Red Light Diaries:

Red Light Diaries: My Life As A High-Priced Call Girl
by Charlie Maddox

Having your pussy waxed is most uncomfortable, but the pain is so  ... exquisite. It reminds me I'm alive.

Most people don't like what I do, but I don't give a shit what people think. It's a good, honest living. I critique my reflection in the bathroom mirror: $580 suede pumps, $250 champagne-colored camisole, $375 snug micro miniskirt, $69 lace bra that barely contains my super-sized breasts. As a teenager, I wanted nothing more than to have a breast reduction. I wore a 36EE by the time I was fifteen, but one year ago when I turned twenty-three and made the decision to do what I do, they became my greatest asset. My breasts quickly made me the most popular girl at Discreet--Vegas' premier escort service. I shrug into my single-breasted tweed jacket and scoop up my Dolce & Gabbana handbag. My dates are very discriminating, and I wear only the best.

"Good evening, Elizabeth. You look stunning tonight," my limo driver slash bodyguard says as he opens the car door for me.

"Thank you, Jimmy."

"Where to this evening, ma'am?"

"Alizé. I have 7:30 reservations. André saved me a window table." Chef Rochat always saves me the best table in the house. I am a regular customer, and I dine with well known, wealthy, very generous men.

"Alizé it is."

I settle into the rear leather seat and watch as the lights of Vegas dance past my window. I'm not sure what the night has in store for me, but whatever it is I know I'll be well compensated.

I only entertain two customers a week--usually several days apart. My rates are steep but reasonable: $1,500 an hour or all night for $10,000. I rarely bring home less than $50,000 a month and I make sure my customers get their money's worth.

I consider my body a gift to whomever is willing to pay to partake of it. I spend several days and hundreds of dollars preparing for our intimate encounter: hot waxings, sugar scrubs, facials and manicures, pedicures and hair care--and the seven hours I spend in the gym each week ensures my clients are quite pleased with my five foot eight-inch body.

I've learned a lot about men in the past twelve months, and I can usually tell what they're into when I look at them--kinky, freaky, or traditional. I have a knack for spotting the dangerous ones, and my gut's never let me down.

Some men like to watch. Some are into bondage and domination. Some just want to talk. Some like threesomes and stripper, stranger, secretary, or naughty nurse fantasies. A few are into fetishes like sploshing; they love to watch me squeeze chocolate syrup onto my breasts and drizzle warm honey down my shaved pussy while they masturbate. Then there are the ones who like to inflict pain--nothing that lands me in the hospital or anything, but things that require me to take a week or two off to heal. You know, black eyes, welts on my buttocks, superficial bite marks on my breasts, strangulation marks around my neck ... that sort of thing. These men pay extra--enough to get me by while I recuperate.

"We're here, Elizabeth. What room you in tonight?"

"He's booked Hugh Hefner's Sky Villa."

Jimmy whistled. "High roller, huh? Well, high roller or not, I'll be ready for him. Here, take this."

I laughed. "A pen? What do I need a pen for?" I asked, stuffing it into my breast pocket.

"'It's not a pen, it's a voice transmitter. It can pick up conversations from 900 feet away, but the sound quality is better if it's unobstructed and within fifty feet of the source. Keep it close, okay? I want to be able to hear what's going on in there. If something goes wrong I won't know it if I can't hear it."

Always looking out for me, aren't you Jimmy?  I thought. "Thank you."

Jimmy took my hand. "You're too good for this, you know," he said, and I suddenly wanted to cry.

I leaned over to kiss his stubbly cheek. "That's what you keep telling me." My manufactured smile didn't fool either of us.



I always arrive at least thirty minutes early. I feel it gives me an advantage to arrive first. I like to watch my dates as they approach--get a feel for what kind of men they are by the way they move, the way they work a room, the look on their faces when they see me for the first time, the way they introduce themselves. As Manuela escorts me across the dining room I notice my date is already sitting at our table enjoying the spectacular view of the Vegas Strip below. Apparently I'm not the only one who prefers the upper hand.

