Blue Room Confidentials: Vol. 1 Read online

  Smart women like us, I think. But am I really like Julie? I wonder. I won't know until Mr. F. shows up in my bedroom, Stetson and spurs and all.

  Chapter 7

  It's time. I need to prepare with everything I have for my first night with Mr. F. My first client. My first shot. My first big chance at impressing not only the mysterious Mr. F., but also the other Blue Girls and the administration. If I want to understand the workings of the Blue Room, I've learned, I have to look not at the Blues – the well-meaning, managerially hopeless team of Xander, Terrence, and Danny – but at the girls who run the world. Girls like Julie and her clique, who understand the business arrangement that they're in. And maybe even how to profit: from blackmailing and trickery and thievery as well as just using my body.

  I can't say I don't understand Julie's perspective. Working in this business a long time, you start to get cynical about men. You start to realize that all they want is one thing – not one woman, one thing. You start to realize that they see you as things. And that starts to erode at your humanity a little bit. If people treat you like you're not quite human for long enough, you might start to find yourself believing it. You might start to convince yourself that you don't have to adopt human morals, human codes of behavior. One man buys your body, you can sell his secrets to another man. What's so wrong with that, you might think? It's the era of capitalism, after all. Everything is a commodity. Flesh. Information. Secrets. Fetishes. You grant one man his ultimate fantasy and then sell the lurid tale to the papers, raking in the dough all the while. Because that's your fantasy.

  It all comes down to the same thing in the end, I think. Power. Men want it – that's why they want us so badly. They want us to act out their fetishes so that they can have power over us. But we have power over them: we are the gatekeepers of their desire. If we say no, that's it for them. They're lonely, alone, vanquished. And so they start to resent us, and our power over them, and want to dominate us all the more. And that's where the blackmail, the trickery comes in. Because sometimes it feels like sex is a war, and men and women will never stop fighting with each other, never stop grappling with one another for power and position. Sometimes it feels like the fight will never, ever stop and we will never be anything but locked in battle, like two animals fighting one another to the death in the arena, for the rest of eternity. It's a depressing and a sickening thought, but I am not sure it isn't a true one as well.

  Anyway, I think, that's enough reverie for one day. I have a client to prepare for. A client to impress. So, Julie says he likes horses – being a rider, or being ridden. So I can work with that, I think. I call down the concierge and request what I need – all billed on the Blue Room account, of course. A saddle, a riding crop, a real leather whip like the kind they use at rodeos, stirrups, tackle, riding crops the work. And a pair of leather jodphurs just for me.

  I file my nails and watch some TV as I wait for the stuff to arrive. They've blocked most of the channels – they don't want us watching anything that doesn't improve our mind – so I end up watching Citizen Kane for the fourteenth time. Another story of a powerful man brought low, in part, by his obsession with a woman who knew what side her bread was buttered on.

  I take a shower, scrubbing my body clean of the California sweat for what seems like the third or fourth or fifth time today. Then I sit at my vanity, clad in a fluffy white robe that caresses my skin, while I wait. At last a knock sounds at the door. I answer in my robe to see a handsome young boy in a concierge's uniform looking nervously at me. He can't be more than twenty-one or twenty-two.

  “Oh...” he gulps. “Hi...”

  He stares at my breasts barely covered by my robe. Or, precisely, he tries so hard not to stare at me in my robe that he ends up staring directly at me.

  I can't resist playing with him a little. What can I say, I'm a tease?

  “Oh hello!” I flirt a little. “Are you here to help me ride?”

  “I brought you everything you need,” he says, like it's all one word. I've never seen someone so nervous in my life.

  “Thank you ever so much, uh....”

  “Mike,” the young concierge says. “I hope this is okay. Are you going riding today? I mean, it's none of my business, I was just wondering because the sun is setting, and maybe you need me to get you a flashlight you can affix to your saddle – you've only got another two hours of light or so so maybe you'll have enough time to...”

  “I'm not going out to ride,” I say.

  “But I thought you said...”

  “I'm not going OUT to ride,” I say again, more slowly, until it sinks in.

  At last he gets it. He stammers nervously as the image hits him.

