Anonymous Encounters(57)

But when I opened the door to my study, there was a woman waiting on my  leather lounger  …  completely nude, wearing high heels only.

"Mr. Markham," she giggled. "It's so nice to see you again. Lorena asked me to wait for you here."

What the fuck? Who was this blonde? Did I know her from somewhere? What was my wife up to?

The woman giggled, cupping a breast and jiggling it at me, seeing my confused expression.

"Don't you recognize me?" she asked. "I'm Marie."

Holy shit! Lorena must have done some kind of black magic on the girl  because Marie had been transformed from All-American blonde to vamped-up  vixen. She was wearing a crapload of make-up so as to be almost  unrecognizable, her hair teased like a Pamela Anderson clone.

Her body though, was tempting. Big round jugs with ruby red nipples  narrowed to a tiny waist before flaring out into wide hips and chunky  thighs. I have a thing for big girls, and Marie was larger than I'd  previously thought. There was plenty of flesh for the loving.

"Mr. Markham," she giggled again. "Come closer."

I approached stealthily like a cat, but wasn't about to make a move. My  dear Cleo was still on my mind, her chestnut tresses and sweet smile a  remembrance of days past.         

     



 

"Mr. Markham," she repeated sweetly. "I have a gift for you."

I was expecting her to do something vulgar like spread her legs and show  me her pussy, or maybe get on her hands and knees and wiggle her bare  ass. But instead, she reached below the chaise lounge and pulled out a  manila folder. Oh fuck. I've been in business a long time and know what  unmarked folders usually mean. Bad news.

Suddenly angry, I strode over to the blonde and ripped the folder out of  her hands, not bothering to say anything as I tore it open.

Oh fuck, it was worse than I expected. I'd been expecting Lorena to do  something outrageous, maybe slip some condoms into the envelope, or some  nasty sex pics. But instead, she'd doubled down.

Somehow, she'd known that I hadn't given up on Cleo, far from it, and  was determined to find the redhead. So Lorena had done the worst  possible thing. The photos inside  …  they were of Cleo, totally nude, her  assets flying, on display for men to see.

There was one where she was dancing, wearing nothing but stripper heels,  her hair whirling as she gyrated on a pole. She looked gorgeous as  attested by the male faces in the background, practically drooling at  her luscious body.

The other photos were even more explicit. Cleo squatting, nude, baring  her cunt to some guy, and then backing up to shake her rump in his face.  Then bending over and showing off her breasts, her nips perky and  tight, that creamy flesh ready to be devoured. There were dollar bills  everywhere on the stage, littering the floor, making my little girl  rich.

What the fuck? How could Cleo have turned so dirty, so fast? She'd been a  virgin when I took her, and it was unbelievable that a mere two weeks  later, she was taking her clothes off for money, getting dollars for  shaking her tits, wiggling that ass.

But it only got worse. As I flipped through the files, there were more  and more photos, and they just got more explicit. The shots were blurry  in some cases, but otherwise unmistakable. Cleo's legs spread, her cunny  stuffed full with a massive dildo on stage. Cleo bent over, her ass  being violated by a toy mounted on a wall. Over and over again, cream  trailing from her thighs, juices running from the holes of her body.

I closed the file slowly, unable to look anymore. My little girl was  working it, probably making thousands by baring body. Why? What the  fuck? There was no reason, I would have provided for her. Sure, we  hadn't talked about our living situation, college, anything, but I  figured that it was just a matter of time. There was absolutely no  reason for Cleo to be dancing, to put that beautiful body on display for  cash.

But evidently, this was what she wanted, to move out and live her own  life, and Lorena wanted to drive the point home. She'd urged me to move  on, resume my playboy ways, hinting that Cleo had a "modeling career,"  even offering me another woman. I hadn't believed any of that shit until  I saw these photos, and it was like a stake to the heart, chest pains  literally making me double over in agony.

Fuck this. Resolutely, I stiffened my back. My heart hurt and my libido  was crushed, shredded to smithereens but I was an alpha male and  wouldn't let emotion control me. Betrayal hurts, but I'd get over it.

"Marie," I ground out, my voice gravelly. "Get up and bend over."

