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Authors: Mary B. Morrison
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peeling away the price tag.
There was no time for an apology. The money-millionaires were in town tonight and they were dropping C-notes like confetti, so I couldn’t dare be late for work.
Glancing at the digital clock on the coffee table, I saw I had a good thirty minutes to spare. I moaned when Benito’s lips kissed my clit, trying not to let my personal issues cloud my true feelings. The more I came uncontrollably, the more I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this man. I was completely aware of my emotional attachment to Benito and his insatiable appetite for me.
Benito was different. I was his fan long before Valentino introduced us. Watching Benito on TV in his tight football uniform, connecting his precision bombs to his running backs and wide receivers, and seeing him sport his championship ring on television made me fantasize about him many nights while he didn’t know I existed.
B’s stats during his ten years in the league were 197 touchdowns passing, 36 rushing, 26,259 yards passing, 3,700 rushing. I knew how many first, second, third, and fourth downs he’d gotten. I could give a play-by-play recount better than any commentator of all Benito’s games. Now that he was mine, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep him, but I was positive I was not going to a therapist.
At the end of the day, after working long hours through the night, I was grateful to have someone waiting at home for me. Benito was my star. In many ways my savior. Before Benito, no man had ever consistently cared about me. They weren’t around long enough to. After our first month together I thought B would change. A year later, he still did all the things he’d done when we first met and more, including tolerate my relentless, selfish, won’t-admit-when-I’m-wrong attitude. B did simple things like massage my feet, suck my toes, and run my bathwater every time I arrived home from work at five, sometimes six in the morning.
At first I resisted dating Benito because while professionally playing football, he was one of Valentino’s top clients and I was the top-paid whore at Pussyland. The day Benito hung up his jersey, coincidentally I’d literally serviced my last john.
Valentino sat in my room at the Pussyland Ranch negotiating his fee like all the other tricks. Valentino was well known for stealing girls and hiring them to work for him. That evening we sat on my bed doing the usual back-and-forth.
“So, what would you like, handsome?” I’d asked him.
“What’s your specialty?” he asked, tugging the straps on my lace bustier.
“I can suck you real good, fuck you until your dick falls off—”
He interrupted me, “Or?” staring at my ass.
“Or what?” I questioned with a frown, ready to have the madam escort his arrogant ass out of my room before I fucked him unconscious. Valentino was so fine he made my pussy drip every time he licked his lips like that L.L. hadn’t-dropped-a-hit-in-a-minute Cool J, but who gave a fuck because he was still a sexy-as-hell rapper.
“You could let me fuck you in the ass.”
“Anal sex is against the rules and out of the question. You can get that from your girls.”
Pulling out a stack of hundreds, Valentino placed ten grand in my hands like it was my usual rate. He looked at me. I stared at him, then said, “Get the hell out,” throwing the money in his face.
“Straight? You serious?” he asked, drawing his eyebrows together, his forehead buckling.
Standing over him, I replied, “Dead serious. I’m not compromising my livelihood for you or anyone else.”
“Lace, I like your style. I guess it’s true what I’ve heard about your no-nonsense reputation. You’re exactly the type of madam I’m looking for.”
Tightening my lips to conceal my interest, I thought, Me? Madam? Opening the door, I demanded, “Get the fuck out and stop playing games.”
“Naw, straight. Come work for me and you’ll never have to fuck another john. Here’s my number. Keep the
There was no time for an apology. The money-millionaires were in town tonight and they were dropping C-notes like confetti, so I couldn’t dare be late for work.
Glancing at the digital clock on the coffee table, I saw I had a good thirty minutes to spare. I moaned when Benito’s lips kissed my clit, trying not to let my personal issues cloud my true feelings. The more I came uncontrollably, the more I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this man. I was completely aware of my emotional attachment to Benito and his insatiable appetite for me.
Benito was different. I was his fan long before Valentino introduced us. Watching Benito on TV in his tight football uniform, connecting his precision bombs to his running backs and wide receivers, and seeing him sport his championship ring on television made me fantasize about him many nights while he didn’t know I existed.
B’s stats during his ten years in the league were 197 touchdowns passing, 36 rushing, 26,259 yards passing, 3,700 rushing. I knew how many first, second, third, and fourth downs he’d gotten. I could give a play-by-play recount better than any commentator of all Benito’s games. Now that he was mine, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep him, but I was positive I was not going to a therapist.
At the end of the day, after working long hours through the night, I was grateful to have someone waiting at home for me. Benito was my star. In many ways my savior. Before Benito, no man had ever consistently cared about me. They weren’t around long enough to. After our first month together I thought B would change. A year later, he still did all the things he’d done when we first met and more, including tolerate my relentless, selfish, won’t-admit-when-I’m-wrong attitude. B did simple things like massage my feet, suck my toes, and run my bathwater every time I arrived home from work at five, sometimes six in the morning.
At first I resisted dating Benito because while professionally playing football, he was one of Valentino’s top clients and I was the top-paid whore at Pussyland. The day Benito hung up his jersey, coincidentally I’d literally serviced my last john.
Valentino sat in my room at the Pussyland Ranch negotiating his fee like all the other tricks. Valentino was well known for stealing girls and hiring them to work for him. That evening we sat on my bed doing the usual back-and-forth.
“So, what would you like, handsome?” I’d asked him.
“What’s your specialty?” he asked, tugging the straps on my lace bustier.
“I can suck you real good, fuck you until your dick falls off—”
He interrupted me, “Or?” staring at my ass.
“Or what?” I questioned with a frown, ready to have the madam escort his arrogant ass out of my room before I fucked him unconscious. Valentino was so fine he made my pussy drip every time he licked his lips like that L.L. hadn’t-dropped-a-hit-in-a-minute Cool J, but who gave a fuck because he was still a sexy-as-hell rapper.
“You could let me fuck you in the ass.”
“Anal sex is against the rules and out of the question. You can get that from your girls.”
Pulling out a stack of hundreds, Valentino placed ten grand in my hands like it was my usual rate. He looked at me. I stared at him, then said, “Get the hell out,” throwing the money in his face.
“Straight? You serious?” he asked, drawing his eyebrows together, his forehead buckling.
Standing over him, I replied, “Dead serious. I’m not compromising my livelihood for you or anyone else.”
“Lace, I like your style. I guess it’s true what I’ve heard about your no-nonsense reputation. You’re exactly the type of madam I’m looking for.”
Tightening my lips to conceal my interest, I thought, Me? Madam? Opening the door, I demanded, “Get the fuck out and stop playing games.”
“Naw, straight. Come work for me and you’ll never have to fuck another john. Here’s my number. Keep the
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