  I grab the whip and the crops from him. He is staring at them like a man transfixed.

  “Well, Mike, I don't really have to worry about the light. You see, these are for me fucking the living daylights out of a man. I hope to make him come several times tonight, and come hard. If you've ever experienced the kind of raw, hot, burning desire I have that will make you sweat until you're soaked and forget everything, even your own name, you know how important it is to have the right...ahem...equipment.” I look down to see an enormous bulge in Mike's concierge livery trousers. I give him a searing look as I bend over, whispering into his ears. “That's the fun of being a Blue Girl,” I say. “Plenty of hot sex with plenty of hot men. What could be better?”

  “Oh, uh....” he's so awkward it's almost adorable. This is probably the most action he's had since his high school prom.

  “That's what makes me such a good Blues Girl. But I like my off-work fun, too. So next time I order something from you, come on up and I'll make sure you get a good tip, cutie.” I put my hand against the front of his trousers and begin to rub, just a little. The thought of this hot, innocent young man moaning beneath the slow kneading of my fingers turns me on. He has to grab the doorframe to steady himself as I begin to pump.

  “Maybe sometime I'll even do you a service. And I won't even charge. I like sex for myself, too, not just for my clients.”

  “Oh....” Mike sighs. “This feels so good. I can't-- I can't...”

  “Why not?”

  “These are my work clothes. If I...if I come...I don't have anything to change into.”

  I grin a knowing grin. I move my hand up underneath Mike's livery shirt to his lips, then into his mouth, letting him suck hungrily upon my fingers.

  “Oh, I suppose you'll just have to...finish another time.”

  He groans a painful groan.

  “Okay Mike,” I say brightly. “Gotta go get ready! Have a nice night! See ya!” I close the door on him, leaving him panting and breathless, trying desperately to get ahold of himself. My guess is he's on his way to the nearest restroom to finish the job. Not as well as I would have done, of course.

  I giggle. I'm getting my Whore on. I need to get into the mindset of a top – not just a top – THE top whore in the place. I need to get a reputation as a girl who's wild, crazy about sex – not just doing it for the money but doing it for the sheer enjoyment of the thing. I didn't get a rep as the top girl at Sapphire for no reason. I know how to play the nympho angle. Plus, in a place like this, it's important to get the staff on your side – one way or another. I have to play my cards right or my cover will be blown.

  Now it's time to get ready for Mr. F. I put on my riding clothes and check out my ass in the mirror. It's looking tight, I think, smiling, as I put on the riding boots, the spurs. Everything a cowgirl needs.

  This cowgirl ain't getting the blues anytime soon.

  I look in the mirror. Make a few minor adjustments. Grin at my reflection. Here I am, Jaymie Wakely, perfect cowgirl, perfect whore, perfect everything. And the perfect PI to finally solve the mystery of the Blue Room that Staci, for all her searching, couldn't. But she was after love, deep down. And me, I'm after answers.

  And if I have a little fun while doing it, then so much the better. After all, that Mike fellow, with hi
s tall gangly look and his bright blue eyes – why does everyone in this building seem to have blue eyes? – is pretty cute, and while he's hardly experienced…enthusiasm has something pretty spicy going for it. Which is to say – every now and then, it's nice to be with a man that's overwhelmed by a powerful woman. I love that feeling…of having that power.

  But will Mr. F. be overwhelmed with me as well? Only time will tell. I take one last nervous look at myself in the mirror. Am I the perfect, polished whore that he's expecting – or desiring? I shake out my hair and purse my lips. Then I sit down on the bed, inhaling the scent of the rose petals one of the hotel maids has so graciously sprinkled on my white and pink satin sheets, to wait.

  Finally, after what seems like an eternity, but is in fact eight-o-clock sharp, as Mrs. Walters has predicted, there comes a knock at the door. I rise and go to it. I look through the peephole.

  Oh boy, I think. I giggle to myself.

  Mr. F. is – to use a term I think he himself will probably enjoy – a stud. He's not young; maybe he's in his late forties or early fifties, but he sure is handsome. Salt-and-pepper grey hair, a built body born of years of careful and assiduous exercise, and silver eyes to match his hair. He’s tanned and all muscles with a body men half his age would envy. He's dressed like he's going hunting with Dick Cheney: an expensive Western-style suit, a Stetson hat. Everything I expected, in other words. Good thing Julie hadn't led me astray – or I'd have to do a quick-change act.

