My Friend The Call Girl

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Who's more honest, Blake's wife or friend?
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imhapless
imhapless
3,582 Followers

At the time that my story starts, Jamie and I gotten married six years previously. I distinctly remember the minister at our 300 guest wedding with seven bridesmaids and groomsmen, and $20,000 worth of flowers, asking "Do you Jamie Elizabeth Snowden take Blake William Benson to be your lawful wedded husband...forsaking all others...until death do you part?" I also distinctly remember her saying "Yes," as she made goo-goo eyes at me, which I interpreted as a vow that she wasn't going to fuck anyone else while we were married.

I took a similar vow, while making almost identical goo-goo eyes at her.

I always felt that Jamie and I were a good match since we had similar goals in life and liked many of the same things; however we had enough differences to always make things interesting. For example, Jamie was very competitive, having played sports fiercely most of her life, while I was more laid back and a consensus-building type. While I was athletic, I never had the drive necessary to truly succeed in sports. Also she's more social building many superficial relationships, while I'm an ambivert, enjoying social situations but preferring to establish only a few meaningful relationships.

As would fit someone with the best upbringing by well-connected wealthy parents, Jamie got a great college education at one of the top schools in the Eastern U. S., and landed a job as a pharmaceutical sales rep. She got her high-paying job by relying not only on her education and intelligence, but her good looks. It seems that Big Pharma wants only good looking people calling on hospitals and doctors, I guess to distract them from the fact that they're getting raped monetarily. Anyway, since Jamie is five feet seven inches tall with a one hundred twenty pound nicely proportioned body, with long blond hair, a winning smile, and sparkling almost neon-green eyes, she's been very successful; so much so that she's been able to write her own ticket as far as drugs that she sells and territory are concerned.

Jamie has explained her reasons as to why her territory has to take her away from our high end condo three nights a week or sometimes on weekends – something having to do with the major drug that she's responsible for having a limited though highly lucrative market, although I don't really understand it. I don't like her being gone three nights a week, let alone on some weekend days; I'm lonely and I crave companionship.

Anyway, I often have bumbled along on nights that she's gone going to movies or ball games, or bowling, with male friends; but mostly I end up sitting home watching TV. My job doesn't require travel – in fact I almost don't have to leave my condo area (I can even get work done at the pool or in the extensive health club) if I don't want to. I do on-line sales of proprietary computer software and hardware that make renewable energy systems much more efficient, and integrate them smoothly with the electrical grid. Actually, I invented the proprietary items that I sell and can do the software transfers from my high powered home office computer, and I only have to oversee the hardware manufacture (in a suburb of the major city that I live in) for a few hours a week.

Since I'm at home a lot during the day, I know most of the neighbors, something not really normal in most American condo buildings where you only see other people from your building if you go to the monthly condo meetings. The other residents tried to talk me into being president of the condo association although I was able to resist – but I did agree to manage the books of the association.

Our condo has got four two story residences on each two floors, and a one story residence on each floor. The two story residences have an office and three bedrooms in addition to a kitchen, large living room, and three full bathrooms. The one story residences have a small living room, kitchen, bathroom, powder room, one bedroom, and a small den.

* * * * * *

The one story residence, 5B, next to our 5th floor entrance, 5A, is rented by a woman who looks too young to afford the rent for a condo in our high end building. I'd guess that she's twenty three; Jamie and I are only twenty nine so I guess many others in the building think the same thing about us, especially since we own our condo and don't rent. The young woman's name is Cecile Wilson. Most occupants are not around during the day on weekdays so they don't know that Cecile is home most weekdays and often has from two to four visitors a day – all male. Cecile's appearance, and the stream of male visitors, led me to conclude early on that Cecile was likely a high priced call girl.

Even though I had my suspicions about Cecile's profession, it's not a subject that I broached with her the three dozen or so times that I saw her at the pool or the health club the first year that she lived in 5B, for two reasons; 1) as long as she doesn't bother anybody, I could give a shit what her profession is, and 2) it's not something that you bring up in casual conversation.

