Thursday, September 19, 2013
Trick of the Night by Ash Penn
Desperate for money, exotic dancer Tony has sold practically everything he owns. All he has left is his body. When the opportunity arises to make some quick cash, Tony shoves his principles to one side and offers his services to any man willing to pay for them. The problem is his first client is nothing like he expected. In fact, Laine Lawson turns out to be more of a trick than Tony could ever imagine.
Tony scanned the lobby as he entered through the revolving doors. Some swish place, this. Gold painted walls made the place appear warm and inviting, despite its vast size. To either side of him wicker couches were set around tables adorned with vases of fresh flowers. They were nothing like the gaudy pink and blue carnations that often sat pride of place in his gran’s bay window. These were long, elegant stemmed plants with fine white petals and not a single one loose on the marble tiled floor.
Laine Lawson might have more money than sense, but his taste in hotels went a ways to improving Tony’s perception of a man who’d pay a total stranger for sex. He had no clue what the guy looked like, or any knowledge of age or preferences in bed. But then, Tony had zero experience of putting out for money. His principles forbade such a thing. Or had, until a two hundred quid tax-free incentive for a loan of his body won him over.
A snotty-looking receptionist at the front desk ran a condescending eye over his supermarket shirt before ringing Lawson’s room. She issued instruction to head straight for the lift and the seventh floor.
Do not speak with that gaudy Dorset accent. Keep your battle-scarred knuckles in your pockets. And leave the cheap piece of PVC tat you call a jacket at the desk. Collect on your exit. The sooner the better.
Okay, so she didn’t say those words, but her pursed lips suggested she barely managed to bite them back. Maybe she’d guessed the reason for his visit. He couldn’t have been the first grubby prostitute to roll up here for an early evening tryst. He’d have to get used to looks like the one she’d gifted him with if he planned to make a go of this profession.
Alone in the lift, he checked his gelled hair and lamented his crooked nose in the back mirror. He’d broken the bridge twice via other blokes’ bare fists over the years, and the bone had never healed straight. Appearances didn’t matter much right now, though. Lawson already knew what he was getting, since he’d asked for Tony personally.
Tony hadn’t made any special preparations for tonight, apart from a quick shower and a good douse of aftershave. He refused point blank to insert a butt plug. He hoped, probably in vain, the guy wanted to be fucked. He’d much rather that than lay stewing in his own repugnance.
His knee pained him less now he’d spent a little time in the warmth. He loaded all his weight onto his left leg by raising his right foot off the ground, and in doing so tempted the throb to return, and appreciate the reminder.
He found the room halfway down a long strip of plush, carpeted hall and tapped the door just below the gold number 74. A few heartbeats later and the door drew back. Tony met a pair of eyes the colour of rich mahogany, their lids shimmering with a layer of silver and charcoal.
“Uh, sorry,” he choked out. “Wro—”
“Tony, lovely to meet you.” The woman extended a long-fingered hand, the nails of which sparkled with a glossy coat of fire-alarm red.
He stared at the proffered hand, then down to the long, tanned legs beginning an inch below a sliver of skirt and ending in a pair of shiny scarlet stilettos.
“I’m Laine,” she said, as Tony’s attention climbed back up her endless legs. His gaze skimmed over narrow hips, the gentle swell of breasts and finally halted on a wide, white smile.
Laine. Well, that shot to shit his fledgling theory she might be a hooker, or a wife who liked to watch her guy get it on with another man. Nope. Apparently, he’d just been brought for sex by a woman.