The Birthday Gift

I was tired. Tired of him, tired of them, tired of this life. It had been years, so I supposed I had a right to be tired. Anyone would be tired of doing what I did day after day, week after week, year after year. And while he was better than the previous three, he was still an asshole who would beat me sooner than praise me. But that was the life, wasn't it? It was all about putting out and making money. I sighed.

I watched the cars as they continued to line up, one behind the next, waiting. Waiting for something they wanted to order...as if the girls were menu items. Most of the girls moved toward the waiting vehicles, selling their wares. They were dressed to highlight the parts that were in high demand. Tops that accentuated their full, round breasts...and if they didn't have full, round breasts, they wore bras or bustiers that made it seem like they did. Bottoms that drew attention to their full, round buttocks...and if they didn't have full, round buttocks, they simply wore nothing on the bottom or maybe a thong that left the flesh bare. All of it was to arouse them, to tease them like dogs in heat. And to me, they were dogs in heat.

Anyone staring at the scene from the outside would see tits, ass, long legs, bare tummies, make-up, wigs...whores...women enthusiastically trying to ensnare innocent men with their bodies. Women who had no self-respect, who sold the use of their mouths or hands for $30 and the use of other bodily cavities for not much more. From the inside, as I well knew, I saw girls who had been tricked, threatened and beaten into submission. None of them started out wanting to sell their bodies for a few dollars. Most of them had nothing, and no one. No money, no appropriate clothing, nowhere to go...and no family members trying to save them. Most of them had been runaways, desperate for food and a little help...and now most of them were addicts. Hooked on drugs that allowed them to escape from the reality of this life...from the danger of this life.

Many of them would be assaulted and raped numerous times by their "managers" (translation, their pimps) and by customers before they managed to leave the life. And many of them would have a criminal record as long as their arm. And sometimes, sometimes, the exploitation, the beatings, the rapes, came from the very persons who were supposed to protect and serve. In this life, the police was often the enemy, not the savior.

I sighed again, what was the point of thinking about all of this now? He was waiting for me to earn money. For some reason, even after well over a decade, I was one of his most marketable girls. I didn't know if it was my creamy, butterscotch skin, my long, dark mane of hair, my deep, dark brown eyes, naturally sheltered by thick, dark lashes, my full, pouting lips, or my shapely, hourglass form. A part of me knew I would put Beyonce to shame, when Beyonce had been her original size. Except, in addition to my small waist, curvy hips and nicely shaped bottom, I had a set of tits to die for. Still full, round, perky and perfect after more than a decade in the life. I didn't even need the "costumes" I typically wore to make money...but sometimes I needed them...to hide behind...or within.

Tonight? I wore thick, platinum curls that hung to the middle of my back, enough mascara and eye liner to make me appear sinister, and bright berry lipstick. I had on a tank, two sizes too small, that forced my breasts to spill out from the sides and overflow from the top. This was complimented by a tiny skirt that barely covered my rounded bottom. And my curvy legs were encased in black, sheer, seamed stockings. Add to my ensemble five inch "fuck me" heels and once I got started, I would be busy all night. I wasn't vain, just a realist. If I acknowledged my assets and used them to my advantage, I could end my nights just a little earlier than the other working girls. At the thought, my cell phone chirped and I quickly dug in the little bag I carried, frowning as I answered it.

"What the fuck you doing? You on fucking vacation?" He demanded.

"I'm just getting my head on straight, Daddy." I responded with the appropriate amount of apprehension and respect in my voice.

"Get your fucking ass out there 'fore I smash a fucking bottle upside your head, you hear me?"

The line disconnected. I sighed for what felt like the hundredth time. Time to go to work.

I had a good night. Well, as I said before, I usually had a good night. I'd just finished tallying it up and even after giving Maria, one of the newest girls, some of my cash to help her even out before Darnell went ballistic, I was still able to quit instead of being shipped to the second location. Maria was a good girl, raised catholic, from California...a runaway. Her step-father had started raping her...and now here she was. But she hadn't gotten used to the idea of selling herself for her "daddy" yet, so she was always a little short. Two nights ago, if I hadn't intervened, he would have sent Maria back to the hospital for the third time.