What is Cecile's appearance, you ask? Surprisingly, the first year that she lived in 5B I only saw her with makeup on twice that I can recall. She normally wore a conservative one piece suit at the pool, and inordinately bulky shorts and shirts when in the exercise room. In the hallway or going to and from the lobby she almost always had on pants and a long sleeve shirt. In public, she usually had her long, shimmering, brown hair in a bun, and usually wore clunky black glasses, although I was quite sure that she had 20-20 eyesight (the lenses looked like plain glass). She obviously made a great effort to disguise her natural beauty when not interacting with clients; however, there was no way possible for her to disguise her magnificence completely.

Cecile has an almost perfect face, massive boobs that even conservative outfits can't hide, and exceedingly long legs with thighs that any artist would love to try to replicate on canvas or in stone; and an ass commensurate with her sculptured thighs. She's almost six feet tall and slim, though definitely not too skinny.

My relationship with Cecile was pleasant, if not friendly, the first year that she lived in 5B. We knew each other's first and last names, would always smile and say hello if we passed each other, we had more than a few fluff conversations when working out or at the pool, and the one time that we ran into each other at the local Kroger we had a five minute discussion about how best to cook and serve organic vegetables; she was a real health nut, not only as it related to exercise, but food too. Things changed one Thursday about one in the afternoon – a day that Jaime was out of town, to return Friday about 6:00 p. m.

* * * * * *

I was leaving 5A to make one of my twice weekly short jaunts to my hardware manufacturing facility when I heard yelling and banging in 5B; that was highly unusual especially since the condo units have excellent sound insulation. I listened at the door and didn't like what I heard; it sounded like a guy was pummeling a woman. I banged on the door and said "Superintendent; open up."

It got quiet for a few seconds, although I thought that I heard sobbing. Then a deep male voice said through the door "Get lost, we don't need anything."

"Open the fucking door or I call the cops," I replied when I still heard the sobbing.

A big guy flung the door open and yelled "It's none of your fucking business now get the fuck away from my girlfriend and me..." He was going to say something more, but when I saw Cecile on the ground and what I thought was blood I didn't let him finish. As part of my keychain I have a cheap self-defense tool. I don't even know what it's called, but it is a really hard piece of plastic with a straight section with finger-receiving depressions, two rounded ends that extend past the hand when holding the straight section, and a stump with enlarged head that extends between two fingers.

The obnoxious guy was taller than I was, even though I'm six feet two inches, and probably outweighed me by thirty pounds, so I grasped the tool in my right hand and hit him in the mouth with the enlarged head of the stump as hard as I could. He staggered back as I moved toward him and hit him a second, and then a third time. The third time he tripped over Cecile's prone body, hit his head on her marble foyer floor, and he was out.

I helped Cecile up, led her over to a padded chair, and closed her front door. She had what was going to turn into a black eye, blood coming from her nose, and some scrape marks on an arm and leg. She was dressed in negligee and despite my best efforts to concentrate only on helping her I could not help but notice her phenomenal tits and otherwise fantastic body.

"Are you OK, Cecile?" was my first stupid question. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm hurting now," she moaned, and then after a deep breath continued "I'll be all right, but can you get me some paper towels for my nose, and a cold compress from the freezer?"

I quickly did as asked, and while she applied the compress to her eye I wiped the blood away from her nose.

"Who is that asshole?" I asked, nodding my head toward the prone bully.

"An enraged client," she mumbled.

"We should really call the police," I said while finishing up on her nose.

"No cops," she quickly replied.

For the next few minutes we went back and forth about calling the police, but it was clear that she didn't want to – undoubtedly because she didn't want to be on their radar for likely being a call girl. I finally relented then said "I've got an idea. I don't want him to think that he can do this again, Do you trust me to take care of him?"

"Yeah – as long as it's not in my condo," she mumbled while she winced – clearly in significant pain.

I quickly went into my condo, got a couple of zip ties, a bottle of water, a bottle of booze, and – for the first time it was advantageous (aside from the money that Jamie brought in) to be married to a pharmaceutical sales rep – some sort of knock-out pills from her stash of legal drugs.

