Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
So I wasted no time with small talk.
I looked over the goods, staring her up, down, up, down, and then a third time for good measure. “Five hundred bucks,” I said peremptorily, “take it or leave it.”
I guess it was take because the girl shook her hips and shimmied excitedly.
“Sure thing!” she breathed, practically taking off her clothes right there. “You wanna head to a hotel?”
I let out a short bark of laughter.
“Hotel?” I said, “I can do better than that.”
And I brought the girl back to St. Venetia Palace itself, stowing her in one of the unused rooms in a side wing, among a series of empty maid’s rooms. I fucked that girl silly, forcing her to take it this way and that, bent over and bent double, her shrieks ringing through the empty hallways, her cries of pleasure echoing like alarm bells.
“Fuck me, fuck me, ooooh, yeeeahh,” she wailed, thrashing her head on the bare mattress. I was only too happy to oblige, so long as she didn’t talk. I’d realized that the woman was a bimbo, without a lot going on upstairs, and wanted to keep any conversation to a minimum. Long wails and drawn-out cries were okay, but no sentences necessary, thanks.
And of course the next morning, I had to ask Sproul to escort her out.
“Hold on, my man will come get you,” I grunted, watching as the brunette got dressed. Her lower back tat looked bad, like a squiggly eel that had been done by a child. “What is that on your back? Your money’s by the door, by the way.”
The brunette giggled and scooped up the cash, stashing it into her cleavage.
“Oh my son did it,” she said, pulling down her skirt a little to give me a better look in the grey light of morning. “He’s a tattoo artist, isn’t he so talented?”
There were two things that I got from the exchange. One, that the woman was way older than I thought, if she had a son old enough to be working. Heck, that made me feel good. I had no bias against older women, and if I’d just done a MILF? Sweet.
But the other thing was that Mama’s son had absolutely no talent. The tat was literally the worst I’d ever seen, random lines curving this way and that on an etch-a-sketch. Shit, she should look into getting that shit lasered off no matter how much it cost. It was worth it, better than going around with a mess permanently inked on your body.
But Sproul had just arrived in the hallway, his face courteous, impossibly civil, giving nothing away.
“Madame,” he said bowing at the waist. “May I show you to the exit?”
“Oh yeah!” she squealed. “Like a butler, cool!”
I rolled my eyes, stretching in the small bed. The real reason was that I didn’t want a working girl to get lost in the Palace, wander to some restricted area where there was a meeting with the Chancellor or some visiting dignitaries. The Palace was big, but it could happen. Imagine it. Working girl shows up half-naked at a meeting filled with old, cranky white guys talking about accounting or some shit like that. Shits and giggles man, shits and giggles.
But whatevs. Sproul was here already, bowing and extending his arm.
And the girl took it, jumping up and down with excitement at the prospect of being escorted. “Bye now!” she sang over her shoulder at me, wiggling her ass one last time. I ignored her, heaving myself out of bed, mentally bracing myself for the day head. What was on the agenda? I’d have to look it up.
But Sproul was only too happy to remind me, now that he’d finished escorting the woman out, meeting me in the royal library afterwards.
“How’d it go with Mama?” I asked. “You show her out okay?”
Sproul didn’t even deign to reply.
“You have an event tonight at the Sant Ambroes Hotel,” he sniffed. “Miss Carroll’s girls will be there. Much better than what you’ve been indulging in lately,” he added darkly.
“Oh you mean Mama,” I drawled, laughing when I saw the butler’s indignant look. “Mama’s her name, and hooking is her game,” I grunted. “Don’t ask me, I have no idea why she’s called that.”
Sproul looked miffed.
“Miss Carroll’s girls are the highest quality,” he said, looking at me down his nose. “You’ll see,” he intimated. I just ignored the comment. I’d allegedly been meeting the best girls in Europe for years now, and I’d never heard of this Miss Carroll’s place.
But now that the ladies were here, I could see what set them apart. Food, it was the food. Again, I hate starved-looking females, so thin that they’re almost transparent, rope-like with brittle arms and legs. Miss Carroll’s girls, by contrast, were healthy and fit, curvaceous and voluptuous. Sure, they gasped and tittered like women all over the world, but at least I could see real womanflesh, and not emaciated bones.