But I generally did well, so I could afford to give Maria some of my earnings. What difference did it make anyway? It's not like we would be allowed to keep any of it. Besides, I was in charge of "training" some of the new girls. It was supposed to be a promotion, I guess. But I never told them to hide some of their money, like I did. If I did, and he caught them...well, everyone would have a bad night. So I kept that little habit to myself and hoped the girls would get a clue much sooner than I had.

I watched as the navy blue Escalade rolled to a stop near the four of us. Darnell had seven girls now, but one was still recuperating from his last "discussion" with her. He'd targeted her face which was never a good idea if you wanted her to make money. The other two he'd dropped off in another part of the Bronx. So, he was picking us up first. If we made our quota, he'd drop us off at the tiny 1-bedroom apartment the seven of us shared and we got to turn in early. If we hadn't, he would drop us off at the location with the other two. He actually wasn't a bad "manager" (a title he gave himself). He was less violent than the others I'd had before him. But he still took every dime we earned and only gave his "head bitch" enough money for our basic necessities. Typically his head bitch was his younger sister, Takisha, who he'd pimped out when she was very young. But she had not aged well and was now pretty much done on the streets. Sometimes he gave me the job of head bitch since I was the next oldest in his stable. Sometimes I relished the job because it would allow me to protect some of the other girls. Other times I hated the responsibility because I always wound up supplementing their earnings, and the money he gave me for their care, with my own meager savings. And that meant I'd have to stay with him just that much longer.

Tonight, I'd made enough to go back to my twin-sized stained mattress in the far corner of the tiny bedroom I shared with three other girls and rest. As someone who had been in "the life," for a while, I knew my rights, the few I had. Once I'd reached my quota, only a monster would make me keep working. With Darnell, I knew I was done for the night.

I was standing with the group, waiting to pile into the huge, dark Escalade, when a silver Mercedes coupe pulled up behind us. Three males, white, probably in their mid-thirties, were looking around nervously. I sighed and quickly moved to hide my 5 foot, 4 inch shapely frame behind one of the other girls. If these guys were shopping, I was usually deemed Top Choice, Grade 'A' Beef sooner than the others. And as soon as I had the thought...

"Hey Blondie, you goin' home?" One of them called out loudly, his voice ridiculously slurred.

I hesitated. I was the only one with blonde curls tonight, so there was no doubt who they addressed. I glanced at Darnell in the driver's seat, took a moment to decide if I wanted to argue with him, and decided it wasn't worth the hassle. Besides, three wasted guys in a Mercedes? It wouldn't take me more than 30 minutes.

"Nah baby, was just gonna go freshen up a little." I answered in a sing-song, phony southern accent. I sauntered up to the car and forced a smile that I knew would harden even the most resistant dick.

"You don't need to freshen up. You're fucking hot. You wanna come with us?" The same one asked.

I glanced at the eager beaver in the back seat, already noticing the tent in his jeans. They were all dressed casually, but I could see the designer labels screaming at me. Yup, easy pickings.

"This gonna be a solo act, or a group activity?" I asked sweetly.

The mouthpiece laughed nervously, "nah, you're not for us. We're in town for a conference and we wanted to give you to our boss as a birthday gift."

I raised a brow. That was a new one. "Where's your boss, baby?"

They tossed out the name of a moderately priced hotel not too far away. I only hesitated for a moment, realizing I could supplement both my earnings and my savings with this one.

"Well, it's $500 for an all night delivery," I winged it.

I saw them hesitate for only a minute, "and what do we get for $500?"

I smiled sweetly again, "anything you want, baby boy."

"Can we get some attention on the way there?" He asked.

"Sure baby boy, whatever you like."

He offered me a half lecherous, half goofy smile and I knew it was a done deal.

I texted Darnell the arrangement, the location and the amount (but I told him $350) as I slid into the backseat. Although the hotel was only about a mile away, it took 30 minutes to arrive as I offered the quiet, shy one already in the back seat a hand job (even I had to admit I was damn good with my hands, stroking his stem, cupping his balls, caressing the head, blowing gently on the tip, and getting him to explode in about 2 minutes) and quickly blew the other two in a supermarket parking lot. When we pulled into the underground garage at the hotel, the mouthpiece stood from the car and escorted me to a set of elevators. We rode up in silence as he handed me the money and asked for a quickie in the elevator, which I provided (I was actually a little surprised he was hard again given how drunk he was). Moments later, we exited the elevator on the 14th floor and he turned left to walk down a long carpeted corridor. He stopped in front of a door and knocked loudly.

