Vixens – The Triple Story 03

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Ava Addams

Part I – Evening – Very Late

She knew it; everybody did. Certain things were certain after all and like it or love it, Zuccotti Park had become the most identifiable spot on earth.

To Lissette, the place was scary and as they approached, she sought protection on Troy’s arm. She wondered though, why risk it? He was everything the Occupiers hated – the perfect object of scorn for zealots whose mission in life was protesting – him.

“Can’t we go another way?” she asked. “It’s creepy here.” It was late. She was tired. Her sore feet reminded her of trudging home in sodden shoes after parting with the Brazilian. Exactly as Eileen had wanted, the long day was clawing at her.

“It’s the park or nothing, girly girl,” he replied steadfastly. Nervously, her thoughts reverted to the angry madam’s stern ultimatum: “Vixens will not tolerate more complaints, young lady.”

Troy Garrity was the last of the hellish day’s triple. So far, she had made it all work and thinking back to the Brazilian and the artist, she knew she hadn’t done anything either could complain about – and neither had been an easy mark for her.

A hodgepodge of trees came into view, under which she saw the small but instantly recognizable tent city. The little area was hemmed in by NYPD officers flushed with annoyed looks. She hesitated. “I’m afraid, Troy. Can’t we…”

“No,” he replied curtly. “Where we go is the client’s choice, right?” She didn’t answer. Having won the round, he smiled. “I’ll have you here.”

With his Rothman Suit, his neatly cut hair and his too-perfect manners, she had hoped for the Tribeca Grand. Her sore body needed bed, room service and a soothing whirlpool bath.

Something else was troubling Lissette, however. Troy Garrity didn’t fit here; he didn’t belong. So why, she wondered? Why the insistence? To provoke this riffraff into some kind of confrontation? Not likely, she concluded. But she worried. One thing was certain; here he would stand out in the crowd – which meant she would. But he was right; by agency rule, the customer determined where they fucked.

She cast him a casual glance and thought; he’s a poster-child for what haters hate about Wall Street, with its evil speculators and hard-hearted bankers.

They’d met an hour earlier and instantly, she had tasted his greed, his yearning for more. He was patronizing, intentionally objectifying her. Squeezing her a little too tightly, he pressed his lips to her forehead but instead of the welcoming kiss women hunger for, he instead breathed in her skin’s fragrance, as if getting his money’s worth.

Stepping back, he ran his eyes the full length of her, observing, “So they’ve sent me a girly girl.”

Playing coy, she countered, “What, pray tell, is a girly girl?”

“You know,” he said offhandedly, “Too pretty, a little too delicate, too lady-like. Anyway, it’s too late to request someone else. You’ll have to do.”

‘Girly girl,’ she thought to herself, taking her arm from his. ‘Whores aren’t girly girls.’ “But you ordered up a Vixen, Mr. Garrity,” she observed, smiling. “What did you expect?” Bastard, she thought.

A few quiet steps later, he condescendingly answered. “Expect?” He turned, seized her narrow shoulders and effortlessly lifted her off the sidewalk. “Maybe – maybe someone – with rougher edges.”

Managing lazy eyes in spite of the comment, she chanced a whisper. “If it’s rough edges you want, maybe Vixens isn’t for you.”

Smiling wryly and setting her back on her heels, he chuckled. “For the moment, I’ll yield the point.”

He wasn’t bad looking, but his icy eyes burned holes in a girl. Standing straight and tall, his hair was dark. His strong arms readily manipulated her modest frame. But much as she liked liking her clients, she didn’t like him. Self-importance turned her off.

She reminded herself that although detesting clients was tolerated, showing it istanbul escort was not. It was the rule of all rules and Eileen marked girls for violating it, leveling stiff fines which the escort’s finances could ill afford.

So straining to mind the very manners her exacting boss insisted she mind, Lissette forced herself to stroll under the street lights with a mystery man she wasn’t sure she could handle and about whom she felt the chill of an ill wind. A moment later, the couple stood at the entry to Zuccotti Park.

Part II – Evening Performance

Lissette surreptitiously checked the time. It was nearly one and Mr. Wall Street was interfering with a promise to her sitter to be home early and a desperate need for sleep. But nearing the end, she was confident. As promised, the escort had been a good girl; providing requisite services, following orders.

Requisite services! Dodging that snake. Playing condom roulette for a crazed artist. Performing as a human toilet for a pleasant but eccentric Brazilian, and now accompanying a cold-hearted mystery man into a bee hive of professional haters.

Anxiously, she scanned the surroundings. “Welcome to the new center of the universe.” Troy beamed, more excitedly than she expected.

Like most New Yorkers, Lissette avoided the controversial place. But now, holding his hand tightly, she followed him. Its atmosphere surprised her. Excepting the shrieks of a woman either giving birth or in the throes of orgasm, the famous enclave was eerily silent. There was only a handful of people milling about.

