A Bona Fide Gold Digger Read online

  Inside the darkened parking garage on Dock Street where she’d parked her car, she’d put on the bright blonde wig and slapped on a pair of dark glasses. Rushing to her destination, she hadn’t bothered to button her coat. Now, dashing along, she caught a fleeting glimpse of her reflection in the window of one of the homes on the enchanting street. But the image she saw was horrifying and didn’t coincide with the beautiful environment. Wearing huge dark sunglasses and the hideous synthetic wig, and with her shoulders hunched against the wind, she looked frightful—ghoulish.

  Hastening her footsteps, Milan’s heels clicked loudly as she forged ahead. The wind furiously whipped her open coat behind her as she hurried along, seeking immediate shelter from the bitter cold as well as warmth for her soul in the form of a quick sex fix.

  At last she reached her destination, a gorgeous Colonial home situated at the end of the block. She pressed a buzzer, gave her code number, and instantly gained admittance.

  Bringing her account up-to-date and scheduling a quick encounter using cash, instead of a credit card or a check, was not an easy transaction. The person Milan assumed to be the receptionist introduced herself simply as Ilka. She gave no last name and no job title. She’d simply stated in an official manner, “I am Ilka. How can I help you?” Her tone did not imply an accommodating nature.

  At any rate, Ilka was a fairly attractive but humorless woman in her mid-to-late forties, with her gray-streaked hair coiffed stylishly. She pushed back her chair and stood to gather and stack files, or perhaps the busy-work was just an opportunity to show off her expensive tailored suit, chunky jewelry with high-quality stones, not to mention a pair of green satin Manolo Blahniks with a rhinestone buckle and a four-inch heel. Her attire suggested that she was paid handsomely and held a prominent position in the secret sex club. But in accordance with the club’s atmosphere of secrecy, Ilka’s job title and true identity was apparently hush-hush. Milan totally envied the woman’s affluence. She decided then and there that a thousand-dollar pair of Manolo Blahniks would be her very first purchase to celebrate her widow status. Hell, she’d run out and buy two pairs the moment Noah died.

  Ilka located Milan’s file and clicked her tongue in exasperation. “You shouldn’t have come without an appointment. You’re violating the privacy of other members and according to your records…” the woman paused, pursing her lips, “your membership has expired.”

  “I realize that,” Milan said snippily. “When I realized I’d been remiss…uh, I’m in the midst of planning my wedding. You wouldn’t believe how busy…,” she stammered. “And, um, the membership fees just slipped my mind.”

  Ilka gave Milan a significant look. “Wedding? Will your spouse be applying for membership?”

  Oh shit, why’d she mention that? Being married would totally complicate her current membership. “I’m not sure if I’ll keep the membership after I’m married. Anyway, my wedding isn’t until next year,” she lied, hoping to redirect the conversation back to her current situation, which was critical. Ilka was adding to Milan’s stress, which in turn increased her level of sexual need. Her pussy was aching. It needed the immediate attention of a swollen hard dick. Oh hell, at this point, she’d settle for anything hard inside her pussy or even pressed against her clit. She eyed the sharp corner of Ilka’s desk and found herself inching up to it. She had to use all her inner resolve to restrain herself from throwing up a leg and fucking the shit out of the protruding piece of mahogany wood.

  “I don’t think we can resolve your issue today.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re making this out to be such a huge problem. I mean, it’s not like I’m here trying to barter with colored beads,” Milan said, her voice a frustrated high pitch. “I’m attempting to bring my account up-to-date,” Milan said, flustered as she pulled away strands of synthetic hair that had attached to her glossed lips.

  “As I’ve stated, our establishment does not accept cash. It’s out of the question,” Ilka insisted, using a formal tone. “Nor do we schedule spur-of-the-moment encounters,” she said, waving her hand agitatedly.

  Milan rifled through her purse and pulled out a wad of currency, expecting the arrogant woman to forget the stupid rules and become appropriately enthralled by the image of Benjamin Franklin gracing the folded bundle of bills.

  Ilka pursed her lips disdainfully, recoiled, and staunchly refused to accept the cash.

