A Bona Fide Gold Digger (3 page)

I
t had taken over a year for Milan to get accepted into the exclusive sex club, which she’d stumbled across on the internet. The club preferred couples membership. Single females were eligible to apply only once a year during open enrollment. Single males, however, were not permitted to join the club nor were single males permitted to enter the premises as a guest. Married men, Milan presumed, did not appreciate the competition.

Because of the rigid rule, Milan’s prearranged sexual encounters were always with a couple. More often than not, the wife played the role of lesbo slut, commanded by her husband to tongue Milan’s pussy until it was warm and slushy enough for him to slip his dick in with ease. Every so often, an occasional wife would select limited involvement and opt to watch, voyeur-like, through the glory hole—a circular opening in a wall that separated adjoining rooms.

Wives who liked to watch didn’t bother Milan. Her only concern was getting hers. Getting,
not
giving, were the terms she’d agreed upon when she joined Tryst. She paid exorbitant monthly dues to be matched only with people willing to accept her conditions: she would not give a blowjob, or cunnilingus, or even lift a finger to give pleasure to another. Whenever she engaged in an erotic interlude at Tryst, the connection was made for the sole purpose of releasing stress—not to exhaust herself with the arduous task of sexual reciprocity.

Inside a dimly lit room, Milan waited. Apart from dark sunglasses and a golden blonde wig to disguise her identity, Milan lay naked on a large bed. Positioned on her side with her back to the door, her head resting on an outstretched arm, she felt her pulse race with anticipation when the door opened.

The anonymous married couple she’d selected from a database of dozens of potential sex partners had arrived. Although Milan had her head turned away from the door, she expected the pair to be naked, as she’d instructed on the sex club’s request form.

“She’s lovely,” a female voice whispered.

“Quite,” a husky male voice agreed.

She sensed the couple approaching the bed, and then felt the mattress sink on opposite sides as the man and woman knelt at the foot of the bed. The sudden sensation of two pairs of lips placed softly on the sole of each foot caused Milan to release a muffled gasp.

A warm tongue kissed and sucked each toe, and then licked the space between her toes. Her upper torso tensed, and she began to twist involuntarily at the waist. Her body seemed to make an unconscious attempt to thwart the shivers of pleasure that were shooting straight to her passion center.

While focused on the glorious dual stimulation occurring between her toes, Milan’s attention was drawn to the tickly sensation of a mustache that grazed the bottom of her right foot, nuzzled her ankle, her leg, and quickly traveled upward, tickling the back of her thigh. A tongue, thick and warm, licked the flesh of her thigh while the mustache hairs teased her, sending a series of quivers up and down the length of her spine.

The triple sensation of two tongues and a teasing mustache was decadent pleasure. When the woman’s mouth abandoned her foot, Milan, desiring more, moaned in desperation. Her anguished cry quickly turned to a breathy murmur of contentment when female hands began to lightly, tantalizingly fondle her buttocks. Next, the anonymous woman placed a flurry of soft kisses and light flicks of her tongue on Milan’s smooth brown ass.

With her eyes tightly closed, she fought against the heat that was slowly building inside her pussy. Involuntarily, her hips moved in a circular motion. Needing to do something to take the edge off, she couldn’t help rubbing her clitoris. Slowly at first, and then her finger started to circle the distended clit faster, creating a friction that was so stimulating, her pussy ached with desire.

The mustache pulled away. “Honey,” the man said, sounding concerned. “I think our chocolate princess is ready for some cock now.”

The wife withdrew her lips. Seconds later, she had made her way to the head of the bed. “We want to please you,” the woman whispered seductively, her mouth pressed against Milan’s ear. “I’m holding my husband’s cock in my hand. Do you want me to stuff it inside your hot pussy?”

Stirred by the sexy low tone of the nameless woman’s voice, aroused by the feel of large breasts brushing against her own, and tempted by the thick penis that rubbed against her flesh, Milan’s pussy went into panic. It began pulsing rapidly, secreting syrupy fluids.

But fighting her carnal urges, Milan shook her head vigorously. “No, not yet,” she murmured. She needed more foreplay—more titillating whispers, caressing hands, probing fingers, prodding tongues.

In an instant, strong male hands eased her body over and two sets of lips put suction holds on the nipples of her small, firm breasts. “Mmm,” Milan murmured. The encounter enticed all her senses.

Female lips disengaged and were replaced by a moist tongue. Quick, wet, circular motions around her areola caused Milan to jump as if she’d been hit with electrical currents. The woman bit Milan’s nipple lightly and then increased the intensity until Milan’s head lolled from side to side in a curious combination of sexual pleasure and mild pain. Male lips sucked softly, yet intently, as if extracting nectar from a delicate flower.