I rolled the big asshole over and tied his hands together behind his back with two zip ties. Then I rolled him back onto his posterior and threw cold water into his face. He awoke, I got him up (he was way too heavy to carry), fished his keys out of his pants, and led him downstairs. I had him point out his car, sat him in the driver's seat, and then convinced him that the pills were pain pills and would make him feel better. I helped him take the pills with the water, and then talked to him – trying hard to impress upon him that he was never to show up at our condo building again – until the pills had their desired effect on him.

Once he was well on his way to la-la land I poured booze on him, including in his mouth – which he gagged out – cut the zip ties and put them in my pocket, started up his car, and then locked it closed. Then I called 911 to report a drunk sitting with his car idling in our condo parking lot. I didn't wait for the cops to get there – I went up to see Cecile.

Cecile's door was still partially open so I knocked as I opened it further and said "Cecile – its Blake – can I come in to see how you are?"

I heard her mumble "Sure, come in."

She was now sitting on a couch, with a sweatshirt and sweatpants over her negligee, with her head back and one compress on her nose, the other on her eye.

"Let me have a look," I said when I got next to her. I gently removed her hand and compress from her eye. It didn't look good. "I think that you should let me take you to the emergency room," I said sternly.

She started to protest but in an even sterner voice I said "Cecile, I'm no doctor, but your eye needs to be looked at. I'm taking you to the emergency room; you don't have a choice. Where are your shoes and purse?"

She resignedly pointed them out to me, I put her shoes on her feet ["Shit, even her feet are awesome" flashed through my mind as I did so], and off we went – slowly.

When we got down outside the building I steered her clear of the police – they had broken the bully's passenger side front window, turned off the car, and pulled him out and were loading him into a paddy wagon just as a tow truck pulled up. On the way to the hospital I called my manufacturing facility and told them that I'd be late.

I helped Cecile get registered at the hospital, confirmed that she had health insurance, and then gave her my business card with my cell phone number on it. "Call me when you're done and I'll pick you up and drive you home," I told her when handing her the card.

"You've already done too much, you don't..." she started to say when I cut her off.

As I gently squeezed my card into her hand I said "No, listen; call me. You may need to stop and get a prescription filled. Call me, and I'll be here in ten minutes – I have no pressing business today," I said.

"OK; thanks," she said, trying hard to give me a weak smile.

I patted her head and left.

I was just finishing up at the manufacturing facility when my cell phone rang.

"Hi Blake; this is Cecile," came a relatively strong voice on the other end – stronger than when I had dropped her off.

"Are you ready to leave?" I asked.

"Well, yeah; but I can get a cab if you're busy," she continued.

"I'm not busy," I replied in an upbeat voice. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes – the traffic is a little worse than normal. Just wait inside the emergency room and I'll come in and get you."

"OK; thanks," was her quick reply.

She had an eye patch over her eye and some cotton in her nose when I picked her up.

We made a stop at a drug store to get her some pain pills and salve and then I brought her back to her condo. "How about I bring over something for you to eat at dinner time?" I said as she plopped down on a couch.

"You don't have to..."

"I want to," I said as I cut her off again. "I'll be eating alone if I don't; how about just some chicken fingers and a fresh vegetable medley?"

I saw her hesitate – then remembering back to our discussion at Kroger with a big smile I added "All organic!"

She laughed the best that she could.

"How about if I come over with the food already prepared at six?"

"Sounds good to me," she responded with a feeble smile.

"Here – so you don't have to knock on the door – just come in," she said, handing me a key from her purse.

I brought the food, as well as a bottle of wine and a large bottle of seltzer, over at six on the dot, and let myself in with the key that she had given me. It was only then that I actually started to look around her condo; before I was too concerned about her. It was sparsely decorated, but classy, including with a few obviously original paintings. They weren't van Gogh's, but they were cheery and well done. Cecile was sitting at her kitchen table. Her greeting and smile were much stronger than when I left her about 3:00 p. m.

We chatted about nothing in particular while we ate. "I'm not supposed to have wine with the pain pills I'm taking," she said as I poured her a glass.