The blonde giggled, shifting her curvaceous form so that she teetered in  high heels, doubled over the couch. As an enticement, she reached  behind to hold herself open, pulling her cheeks apart so that I could  look into that deep pink channel.

It smelled different, it looked different, and it was going to feel  different than my beautiful girl. Reaching into my desk drawer, I pulled  out a black, twelve-inch dildo that Cleo and I had experimented with  right before she left. I hadn't cleaned it afterwards, taking it out to  sniff sometimes when I was working, that aromatic pussy scent still  heavy, embedded in the rubber, rubbing it against my cock as a  tantalizing treat. But the best way to get over one girl is to get right  back into the saddle with another, and I was going to fuck the memory  of Cleo right out of my mind.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Drake




Did I fuck Marie the dog-walker? Surprisingly  …  no. I'd planned on  giving it to her good, taking out my rage on the blonde's unsuspecting  body.         

     



 

And she'd been all for it.

"Please mister," she'd pleaded, spreading her legs, holding her pussy  lips apart. I could see straight up that channel, the pink walls  pulsing, creaming with lust already. "I need it bad, put that big toy in  my cunt!"

But disgusted, I'd tossed aside the dildo. I couldn't bear to touch the  blonde because of all the memories circulating in my head of a certain  gorgeous redhead, ripe, willing, so tight that my pole got stiff just  thinking about it. I didn't want some random blonde chick wrapped around  my cock, I just wanted Cleo's sweet, tart pussy, in all ways, all  places, creaming hard.

So I'd dismissed Marie curtly, kicking her out of the office before  turning to my rolodex. Not caring that it was close to midnight, I'd  called my private investigator and instructed him to get on it, to look  for my little lost lamb. But as fate would have it, I beat him to the  punch. The next evening, I'd been looking out the window of my  chauffeured car in Manhattan when a taxi drove by, Cleo's face smiling  from the billboard up top. What the fuck? It'd only been two weeks!  Doesn't it take at least a month to buy advertising space, not to  mention hire a photographer and schedule shoots?

But evidently Cleo was so beautiful that her new bosses had juiced the  process. The Donkey Club, as the fucking joint was called, must have  realized that she was a honeypot and had pasted her face on the ad, her  eyes half-lidded, smoldering, while holding a finger up to her lips in a  dirty shhh!

Holy fucking shit. Judging from the open mouths of other dudes looking  at the ad it was fucking working, there'd be some very interested new  patrons gracing the Donkey with their presence very soon. And it was  bound to be bad. After all, any joint called the Donkey was going to be  bottom of the barrel, seedy and unsanitary.

So I'd whipped out my cell and called off my client dinner, instead  directing the driver to go straight to Cleo's workplace. It was only  eight, so the club obviously wasn't packed, but I managed to slip in  unnoticed, just another guy in a suit.

It was dark and disgusting. Sawdust rose in gusts off the floor and the  space was a far cry from the velvet rope treatment of premiere  gentlemen's clubs. Instead, the counters were sticky, dudes in cowboy  hats chewed on straw as they watched girls gyrate, and there was a live  horse in the back that night for whatever reason.

But I saw what I'd come to see. There was my little redhead, shimmying  on stage, her assets luscious and bouncy. Mr. Happy rose to attention at  that one glimpse, watching raptly as she swung and shook, her pale  creamy flesh almost incandescent in the low lights, a spattering of  freckles barely visible just above her bosom. I watched, entranced, my  heart in my throat. Cleo looked delicious, ripe and juicy, and I could  barely breathe, I wanted to jerk her off that stage and smother her with  kisses.

But another dude beat me to it. Some old farmer went up there waving  dollar bills, and Cleo bent over, presumably to let him stuff the bills  into her g-string. But instead the dude whisked her off her feet so that  she came to rest in his lap, bouncing and laughing.

I couldn't hear what she said but the old farmer slobbered over her  shoulders and breasts, and Cleo threw her head back in mock ecstasy,  reveling in the attention, loving the gentle tugs and nips. She managed  to score even more money, the guy literally getting out his wallet and  giving her all of its contents.