Vixens - The Triple Story 03

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An escort ends her day after date number three.
2.7k words
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Part 3 of the 3 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 07/04/2012
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Part I -- Evening -- Very Late

She knew it; everybody did. Certain things are certain after all, and like it or love it, Zuccotti Park in New York City had turned into the most identifiable spot on earth.

To Lissette, the place was scary, and as they approached, she sought protection on Troy's arm. She wondered, why risk it? He was everything the Occupiers hated—the perfect object of scorn for zealots whose mission in life is protesting—him.

"Troy, can't we go another way?" she asked. "It's creepy here."

It was late. She was tired, her tender feet, a reminder of trudging home in sodden shoes after servicing the peeing Brazilian. Exactly as Eileen had wanted, the long day clawed at her.

"It's the park or nothing, girly girl," Troy acerbically replied. Nervously, her thoughts reverted to the angry madam's stern ultimatum: 'Vixens will not tolerate more complaints, young lady. In ten minutes, I can find ten girls to take your place.'

Troy Garrity was the last of the hellish day's triple. So far, Lissette had seen two men, thinking back to the Brazilian and the artist; she knew she had not left anything undone; there was nothing to complain about, and neither had been an easy assignment for the exhausted call girl.

A hodgepodge of trees came into view, under which she saw the small but instantly recognizable tent city of the 'Occupy' people. NYPD officers, flushed with annoyed looks, hemmed in the little area. She hesitated. "I'm afraid, Troy. Can't we..."

"...no," he replied curtly. "Where we go is the client's choice, right?" She did not answer. Having won the round, he smiled. "I'll have you here in the tent city, or we can call this off. I'll order up a different girl tomorrow."

With his Rothman suit, his neatly cut hair, and his too-perfect manners, she had hoped for a nice, warm hotel room, maybe the Tribeca Grand. Her aching body needed a bed, room service, and a soothing whirlpool bath.

Something else troubled Lissette, however. Troy Garrity did not fit into this ragged place; he did not belong. Suspicious, she wondered why he was so insistent. She was sure of one thing; here, Troy stood out in the crowd, meaning she would. But he was right about the rule; Vixens allowed the customer to decide where a girl got fucked.

Casting him a casual glance, Lissette could not help thinking Troy was a poster-child for what haters hate about Wall Street, with its evil speculators and hard-hearted bankers.

They had met an hour ago, and instantly, she could taste his greed, his yearning for more. He was patronizing, objectifying. Squeezing her a little too tightly, he pressed his lips to her forehead but instead of the welcoming kiss for which women hunger, he breathed in her skin's fragrance, then pulled away.

Stepping back, Troy ran his eyes the full length of her, observing, "So they've sent me a girly-girl."

Playing coy, Lissette, though already knowing full well, countered and asked, "And, what, pray tell, is a girly girl?"

"You know," he said indifferently, "a girl who is too pretty, too delicate, too ladylike. Anyway, it's too late to request someone else. You'll have to do." His condescension bit her, and she wanted to slap his face.

'Girly girl,' she thought to herself, 'whores aren't girly-girls—fuck you.'

"But you ordered up a Vixen, Mr. Garrity," she observed, offering a fake smile. "What did you expect?"

A few quiet steps later, he scornfully answered. "Expect?" He turned, seized her narrow shoulders, and effortlessly lifted her off the sidewalk. "Maybe—maybe, a bitch with rougher edges."

Managing a pair of lazy eyes, and despite the caustic comment, she chanced a whisper. "If it's rough edges you want, maybe Vixens isn't for you."

Smiling wryly and setting her back on her heels, he chuckled. "For the moment, I'll yield the point."

He was not bad-looking, but his icy eyes burned holes in her. Standing straight and tall, his hair was dark, his strong arms handily manipulating her modest frame. But much as she liked liking her clients, Lissette did not like Troy. Self-importance turned her off.

She reminded herself that although detesting clients was typical, showing it was not. Putting on a happy face was the rule of all rules, and Eileen punished girls for violating it, leveling stiff fines, which Lissette could ill afford.

So straining to mind the very manners her exacting boss insisted she mind, Lissette forced herself to stroll under the streetlights with a mystery man she was not sure she could handle and about whom she felt an ill wind.

A moment later, the couple stood at the entry to Zuccotti Park.

Part II - Evening Performance

Lissette surreptitiously checked the time. It was nearly one, and Mr. Wall Street was interfering with her commitment to her babysitter to be home early, not to mention a desperate need for sleep. As promised, the escort had been a good girl, providing requisite services, following orders. Now, nearing the end, she was buoyant; she knew she would make it through the maddening triple.

'Provide the client with required services,' her madam had lectured. Was dodging a creepy snake required? How about playing condom-roulette for a crazed artist or serving as a human toilet for an eccentric Brazilian? Now Lissette found herself accompanying a cold-hearted mystery man into a beehive of professional haters!

Anxiously, she scanned their surroundings. "Welcome to the new center of the universe." Troy beamed more excitedly than she expected.