Suddenly, the couple stopped sucking. Alarm coursed through Milan’s system. Was she being abandoned by the twosome? She was immediately reassured when a strong, hairy arm lifted her upward and placed her back against the headboard. The man sat on the side of the bed. He cupped both her breasts with his large hands. Hungrily, his mouth went from one nipple to the other, while the woman’s soft hands caressed her legs, gently encouraging Milan to spread them apart.

The anticipation of having someone whose face she’d never seen cater to her pussy while another person sucked her breasts was enough to make her cry out as if in pain.

Instead of performing cunnilingus, as Milan eagerly expected, the woman inserted the tips of two slender fingers inside Milan’s well-lubricated vagina, twisting them in a spiraling motion as she delved deeper and deeper inside.

Hit with waves of almost unbearable pleasure, Milan arched her back. She clamped her thighs shut with such force, the woman reflexively removed her fingers. She examined her fingers, and after determining they were unharmed, she began to suck each finger, making a loud slurping sound.

She inhaled Milan’s vagina. “Mmm. Smells as good as it tastes. Honey, come down here for a minute,” the wife said to her husband. “You really have to eat some of this; she has the sweetest cunt I’ve ever tasted.”

“No!” Milan raised her head from the pillow, but avoided making eye contact. “Just you,” she told the woman, forcibly.

Promptly doing as she was told, the wife used a finger to delicately part Milan’s wet spot and began giving the moist opening a superior tongue bath.

The husband stopped sucking to observe his wife’s performance. Stroking his penis, he exclaimed, “My cock is getting so hard, I can’t wait any longer; I gotta fuck.” He sounded tortured and completely miserable.

Again, Milan shook her head. The husband returned his lips to her hardened nipples. His wife was giving such magnificent head, Milan couldn’t help clamping her thighs around the woman’s face. With her head trapped between Milan’s thighs, the wife, a willing captive, drank from the overflowing fountain of lust, slurping, sucking, and swallowing as if she was in desperate need of hydration and dying of thirst.

Milan shuddered. Her nerve endings felt exposed and raw. She tightened her grip on the wife’s head. At this heightened point of arousal, Milan was beyond caring if the woman smothered to death.

Finally, the warmth—the heat—started spreading up her thighs and swirled into the pit of her stomach. She parted her legs to free the wife from her pussy choke hold, but, declining her opportunity to escape to freedom, the woman remained in the confines of Milan’s thighs and continued to suck and slurp.

A fire raged inside, weakening Milan’s resolve, but she was determined to maintain control of the encounter. “Switch positions,” she demanded in a forced authoritative voice.

The husband scrambled to the position his wife had held below. Milan felt him aiming for admittance. She relaxed her pussy muscles, rotated her pelvis, exhaled contentedly as she welcomed him inside.

Meanwhile, the wife crept upward. She cupped Milan’s face and began tongue kissing her. The taste of her own juices on another female’s tongue was an added stimulant, prompting her to thrust her twitching pussy forward and rub her clit against the base of the man’s dick. “Tell your husband to fuck me harder,” Milan implored.

“Give it to her harder, honey,” the wife said urgently. She rushed to his side, cheering him on. “Give it to her hard, you fuckin’ stud. Fuck that cunt; make her cum.” Fueled by decadent passion, the wife gripped her husband’s ass and pressed him into Milan, assisting him with each thrust.

Close to cumming, Milan stiffened. The woman slipped her hand between Milan’s legs and stroked her husband’s dick as well as Milan’s engorged clit. Milan instantly exploded; her body shook from tiny quakes. A few moments later, the husband shot a load, groaned loudly, and then rolled onto his back.

“You’re a great fuck, honey,” the husband told Milan as he panted and gasped for breath.

Too exhausted to speak, all Milan could manage was a lazy smile.

The wife, still hungry with passion, took advantage of Milan’s incapacitated state. She parted Milan’s thighs and sipped her husband’s semen until she had Milan’s pussy revitalized, clenching and throbbing with desire. Finally, the woman straddled Milan and ground her clit against Milan’s. Together, their bodies convulsed and jerked until they were both completely satisfied.

T
hree weeks had passed since her dismissal—her unfair and improper dismissal, as far as Milan was concerned. She faxed ten to twenty resumes daily, but it seemed that every potential employer insisted upon having a copy of her college transcript before even agreeing to grant her an interview.

The companies to which Milan sent her resume were all familiar with her. If they didn’t know her personally, her reputation of being a dynamic leader should have preceded her. It was puzzling why she was being given such a hard time.