  Deeply humiliated, Milan’s brown face felt flushed. If it were at all possible, her cheeks would take on the color of an embarrassed bright red. The level of humiliation she was experiencing was intense. Unacceptable. She’d really have to alter the state of her financial affairs and reopen her freakin’ bank account ASAP.

  “That’s just not the way we do business here,” Ilka repeated, throwing in a tsk to express her growing irritation. She gave Milan a wan smile. “Since you don’t have a checking account, you’ll have to purchase a cashier’s check. You’ll have to reapply and then we’ll review your application.”

  “Are you serious?”

  The beep of the desk console interrupted Ilka’s response.

  “Excuse me,” she said and spoke into the phone using muted, confidential tones. And then to Milan’s utter amazement, Ilka replaced the receiver and dazzled her with a smile. “Something’s come up that might suit your needs. A very important client is en route, he’s bringing along a couple of friends…” Ilka paused.

  “What sort of friends? A married couple?”

  “I didn’t ask the marital status of his friends. He’s paying for a group sex encounter,” Ilka stated crisply. “Interested or not? I have to make arrangements for my client.” Ilka had already started browsing though files.

  “Can you give me some details?” Milan asked pleadingly.

  “What difference does it make? Here at Tryst, we provide an upscale environment for sexually addicted people…”

  Milan looked dumbfounded. Did Ilka just call her out of her name? Sexually addicted people! Weren’t they the types of people who had random sex several times a day? Surely, Ilka wasn’t referring to her; she just liked to get her freak on every now and then.

  “Listen, I’m offering you an invitation as a guest for today. Are you interested? My time is limited,” she said, opening a folder with a flourish. “Hmm,” she said, as she perused the confidential information. “This one looks good.” Ilka reached for the phone.

  Milan glanced around uncertainly, then blurted, “I’m in!”

  Obviously pleased, Ilka slid open a desk drawer and offered Milan a silver case, which Milan knew contained a silver key. Milan was a bronze key member and found that she was rather excited to hold the silver case.

  Then Ilka touched her forehead in a “silly me” manner, and retrieved another case—this one gold. “I’m so distracted. Our client is a gold key member.” Ilka exchanged cases and pointed to the stairway. “Make yourself comfortable. Our guests shouldn’t be long.”

  The room was much larger, much more impressive than the bronze key rooms she’d previously been assigned. But too overwrought from having to rack her brain over the ridiculous prenuptial agreement she’d been forced to sign, physically exhausted from whipping Noah’s ass during the schoolmarm session, and emotionally drained from dealing with the insufferable and unbending Ilka, Milan really couldn’t appreciate the plush interior of the gold key room.

  She had just enough strength to get out of her clothes and recline on the inviting king-size bed. She needed a moment to relax and prepare for a mammoth orgasm. Maybe two, if she was lucky. She exhaled in delightful anticipation. A trio would soon surround the bed and get busy, touching, sucking, and licking her, searching for her erogenous zones. Who knew? With a party of three she very well may have huge multiple orgasms.

  Voices were heard outside the door. Her lips stretched into a smile. Party time!

  She turned enthusiastically onto her stomach, buried her face in the pillow. A flurry of pre-orgasmic excitement pulse
d between her legs as she imagined the fulfillment of being pleasured by a group of two men and a woman. A lot of fucking and sucking was about to take place. She snaked a hand beneath her tummy to calm her pussy down.

  The feeling of sexual excitement swiftly turned to dread and then escalated to full-blown terror when the door opened, emitting a chorus of entirely male voices. Voices slurred by alcohol.

  What the fuck? What happened to the wife? Curious, her head shot up, but was shoved back down. She let out a frightened yelp, but the sound was muffled by the pillow.

  “I heard you like it rough,” said one of the voices.

  Rough! Are you crazy? Ilka knew she didn’t go for the rough stuff. It was clearly stated on her profile that she engaged only in encounters with couples who enjoyed giving pleasure. Not pain! This was a terrible mistake. She tried to lift her head again to explain that a mistake had been made, but he slammed her down again. Her wig was crooked; she could feel it turn askew. Pinned down by powerful hands, she thrashed about and struggled.

