. She seemed awestruck and a more
than a little excited. She offered to stand at the head of the
stairs and be my "lookout."
There wasn't any sign of the disk, or possible negatives, in
the computer desk, on the computer hard drive, anywhere in the
dresser or under the bed. I started on the closet.
Priscilla stuck her head back in the room. "Any luck?"
"Not yet." I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead. "Is
there anything that Cynthia is obsessive about? Something that
she never leaves the house without or something she can't do
without?" If she'd taken it with her to the gym, I was out of
luck.
Priscilla thought for a minute. "She's addicted to Oreos, but
I don't see where that would help."
Oh, but it had helped. I went back to the dresser and opened
the bottom right hand drawer. Underneath some boxes of cards,
stationery and pens, I found what I'd passed by earlier -- a bag
of Oreo cookies.
I took it out of the drawer and eased out the plastic tray of
black and white cookies. There, in the bottom of the package,
was a round computer disk and an envelope.
I slid the cookies back in the package and replaced the bag
back in the drawer. I found a metal file in her makeup tray and
used it to jimmie the lock on the top drawer. With disk,
negatives and code book in hand, I headed back to my own room,
Priscilla trailing behind.
I slipped on my tennis shoes and then threw all my stuff into
my bag. I slung it over my shoulder.
"Where are you going?"
"To the newspaper. I've got to get this stuff to my boss." I
stopped and gave her a quick hug. "Are you going to be okay,
Priscilla?"
She shrugged. "Oh sure. I'll claim ignorance, and probably get
fired anyway, but that's okay. According to my dad I'm just
'spreading my wings' and will come to my senses sooner or later."
"I'm in the book if you ever want to get together and do
something. Something that doesn't require code names and
lesbian encounters, please."
She laughed. "You've got it."
= = = = = =
"Remy, I do believe that you make the best margaritas I've ever
tasted." I licked the salt from my lips and sighed in
satisfaction.
"You flatter me too much, ma cherie," he replied, his Cajun
drawl drifting around me like flower petals.
We were out back on his patio, enjoying the rest of the lazy
Friday afternoon.
He was back in his freshly painted apartment, and I was safely
back in mine. If I inhaled really hard, and closed my eyes, I
could smell traces of his aftershave on my couch. I vowed never
to clean it again.
"Are you sure you don't want to start your vacation tomorrow,
instead of hanging around here?"
"Hey!" I protested. "I gave Priscilla my word I'd stay while
she smoothed out everything with her dad. Besides, she's my
vacation buddy." Vacation buddy or not, I could still hear
Jamaica shouting my name.
I'd gotten the stuff from Cynthia's room to Mr. Peterson in
plenty of time. Councilman Voeks had pulled a few strings at
the police department to keep the whole thing, and the specific
details, hush-hush. By noon, Cynthia was taken into custody,
and the rest of the women involved in her little extracurricular
activities rounded up. Thankfully the councilman was the only
one she'd attempted to blackmail. But if she'd been successful,
who knew where it would have led to.
In gratitude for my snappy little detective work, Councilman
Voeks was paying for my vacation. An all expense paid, seven-
day trip to Jamaica was mine for the asking. And let me tell
you, I asked. I didn't even have to beg to bring along a
friend; he suggested it himself. After all, what vacation is
complete unless you have someone to share it with? To that end,
I invited Priscilla along. I thought it was the least I could
do since she'd been a kind of help to me.
I felt a few twinges of guilt at what I'd done because of Mrs.
Coopersmith; the lady had been nice to me, and I felt she didn't
deserve to have her business raided like that. I told Remy about
my misgivings.
"Constance Coopersmith?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Didn't you read today's paper? She was listed in Cynthia's
little book, too. Went by the name of 'Candy' I think."
I choked on my drink, my guilt melting away. I'd wondered what
was wrong with her; now I knew.
"Remy, are we the only sane people left in Dallas?"
"I don't know, Trudy. Sane is relative to everyone."
"You're right. Now, what should we toast to?"
He held up his glass. "How about good friends?"
I clinked my glass against his and smiled. "Good friends who
don't make me play footsies with big-boned women named 'Sam'."
Remy threw his head back and laughed. "Trudy, you are truly
one of a kind."
I smiled. "Thanks, Remy." I added under my breath, "I think."
THE END