Undoubtedly, the board had put out the word. It was absurd that someone with Milan’s experience and successful track record was being railroaded into returning to college. It made her nauseous to even imagine sitting in a classroom with a pack of pimply faced teens, being forced to listen intently while an asshole professor talked endlessly and expected her to take copious notes on the theory behind a profession about which she already knew everything there was to know. Hell, she could write a book about the business.

Write a book! Hmm
.
Now, that’s a damn good idea!
She’d write a how-to book. Women were so vain and gullible. They loved to be told how to enhance their beauty and improve their lives. She’d call her book,
Weekend Escape: Your Spa At Home.
Suddenly excited, Milan started jotting down notes. She’d use a pen name since she’d become such a pariah in the field. Her ego didn’t require having her cocoa-colored face on the back cover, either. Concealing her identity—her African-American heritage—would ensure a mainstream readership. She’d keep her identity a secret until she appeared on the cover of
Fortune
. That would be a real shocker to the power mongers, who’d never intended for more than one black woman, Oprah, to reach the pinnacle of success.

Taking another gulp of wine, Milan happily envisioned herself making so much money she could not only buy out Pure Paradise, but also open an international chain of spas. Ah! It was such a delicious fantasy.

She felt so elated; she was ready to share the news with her mother and her sister. But no, she decided. She was feeling much too energetic and inspired to have them burst her bubble with negativity and warnings of disaster if she didn’t return to school. She was battling for survival and couldn’t afford to hear any unsupportive words. To hell with school; she’d never go back. She didn’t need a formal education. She had skills and she’d make sure all those who opposed her, especially Dr. Kayla Pauley, would regret their harsh treatment of her.

Where should I start?
Although she possessed a vast knowledge of beauty and lifestyle services offered by day as well as weekend spas, putting it all together in a book could be a daunting task. But she was up for it. She took a long swallow of wine and happily began to outline her future bestseller.

Her euphoria was short-lived, however. A phone call from the bank that had provided her favorite Visa platinum card—the corporate card from Pure Paradise with the unlimited balance that they had forgotten to repossess when they fired Milan—disturbed her peace.

“Is this Milan Walden?” asked the nasally voice of a bank representative.

“Yes, this is she,” Milan said boldly. She’d known it was just a matter of time before the card was deactivated, but she hadn’t expected it to be so soon. She’d thought the board had forgotten about the damn card. Her rent was due and she’d planned to use the credit card instead of dipping into her badly needed savings.

It seemed only fair to use the company credit card since the board claimed that the falsification of her credentials had rendered her ineligible for severance pay, or payment for her accrued vacation and sick time. She didn’t get squat from Pure Paradise and felt a small measure of satisfaction every time she used the company card. As soon as she pulled herself together, found a new position, and got her bearings, Milan intended to sue Pure Paradise for discrimination and any other kind of lawsuit a good attorney could slap them with.

The woman rattled off the numbers of the credit card and then informed Milan of what she’d already presumed—the card was cancelled. What Milan wasn’t prepared to hear was that practically all of the purchases she’d made with the card were considered fraudulent.

Intense fear clutched her insides. “Fraudulent?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“Yes, you’ll be billed for numerous suspicious purchases made during and after your employment. A list of those purchases and the amount owed will be FedExed tonight.”

Milan swallowed.
Could they really make her pay back the expenditures on a company card?

“I have to inform you that if you don’t pay the balance within ten days, you’ll be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law,” the bank rep said, sounding as if she derived immense pleasure from scaring the hell out of Milan.

Milan hung up the phone with an unsteady hand.
Calm down and think!
How many purchases had she made since she’d left her job?
Car note, groceries, hair salon.
Okay, she had enough in her bank account to cover those. Then she remembered her wild online shopping spree at Bloomingdale’s the very day she was fired. And the in-store shopping rampage at Neiman Marcus the day after her argument with her mother. She’d spent thousands in the store. Oh Lord! What else had she bought with the damned card? She searched her memory, terrified of the additional damning information her mind could possibly retrieve.

So far so good. She had some money in the bank and she’d pay off the purchases ASAP. But damn, she hadn’t expected to spend her nest egg paying for things she already possessed.

The next day the bank sent a stack of papers that was so thick it filled a FedEx large box. The “suspicious” purchases went back nine months. Un-willing to pore over every item, Milan searched for the balance due.
Twenty-seven thousand dollars and eighty-one cents!
No way! They had to be out of their minds. Surely, their system was flawed. Now she had no choice but to scrutinize the voluminous computer-generated accusations.