  “How do you know, ever tried it?” asked another.

  “Not yet, but I’m gonna find out.”

  Suddenly, her legs were roughly pulled apart. “First dibs,” blurted yet another voice, deeper and gruffer than the other two.

  “Stop!” she screamed, but the sound was muffled by the pillow. She flailed her arms, scratched at the headboard, kicked out her feet.

  “Isn’t this great?” asked one of the men in a voice filled with pride. “She’s a real fighter; I bet that black cunt is hot and ready.”

  Milan was jostled about and then flipped over onto her back. She tried to fight, but it was hard to do any real harm to three men. During the tussle, her shades were knocked lopsided; reflexively, she adjusted them before resuming the fight. This isn’t happening; it can’t be happening. I did not offer this club an enormous amount of money to end up getting gangbanged by a group of drunks.

  A pair of hands grabbed at her breasts. “Not much up here,” complained the man.

  “Small boobs means she’s got a tight little snatch,” the gruff-voiced man advised wisely.

  Milan mentally sorted out words of protest. She kept her eyes closed, preferring not to see their faces in case there was still the remote chance that she could reason with them and turn this appalling situation to her advantage.

  Perhaps the encounter-gone-wrong could be salvaged if she could impress upon the brutes that she hadn’t agreed to a rape scene. She’d felt assured of multiple orgasms when she thought she had agreed to an encounter with two men and a woman. Now, being manhandled by a gang of ruffians, she doubted if her terrified pussy could tweak out even one small orgasm.

  If she could get her wits about her, if she didn’t have to swat away so many pairs of hands, she’d do her best to convince them that they could all have a good time if they’d stopped acting like animals for just one freakin’ minute. She’d be more than willing to fuck the three of them, if they’d accept her terms. She had specific sexual conditions, otherwise she simply couldn’t cum.

  But when Milan parted her lips to speak, the words were halted by a huge hand forcibly pressed against her mouth. Panicked, she scratched the hand and savagely bit into flesh.

  In an instant, there was a sound similar to a bomb exploding inside her head. After a second or two, she realized a fist had connected with her skull. “Fuckin’ bitch,” the bitten man yelled, his words laced with undisguised hatred.

  She didn’t lose consciousness, but she wished she had. Her eyes were wide open now. Thoughts reeled as she took in the surreal scene. The encounter was totally out of hand. A deeply tanned short man with strong, beefy arms flopped down on the bed next to her. In one movement, he forcefully yanked Milan on top of him. Wielding his dick like a knife, he repeatedly stabbed her vulva, even her anus as he sought her vaginal opening.

  Inhaling deeply and blowing out alcohol-coated breath, the short burly man entered her viciously, pushing upward, his hairy tummy smacking against hers.

  Her pussy was trying to recover from the shock of being raped when one of the burly man’s buddies sidled up to Milan and mounted her from behind.

  Double penetration—pussy and ass violation. It was all too much; she’d seen enough; she had to close her eyes. When she felt someone turning her head to the side, her eyes popped open in alarm. Could this scene get any worse? A chubby guy with ivory-colored skin, very blue eyes stood over her, naked. He was a baby-faced, doughy type and he swayed to and fro in a macabre dance. As he grinned and gyrated, Dough-boy’s dick swung perilously close to Milan’s face. He taunted her with his appendage as if it were a delectable treat. His pubic hairs grazed her nose, his stiffening dick brushed against her lips. And when it became sufficiently hard, he stuffed it inside her mouth.

  “Oh, shit. Yeah, baby,” shouted the man beneath her as he gave several hard thrusts.

  Mercifully, he’d come to the orgy prepared with a tube of lubricant, which he’d generously slathered on her anus. Otherwise, Milan would have passed out…gone into shock…or died. Behind her, the butt man cupped her breasts as he plunged into her ass, bellowing, “Hell, yeah, this is some good ass.”

  “Hey, baby,” the chubby guy said, steadying himself with the heel of his hand pressed against Milan’s forehead as he thrust in and out of her mouth. “Want me to pull out before I cum? You want me to give you a pearl necklace?” he wanted to know, mischief dancing in his eyes, as if dribbling cum on her chest would be as gratifying as receiving a set of actual pearls.