As is customary in my line of work, my gentleman friend stands to greet me as if we are long-lost friends.

"Oh, it's so good to see you, Elizabeth," he says, taking my hands and kissing my cheek. "You look beautiful. Please ... sit." He gestures to the chair opposite him. "I've taken it upon myself to order us an appetizer. If I remember correctly, you like Osetra." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, and André has the best Caviar," I say, taking my seat.

I recognize him immediately. It's not every day a famous politician requests my services. It happens, but one has to be particularly careful in such situations. Tonight I am his "business associate" if anyone asks, and we will go up to his room separately. Senators are powerful men, and they don't like to share. I've been in similar situations before, and like a rolled-up blueprint I can practically see how the evening will unfold.

He is older--maybe mid-fifties, and impeccably dressed. He's quite handsome, really, fit and healthy-looking. His tailored suit complements his muscular six foot frame, and the gray hair that peppers his temples gives him a sophisticated, dignified air. 

"Have you been waiting long, Senator?"

"Please, call me Geoff. And no ... not long." He spoons caviar onto a Buckwheat Blin and smiles. "We'll eat light tonight. Just the Osetra and a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon for now. Maybe some room service later."

"Of course."

"So ... what are your thoughts on Cap and Trade?" he asks, fingering the caviar-covered blin into his mouth.

I'm used to questions like this and take pride in my ability to intelligently research and discuss topics ranging from anatomy to zoology, slanting them to the right or left depending on to whom I am speaking. I knew three days ago my date would be with a powerful Republican politician. Thank God for Google.

"I think the Obama Administration means well, but I'm not convinced it will decrease greenhouse-gas emissions. Why must companies be forced to purchase allowances to cover their emissions? And who profits from these permits, the government? The EPA says 'polluters' are allowed  to buy, sell and/or bank allowances, but it's naive to think these corporations will willingly eat the cost of such permits. In a nutshell, they're saying the right to pollute is a commodity that can be bought and sold. I believe the cost will be passed on to the consumer. I see the Cap-and-Trade Program as nothing more than a thinly-veiled tax." 

Geoff smiles. "Exactly! The 1,428 pages that comprise Waxman-Markey are designed to befuddle and confuse. Excuse me," he waves to a passing waiter. "Can we have the check, please?"

Looks like I'm done.  I sip the last of my champagne. That's alright. I've never cared for caviar anyway.

I watch Geoff pay the $344.99 tab and tip the waiter $70.00. "Come now," he whispers, grabbing the Dom Pérignon with one hand and my left elbow with the other. "We can finish this upstairs."

I could get used to this,  I think as I enter the 9,000 square foot luxury suite. The Palms version of the Playboy Mansion comes complete with an outdoor pool, glass elevator, steam room, massage room, spa, wet bar, fully-equipped gym, and eight-foot round rotating bed. I stand motionless in the center of the room waiting for my instructions. This is Geoff's rodeo now.

He lights the gas fireplace, dims the lights, pours himself a cocktail, and turns to me. "Take off your jacket."

I shrug it off and start toward the closet for a hanger.

"No, no. That's not necessary. Just toss it over the back of the recliner."

What did Jimmy say? The sound quality is better if it's unobstructed and within fifty feet of the source?  I gently drape my jacket, breast pocket up, over the back of the chair. Geoff has that look in his eyes--that carnivorous, predatory look men get when their lust for you completely consumes them. He takes another sip of his drink and sits down.

"Turn around and remove your skirt. Do it ... slowly."

I do as I'm asked, looking over my shoulder at him as I tug the zipper down. This would be a most inopportune time for a wardrobe malfunction,  I think, and stifle a laugh. The skirt makes a soft floof  sound as it falls to the floor at my feet. I can see Geoff's erection pressing against the fabric of his slacks. He wraps his hand around it and moans.