Mentally rolling up her sleeves, Milan went over the detailed purchases. To her chagrin, there it was in black and white. Thousands and thousands of dollars spent on personal items. Jewelry, designer clothes, furniture, electronic equipment, perfume, a slew of expensive small kitchen appliances that looked good in her kitchen but had gone unused since Milan never, ever cooked. The list also included luxurious bed linens, beauty accessories, designer fragrances, and damn—she paused when she discovered she’d spent over three thousand dollars at Pier 1 Imports. She shook her head in amazement.
Did I really need so many candles?
Further down the list was a shocking nineteen hundred dollars’ worth of items purchased at Toys “R” Us and seven hundred dollars spent at Gap Kids. She sucked her teeth, thinking about all she did for her ungrateful sister and her two bad-ass kids.

She scanned her online purchases. Her jaw dropped when she saw the company name, Freaky Pleasure Zone. Why, why, why had she bought the gold-plated vibrator with the company credit card? Now, the conceited and self-righteous Kayla Pauley was privy to one of Milan’s most intimate predilections.

After an hour or so of investigating, she had to concede that she’d gone buck wild with the company credit card and hadn’t realized it. Beads of sweat began to pop out on her forehead, under her armpits, and on her neck.

She knew there was a little over nine thousand dollars in her piddly little personal checking account, but she picked up the phone to check her balance just to be sure of the exact amount. She stabbed the telephone buttons to input her account number but kept getting a ridiculous mechanical message that stated the account had been closed.

Frustrated, Milan turned to a different source of information and tried to log in to her checking account online. Instead of pulling up the page she was familiar with, an official-looking page appeared with a threatening red headline that boldly announced her account was unable to be accessed. She gasped in horror. The bank had frozen her checking account—put a hold on the only money she had to her name.

While she tried to make sense of the catastrophe, she noticed there was more information in small black letters. Leaning forward, Milan squinted at the screen.
To obtain more information on this account, please visit your local branch
. The small black-print letters had a more chilling effect than the glaring red print. There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d visit
that
bank, which happened to be the same bank that she owed the money for the credit card purchases. For all she knew, she could walk right into a trap. The board could be trying to lure her out of her safe place so they could have her arrested for fraud.

Safe place?
Milan looked around her apartment; she wasn’t safe here. The board had her current address.

Oh God, what am I going to do?
She felt queasy and, like the actresses of the golden era, Milan actually swooned. Her knees gave out and she collapsed into a bedroom chair—a hand-woven rattan armchair that she’d adored on sight and hadn’t hesitated to purchase while browsing a few months ago in Pier 1 Imports.

In a burst of anger, Milan jumped up and kicked the accursed chair, toppling it. Working off more anger, she kicked it again harder, this time putting a hole the size of her foot in the back of the chair.

Breathing hard, Milan flopped down on her bed. The thought of making an emergency appointment at Tryst flitted across her mind. She needed to relieve the tension with an impromptu freaky sex rendezvous. Then disappointment caused her shoulders to slouch. Her critical financial situation had caused her to forget to make a payment and the monthly fee was now a couple of weeks late. Not too bad, she’d pay the fee and whatever penalty.

Feeling kicked in the gut, Milan suddenly remembered she no longer had access to her bank account or funds. Her membership, she sadly realized, was in poor standing and would soon be revoked.

But she had a back-up plan. Excitedly, she felt beneath the plump pillows, her hand seeking the object of tension release—the golden vibrator.
Oh damn!
It was inside the top bureau drawer on the other side of the room. Wound up with sexual tension and too badly in need of release to make the short jaunt across the room, she decided to pleasure herself the old-fashioned way—using her hand.

Milan pulled off her outer clothing and quickly shed her panties and bra. She lay back and caressed her breasts, pinched her small nipples, applying pressure until they became sensitive to her touch. Aroused, she felt a rush of sensation between her thighs that was so intense, she moaned and drew up her knees, allowed them to part. Her right hand ventured down past the thatch of thick pubic hair, her longest finger leading the way. She massaged the bud of her clit until it throbbed and her finger became moist. Then, with two fingers of her left hand, she gently spread the dewy petals of her vagina, creating an opening that ached to be filled. Desiring instant gratification, she worked the longest finger inside, slid it in deeply, while simultaneously pressing her clit with a finger of the other hand.

One finger caressed gently, the other probed deeply. It never took very long to get what she needed; she knew exactly how to make her pussy purr. Solo sex was the only way she could achieve a really strong orgasm.

She had such an powerful pussy explosion, she cried out in ecstasy—a long, strident sound. The cords in her neck protruded as she jerked and shuddered and seemed to vibrate. When her heart rate slowed down and her breathing returned to normal, she withdrew her sticky fingers and reached over to the nightstand and yanked out a tissue to wipe them as well as the creamy smear left on the bedspread.

Then, temporarily forgetting her troubles, she basked in the afterglow of self-administered satisfaction, slipped beneath the covers, and dozed off blissfully in the middle of the afternoon.