  I'm going to have a good time with this one.

  Chapter 8

  I open the door with a grin.

  And I can see at once that my preparations have an effect on the sexy, built Mr. F. His eyes widen in astonishment as he takes it all in: my blonde-red hair, my slender but shapely figure, clad in tight jodphurs that only accentuate the large, proud curve of my ass. The riding boots, spurs and all, that I'm wearing play up the delicate curve of my calves. And the tight plaid “cowgirl” shirt I'm wearing, tied underneath the breast, exposes my hard midriff while drawing attention to the prominent tightness of my breasts. Not bad, I think, if I do say so myself, and from the way Mr. F. is practically drooling over himself, his eyes as wide as saucers, I think Mr. F. appreciates the effort I put in.

  “Well, howdy,” he says in a thick Southern drawl. “Aren't you just a tall drink of water? I'm...” he gives a little laugh. “Well, let's just say you can call me Mr. F.”

  “I'm going to call you a lot of things tonight, Mr. F.,” I whisper into his ear, grinning wide from ear to ear. “As for me, why don't you call me Jezebel?”

  “You little fox,” Mr. F. grins wider still. “I have a horse on my ranch called Jezebel, you know. She's wild as a colt, that one. Are you a wild one, too?”

  “I don't know,” I laugh and shrug. “You're just going to have to find out I guess. And I look forward to every minute of it. And let me just say, you are one delicious hunk of a man. You're my first patron here at the Blue Room. And I can see that I am in for one hell of an introduction. Now, I don't waste time on small talk. I want to know exactly how I can make all your fantasies come true. Tell me what you want and I'll make sure you have it – served up to you on a platter. Do you understand me?”

  Mr. F. grins wide. “Oh yes,” he says. “Oh, absolutely, yes, darlin'. I like your frankness, Jezebel. And I like your look, too. Looks like you and I, we have a similar aesthetic, as they same. Wowee, sirree. I'm going to give whoever recommended you to me an extra Benjamin or two just for the privilege of seeing those marvelous tits of yours. What do I want, eh?” He leans in and inhales the rosy scent of me. “This is what I want. Now show me all your tricks, filly.”

  I smile and stretched back so he can take in the arch of my neck. I can tell he likes what he sees: my golden-brown skin, tanned by the California sun, the way my hair tumbles so seductively over my shoulders. I grin. I like having this effect on men. I like it an awful lot.

  “I would love to,” I say. I tear off my plaid shirt, and my cowgirl jodphurs in one fell swoop, letting him see all of me: my dark half corset that pushes up my bare breasts, the equally dark leather chaps that are tied around me. I'm not wearing any panties, and I can see Mr. F's eyes light up with hunger and desire as he stares at my breasts, at my ass, at every part of me.

  “Oh, darlin', I think I've died and gone to heaven,” he says.

  “Me too, my Mr. Stallion.” I cup his hard-on over his pants. It's huge – the man really is a stallion, in more ways than one. It's so hard that I get wet just feeling its outline. Imagining this man inside me makes my eyes roll back in my head, makes me go crazy. I've never felt this good before.

  I start stroking him with one hand, massaging his cock, while with the other hand I unbutton his shirt, then unzip his jeans, taking off his clothes piece by piece with extraordinary slow surety. I love the feel of him. I love every part of the way he feels. I want all of him inside me. My sex aches for the moment of climax, of connection. But I can't give into this feeling. This man likes it hard, likes it rough. He wants a woman whom he can tame, and who can tame him in return. A real dark horse.

  As he groans, I stop him.

  “Not so fast, Mr.” I say. “I'm not going to give you the goods yet. You've got to work for them.” I undress him bare and then I place a single high-heeled riding boot on top of his chest.

  “Oh, baby,” he groans.

  “Be a good little boy,” I say, “and I might let you come inside me later.” I take my riding crop and I trace it along the contours of his body, his muscles. His abs are rock-hard, even for a man of his age. Clearly he works out. Then I drip some sensual oils on him.

