Lovin' to Go

"You need four parts sugar, six parts potassium nitrate, and a small container like a Coke bottle, and make sure to perforate it. Once you have all the ingredients--"

I stared at the small television as I walked into the break room. "What are we watching?"

"How to make a bomb," someone volunteered.

"It's a new daytime show. 'Sammy!' or something like that," Melissa said. I sat down at the table with her, my back to the TV set. Melissa worked in copy and we'd gone to the movies or to lunch a couple of times. She was okay in a sort of bland, vanilla kind of way.

"So what's new, Trudy?" she asked, offering me some of her grilled chicken salad.

"Nothing," I said, taking a bite. "I'm thinking about taking some of my vacation time."

"Where ya want to go?"

"I don't know, maybe someplace warm and exotic and far away from Mr. Peterson's damn bellowing."

Dirk stuck his head in the doorway. "Trudy, Peterson is bellowing for you."

I smiled ruefully at Melissa and took one last bite. "Jamaica, I think. Yes, definitely Jamaica."

"You want to run that by me one more time," I said, trying to wrap my brain around what my boss had just told me.

"What part of English don't you understand, Tolliver?" Mr. Peterson said, rummaging in his desk for a cigar. "You're going undercover as an escort."

"Escort as in escort service?"

"You know of another kind?" He gave up his search, and slammed the desk drawer in frustration. Everyone at the office knew that Mrs. Peterson was trying to get her husband to quit his cigars.

"Why me?"

"Because I just decided to make you this papers new investigative reporter. You want it engraved in stone or something?"

"Okay, now why?" I settled back in my chair. I couldn't wait to hear this explanation.

"You may or may not know this already, but my sister is married to Councilman Voeks. Someone is blackmailing him."

"Isn't that a problem for the cops?" I interrupted.

"Normally, yes, except for the highly sensitive nature of this whole thing. It's election year, and he's being bribed with porno pictures."

I whistled. "Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, huh?"

He waved a hand in the air. "My sister swears that they're doctored. Either way, we need to find out who's behind it so that appropriate measures can be taken."

I interrupted again. "How can he not know who's blackmailing him?" If this Councilman Voeks was representative of our city government, we were surely on our way to Hell in a handbasket.

Peterson frowned. "The blackmail pictures and demand arrived unsigned by mail. He's supposed to deliver $30,000 by tomorrow at noon to an abandoned building downtown, or else the pictures will be sent to the local rag mags."

"Then how does he know this escort service is involved?"

"Shit, you're full of questions today, Tolliver! Because he's gone through the escort service to acquire a date for society functions when my sister was out of town. He swears the company is legit, never a hint of anyone coming on to him or propositioning him, but something doesn't sound right to me. And that's where you come in."

He tossed some papers across the desk at me.

"What's this? I asked, picking them up and thumbing through.

"Your application for employment and some other forms you'll need. I've already placed the preliminary calls. Actually, I had Melissa place them for me. I need as much information as you can get me before 11am tomorrow."

I stopped flipping through the papers and pointed to one of them. "I never had a physical."

"It's required, I guess to make sure the employees are in good physical health. I had Dr. Rosetti fill out one for you."

"Dr. Rosetti from the county morgue?"

"He's a licensed doctor. It'll hold as long as no one goes checking his AMA license." His chair squeaked as he rolled it back and stood up. "Now shake your ass and get."

I stopped at my apartment to get a small bag of clothes together. According to my cover story I was Trudy Thicket, fresh off the bus from Kansas and in desperate need of a job and place to stay.

I was debating on whether or not to change out of my jeans when Remy stuck his head inside the door.

"Okay, you *are* home. The outer door was open so I just let myself in," he explained, leaning against the doorjamb.

"Yep, but not for long. Whatcha need, Remy?" I gathered my hair up in a ponytail.

Remy lived in the apartment below me, and was a private investigator. The epitome of "tall, dark and handsome" he was the subject of many of my late night erotic dreams. I'd never tell him that, though. We had a nice, simple working relationship and I liked it that way, and I guess he did, too. Sometimes fantasies are nicer when they never come true.

"I don't need anything."

I looked him dead in the eye and raised my eyebrows.