They walked past a campfire, around which sat some men and a very pregnant woman. Students, Lissette supposed. Methodically sharing a small pipe, the obviously stoned woman stood and confrontationally demanded, “Vlad! Who the fuck is she?”

Lissette’s mind froze. The girl’s behavior was possessive; she knew him, called him “Vlad!” Tugging his arm, the guarded escort questioned him. “Who’s she talking about? Who…who is Vlad?”

Without answering, he instead called back to the girl. “Just an old friend, Nikki.” That’s when the alarm sounded in Lissette’s head. Garrity was a fake who had slipped past Vixens’ typically rigorous vetting service. To escorts, pseudos were especially dangerous. Everybody hides something — these men hide more. But what? What was he hiding? Her mind stiffened with fear.

One of the men chided him. “She’s the second old friend this week, Teichberg. This one’s real eye candy!” Laughter filled the air and turning his attention to the prego, the same man added, “Hey Nikki. Isn’t she hot?” His sarcastic question drew two menacing middle fingers from the angry woman and he changed the subject. “You missed today’s rally, Teichberg. We so fucked with the cops! You should have been there.”

“Yeah Spike, I know, I know,” Troy admitted. “But you guys don’t need me for that stuff. Just do what I told you. Video everything, upload it to the internet and fuck Wall Street, right?” Agreeable laughter followed.

The frightened Lissette tugged again. “Vlad…whoever you are, how do you know these people?” she asked. Detecting her alarm, he hurried her along the pathway. Arriving at a domed tent, he unzipped the flap and whispered, “Inside.”

Every instinct said run, but with Eileen’s ultimatum still buzzing in her brain, she was too afraid. Inside, she found a narrow cot, some rumpled blankets, canned soups and a plastic storage container overflowing with twisted jeans – not the kind of attire he had on and not the kind she expected.

It was clear Troy Garrity wasn’t Troy Garrity. He was Vladimir Teichberg, Occupy Wall Street’s online streaming video chief. She remembered seeing his picture. The pot-smoking girl by the fire was his wife Nikki!

Switching on a battery lamp, Vladimir zipped the flap closed, placing fabric between man, escort and flight.

Loosening her silk escort bayan scarf, Lissette’s questions came fast and furious: “So, Mr. Teichberg, mind telling me what the cloak-and-dagger stuff is about? I admit the three piece suit had me fooled. And why lie to Vixens about who you are? And who is Troy Garrity anyway?”

Smirking, he observed, “You ask too many questions for your own good. But I’ll explain anyway.” He paused. She waited. “Let’s just say Troy Garrity is my alter ego. He gets me inside the Stock Exchange. He’s an intruder, a detested figment of everybody’s imagination now. He even fooled you and that stupid Celeste.” Lissette frowned, hating his dishonesty.

She grew more assertive. “That doesn’t explain why you lied to Celeste – meaning Vixens put me here with an unknown. Why that? Buying a girl is buying a girl. You could have had me anyway.”

He stepped forward menacingly. Instinctively, Lissette backed away. “You’re really afraid, aren’t you,” he whispered. “Well, don’t be. I intend to destroy the capitalist system, but you? You take care of hurting yourself for me. Think about it. You’re a whore; a victim, right? You should…should, be one of us, part of the 99%. But instead, look how you allow yourself to be exploited by that rich-bitch madam, a charter member of the one percent! My problem with whores like you is that you permit it, so to me you’re nothing but a venture capitalist, in the same class as her. You sell your body while she rakes in tons of money and doesn’t pay her fair share. Don’t tell me I’m not right, either.”

Lissette felt cornered by this mad man so she wasn’t about to differ. Instead, she did what she was taught to do; she lied, about everything. “It’s true,” she admitted. “I hate her. And I hate myself for giving her money to exploit me. But I need to work and selling myself is all I know.” He seized her in his arms and held her tightly.

“It’s a bullshit excuse!” His strong hands hurt her. She was losing control and tried to change the subject. Feigning affection, she gazed up at him and asked, “Tell me, Mr. Occupy, when does your victimized whore find out what you want from her? And Mrs. Occupy sitting out there by the fire? She’s OK with this?”

“Never mind her,” he ordered. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he shoved her to the cot. Rough though he was, Lissette knew the routine and eyed his bulging crotch. A simple blow job, she thought. After the kind of day she’d had, a simple blow job was heaven.

Unzipping his pants, she reached inside. Skillfully, she worked his cock into view and lifting it; she carefully took a testicle into her mouth, rolled it gently, then did the same with the other. Releasing them, she reached into her purse and fumbled for a condom whose foil wrapper she expertly tore away with her teeth. “No way,” he announced. Like most men, Vladimir obviously perceived the condom as an affront.