There was no answer at first, but considering it was 2am that wasn't surprising. He knocked again and there was another pretty lengthy pause. I was getting nervous, hoping I wouldn't have to return the money, when I finally heard the lock turn and saw the door wrench open.

"What the fuck Peter? It's fucking 2am in the damn morning."

I froze for two reasons. First, because although the person opening the door had a deep, husky voice, dark chocolate skin, stood almost six feet tall, had well developed arms and thighs, and wore a tee shirt and boxer shorts, it was a she, not a he. And the second reason I froze? I knew her.

Dressed as I was, I knew it was unlikely the woman would recognize me, but I knew her. We'd gone to high school together. At the time, there had only been a few black families in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, so it's not surprising I would recognize her, even though we had been two grades apart. Jesus. What was the likelihood of this happening after so many years?

I considered leaving. Tossing the money back at the idiot who had brought me here and walking home. But the idea of walking home, in the brisk, cool night, in five inch heels, and going home without the $350 for Darnell, was not a good plan. But I couldn't stay here. It wasn't the fact that it was a woman. In my line of work, I'd done pretty much everything at least once. But someone I knew? Someone from my home town? It was just too creepy. Still, I stood there silently, waiting to see if the idiot would be able to sell the idea to the angry woman who he'd just ripped from the throes of sleep.

"Happy Birthday Vic! We wanted to surprise you!"

Victoria Saunders. I remembered the woman's name as soon as I heard the nickname. I watched as Vic turned her gaze toward me. I continued to stand silently behind the mouthpiece. Vic's face was shadowed, considering the door was not completely open, but I could imagine her eyes combing over me, taking in the wig and the outfit, and assessing the situation immediately. I wasn't certain what Vic planned to do, but it was not pleasure reflected on her face at the moment.

"Peter, are you fucking kidding me? I'm not in the mood for this shit." She snapped.

"Come on boss, you need to get laid. You're so fucking grumpy! And this one is just your type!" He enthused.

I don't think I'd ever felt as cheap, and that was a tall order. But the entire conversation was just about the most bizarre I'd been exposed to in a long time, so I was still standing there out of curiosity.

"Uh, clearly she's not interested. Look, just take your money—" I started to offer.

"Come on boss, you hurt her feelings. And you never let us do anything for you!" The guy continued to whine.

Another moment's hesitation and then the hotel door opened just a little wider. It was clearly an invitation to enter. I swallowed, not sure I didn't want to make a run for it. The idea of the bruises Darnell would visit upon me compelled me to move forward.

"Pete, don't fucking forget we have an 8am meeting. You fucking knuckleheads better be on time."

And with that she slammed the door in his face.

I just continued to stand by the door, watching the angry woman make her way across the room. She began searching for something, mumbling under her breath. She found what she was looking for and turned to face me.

"Uh, no offense, but I'm tired and these guys are a bunch of fucking idiots. How much do I owe you?"

I shook my head, "they already paid. I probably owe you."

Vic shook her head. She was staring at me now, a curious expression on her face, and I felt quite self conscious.

"Don't worry about it," she said, "you want me to call you a cab?"

I shrugged, "don't worry about it."

I turned to leave before she could say anything else. I was happy things had gone this way, happy I didn't have to "do" anything with someone I'd known so many years ago, when I lived in a different place and I was a different person. I had my hand on the door knob, turning it, eager to escape, when my entire world changed with one word.

"Rayn?"

I winced. It was pronounced "rain"...and I couldn't remember the last time anyone had used my name. Did anyone even know my real name anymore? And certainly they wouldn't know the shortened version most of my friends had used when I was in school. I sighed and turned to face her. She continued to stare at me, probably with shock and surprise. I couldn't tell if it was mixed with disgust. I sighed again.

"Raynata West? Stroudsburg High?" She asked incredulously, her deep voice no longer husky with sleep.