"Okay," he said, smiling sheepishly. "My high school reunion is coming up this weekend and I wanted to know if you'd go with me. I don't want to go by myself."

"What about Maria?" Maria was his current love du jour.

"She's got to go out of town, her mom's sick."

"As long as you're positive she won't mind, then sure I'll go. It's not formal is it?"

"My old high school? Nah, something casual is fine." He grinned and hugged me. "Thanks, Trudy."

"No problem. Oh, while you're here, got any suggestions for subtly altering my appearance? I don't need anything drastic or permanent - just something so that I wouldn't be easily recognized." My picture had been in the paper recently because of that big wrestling case, and I didn't want to take the chance that anyone at the escort service would recognize me.

"Hmmm. I've got that long black wig I wore last year when I was investigating a company for insurance fraud. You could wear that; it's not one of those super cheap ones where you can tell it's a wig. And you could touch your eyebrows up with mascara. That way it won't look like a dye job."

"Thanks, Remy, you're a lifesaver!" I kissed him on the cheek. I could have sworn he blushed. "You go downstairs and find that wig, and I'll just do the mascara touches and be down shortly."

Discriminating Delights was in a high-class business slash residential section of downtown. It decidedly was *not* what I'd been expecting. The office was in a renovated colonial style home, traces of old wrought iron fence posts framing the front entrance. The trim was done in a light pink color, and there was a gazebo set off to the side, a profusion of roses climbing up the trellis.

I walked up the brick path, and through the large oak doors. A receptionist in a room off the foyer took my name and asked me to have a seat. I looked around, feeling like a hick on her first time to the big city. The understated elegance of the whole place had me wondering if I'd gotten the address right.

"Mrs. Coopersmith will see you now." The secretary's voice broke through my perusal of the room.

I shouldered my overnight bag, and walked through the door that the secretary had gestured to. An older woman was inside, sitting behind a large desk, and she smiled and stood up as I entered. "Trudy, so nice to see you. Please, have a seat."

I sat in one of the plush chairs in front of her desk, and automatically handed her the sheaf of papers that Mr. Peterson had prepared for me.

She took the papers,and started rifling through them. She asked me some basic questions: Where was I from? How long had I lived in Dallas? Why I wanted to be an escort?

I'd rehearsed my answers to questions like these in the drive over, and answered them with confidence.

Mrs. Coopersmith put me at ease. With her upswept hair, chic suit and friendly ways, she reminded me of someone's well-to-do grandmother, not the owner of a successful escort service and potential blackmailer. I wondered what was wrong with her.

"Well, Trudy, all your paperwork is in order, and your physical checks out just fine. I'm willing to take you on on a one week trial basis if you're still interested."

"Oh, I am!"

"Good." She looked at the top paper again. "I understand that you don't have any place to stay, is that right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Her laugh was as clear as newly spun glass. "Please, just call me Constance. We're not *that* formal here at Discriminating Delights."

"Okay, Constance."

"Very good. Now, I'm writing down Cynthia's address. She's one of my most popular girls and she's got a spare room you can stay in until you get on your feet."

"Are you sure she won't mind?"

Constance handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. "She won't mind if she likes her job."

She smiled and stuck out her hand. "Welcome to our family."

Cynthia lived in an upscale condo with an Olympic sized swimming pool directly behind it. I thought that if this was how most of the escorts lived, I was in the wrong line of work.

A girl wearing workout clothes answered the door. "Hi, you must be Trudy. Constance called to let us know you were coming over. I'm Priscilla," she said, stepping aside to let me enter. From what I could see of the condo during Priscilla's quick tour, it was almost as nice as the company's office I'd just left.

Priscilla led me to a room at the end of the hallway upstairs. "This is your room. I'm right across the hall, Cynthia's roommate, more or less."

The room was huge. I could have fit my whole kitchen just in the closet alone.

While I put my clothes away, I kept glancing at Priscilla from the corner of my eye. She looked *awfully* familiar, but I couldn't quite place her. "Where is Cynthia?" I asked, placing my empty bag under the bed.

"It's her turn to do the grocery shopping. She should be back soon."

The phone started ringing and Priscilla reached across my bed to the phone on the nighttable to answer it.

