gogounited

Please give me some constructive criticism.

Here is my first ever short story.

Hooked

Carmella exited the taxicab careful not to soil her leopard print stilettos, and tightened her chinchilla fur coat around her shoulders against the cold November wind. Her huge designer sunglasses made her look like a movie-star gone incognito on the busy streets of 5th Avenue, especially since the sun hadn’t shown itself for days.
The hotel loomed before her, in all its architectural glory, and the doorman approached the cab to lend his hand, even while she shrugged it away. Walking through the foyer, she checked in at the front desk, and then with a noisy staccato of her stilletto heels, she walked toward the elevator.
The floors lit-up as the elevator climbed to the 25th floor, and she contemplated the series of events which had led her into this predicament. Last night, Mia had come into her office with a broken nose, and a battered and bruised face. Attached to her forearm was the telltale plastic bracelet that told she’d been admitted to New York Central Hospital. And beneath her shirt she revealed a dark blood-stained gauze bandage, which Mia told her, was a stab wound. Carmella remembered the evening prior, the distraught girl and the call she placed through on her cell.
“Carmella, I just don’t feel good about this one, he wanted to PEE on me, he asked if I didn’t mind being bound and gagged, and if I liked pain.”
“Mia.” she’d said. “We don’t choose our clients, our clients choose us. This is how we came to be the most successful escort agency in the city, WE do whatever is required, and our clients pay ten times as much for our services than for any other in the entire country. WE don’t decide what we will do for our clients, THEY decide what they do with US, and YOU will do whatever he wants and then YOU will walk away with five thousand dollars.”
Mia had cried and begged her to cancel the “appointment”, but she’d refused and scolded the girl for thinking her company would actually refund the paid up-front money. What was it with these small town girls trying to be hookers in the big city? What did they expect, someone to make love to them, to pay them ten thousand dollars so that they could treat them as they treated their own wives? Wives who wouldn’t let them fist or piss or anally penetrate them? She remembered her first few nights on the streets, when without a pimp she had been forced to strum up business of her own. There was no one to take her to the clinic, or supply her with condoms or legitimate clients who paid half of the money upfront for her services. She’d endured her set of humiliating acts from those men for over a year before she’d formed an alliance with the others girls on her corner, and had found she had the administrative skills to make just as much money pimping them, without having to turn tricks herself. She helped with their rent, taught them how to get repeat customers, and had eventually recruited and trained girls new to the business. It was easy, just as easy as the man who used a banana on her, and the man who’d scared her by choking her as he came, and the man who made her rub feces on her breasts and then watch him lick it off. She’d only been paid five-hundred dollars for those heinous acts, and now her girls were being paid five thousand for the same. Mia was a weak little cunt and so she let her go, even though the girl was beautiful and thus in high demand.
But Carmella was a beauty herself. And just because Mia had been busted up a little, and even stabbed, didn’t mean she wouldn’t recover. As long as Mia said nothing to the police, Carmella didn’t care, and Carmella knew Mia wouldn’t say anything, because she hadn’t paid her yet. In fact, Carmella didn’t intend to. But what it did mean was that Carmella could not turn down this client tonight; a Washington businessman, who’d already paid half of his money upfront to see Mia, but who would have to settle with Carmella instead. It had been years since she’d turned a trick. Months since she’d had sex. In a way she looked forward to the upcoming experience, knowing she would keep the entire ten thousand dollars to herself.
And as for Mia, she would quickly be replaced, just as Carmella had replaced the dozen or so girls through the years that had not returned from the hospital, and had not returned from their “assignments” at all. What had happened to those women was not her fault. Police officers were paid forty thousand dollars each year to risk their lives in the line of duty. Her girls got paid an average of three-hundred thousand per year, and just in the same way the hazardous nature of their work came with the territory.
The elevator made a pleasant sound, and the doors slid open to disclose a long hallway, with a cathedral-like ceiling. She stepped out and tread across the plush, cream carpet to the penthouse suite at the far end of the hall, where she would spend the next three hours. In the middle of the hallway, she turned and looked into a floor length mirror, smoothing her hair, and leaning upon a cherrywood table displaying fresh lilacs. She bent over and straightened the line of her black fishnet pantyhose. Afterwards, she opened her chinchilla coat to ensure that her ensemble had not become disheveled throughout the taxi-ride, and admired her lush hour-glass figure in the mirror. The deep blood burgundy color of her strapless, shoulder-less dress hugged her curves in just the right way. Her creamy breasts burst from the top of the seams, spilling over invitingly, and were nicely highlighted with a teardrop necklace which trailed rubies into the depths of her cleavage. She smiled and touched up her lipstick before replacing the fur coat, and continuing down the hallway to her suite.
Room #152 had been supplied with strawberries, champagne, and a balcony with a view to die for. Why marry a rich man and entertain a selfish husband when you could get paid to put up with a man for only one night, be wined and dined, and sometimes enjoy the sexual pleasures for which he paid for? Mr. Scott had said he wanted a brunette, flawless, and he liked to talk dirty while doing it. Mia had fit the brunette description, but he hadn’t requested a black eye, bruises and a stab wound to boot. She prided herself on being able to pull off the job of one of her most attractive girls. Scott had spent three thousand dollars on the penthouse suite, and she was ready to be spoiled and soiled.

