Copyright 2006 by Rob Preece, all rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied or
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Roger Smyth-Cony inspected the human merchandise on display in the red-light district of Dallas, his groin already swollen with anticipation. He'd had a rough couple of days and now it was payback time.
For once, the streets seemed relatively bare. Maybe because it was cold. Maybe because too many other men had beaten him to the streets while he'd been tied up in business.
He growled a curse, then noticed a flash of pure gold. "Turn right," he ordered his driver.
The man had served him for several years now and obeyed without question.
Roger's eyes hadn't fooled him. This whore looked young, with shiny ash-blonde hair that fell past her waist, and with pouty lips that projected an attitude no hooker could afford but that so many counterfeited.
He liked them young. Liked them to imagine that their attitude would protect them from the cold world. Liked to disillusion them and watch how their faces changed. The young ones could be so useful.
He rolled down the window and the little slut came closer.
"Looking for a good time?" Her voice was young. Perfect.
She nestled against the cold steel of his limo. "I know a place that rents by the hour. We could have some fun."
"My limo has plenty of room. Fifty dollars?"
She wrinkled her nose. "No way. Two hundred."
The swelling in his groin increased. He loved the preparations as much as he loved the act itself. "You think you're pretty valuable merchandise. How do I know you're worth it?"
The whore laughed.
For an instant, red rage descended on him. How did a teen runaway dare laugh at him? He was successful, rich, powerful. She was the lowest of the low, a whore who couldn't even take Christmas off and was stuck working the streets, probably desperate for her next fix.
He inhaled deeply, seizing calmness like a military objective. She wasn't laughing at him. And even if she was, he knew how to fix that problem.
"I've never heard a word of complaint, sugar," she told him.
"One hundred," he countered. As if he was really going to pay for it. The bargaining stimulated him even further.
She pouted her little lips and he grinned, imagining the way they would feel when they encircled his cock. Soft and wet. But first he'd replace that hint of attitude in her gaze with something more appropriate. Fear and respect. That's what he demanded. That's what he commanded.
"Hundred dollars. Half an hour," she agreed.
He chuckled and gestured to Dwain. "Let her in."
His guard popped out of the front seat and opened the limo door.
Roger would let the bitch get in right in front of him, take him in her mouth right away. Once she'd relieved his immediate pressure, he'd show her the stunner and handcuffs and see exactly how much attitude the bitch could maintain then.
The look in her eyes seemed wrong though. Too confident.
He shook his head. He was in control here, not the whore. The more cocky they started, the more fun it was to break them.
He fumbled with his zipper, pulling out his already hard cock.
"Get to know your new master, bitch," he whispered.
"Ooh, is that for me."
She was for it, rather. But Roger wasn't in a hurry to correct her. That could wait, at least until she'd relieved the pressure.
The little slut was wearing one of those tiny halter-tops that barely kept her tits in. It was a stupid wardrobe for December, even in Texas. It was warm in his limo, but it couldn't be more than thirty degrees out there on the street. Maybe the bitch's drugs kept her hot.
Still, the halter-top made for easy access. He reached around and yanked on the tie.
The bow slipped open with almost no resistance.
He licked his lips savoring the mental picture of those sweet teenaged tits. They'd be little ones that hadn't started to sag yet, still held up firmly by youth's natural muscle tone. He'd slap them a couple of times and let little Miss High School know who was in control of the situation.
The hooker arched her back, letting her top fall to her waist and Roger inhaled in anticipation, then drew back in disappointment. What the hell?
A bit of paper, something shaped like an envelope, covered her treasures. What sort of a game did she think she was pulling?
"Seeing the tits costs extra," the bitch told him. "Let's say another twenty."
"Bullshit." He grabbed that paper and yanked.
She laughed, but this time it wasn't the shy giggle of a teenaged girl. It was the
ripe laugh of a grown woman. "Roger Smyth-Cony, you've been served."
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