The conversation was brief and she scribbled something down on a piece of paper. When she hung up she said, "That was Constance, you've got a date tonight. Mr. Adams will pick up you at 8pm, for the opera."

"Already?" Damn that was quick.

"Yes, it doesn't take long for her to 'initiate' you to the business." She laughed. "If you stay in this line of work, one thing you won't lack for is a date. Do you have something to wear?"

"For the opera? No."

"You're about Cynthia's size. I'm sure you can find something in her closet that's appropriate."

"I've got it!" I said, snapping my fingers and giving a Cheshire cat grin. "You're Priscilla Princess aren't you?"

Her face turned a pale white. "Oh, God." She sat down on the bed. "I knew someone was bound to recognize me."

"You're face was plastered in all the papers when your father threw that 21st birthday bash for you last year. It's not everyday the daughter of the premier oil baron of Texas turns 21."

"You're not going to tell my father what I do for a living, are you?" she asked in a quiet voice, looking up at me with worry in her eyes. "He thinks I'm modeling."

"I won't tell," I answered, sitting beside her and putting my arm around her shoulders. Call me crazy, but the cute little waif was already starting to grow on me. Maybe because she reminded me of the kid sister I'd never had.

"I need to tell you something before Cynthia gets home," Priscilla said, her voice hushed and almost urgent.

"Priscilla, get your bitch ass down here and help put up these groceries!" The front door slammed shut, and I could hear high-heels tapping across the tile floor.

"Too late," Priscilla said with resignation. "Coming!" she yelled back and left me sitting there on the bed.

I wondered what she had been about to say.

Within the first five minutes of talking to Cynthia I'd come to the conclusion that she was a self-centered, stuck up little cunt. She'd informed me that if I was to be staying there, it was her way or the highway.

"Some of us girls do a little work on the side," she explained while she sifted through her closet, looking for something that would fit me. "You live here, you're going to do it, too. If not, one call to Constance and you're ass is back on the street."

"What do you mean by 'a little work'?" I already had a pretty good idea, but I wanted to hear her say it.

"You look pretty smart, Trudy, I'm sure you can figure out what I mean." Cynthia tossed me a black strapless gown, floor length - a Versace, if I guessed right. It probably cost about a month of my salary. "Ruin it and you'll pay me for it." She crossed to her dresser. It was only when she started to sort through her keys that I noticed one of the drawers had a lock on it. She unlocked it and took out a small wirebound book. "For the after hours stuff we all have code names. Yours will be . . . Trixie, I think." She wrote something down. "I've got an appointment with Sam tonight, about 1am or so. It's a two-person job so you'll come with me. That way I can watch you in action and know if you're going to give me any shit." She snapped the book closed and gave me a look that practically dared me to make trouble. "Any questions?"

Without a word, I turned around and walked back to my room.

Mr. Adams turned out to be a kindly old gentleman, a retired lawyer who was so polite to me, you'd have thought we were related. He took me to see Phantom of the Opera and I had one of the best times I'd had in a long while. He told me all about his son who'd taken over the firm and just opened a branch office in Ft. Worth, how his wife had died recently of cancer, and how his granddaughter had just been accepted to Vassar.

He dropped me off back at Cynthia's condo and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. With a smile and a wave, he climbed back into the limo.

I had less than 30 minutes until the "1am or so" that Cynthia had mentioned earlier. I went up to my room to change clothes. She hadn't said what to wear, so I grabbed one of the few outfits I'd brought: denim mini-skirt, blue western-style shirt and some low sandals. I went to walk back downstairs when I noticed that Priscilla's light was still on. I tapped quietly on the door and then opened it. She was lying on the bed, dressed in a frilly nightgown, an open book on the bed in front of her.

"How was your date?"

"Suprisingly, I had a great time."

She smiled. "Good. I'm sorry I didn't have time to warn you about Cynthia earlier."

"It's okay," I said. "Are you in her little book?"

The smile became a laugh. "Oh, no! Cynthia told me early on that I was 'butt ugly' so thankfully I'm spared from having to sell myself."

"Are all the escort girls in on it?"

"No, just the ones that want to be. The exception is anyone who stays here with Cynthia is automatically drafted into it."

"No one busts her?"

"They could go to Constance, but she wouldn't believe them. Cynthia is her niece."