After ringing the bell, there was a brief pause before she heard a man’s voice behind the door. The locking mechanism made a noise, and it opened before her, showing a tall, older Caucasian man, white-haired with a congenial smile. He looked impressed with her face, and curious as to what might be under her coat.
“Hello Mia, I’ve been waiting for you”.
“Good evening Mr. Scott,” she said with a wink, “We can’t keep you waiting long, now can we?” As he stepped back and let her in, she risked an obscure glance at his loins, in an effort to gauge just what kind of “waiting” he’d been doing. It was not unusual for a client to be ”ready and waiting,” as soon as his escort arrived.
Inside the room, she followed him to the closet, and turned to let him take off her coat. He let his fingers linger on her skin and even stooped to kiss one alabaster shoulder as he removed the article and placed it on a hanger.
“Just what I wanted and much, much more, Mia you are stunning”.
Carmella smiled coyly, and batted her eyelids, “It’s my pleasure to have pleased you, Mr. Scott”.
His gaze had moved to her breasts, and now shifted focus to the service cart where a bottle of Dom Perignon waited to be uncorked. “Let’s have a drink, shall we?”
It was not so much a question as a statement, and she watched as he uncorked the bottle and poured the bubbly into two crystal glasses, which clinked melodiously together as they toasted to “a ten-thousand dollar night, with a beautiful brunette”.
There was no conversation, and she barely sipped her champagne, eager to get the first session finished so she could move to the shower, and finally leave. They had migrated to the balcony to enjoy the view, when finally he turned to her and said, “Take your dress off, please”. She placed her champagne glass upon the railing and used both arms to unzip the dress from the back. He turned her back to him so he could assist, and with a satisfying “zzzzt” the garment dropped to the ground to reveal her black lace bra and panties, matching garter belt, and the slutty fishnets. It had been so long since she’d turned a trick, it felt almost as if she were on a date. She settled in to enjoy herself, idly placing a leg on a patio chair and giving him a good look at her well-groomed snatch. Predictably, he reached out and ran his hand from her knee to that lower center of her body and moved the lace panties aside. To both their surprise she was wet, and his hands went to work as he drew closer and began to bite her neck gently. She made all the mewing and gasping sounds she knew he wanted to hear, and shortly thereafter she wound up in the bed, with him between her spread-eagled legs, and his pants down around his ankles.
Once they’d separated themselves, he threw away the condom, and she rearranged her garments, which he’d simply moved aside instead of taking them off. They shared another glass of champagne, and conversation came easily.
“So, Mia….what got you into your line of business?”
She gave a throaty laugh, and answered, “Men just like you. I had sex with my boyfriend in college so much, and we tried so many different things, I just got the idea one night that to get paid for this would be great. We did it so often, I used to feel like it was work, and just before we broke up, I was in need of work, with no way to pay my rent, and he’d asked his father to borrow the four hundred dollars I needed to cover it. His dad said no.” “A few days later, I went to his house to pick up some of my belongings, and his father approached me with four one-hundred dollar bills, and said ‘this is yours if you’ll do me like you did my son, for just one hour.’ And I thought, with as much as I had to fuck his son just to get him to ask his dad for the money, why not, right?” He laughed, and she laughed, and their laughter bubbled together like a meeting of trickling streams.
“Anyhow,” she continued, “ I eventually wound up looking for more men like him outside those downtown smut theatres in the Harlem area. They weren’t hard to find, and so here I am today”. She smiled up at him, seeking approval. He returned the gesture and told her that he admired self-made girls such as herself, and that he saw nothing wrong with hooking, and that in fact, he believed it had put a lot of girls through college. He went on to tell her how he knew girls in graduate school that had paid their tuition by doing “favors” to the Ivy League dads and alumni who seemed to always be so involved in college life.
He was so sincere that she relaxed a bit more, going into deep discussions about sexual repression, unhappy marriages, and the need for a man to be with a beautiful woman every so often, how Nevada and Amsterdam were ahead of their time, and hookers were public servants, just as useful and needed as were postal workers and teachers.
It wasn’t long before the champagne was gone, and he ordered another bottle. Briefly it flashed through her mind that over an hour had passed, and she should get on with her night. But she was having fun, and made a point not to look at the clock again, thinking she would even enjoy it if he were to request another meeting with “Mia” in the future. It was ironic to her that she actually looked forward to turning another trick, perhaps because it was with just this one client. In her mind she played out a fantasy of seeing him over and over, until one-hundred thousand dollars later, they wound up living together. He would be the closest thing to a boyfriend she had come to in a long, long time.

