Sadie Whyte: The Lust of my Life (2 page)

Chapter 3

Business Expenses

1988

Beatrice was no ‘poor little thing’.  She was no one’s sob story.  She didn’t wallow in self-pity.  And though she was petite and slender, yet curvy, she didn’t maneuver through her young 16 year old world in fear.  She was no push over.  In fact, she was no less of a woman than any other adult female she crossed paths with, in her mind.  She’d experienced a LOT over her few years of existence.  Her mother had been murdered in front of her.  She’d witnessed it!

“They’re all tricks.” Her mother had taught her some very valuable lessons from her point of view.  And these lessons assisted her in surviving and maintaining.  Her young body had been ‘around the block’, so to speak.  And what made what she did a lot easier was the fact that she was a very attractive, young, brown skinned lady.  Secondly, her body and the way she unintentionally and consciously, at times, moved it, also moved men’s heads in her direction.  But the most important thing about Beatrice’s profession and method of survival was the fact that she LOVED to fuck.

Her mother had been a whore.  And although she’d talked about how deficient men were a lot more than she’d ever spoken about the possible joys of sex, Beatrice might have gotten her insatiable lust from her mother.  She’d also learned that men would ‘change’ and do things they might not normally do for a ‘…piece of hot tail.’  And Beatrice was growing better and more skilled at persuading men to do such things by casting anticipation-of-great-sex spells on them on a regular basis.

Beatrice sauntered up the street, the bottom of her buttocks bouncing beneath the cut of her tight shorts.  Daisy Duke would’ve immediately felt out of her league if placed in a competition against Ms. Beatrice Miller.  She switched her little hips, stepping effortlessly in high heels she’d been accustomed to wearing on a regular basis since the age of twelve.  She carried ten band aids, a box cutter, cortisone cream, a pack of gum, condoms, and lubricant.  She also carried an extra pair of panties.  She’d learned that some men would actually purchase her soiled panties and keep them as souvenirs.  She never carried ID of any kind.  Beatrice was whomever she chose to be.

Although Troop had gotten himself incarcerated for an attempted murder, Beatrice refused to stop providing for herself in his absence.  She’d run into a few skirmishes with her competition, with pimps, the police, general haters, and victims of her and Troop’s scams.

“Baby, Ms. Bee.  Oh my God, is that you?” an older whore, who hadn’t noticed that her time had passed some time ago, asked.

Beatrice stopped and stared at the lady.  She whipped her long silky hair out of her face.  A smooth, caramel complexioned face with noticeable jaw lines, accentuated by large innocent eyes, perfect kiss shaped lips and a distinctly African American nose.  She was blessed with beauty and what had been referred to as ‘good bones.’ She gave the woman a defiant once over.

“You’re Ms. Bee’s daughter, aren’t you?”  the woman persisted.

“Who are you?”  Beatrice asked, feisty.

The woman took a deep breath.  Her eyes grew larger. The excessive blush worn too high on her cheeks made her appear to be wearing a silly disguise.  The fake lashes, the wig, and the pant-suit, a couple sizes too small, didn’t help matters much either.

“I’m Sylvia.  You look JUST like your Ma Ma, girl.  Your Ma Ma was like a sister to me…”

Sylvia had hit a soft spot: Ma Ma. Beatrice didn’t know much about her mother.  All she had were a few years of memories.  Beatrice and Sylvia wound up sharing the same room; Sylvia talking and Beatrice listening.

“Your Ma Ma was the best that ever did it.  She was one hell of a lady.  EVERYBODY respected Ms. Bee.  She could make a trick spend his last penny on her pretty ass.  And damned if you don’t look JUST like her.” 

Beatrice asked many questions and Sylvia answered them all.  Beatrice learned many things about her mother.  The way she now cocked her head to the left whenever she didn’t trust someone had stemmed directly from her mother.

“She used to do that same shit.  Ain’t no way you ain’t her daughter,” Sylvia said, laughing.