"Face me."

Again, I do as I'm told, toeing my skirt out of the way so I don't trip.

"Jesus, you really are breathtaking, you know that?"

"Thank you."

Geoff devours me with his eyes but says nothing. I hear the ticking of the clock, the barely-audible hiss of the gas fireplace, the distant traffic of Sin City's Strip below. Now what?  I feel ridiculous and wonder what the hell is taking him so long. Christ on a cracker, say something already!  I sigh, then hope he didn't notice. This might be a long night.

"Slip your top off, but leave your shoes on. Your panties and bra too. I will take great pleasure in removing those myself. Meet me in the bedroom. I want you on your back."

Finally!  I pull my cami over my head and lie down on the bed. I consider my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. Girl, you look good!  I think and smile. I'd want to fuck me.  I spread my hair across the pillow, close my eyes and wait.

The sensual sounds of Enigma's Sadeness  make me smile. Oh, good choice, Geoff! Definitely one of the most erotic songs ever written.  It didn't matter whether he'd turned on the music for himself or to set the mood. It was working for me.

Some girls say they don't consider exchanging sex for money cheating on their boyfriends or husbands unless they enjoy the sex or have an orgasm. I don't have a boyfriend--I believe boyfriends are contraindicated in my line of work--but I still make a point of not enjoying myself too much. I prefer to separate my mind from what's happening to my body. I do this work for the money. Nothing more, nothing less.

I have a plan, you see. I want to buy some land somewhere with a cute little farmhouse on it. A horse or two would be nice. Maybe even a few cows. And I've always wanted a St. Bernard. I want to pay cash for the place and live off the rest of the money I manage to stash away. I want to be a writer, and if I do this just a little longer ... sacrifice for one more year, I can devote the rest of my life to living my dream.

No one grows up wanting to be a whore.

Geoff climbs onto the bed and I open my eyes. He's naked, and he wastes no time straddling me. He has a basket of something in his hands. I can't see what's in it because the only light is coming from the fireplace in the living room. The tip of his rigid cock is glistening in the flickering firelight. He sets the basket down beside me before wrapping his right hand around my bra just below my breasts and ripping it off.

He shakes a bottle from the basket upside-down and squeezes a bright pink-colored liquid onto my nipples, drizzling it between my breasts and down my sides. It's warm and thick and glows in the dark. Next is lime green, then neon blue and lemon yellow. I watch in the overhead mirror, enthralled by the fluorescent colors on my alabaster skin and aroused in spite of myself.

Reduced to animalistic moans, Geoff is in his own little world as he reaches out to smear the colors across my flesh. Is he on something?  I wonder. He acts like he's on drugs.  He doesn't even look at me as he kneads my breasts, scooting himself higher on my belly to dip the tip of his cock in the swirly liquid rainbow before lying on top of me, smearing the goop and smashing my breasts between us.

His slippery erection presses against my thigh as he grinds into me, pinning me to the bed. He slithers down my body until his chest slips between my thighs. He tears my panties off and I spread my legs, exposing my cleanly-shaven pussy to him for the first time. I can feel his warm breath on my skin. He leans in closer as if to taste me, then thinks better of it and slips two fingers inside me instead.

I gasp, surprised by how turned on I am--surprised to find myself scooching farther down in the bed, impaling myself on his hand. I tease my nipples, pinching them to erection as Geoff rhythmically and relentlessly finger-fucks me. I feel that old familiar tingle begin in my belly, the warmth spreading across my gooseflesh-covered body. I squeeze my eyes shut as my pending release builds momentum and squeal in surprised, orgasmic ecstasy when he sucks my engorged clit into his mouth.