I stopped pouring and said "Sorry – I didn't think of that."

"I'm not supposed to, but I need a couple of glasses," she chuckled, nodding for me to pour some more – which I did. "You're not going to take advantage of me if I get looped, are you?" She asked with the semblance of a smile.

"I'd be worse than that asshole if I did," I replied, also with the semblance of a smile, "but I don't want to have to carry your ass to your bed, so don't pass out," I continued with a chortle.

"I'll try not to," she replied.

Once we finished dinner and I cleared the table I noticed two things. She did have some reaction to the combination of pain pills and the one and one-half glasses of wine that she had consumed, although she was still primarily lucid; and she suddenly wanted to have a serious talk.

"You probably think that I'm terrible for entertaining men all of the time," she said, not looking me in the eye and fiddling with her wine glass.

"I certainly do not – how you make your living is your business as long as it doesn't tread on my rights," I genuinely replied.

"How long have you supposed that I'm an escort?" she asked, this time making eye contact – with her one non-patched eye.

"Since about a month after you moved in," I nonchalantly replied, sipping my own glass of wine.

"Do you and your wife – what's her name..."

"Jamie."

"Do you and Jamie talk about it?" she asked.

"Never have. Jamie is not here a lot as you probably have surmised, and it's not something that we would talk about anyway. I don't gossip, and certainly wouldn't speculate about a good neighbor's profession."

After much more discussion – she was obviously both feeling me out and unloading on me at the same time – she said "You're about the only hetero guy that I've known since I've lived here that hasn't hit on me. Why not?"

"Because I take my marriage vows seriously."

"More than ninety percent of my clients are married," she shot back.

"But I'm not them, In case you're wondering, though, physically you're the most desirable woman that I've ever seen. But I don't know you well enough to know if I'd be compatible with you, and I've never been into simply physical relationships. I need an emotional attachment to have a desirable sexual experience. So if you're insulted that I haven't hit on you, don't be."

She said nothing in response to that; she just stared at me, with her one good eye, for a good thirty seconds.

"You know, despite my number of clients and the intimate nature of my business, I'm lonely. I have almost no friends. My business type and hours preclude it – at least for people that I'd like to be associated with."

Thereupon we proceeded with a painfully direct conversation about her private life. It concluded with me asking "So what is your ultimate goal in life, Cecile?"

"I ultimately want what you have. I want a spouse – and eventually even kids. I want someone that is my one and only that I am true to, and he is true to me. I'm saving enough money so that I'll be financially independent by the time that I'm thirty, and then I'll move, give up this life, and try to find Mr. Right. But my plans are temporarily on hold because until my eye, nose, and these scrapes on my appendages, heal I'm not going to be working."

An idea suddenly popped into my head. "Say, how would you like to work for me..." I started to say when she suddenly flared up.

"What – I thought that you were different," she said in a high pitched voice, with all of her muscles tensed and a look of disbelief on her face.

"Let me finish," I laughed. Then realizing that wasn't something I should have laughed at I quickly continued "I'm not trying to hire you for sex. I need help with filing – I'm hopelessly behind and I keep putting it off. It's something that even a Cyclops can do if she puts her mind to it. But I can't pay your normal rate," I continued, now that she had relaxed and even giggled at my "Cyclops" dig. "Which is...?"

"$700 an hour, $2500 for a full night, $4000 a day to travel, plus expenses," she blurted out before she caught herself, turned red, and put her hand to her mouth.

I didn't miss a beat, "I can't pay $700/hour, but I can pay $25/hour and offer a free meal now and again – until you heal."

She giggled. "Monday, show me what you want me to do and I'll let you know."

After another twenty minutes of light conversation it was clear that she was wiped out, so I gathered up my belongings. She gave me a hug while she whispered "Thank you soooo much" into my ear – I kept my crotch away from her when she did since much to my chagrin I sprouted a boner. I patted her head, and left.

Despite the boner-sprouting at the end, I considered it a wonderful night with a friend; no real sexual overtones. I liked her as a person, and never had considered the loneliness aspect for her.

imhapless
imhapless
3,582 Followers