Like most New Yorkers, Lissette avoided the contentious place. Now, holding his hand tightly, she followed him into the midst of the place, and its atmosphere surprised her. Except for the not-so-distant shrieks of a woman in the throes of orgasm—or labor, the famous enclave was eerily silent, with only a handful of people milling about.

Troy took her past a campfire, around which sat several men and a very pregnant woman, students, Lissette supposed. Methodically sharing a small pipe, the obviously stoned woman stood and confrontationally demanded, "Vlad! Who the fuck is she?"

Lissette's mind froze. The girl's behavior was possessive; the woman knew Troy, calling him 'Vlad!' Tugging his arm, the guarded escort asked, "Who is she talking about? Who is Vlad?"

Without answering, Troy called back to the girl. "Just an old friend, Nikki."

In her head, alarms sounded. Troy Garrity was a fake. He had slipped past Vixens' vaunted vetting service. The girls called them pseudos, men who pretended to be one person when in fact, they were someone else. To escorts, pseudos were especially dangerous because they hid things. But what? What was this one hiding? Lissette's mind stiffened with fear.

One of the fireside men chided him. "She's the second old friend this week, Teichberg, and this one's a real looker, real eye candy!"

Laughter filled the smoky air, and turning his attention to the prego, the same man added, "Hey Nikki. Isn't she hot?" His sarcastic question drew dual menacing middle fingers from the annoyed woman, and he quieted. "You missed today's rally, Teichberg. We so fucked with the cops! You should have been here."

"Yeah, Spike, I know, I know," Troy acknowledged. "But you guys don't need me for that stuff. Just do what I told you. Video everything, upload it to the internet, and fuck Wall Street, right?" Agreeable laughter followed.

The frightened Lissette tugged again. "Vlad...whoever you are, how do you know these people?" she asked. Detecting her alarm, he hurried her along the pathway. Arriving at a domed tent, he unzipped the flap and, pointing, whispered, "Inside."

Lissette's instincts told her to run, but with Eileen's ultimatum still buzzing in her brain, the escort was too afraid. Inside, she found a narrow cot, some rumpled blankets, canned soups, and a plastic storage container overflowing with twisted jeans—not the attire he had on and not the kind she expected to see.

It was clear Troy Garrity was not Troy Garrity. He was Vladimir Teichberg, Occupy Wall Street's online streaming video chief. She remembered seeing his picture. The pot-smoking girl by the fire was his wife, Nikki!

Switching on a battery lamp, Vladimir zipped the flap closed, placing fabric between man, escort, and flight.

Loosening her silk scarf, Lissette's questions came fast and furious: "So, Mr. Teichberg, mind telling me what the cloak-and-dagger stuff is about? I admit the three-piece suit had me fooled. And why lie to Vixens about who you are? And who is Troy Garrity anyway?"

Smirking, he observed, "You ask too many questions for your own good. But I'll explain anyway." He paused. She waited. "Let's just say Troy Garrity is my alter ego. He gets me into the Stock Exchange; he's an intruder, a detested figment of everybody's imagination. He even fooled you and that stupid office manager, Celeste." Lissette frowned, hating the man's previous dishonesty.

She asserted herself. "That doesn't explain why you lied to Celeste, meaning my agency placed me with you as a trick through deception. Why that? Buying a girl is buying a girl! You could have had me anyway."

He stepped forward menacingly. Instinctively, Lissette backed away. "You're afraid of me, aren't you," he whispered. "Don't be. I intend to destroy the capitalist system, but you? You take care of that for me—you destroy yourself by fucking strangers.

"Think about it. You're a whore; a victim, right? You should...should be one of us, part of the 99%. But instead, you let yourself be exploited by some rich-bitch madam, a charter member of the one percent!

"My problem with whores like you is that you permit it, so to me, you're nothing but a venture capitalist, in the same class as Wall Street dipshits or madams who keep stables of willing girls. She sells your body and rakes in tons of money. She doesn't pay her fair share. Don't tell me I'm not right."

Lissette felt cornered by this madman and was not about to differ. Instead, she did what she was taught to do; she lied about everything. "It's true," she admitted. "I hate her. And I hate myself for giving her money to exploit me. But I need to work, and selling myself is all I know." Teichberg seized and held her, his strong hands hurting her.

"It's a bullshit excuse!" he insisted. "You're weak, and I hate weakness."

Lissette had lost control and tried changing the subject. Feigning affection, she gazed up at him and asked, "Tell me, Mr. Occupy, when does your victimized whore find out what you want from her? How about Mrs. Occupy sitting out there by the fire? She's OK with this?"

"Never mind her," he ordered. Placing his hands on Lissette's shoulders, he shoved her to the cot. Rough though he was, Lissette knew the routine. She eyed his bulging crotch, thinking a simple blowjob was in order. After the kind of day she had had, the prospect of a simple blowjob was heaven.

Unzipping his pants, she reached inside. Skillfully, she worked his cock and scrotum into view. Carefully taking a testicle into her mouth, she gently rolled it, then did the same with the other.

Releasing them, she reached into her purse and fumbled for a condom whose foil wrapper she expertly tore away with her teeth. "No way," he announced. Like the artist, Vladimir perceived condoms as an affront.