"Hey Vic, what's up?"

I don't think she bought my casual act. I certainly didn't buy it considering my heart was thumping a mile a minute in my chest and my hands were shaking. But she did seem dumbfounded for a few minutes. When the silence seemed to drag on forever, I continued to turn the doorknob.

"Uh, well I'm gonna get going—"

"What the hell happened to you?" She finally managed to ask.

I wasn't sure what to do. Did I leave and end this very uncomfortable evening, or did I stay? They had paid for my time after all. And it's not like I had any where to be. Still, I didn't want to have this conversation. Especially not with someone like Victoria Saunders. Her family had been royalty in our home town. Her father was a Representative with the State Senate, her mother was on all the important local committees and charity boards. They owned one of the biggest homes on acres and acres of land. And Vic had been quite popular herself, a star basketball player in high school and someone people were dying to hang out with. We had moved in different circles, because of our age and class differences. Unlike Vic, I had been a part of the struggling working class. Our house was dilapidated and my family barely had enough each year to pay for school supplies. Our parents only knew each other because their children attended the same school.

And yet, even with all the differences, Vic had always been nice to me. That I remembered. She'd never shunned me or tried to embarrass me. And when possible, Vic had even helped me out, loaning me books, paper, and pens as needed. Once, Vic had even offered me a ride home when I found myself walking in the rain because my father's car had died. It had only happened once, but I remembered feeling overwhelmed in the close confines of her car, my heart racing and my hands trembling slightly, just like now, as I rode home with one of the most popular students in school.

But now, things were different. Now, I was a whore Vic's friends had paid for and Vic was my customer. A birthday gift and nothing more. I'd best be inclined to remember that.

"What happened to me?" I repeated the question.

"Yeah. You were in school one minute and then you were gone. No one knew what the hell happened to you. Your parents wouldn't say a word. I mean...what the hell happened?"

Ah, so is that how my parents had handled my running away? They decided to just pretend like I'd never existed? That made sense. God fearing, church goers they were...but that didn't seem to stop my father from coming into my room almost every night. At first, he just wanted me to watch while he stroked himself and squirted. Then, he made me touch him, stroke him, lick him, suck him...eventually forcing me to gag on the head as he tried to deep throat me. 'Just like a lollipop,' he'd told me over and over again. Eventually, he started penetrating me. I was pretty damn certain my mother knew about it, but that woman, who he'd beaten and fucked right in front of me on numerous occasions, would never have said a word. Of that, I was certain. In fact, my mother had begun to treat me with cold disdain, as if any of it was my fault.

I'd lasted as long as I could as my father's favorite plaything. And then one night, I simply left. I had saved money from my father's cash "gifts" (given to me regularly when he started raping me) and I stole the rest. When I finally had enough for a one way ticket to New York City, I ran. I lasted exactly one week on the streets before I met Jay, my first 'manager.' He was so nice, bought me something decent to eat, something nice to wear...he promised he would love me and take care of me. They were the sweetest words I'd ever heard. And then he told me what "girlfriends" who really loved their men did for them, assuring me that it would make him love me even more.

My first night with a john, I threw up all over the middle-aged, pudgy, white man. Jay had beaten me so badly I had two cracked ribs, a broken thumb and a black eye. I'd learned my lesson quickly...and the rest, as they say, was history.

So how was I supposed to tell Victoria Saunders, the girl that always seemed to have everything, my story? I mean, it was probably the furthest thing from her reality. And yet, I felt like I wanted to tell her. To tell someone who knew me before I became...before my life was over. And so I did. I just shrugged, sat down on the edge of one of the full-sized beds, and spilled my guts. I told her about my father, about my mother, about my first pimp...about everything. I spoke and spoke until I was hoarse and hours had passed. And all the while, she was silent, just listening attentively. She didn't seem to be repulsed and she didn't seem to be judging me. When I was done, and pretty exhausted, another silence stretched between us for what seemed like eternity. I wasn't sure what she was thinking about my situation, about life, about me. And although a part of me was glad to have eased the burden churning inside of me a bit, I suddenly wanted to leave. I felt raw, over-exposed...way uncomfortable. I glanced, quite overtly, at the bedside alarm clock and then slowly got to my feet.