That explained it.

Cynthia appeared in the doorway. "You ready?"

I nodded.

"Then let's go."

"Oh yeah, that's it baby, right there. Fuck me with your long tongue. Mmmmmmm Don't stop now. Fuck it!"

Sam turned out to be short for "Samantha." She was built like a linebacker, talked like a sailor, and handed enough money to Cynthia to make Midas smile with glee. I was quickly learning more than I'd ever wanted to know about lesbian sex. We'd gone through several toys, some I couldn't identify, and both my ass and pussy felt like they'd gone ten rounds with Evander Hollifield. Sam liked to give as good as she got.

Cynthia had taken perverse pleasure in telling her how much I *loved* doing women, and vice versa. Now, with my ass stuck up in the air like the Goodyear blimp, and my face being squeezed between Sam's meaty thighs, I wondered if I'd have a blister on the end of my tongue come the morning. It seemed like I'd been tongue-fucking and clit-licking Sam for hours.

While I was getting up close and personal with every hair on Sam's bushy mound, Cynthia was using a strap-on to go at me from behind. Every time she rammed the fake penis into my pussy, it shoved me forward deeper into Sam's crotch. If Cynthia was trying to make me come, we were going to be there a long while. Or so I thought.

I jumped as I felt a vibration against my clit. I came up for air and looked down between my legs. Cynthia had picked up a small silver vibrator and was using it against my clit, while she continued to fuck me from behind. Okay, maybe I would be coming soon.

"Get back here," Sam growled, she reached to take a handful of my hair and I quickly bent back to her pussy. The last thing I needed was my wig coming off. I don't know how it'd stayed on this long - Remy must have used industrial strength tape.

"Yes, baby, give it to mama. Make me squeal like your pig, honey. Fuck this pussy good." Sam was back to her verbal encouragement, gripping the bedsheet in both hands and grinding her hips up against my face.

I could feel my own orgasm imminent, all because Cynthia had found my one weakness - the old vibrator on the clit trick. I bucked my hips in counterpoint to Sam, trying to reach that exalted plateau.

"Ungggggghhhhhhhhhhyeahhhhhhh!" Sam screamed, her whole body stiffening. I quickly raised my head before it got smashed in the viselike grip of her legs.

Cynthia applied her tools with more vigor now, and my own orgasm swept over me like a rush of icy hot water. I cried out in pleasure, and swore I could see stars at the periphery of my vision.

I collapsed on the bed, out of breath and out of energy. Sam leaned over and smacked me on the ass. "Damn you're a hot little piece of ass. This one's a keeper, Cyn."

That was *not* what I wanted to hear.

I awoke at 8 o'clock the next morning, feeling soreness in my limbs that had nothing to do with the hard mattress I'd slept on. I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I didn't have much time to find out who was behind the blackmail scheme, and I needed my wits about me.

Stumbling back into the bedroom, I tugged on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. I gathered my hair up in a loose knot on the top of my head, and went to go downstairs to find something to eat. I noticed a wad of cash on the dresser; Cynthia must have left it there while I was passed out from exhaustion. I quickly counted it - $1675. Damn! I never knew I was *that* good. I shoved the cash down into the bottom of my dufflebag, and headed down the hall.

On my way downstairs I noticed something that hadn't really registered with me the previous day - along the walls were beautiful photographs of prominent American landmarks. There were some fantastic European scenes mixed in among them, but what was unique, other than the quality of the photos, was that Cynthia was in every one of them. She must really have traveled to . . .

I let the thought trail off as I started playing back the events of the past twenty four hours. I backtracked and knocked at Priscilla's door. She opened the door, hair all sleep tousled and eyes barely opened. "Trudy."

"Priscilla, you said your father thinks that your modeling. What makes him think that? Just your word?"

"No, I send him some pictures every now and then."

"Do you go to a studio to have them taken?"

Her brow wrinkled, trying to figure out where I was going with all this. "No, Cynthia takes them."

"And she does such a good job, your dad thinks they were professionally done?"

"Well," she chewed her bottom lip, "she scans the pictures in and then uses this high-tech photo manipulation program to make them seem like they're ads that would appear in magazines."

I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my system in full force. "Is Cynthia home now?"