The two women grew close quickly.  And it wasn’t until young Beatrice woke up one morning and found that her small bank rolls were missing, along with Sylvia, that she realized she’d been had.  She searched the room in a state of disbelief.  All Sylvia’s belongings were gone and so were some of Beatrice’s personals. Beatrice was furious.  Her heart beat out of control.  Later, she would find that Sylvia was a dope fiend, and she’d HATED Beatrice’s mother in life.

*****

“They call that little sneaky freak the Fly Trapper, Ms. Fly Trap.” It’d been rumored about Beatrice.

“Hey Sweetie,” Beatrice said, a Cheshire cat grin spreading her young face.

She leaned into the window of the 1980, Malibu station wagon.  Bending over into the vehicle, her legs formed an ‘X’, her right foot to the left of her left foot, and her petite backside propped into the air. “You lookin for a good time?” she asked, popping her gum and staring the driver in the eye.

“Get in,” the gentleman said, unlocking the passenger door and returning her smile. 

Beatrice exposed lots of cleavage, although her breasts were only ‘B’ cups.  Her ‘customer’ couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of them.  Beatrice plopped into the car and reached for the man’s midsection and began fondling him as he pulled off.

“What kind of fun are you looking for?” she asked.  “How much are you spending?”  The gentleman pulled into a secluded alley way. 

“I want to fuck you,” the man slobbered, staring at Beatrice while placing the station wagon into park.  “Money’s not a problem.”

She chose the back of his station wagon as his fuck spot of choice. Beatrice stuck her hand out and gave him her price. The gentleman responded by punching her straight in her chin.  He grabbed her throat and began squeezing. Beatrice lost touch with consciousness for a split second or two.  When she regained her composure to some degree, the gentleman had her in the missionary position in the rear of his station wagon.  He rammed into her repeatedly, holding her throat.

“Remember me?  Huh?  You remember stealing my money?  Huh?” the gentleman barked as he slammed in and out of Beatrice. He slapped her several times as he plowed into her, choked, and cursed her. 

Her shorts were torn.  Blood ran from between her legs.  The warm red liquid also ran from her mouth.  She faded in and out of consciousness. Her pocketbook lay on the floor of the passenger’s side of the wagon.  She could barely breathe, and what she did smell between strained breaths of air was old rubber and moth balls.  She felt as if she were in a dream, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to defend herself and paralyzed.

Her aggressor finished what he’d started, pulled his pants up, and threw Beatrice from the car, her head slamming into a brick wall.  Gravel shot at her face and body as the car sped off, leaving carbon fumes wedged into her bloody nostrils and lightning bolts shooting through her skull.                                                                     

*****

Beatrice opened her eyes groggy. Her head was ringing like the bell in a fire station at ‘work call’.  An I.V. needle was secured to her forearm.  She’d been bandaged up, placed into a gown and left to rest.  Beatrice shook her pounding head.  Recalling the incident to memory, she sat up. She pulled the needle from her arm, pressing her bed sheet to the hole until the thin stream of blood ceased flowing.

The room was cold and immaculate, clean.  White walls and sparse furnishings, the room smelled like antiseptic and disinfectant.  Beatrice forced herself to her feet, hearing the faint hums and beeps of medical equipment in use.  She searched the small room until locating some clothing, which was dirty, torn, and bloody, in a tiny closet.  She put the soiled clothing on and fled the hospital.

Twenty-five minutes later, Beatrice, a hot mess, strutted into the motel yelling. “Rafael!  Rafael!”

Rafael appeared behind the counter.  Spotting Beatrice, he glanced from side to side, eyes darting in several directions at once. “What had happened to you?” he asked, his Arab accent thick.

“I need my…” she said, before breaking down and bursting into tears.

Rafael, the clerk who’d been humping Beatrice for almost a year and holding her money for her, ran from behind the desk.  He wrapped his arms around Beatrice while nervously glancing around and escorted her to a room.