I've never allowed myself to come during a trick before. The reality confuses me, and I suddenly want to run. Oh God, please just get this over with.  I feel cheap ... dirty. My mind/body disassociation technique didn't work this time. What Geoff and I are doing isn't just a business transaction anymore. I've allowed it to become something else. It's--

There's a strange, wild look in Geoff's eyes. I've seen that look before and I know what's coming, but before I can call out to Jimmy, Geoff flips me over onto my stomach and pulls me to my hands and knees. My ass is in the air and I feel him rubbing the tip of his naked cock against me, lubricating himself with my juices. No!  my mind screams. Condom. You need to wear a condom,  but I'm breathless, speechless, delirious ... too euphoric to protest. My mind's in a fog and it occurs to me that perhaps he's drugged me too. Did he slip some X into my champagne?

"No," I manage to whisper, but Geoff grabs my hips and buries himself in my ass with one vicious thrust. I scream in pain, surprised and humiliated by the unexpected violation. Then the right side of my face explodes in a brilliant cluster of white light and red blood as Geoff brings his fist down on my cheek.

"Shut up, you stupid whore."

I don't do anal. You knew that from the beginning. We agreed--no anal, no animals, no minors.  My mind is scattered ... irrational. Molten fear bubbles up inside me, and I begin to cry.

A loud noise. What's that?  Footsteps approaching, Geoff's being lifted off me. I hear his body thud against the room's far wall.

"What the--" Geoff starts to ask, but he's cut short by another voice ... a voice I recognize.

"Shut the fuck up! You move and I'll fucking kill you."

Oh my God, it's Jimmy. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Jimmy wraps me in a sheet and scoops me into his arms. "Come on, baby. I'm getting you outta here."

"But ... he'll have you arrested. That's Senator--"

"No he won't, will you, you fuck?" Jimmy asks, leaning over to spit in Geoff's face.

"You have any idea who you're fucking with, pal? You're one phone call away from--"

"From what? What you gonna do, huh? Tell the cops how you got high and beat up your ho?" Jimmy lifts one boot-covered foot and brings it down hard on Geoff's right hand, grinding the bones to powder beneath his heel. "You like hitting women, eh? How 'bout you try it now, scumbag!" he yelled over Geoff's screams. "You miserable fucking piece of shit dirtbag motherfucker!"

The night air is freezing, but it clears my head a little. I press my ear against Jimmy's chest and listen to the lub-dub, lub-dub  of his heart. It makes me feel safe.

"All that and I didn't even get paid."

"Yes you did, darlin'. I took every last dime outta that fuckwad's wallet. You made about three grand tonight."

I had to smile. Always looking out for me, aren't you Jimmy?

"I'm sorry about what I said back there. I didn't mean it."

"What?"

"About him beating up his ho. I didn't mean it. I was angry and--"

"You worry about the weirdest things. I know you didn't mean anything by it." I close my eyes and sigh. "You're the only friend I've got, Jimmy."

He opens the passenger-side door and slides me onto the front seat. "That was your last roll, Elizabeth. You're not doing this shit anymore. No more, you hear me?"

"But I need--"

"Baby, don't you know I love you? I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you, okay?"

I look into his tender brown eyes and have to turn away. The tears sting like a sonuvabitch until they finally spill over, snaking their way down my broken cheek.

"Aw babe, don't cry." Jimmy tries to wipe them away and I flinch.

"Shit, sorry. Fuck. I was trying to ... damn, that's gonna be one helluva shiner. Let's get you to a doctor. Maybe get some ice on it."

I flip the visor's mirror open and gasp at my reflection. My right cheek is already turning black and blue and my eye is swollen shut. Jimmy's right: it's gonna be one helluva shiner. I reach up to touch it and wince. The pain is ... exquisite, but it reminds me I'm alive.





3,110 words (story minus title, according to Microsoft Word)
Written for Mara's

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Erotic Tales of Pleasure & Pain~closed!   (18+) Valentine's Day is coming, but what if you like your erotica a little naughty? #1445042 by Mara ♣ McBain