"No, she usually goes to the gym every morning for a couple of hours."

"Excellent." I hurried back down the hallway to Cynthia's room. Luckily for me, the door wasn't locked.

"What are you doing?" Priscilla asked, following me into the room.

"Trying to catch a blackmailer," I answered, deciding to start at the computer desk. I already knew where she kept her tally book, I needed to find the disk where hopefully, she kept the pictures on.

Deciding to trust Priscilla, I filled her on who I really was, and what I was doing there. She seemed awestruck and a more than a little excited. She offered to stand at the head of the stairs and be my "lookout."

There wasn't any sign of the disk, or possible negatives, in the computer desk, on the computer hard drive, anywhere in the dresser or under the bed. I started in the closet.

Priscilla stuck her head back in the room. "Any luck?"

"Not yet." I wiped the back of a hand across my forehead. "Is there anything that Cynthia is obsessive about? Something that she never leaves the house without or something she can't do without?" If she'd taken it with her to the gym, I was out of luck.

Priscilla thought for a minute. "She's addicted to Oreos, but I don't see where that would help."

Oh, but it had helped. I went back to the dresser and opened the bottom right hand drawer. Underneath some boxes of cards, stationery and pens, I found what I'd passed by earlier - a bag of Oreo cookies.

I took it out of the drawer and eased out the plastic tray of black and white cookies. There, left in the package, was a blue computer disk and an envelope.

I slid the cookies back in the package and replaced it back in the drawer. I found a metal file in her makeup tray and used it to jimmie the lock on the top drawer. With disk, negatives and code book in hand, I headed back to my own room, Priscilla trailing behind.

I threw all my stuff into my bag, and slipped on my tennis shoes. I slung it over my shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"To the newspaper. I've got to get this stuff to my boss." I stopped and gave her a quick hug. "Are you going to be okay, Priscilla?"

She shrugged. "Oh sure. I'll claim ignorance, and probably get fired anyway, but that's okay. According to my dad I'm just 'spreading my wings' and will come to my senses sooner or later."

"I'm in the book if you ever want to get together and do something. Something that doesn't require code names and lesbian encounters, please."

She laughed. "You've got it."

"Remy, I do believe that you make the *best* margaritas I've ever tasted." I licked the salt from my lips and sighed in satisfaction.

"You flatter me too much, ma cherie," he replied, his Cajun drawl drifting around me like flower petals.

We were out back on his patio, enjoying the rest of the lazy Friday afternoon.

"You sure you don't want to start your vacation tomorrow, instead of hanging around to go with me to my reunion?"

"Hey!" I protested. "I gave you my word I'd go, and besides, it's only a two day wait." I could hear Jamaica practically shouting my name.

I'd gotten the stuff from Cynthia's room to Mr. Peterson in plenty of time. Councilman Voeks had pulled a few strings at the police department to keep the whole thing, and the specific details, hush-hush, and by noon, Cynthia was taken into custody, and the rest of the women involved in her little extracurricular activities rounded up.

In gratitude for my snappy little detective work, Councilman Voeks was paying for my vacation. An all expense paid, seven day trip to Jamaica was mine for the asking. And let me tell you, I asked. I didn't even have to ask to bring along a friend, he suggested it himself. After all, what vacation is complete unless you have someone to share it with. To that end, with a little digging I unearthed Priscilla's number and invited her along. I thought it was the least I could do since she'd been a kind of help to me.

I felt a few twinges of guilt at what I'd done because of Mrs. Coopersmith; the nice lady didn't deserve to have her business raided like that. I told Remy about my misgivings.

"Constance Coopersmith?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Didn't you read today's paper? She was listed in Cynthia's little book, too. Went by the name of 'Candy' I think."

My guilt melted away. I'd wondered what was wrong with her, now I knew.

"Remy, are we the only two sane people left in Dallas?"

"I don't know, Trudy. Sane is relative to everyone."

"You're right. Now, what should we toast to?"

Remy touched his glass against mine. "How about good friends?"

I clinked my glass against his."Good friends who don't make me play footsies with big-boned women named 'Sam'."

Remy through his head back and laughed. "Trudy, you a truly one of a kind."

I smiled. "Thanks, Remy." I added under my breath, "I think."

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THE END