"House rules," she pouted, lying coyly. "You'll like it, Vlad...I'll make you like it." His face darkened. Grabbing her hair, he jerked her head back, and, ripping the condom from her teeth, he pitched it away. She tried getting to her feet, but he was too strong and held her down.

"Please, Vlad, I...I can't. My boss...I'll scream!" She shook, fright overtaking her.

"You can," was his firm response. "And if there's any hope of escaping Zuccotti Park in one piece—you will. Take heed, bitch. With one word, my people will tear you to pieces."

Still holding her down, he ordered, "Mouth open." Wrestling with a dozen fears, she opened, and he jammed himself, choking her. "There," he said, relieved. "Yeah...feels good."

In an instant, her throat was awash in pre-cum, something experienced girls did not let affect them. But the more he forced her, the more she struggled, first to get up— then, for air to breathe. After a moment, however, he unexpectedly backed off.

Offering a kind of truce, he relaxed the pressure on her shoulders. In response, he withdrew but held her face in the vice between his knees, aimed the tip of his glistening cock at her eye, making her blink. She knew now what Vladimir was about, that he played darts.

Earlier, the Brazilian's seemingly harmless pissing had left Lissette's eyes burning and pink with irritation. Though lacking Vladimir's overt aggressiveness, Estevan had, nonetheless, abused her, consciously targeting her eyes, eyes she knew would swell and burn for hours afterward.

"Please, Vladimir, don't," she pleaded. Wincing, she shut her eyes and turned away. "Please," she appealed again. "Come in my mouth. My eyes hurt...I can't!"

He did not reply. With her head locked in place, he held her wrists with one hand and madly pumped his erection with the other. "Bloodshot eyes," he muttered contemptuously. "They send me a girl with bloodshot fucking eyes! It's fucking discrimination!"

Lissette broke down, her uncontrollable sobs the result of the madness of her day. Twisting her arms, he ordered, "Open. Keep them open, or I'll break you! Vixens sucks!"

He hurt her—she complied. "Let me," she offered resignedly. "Just let go of my hands, and I'll do it—I promise."

"OK," he agreed, "but behave yourself. You're a beast, and my alter ego says maybe it's time to bitch about you to your boss. Troy, that capitalist prick; he'll get your pretty ass fired!"

Lissette begged. "Please, Vlad; I said I'd do it. Only don't tell on me. I'll hold my own eyes open, I promise." Nodding, he let go of her wrists and continuing to jerk off; he looked on as Lissette spread both eyelids wide apart for him.

"Head back...hurry," he grunted, obviously close. The girl, exhausted and emotionally drained, gave way. Tilting back and fighting her reflex to close them, she held her eyes open, awaiting his splash.

With a grunt, he burst, hot sperm flooding the wretched escort's eye sockets. Instantly, her vision turned gauzy white, a burning haze which her involuntarily fluttering lids instinctually sought to blink away, but which only worsened the biting sensation from the moment's singular viciousness.

Blinded, she listened to his gasps, waiting as his labored breathing faded. Semen ran down her cheeks, into her ears, and slid into her open collar as Lissette desperately felt along the cold floor, searching with her hands for something— anything to dab away the stinging fluid.

"Stay still," he ordered. With a click, a glaring, knife-like light flashed through the filmy filter, still fogging Lissette's vision. Followed by a second, he captured today's portrait with his smartphone. "That's perfect. Guess our girly girl is just another messy mess," he said with more than a hint of self-satisfaction.

"Tell you what. I promise not to upload this photographic hors d'oeuvre to Hamster's picture gallery if you promise to keep my alter ego, Troy Garrity, and his little game a secret. Do we have a deal?" The sobbing girl nodded despairingly. With a zip, he opened the tent's flap and said, "Now get out."

Part III -- Home Late

For the third time this week, Lissette had worked late. It was after three o'clock when she quietly unlocked the apartment door.

All was dark. All was silent. The place felt eerily empty. "Sable?" she whispered. Receiving no response from her sitter, she turned the lights on. The living room was empty. Lissette called out once more—louder this time: "Sable? Emily?" Again hearing nothing, she hurried to her daughter's room. The bed was empty, but resting on the pillow was a note. Picking it up, she guardedly read:

Ms. Church,

When one o'clock came and went with no sign of you, I felt obligated to take my daughter—and yours—to my apartment. I called Child Protective Services, and they picked up little Emily a short time later. Maybe it's harsh, but a little girl needs a mother who loves her—not one who stays out all hours of the night.

Investigator Jerome Keller left this number: 800-342-3720. He said you could reach him after 9:00 in the morning.

If I were you, I'd talk with a good lawyer first. I think the investigator knows the kind of life you lead, shame on you.

Karen Ellis

End

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AnonymousAnonymousover 3 years ago

sad, but five stars.

liqueurliqueurover 4 years ago
Harsh reality

This series a whole: I assume the lack of comments is because most readers would prefer fantasy to reality. But I appreciate the honesty here, as well as the excellent quality of writing. All too often (especially where sexual matters are concerned) we get caught up in the world as we'd like to imagine it, and reject the truth. This series flies in the face of those preferences. Puts reality right in you face. I really appreciate that.

Thanks for posting it

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