  Milan thought about biting off the head of his dick, but reconsidered when she envisioned Ilka helping her gold key members dispose of Milan’s mangled, lifeless body. Milan was, after all, a mere bronze key holder, a lesser member who’d defaulted on payments. Yes, she was totally disposable, she sadly acknowledged.

  The drunken party of three was finally satiated. “You were great, kid,” the burly man said, patting Milan’s shoulder.

  “Did you have a good time?” Dough-boy asked, sounding as if he sincerely hoped Milan had enjoyed being raped.

  “Yeah, let Ilka know the next time you wanna party with us,” said the third member.

  Laughing and joking with each other, the three men left Milan inside the posh room with her blonde wig askew, sunglasses tangled in the bed linen, a pounding headache, and cum oozing from three different orifices.

  The only saving grace was that the three molesters were all quick shooters. And they all had pencil-thin dicks, even the chubby guy.

  She wanted to bathe, rinse her mouth out with at least a gallon of Scope, take a handful of painkillers, and put this appalling disaster out of her mind forever.

  Completely disheveled and burning with shame, Milan hurried through the vast lobby, wishing there were some discreet exit that would allow her to avoid Ilka. She hated that she’d been so hot and horny that she’d accepted an encounter with no questions asked.

  Ilka sat in plain view behind her desk. As Milan approached, she lowered her head, brows knitted in concentration as she busily leafed through paperwork. The woman didn’t so much as arch an eyebrow in acknowledgment of Milan’s presence. The person responsible for her suffering had the gall to refuse eye contact, as if Milan were an irritant, a nuisance, something akin to an insect.

  Humiliation instantly turned to burning anger. Milan’s echoed steps screeched against the tiled floor as she came to a halt and stared daggers at Ilka. She’d intended for her glowering gaze to sufficiently express her indignation and her displeasure, but then she heard Ilka cluck her tongue in disdain, as if she’d expected Milan to make a last-ditch effort to plead her case and to once again attempt to reactivate her membership using vulgar dollars instead of the required credit card. Milan cleared her throat to get Ilka’s attention.

  Ilka looked up; annoyance crinkled the corner of her eyes. She sat up straight as if her swivel chair were a throne, squared her shoulders in a regal manner, pursed her lips, turned up her nose, and looked at
Milan with the disgust of a royal figure subjected to the aggravation of a peasant begging for alms.

  Overcome by a surge of rage, Milan quickstepped over to the desk, reached back, and slapped Ilka across the cheek so hard, the woman spun around in her chair several times. When the chair finally stopped spinning, Ilka huffed and gasped and sputtered angrily. “You’ve assaulted me,” she shouted with her hand gingerly covering her wounded cheek. “I’m taking immediate legal action against you.”

  “Be my guest. Go ahead and sue me,” Milan scoffed. “I’ll have this sex den exposed so fast, you’ll be the top story on today’s five o’clock news.”

  Ilka opened her mouth to speak.

  “Say another word. Don’t make me get ghetto on your ass.” Milan lunged toward Ilka with a raised fist. Ilka flinched and held up her hand defensively. But Milan restrained herself from hitting Ilka again. Instead, she pacified her violent urge by sweeping all the papers off the desk and then wheeled around and strutted toward the door.

  Sweetie was right. You can take the girl outta the projects…

  Outside in the cold fresh air, Milan beamed. She wished Sweetie could have witnessed her performance; she would have been so proud.

  She discarded the wig in a public trash bin as she rushed to the parking lot. Inside her car, she inspected her appearance. She looked and felt terrible. She didn’t want to go home just yet. Having to deal with Noah’s urges at a time like this would push her to homicide. Milan paused at a red light and wondered how she could possibly make herself feel better.

  She thought for a few moments and then it hit her. A big sparkly diamond ring would surely boost her diminished self-esteem. She made an illegal left turn at the intersection of Seventh and Market Streets, steering her car toward America’s oldest diamond district, Philadelphia’s historical Jeweler’s Row on Sansom Street.