Through her tears, she asked, “How much I got Rafael?”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars.  I keep all for you,” he said.

Beatrice thanked him, shooed him from the room, crawled into the corner, drew her legs up to her chest, and wept.  She placed her head on her knees and cried like a man who’d just had his balls cut off.  A painful, yet necessary, high pitched release.

“Ain’t no good… men… odds of you findin one is NONE.”

Chapter 4

Bait and Switchin

Hips

Harlem, 1988

Although the crack epidemic was in full swing and nearing a down turn, heroin was still all the rage in certain sectors.  And as long as people made money pushing the product, there was always an ample supply of willing users.  Beatrice had learned over the course of time that many of her tricks were addicted to the powerful drug.  She’d also found, from experience, that many of her fellow street walkers were ‘on it like a hornet!’  Sylvia and others like her had made that clear.

Beatrice, ‘The Fly Trapper,’ beautiful with flowing silky hair, and a sixteen year old shapely female temple of a super model, grew die hard in her profession.  She learned from her experiences, but nothing along the lines of persuading her to change her line of work.  She grew more ‘seasoned’, cautious, and fluid in her schemes.  But she didn’t stop.

“It’s all an act baby…  ain’t no good gotdam men… the odds of you findin one is NONE…”

Beatrice played her position.  She strutted her young stuff.  She took what came, rubbing herself constantly.  She writhed to the touch of her own fingertips, tantalizing young and horny men’s imaginations, taunting and tempting.  Her life had quickly become a ballet dance, a choreographed session of smooth premeditated motions.  Her body was a wonderland.  A land many men knew they could caress, squeeze, and penetrate, if they produced the proper payment.  She sucked from beverage bottles their contents.  She sucked entire pickles and bananas into her mouth prior to taking a dainty bite.  She openly stared at men’s midsections, glancing back up into their eyes.  She moved her curvy, tender body while sitting as if enjoying the bull ride of her life, allowing a slight moan to escape here.  A sigh there. 

Attention was always her goal.  And clad in the consistent wardrobe of a true slut, leaving very little to the imagination, Beatrice often got much more than she’d bargained for.

“You do your thing.  Get ready for this, baby,” Beatrice said, sizing up her latest trick.  “Just put the bills on the table before you whip it out.”

Jo Jo sat at the table with two lines in front of him.  He used a playing card, the Ace of Spades he’d had for months, as a straw. “You know I’m gone’ see you straight, Bee Bee,” he said, glancing back at Beatrice, who sat on the bed squeezing her breasts.

He brought the straw to the tip of the first line and inhaled deeply.  The heroin took effect quickly.  He dabbed his fingertip in an ash tray half-full of water and drained his clogged nostrils.  Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, it was as if he’d left his current world for a moment.  Coming back to his reality, he brought the straw to the second line and hit the ‘repeat’ button.

Beatrice watched him.  This was her 4
th
time watching this ritual of Jo Jo’s.  She knew what was going to happen next.  And though she was officially on business, being paid for a service she’d soon be providing, she anticipated what was to come.

Jo Jo stood up like a robot in need of a lube job.  He turned around in slow motion.  His eyes had become slits a few inches beneath his hair line.  His manhood jutted forth, prominent, in Beatrice’s direction.  She felt herself growing warm, moist, and excited.  Jo Jo was built like a male porn star.

Gazing beyond Jo Jo at that stack of bills on the table, Beatrice focused again on her approaching pussy pounding.  She grabbed his member shamelessly, snatched his boxer shorts down to his knees, and began deep throating as much of him as she could.  She sucked and slurped all over his throbbing beam while caressing his balls, rubbing up and down his thighs.

Jo Jo placed his hand on the back of Beatrice’s head, closing his eyes and enjoying the show.  Mindlessly, he began humping her mouth.  Bee took both her hands, locked them around his love toy’s base, and began slamming her face into the closest hand to her mouth.  She suck-slurped the exposed portion of the rod into her mouth, as if she had no teeth, moaning, spittle dripping down Jo Jo’s balls.  Dripping down Bee’s chin.