“House rules,” she pouted, lying coyly. “You’ll like it, Vlad…I’ll make you like it.” His face darkened. Grabbing her hair, he jerked her head back and ripping the condom from her teeth, he tossed it away. She tried getting to her feet, but he held her down.

“Please, Vlad, I…I can’t. My boss…I’ll scream!” Fright had overwhelmed her and he knew it.

“You can,” was his firm response. “And if there’s any hope of escaping Zuccotti Park in one piece, you will. Take heed, bitch. With a word, my people out there will shred you.”

Still holding her down, he ordered, “Mouth open.” Wrestling with a dozen fears, she opened and he jammed his erection deep, choking her.

“There,” he said, relieved. “Yeah…feels good.” In an instant, her throat was awash in pre-cum, something experienced girls didn’t normally let bother them. But the more he forced her, the more she struggled, first to get up, then for air to breathe. However, after a moment, he unexpectedly backed off.

Offering Maltepe escort a kind of truce, she relaxed her shoulders. In response, he withdrew but holding her face in the vice of his knees, he aimed the tip of his glistening cock at her eye, making her blink. She knew now what Vladimir was about; he played darts.

Earlier, the Brazilian’s seemingly harmless antics had left Lissette’s eyes burning and pink with irritation. Though lacking Vladimir’s overt aggressiveness, Estevan had, nonetheless, abused her, consciously targeting her eyes; eyes she had known would swell and burn for hours.

“Please, Vladimir, don’t,” she pleaded. Wincing, she shut her eyes and turned away. “Please,” she appealed again. “Come in my mouth. My eyes hurt…I can’t…”

He didn’t reply. With her head locked in place, he held her wrists with one hand and madly yanked at his cock with the other. “Bloodshot eyes,” he muttered contemptuously. “They send a girl with bloodshot fucking eyes?”

Lissette broke into uncontrollable sobs but not caring, he twisted her arms and ordered, “Open. Keep them open or I’ll break you! Vixens sucks!”

He was hurting her so she complied. “Let me,” she offered resignedly. “Just let go of my hands and I’ll do it.”

“OK,” he agreed, “but behave yourself. A beast is what you are and my alter ego says he plans to bitch to your boss. Troy, that capitalist prick; he’s going to get your pretty ass fired!”

Lissette begged. “Please Vlad; I said I’d do it. Only don’t tell on me. I’ll hold my own eyes open, I promise.” Nodding, he let go of her wrists and continuing to jerk off, he looked on as Lissette held both eyelids wide apart for him.

“Head back…hurry,” he grunted, obviously close. The girl, exhausted and emotionally drained, gave in. Tilting back and fighting her own reflex to close them, she held her eyes open waiting for his splash.

With a grunt, he burst and hot sperm flooded the wretched escort’s eye sockets. Instantly, her vision turned gauzy white, a burning haze which her involuntarily fluttering lids instinctually sought to blink away but which only worsened the biting sensation from his singular viciousness.

Blinded, she listened to his gasps, waiting as his labored breathing gradually diminished. Semen ran down her cheeks, into her ears and slid into her open collar as Lissette desperately felt along the cold floor, searching for something, anything to wipe away the stinging fluid.

“Stay still,” he ordered. With a click, a glaring, knife-like light, flashed through the filmy filter still fogging her vision. Followed by a second, he captured today’s portrait with his smart phone. “That’s perfect. Guess our girly girl is just another messy mess,” he said with more than a hint of self-satisfaction.

“Tell you what. I promise not to upload this photographic hors d’oeuvre to Hamster’s picture gallery if you promise to keep Troy Garrity and his little games a secret. Do we have a deal?” The sobbing girl nodded despairingly. With a zip, he opened the tent’s flap and said, “Now get out.”

Part III – Home Late

For the third time this week she had worked late. It was after three when she quietly unlocked the apartment door.

All was dark. All was silent. The place felt eerily empty. “Sable?” she whispered. With no response from her sitter, she turned on the lights. The living room was empty. Lissette called out once more – louder now. “Sable? Emily?” Again hearing nothing, she ran to her daughter’s room. The bed was empty but resting on the pillow was a note. Picking it up, she guardedly read:

Ms. Church,

When one o’clock came and went with no sign of you, I felt obligated to take my daughter – and yours – to my apartment. Child Protective Services picked up little Emily at two. Maybe it’s cruel, but a little girl needs a mother who loves her – not one who stays out all hours of the night.

Investigator Jerome Keller left this number: 800-342-3720. He said you can reach him after 9:00 in the morning.

If I were you, I’d have a talk with a good lawyer first though. I think he knows what you’re up to. Shame on you.

Caryn Ellis


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