The champagne arrived, and she lounged in an armchair while he pulled the empty bottle out, resettled the new one on ice, and then reached over and grabbed one of her legs, spreading them apart. He took a piece of ice and traced a line from her ankle to her mid-section, lingering over the lace section of her panties that covered her clitoris. She closed her eyes and arched her back, in the way she knew he would enjoy. And then she felt something cold but not as cold as the ice push inside her. Her eyes opened to discover her panties pulled to the side and the lip of the empty champagne bottle inserted inside her. Mr. Scott’s face was close, and he said, “don’t worry, my lovely. I just want to make all of you drunk” She felt the cool bottle warm to her flesh as he stroked her lightly with it. He removed his boxers with the other hand, and the champagne bottle was deftly replaced by his penis. She enjoyed the things he whispered into her ear while he moved inside of her. Seductive, nasty things, that made her even hotter, and the nastier he got, the harder he went at her, until the chair began to rock back, and his fingers dug into her hips as he pulled her onto him. At one point, the chair threatened to fall completely over, and then he lifted her out of the chair and placed her back against the wall and she was sure they were disturbing the neighbors. The painting above her was clattered violently against the wall, and she began to moan loudly as her fingers dug into the flesh of his shoulders. His actions became more forceful and she got louder, until they heard a banging on the other side of the wall, and a muffled protest. Abruptly he pulled away from her and slid his hand between them. She listened to his litany of course, perverse, and somehow enticing comments about how she was so swollen and wet, it made him throb harder and want to give her more. He licked her, and used his hands to play with her until she was numb. Then he led her out on the balcony, bent her over, and pushed himself inside from behind. She didn’t bother to worry about the neighbors as he pulled on her hair and indulged himself. She moaned out over the city, gasping and squealing as her body beat against the railing of the balcony.
He finished with a satisfied growl, and collapsed onto her back. They were both breathing hard, and stood still for a moment to catch their breath. Finally, his shriveled penis slipped out of her, and they made their way back into the hotel room.
She headed straight for the shower, and he for the trash can to dispose of the condom.
When she emerged in a white plush terry cloth robe, provided by the hotel, it was almost 12:30a.m.; she’d been with him for almost four hours, and satisfied with her performance, she smiled and said “Mr. Scott, if ever you’re in town again, I’d love to meet up with you.” With a sleepy grin he nodded his head and motioned her toward his pants which were in a heap on the balcony floor. “Go ahead and get your money from my pants-pocket, it’s all clipped together, in the very back of my wallet”. She dressed herself quickly and then went to the balcony and fished through his pockets until she found the wallet. When she opened it, he was looking away and busy digging in one of the drawers of the ornamental wardrobe with mirrored panels. Inside the wallet, she found a series of plastic bound pictures, and curiously peered at one of a toddler, sitting next to a plush orange carrot, in a white bunny suit, giggling in the way babies do, toothless. She flipped over the next one, and the face of a young girl stared out at her, a baseball atop her shoulders and a helmet so big you could scarcely see her eyes. Her maroon uniformed shirt read “Tigers” in white screen print. The following photo depicted Mr. Scott kneeling beside a dead elk and sporting a victorious smile. With a quick glance she ensured that her expired client was still digging through the clothes in his drawer, as she continued to glimpse over the pictures before seeking out her payment. The next photo made her pause. It was the face of Mr. Scott next to a young woman. Something was familiar about that face. Beautiful skin, framed by a short bob haircut, the girl had high cheekbones and liquid amber eyes. She knew that face. In the photo, the young woman wore a cap and gown, and pride showed in Mr. Scott’s eyes. Carmella took a startled inward breath when she read the golden caption at the bottom of the pocket-size photo: Mia Scott, Class of 98.
Before she could exhale, she looked up to realize he had been studying her from the mirror. Confused, she tried to piece things together. What was this? His face had gone from one of post-sex fatigue to a dark and hateful scowl. And in his hand he’d found what he’d been looking for, a large hunting knife with a curved blade.
She opened her mouth to cry out for help, but she only managed a partial scream. Again the neighbors banged on the wall, and again they protested. He was upon her before she could cry out again. His blade flashed beneath her chin and her eyes widened with horror realizing what had just happened. Though she felt no pain, she experienced a sticky warmth as blood gushed out of the wound in her neck and poured down the length of her dress, matching the blood-red color of the fabric perfectly. And then she crumbled to the ground where she lay staring in shocked disbelief at his socked feet. A faint voice floated into her ears.
“Mia is a good girl. I worked my ass off to make my daughter happy, I had dreams for her and she ran away from me. She ran to you Carmella, and you exploited her. You sold my daughter. You pimped her out to men who beat her, men who shit on her and pissed on her, and you didn’t even protect her when they almost killed her. You took the money and then you discarded her when she was of no more use to you.”

He stared over her and reached for the last of the champagne. Her hair splayed itself out in stark contrast to the cream-colored carpet. Her alabaster skin had gone grey, and one bloody breast lolled out onto the carpet, having escaped the confines of her dress, which seemed to grow in size as her pulsing blood saturated the room. Carmella choked for a moment and listened as her gasps faded way into the ten-thousand dollar night.

HedwigStrange

ooh, I like. Nice twist, very nice twist.

The story got better as it went along - Carmella seemed like an one-dimensional stereotype of a cruel madame at first, but she really develops.. erm.. a realness, as the story goes on.

doubleaught

Great read! I am trying to come up with some constructive criticism... very hard. Best I can do is when I scan back over the whole document I think the formatting could use a little work. But it didn't detract from the story. Thank you for posting