She stopped. “I’ve heard all about the dope dick.  We can fuck all night Daddy,” she cooed, saliva drenched hands stroking non-stop. “Come on, take another line and make me cry Daddy,” she purred, kissing his pulsating member, staring up at him with wide, deceptively naïve eyes.

Jo Jo’s breathing was labored.  His words wouldn’t form properly. “I-I ain’t got no more money to buy…”

Beatrice began eating him alive, wild, crazy, reckless on the head of his hand tool.  And within seconds, Jo Jo could handle no more.

“Ahhhhh shit!” he groaned, exploding into Bee’s young mouth, violently convulsing.  Bee ate every last drop and kept him in her warm, wet mouth until he’d been reduced to a whimpering baby.

“It’s good, ain’t it?  I told you it was good.  Now, go get the money, so you can buy the rest of this shit.  Fuck me for four days straight Daddy.”                                                                   

*****

Jo Jo returned with $2,000 dollars in cash so fast, Beatrice thought he might’ve robbed somebody. “That shit is what’s happenin.  But all I can get now is $2,000 worth.  Give me a hell of a deal Sweet Heart,” Jo Jo said, eyes red as a stop sign.

“I got $3,500 worth of this shit.  But I ain’t no drug dealer, Jo Jo.  You my peoples.  It’s yours for what you got.  Just fuck me all night and tomorrow night.  Give me that dope dick Daddy,” she purred.

Jo Jo watched Bee pull her entire stash out.  She handed him two more baggies while grabbing his member through his jeans.

“Give me that dope dick Daddy.  Hurry up,” she said, pouting, rubbing his chest, stroking him through his pants, and pressing herself against him.

Jo Jo ran his finger up the crack of her ass beneath her tennis skirt, squeezing her soft, young buttocks before performing his heroin ritual with his Ace of Spades, his razor blade, and his ash tray half full of water.

Moments later, Jo Jo was smashing Beatrice into the cheap mattress.

Creak-Creak Creak-Creak Creak-Creak Creak-Creak Creak-Creak!

“Ahh!  Ahh! Ahh!  Fuck me Daddy!  Ahhh!” Bee yelled. She’d cum twice in minutes.  Her entire body was trembling.  She felt as if she were being impaled many times by a log.  The pleasure pain was conveniently bearable.  And Beatrice loved it.                                                                  

*****

Jo Jo could’ve easily been mistaken for someone yelling, or a heavy duty tractor truck, or an industrial generator.  He snored so loud that the pictures on the thin walls seemed to tremble.

Beatrice, fully clothed and pocketbook in hand, fondled his member for a second, staring down at him.  He appeared to be so peaceful.  And he should’ve been.  She’d given him the real deal: East side China White.  She’d fucked him into a coma.  The thoughts of such sessions wet her hot spot.  She smiled at the thought.

Beatrice headed for the door, sure to make the least amount of noise as possible.  She’d hate to wake a satisfied customer.  She made a bee-line for Rafael’s motel.                                                                       

*****

“Why do you need it all?” Rafael asked.

“Because I’m about to make a major move, Baby.  And because it’s mine,” she said. Rafael retrieved her money for her.  $2,500 dollars in cash.

“You just never asked for ALL of it before,” Rafael said, staring at her with suspicious eyes.

“I’ll be back Rafael.  You worry too much,” she said, swinging her hip into his crotch before turning to leave.  “Thank you.  And if I don’t  come back, I’ll never forget you.”

“You be careful,” he said.

Beatrice had more than four thousand dollars in her possession.   And a girl could do a few things with four racks in ‘88.  She grabbed some of her things and headed straight for the bus station.  Jo Jo would most likely want to kill her when he woke up.  He’d paid her for $100 worth of China White and 3,400 dollars’ worth of instant pancake mix, bagged up and ready to go.

“…a whore’s job is to separate a mark from his money… NOT sellin pussy.”