  “You're like a horse, aren't you?” I say. “You need to be oiled up and wiped down.” Rode hard. Put away wet, they say. I hit him once, lightly, with the riding crop, making him moan with delight. I take my other hand and start rubbing my clit as he watch me. After all, why should he get all the fun? I straddle him for a while, pushing him down with the riding crop, pleasuring myself to ecstasy. But I don't let him touch me. Every time he moves or stirs I whip him, and he falls back on the bed with a delighted moan, a shout of panic. Then at last I oil myself until I'm gleaming with my wetness as well as the oil.

  I lean in to slide my slick body over his, slowly while I lick his abs. Then I run my tongue over his erect hardness, twirling it before taking him fully in my mouth. He is groaning as I suck hard on him, smiling as I think how ironic it is that my singing training could come in handy when it comes to lung control and sucking strength. Sucking strength! Yes, an experience lover knows how important that is. So I am demonstrating one of my talents and Mr. F’s eyes are rolling back in sheer ecstasy. His pleasure sends a thrill down my spine, and I want more. I suck harder, and when neither of us can stand it anymore, I tear my mouth away from his stone hard cock, grit my teeth and push down on his massive, stallion-like cock, filling myself to the brim with his girth. It hurts, but it feels so good.

  “Oh, Mr. F.,” I purr. “You really are the biggest I've ever had.” It's not exactly true, but it's not a million miles off the mark either. “I can't stand this.”

  I've missed this part of the job. Working as a PI, you don't get to have sex with the people you're trailing too often, and especially not men as big or as well-endowed as Mr. F. I'm enjoying every minute of this, letting loose, moaning and then screaming at the top of my lungs, riding him hard, like I'm riding a horse, until we're both so close to coming...

  Xander

  I hear a scream. The sound makes me bolt upright. It's coming from Jaymie's room. I think it could be a patron at first, but think it’s her first day living at The Blue Towers, she couldn’t already start having patrons lined up. Staci didn’t start immediately with me when I was her Mr. X.

  Immediately I panic. What's happened? Is Jaymie in danger? I rush to her room. I stand outside for a moment, trying to decide what to do. I know she’s a tough girl, but some part of me, the chivalrous part, feel the need to protect her. Ma
ybe because she looks like Staci and Marina. Maybe because she could use my help. I’m a lot larger than her, and I am in excellent shape. If there is an attacker, will I be able to fight him off? But I can't think about that right now. If Jaymie's in danger, I have to do whatever it takes to get her out of there safely – even if it risks my own life. I start knocking on the door, pounding so furiously I almost break it down.

  To my surprise, the door gives way, and I stumble in.

  But they don't hear me over the sound of the screams,

  At last I realize what I've walked in on. Too little, too late, I think, embarrassed, as I stand in the doorway. Neither Jaymie nor the man she's straddling look up to see me.

  I should go. I know that. I know I shouldn't be here – in a client's session, watching Jaymie do whatever job it is she's doing at the moment. But despite all my good intentions I simply can't take my eyes away. The sight of her overwhelms me. She's dressed in a dominatrix garb, with her breasts jutting out fully and proudly. Her lower half and lightly shaved crotch are exposed. All she's wearing is a tight back corset underneath her breasts and black leather chaps with spurs. She's whipping her patron lightly while he groans, over and over.

  “You're a bad boy, aren't you?” she's saying, laughter in her voice. “You're one bad horsey. I need to let you taste more of this whip. Taste the whip. Don't you want to? Don't you want more?”

  “Yes....” cries the patron in ecstasy. “Yes ma'am. Please, ma'am. Please let me taste it.”

  I realize that I recognize him. He's Mr. F., but I know him by another name. He's the owner of one of the largest cattle ranches in Oklahoma and most of the south, supplying a large percentage of beef steaks in restaurants, supermarkets, and butcher’s shops across North America. Made his money in oil and gas and now makes more millions as a rancher. I can't say I've ever imagined seeing him quite like this in all the times we've crossed one another's paths and business functions. But I guess everyone comes to the Blue Room. Especially people as powerful as Mr. F.