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Message-ID: <37890asstr$1029510602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Souvie <souvien22@yahoo.com>
Reply-To: Souvie <femecrivain@netdot.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "The Case of the Extortive Escort Service" (FFF toys oral)
Date: Fri, 16 Aug 2002 11:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

This was originally posted back in 2000 under the title
"Lovin' to Go." It was a Write Club Duel against Father I.
After going back over some of my stories this summer, I
decided it needed a re-write. A couple areas have been
changed and expanded, but for the most part, the plot (if
you could call it that!) hasn't changed. And of course it
has a brand new, much more apropos title. <g>

If you're not familiar with Trudy Tolliver, you can read
about her first adventure "The Case of the Masochistic
Wrestlers" at: 
<http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Souvie/www/wrestlers.html>

I live for feedback. You can e-mail me at:
<femecrivain at netdot dot com>
or use the handy form on my website:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Souvie/www

It's "I write, you read," not "I give, you take." So
please don't post this story anywhere without my permission.

= = = = = = = = = =
The Case of the Extortive Escort Service (FFF, toys, oral)
(A Trudy Tolliver Story)
by Souvie
copyright 2000 and 2002



"You need four parts sugar, six parts potassium nitrate,
and a small container like a Coke bottle, but make sure to
perforate it.  Once you have all the ingredients--"

I stared at the small television as I walked into the
break room.  "What are we watching?"

"How to make a bomb," someone volunteered.

"It's a new daytime show.  'Sammy!' or something like
that," Melissa said.  I sat down at the table with her, my
back to the TV set.  Melissa worked in copy and we'd gone
to the movies and lunch a couple times.  She was okay in a
sort of bland, vanilla kind of way.

"So what's new, Trudy?" she asked, offering me some of her
grilled chicken salad.

"Nothing," I said, taking a bite.  "I'm thinking about
taking some of my vacation time."

"Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know, maybe someplace warm and exotic and far
away from Mr. Peterson's damn bellowing."

Dirk stuck his head in the doorway.  "Trudy, Peterson is
yelling for you."

I smiled ruefully at Melissa and took one last bite. 
"Jamaica, I think.  Yes, definitely Jamaica."

= = = = = =

"You want to run that by me one more time," I said, trying
to wrap my brain around what my boss had just told me.

"What part of English don't you understand, Tolliver?" Mr.
Peterson asked, rummaging in his desk for a cigar.  "You're
going undercover as an escort."

"Escort as in escort service?"

"You know of another kind?"  He gave up his search, and
slammed the desk drawer in frustration.  Everyone at the
office knew that Mrs. Peterson was trying to get her
husband to quit his cigars.

"Why me?"

"Because I just decided to make you this paper's new
investigative reporter.  You want it engraved in stone or
something?"

"Okay, now why?"  I settled back in my chair.  I couldn't
wait to hear his explanation.

"You may or may not know this already, but my sister is
married to Councilman Voeks.  Someone is blackmailing him. 
He wants--"

"Isn't that a problem for the cops?" I interrupted.

"Normally, yes, except for the highly sensitive nature of
this whole thing.  It's election year, and he's being
bribed with porno pictures."

I whistled.  "Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar,
huh?"

He waved a hand in the air.  "My sister swears that
they're doctored.  Either way, we need to find out who's
behind it so that appropriate measures can be taken."

I interrupted again.  "How can he not know who's
blackmailing him?"  If this Councilman Voeks was
representative of our city government, we were surely on
our way to Hell in a handbasket.

Peterson frowned.  "The blackmail pictures and demand
arrived unsigned by mail.  He's supposed to deliver $30,000
by tomorrow at noon to an abandoned building downtown, or
else the pictures will be sent to the local rag mags."

"Then how does he know this escort service is involved?"  

"Shit, you're full of questions today, Tolliver!  Because
he goes through the escort service to get a date for
society functions when my sister's out of town.  He swears
the company is legit -- never a hint of anyone coming on to
him or propositioning him -- but something doesn't sound
right to me.  And that's where you come in."

He tossed some papers across the desk at me.

"What's this? I asked, picking them up and thumbing through.

"Your application for employment and some other forms
you'll need.  I've already placed the preliminary calls. 
Actually, I had Melissa place them for me.  I need as much
information as you can get me before 11am tomorrow."

I stopped flipping through the papers and pointed to one
of them.  "I never had a physical."

"It's required, I guess to make sure the employees are in
good physical health.  I had Dr. Rosetti fill out one for
you."

"Dr. Rosetti from the county morgue?"

"He's a licensed doctor. It'll hold as long as no one goes
checking his AMA license."  His chair squeaked as he rolled
it back and stood up.  "Now shake your ass and get."

= = = = = =

I stopped at my apartment to get a small bag of clothes
together.  According to my cover story I was Trudy Thicket,
fresh off the bus from Kansas and in desperate need of a
job and place to stay.  

I was debating on whether or not to change out of my jeans
when Remy stuck his head inside the door.  

"Okay, you are home.  The outer door was open so I just
let myself in," he explained, leaning against the doorjamb.

"Yep, but not for long.  Whatcha need, Remy?"  I gathered
my hair up in a ponytail.  

Remy lived in the apartment below me, and was a private
investigator.  The epitome of "tall, dark and handsome," he
was the subject of most of my late night erotic dreams. 
I'd never tell him that, though.  We had a nice, simple,
friendly relationship and I liked it that way. From all
indications, he did, too.  Sometimes fantasies are nicer
when they never come true.

"I don't need anything."

Remy never just lets himself in.  He looked about as
nervous as a class jock at a high school reunion.  I looked
him dead in the eye and raised my eyebrows.

"Okay," he said, smiling sheepishly.  "My apartment is
being painted tomorrow and I wanted to know if I could
crash here for the night?"

"What about Maria?"  Maria was his current love du jour.

"She's got to go out of town, her mom's sick."

"Why don't you crash at her place then?" 

"We haven't been dating that long.  Plus she's shy and
well, I don't exactly feel comfortable asking her."

I shrugged.  "Okay then."

"There's just one more thing."

I sighed.  There always was.  "Which is?"

"I don't want her to know I stayed here.  I don't think
she'd get jealous, but like I said -"

"Yeah, yeah, you haven't been dating that long."  I zipped
up my overnight bag.  "I won't be here tomorrow night
anyway, so I don't see a problem.  I'll give you the extra
key now, and you can just lock up when you leave."

He grinned and hugged me.  "Thanks, Trudy."

"No problem.  Oh, while you're here, got any suggestions
for subtly altering my appearance?  I don't need anything
drastic or permanent -- just something so that I wouldn't
be easily recognized."  My picture had been in the paper
recently because of a big wrestling case, and I didn't want
to take the chance that anyone at the escort service would
recognize me.

"Hmmm.  I've got that long black wig I wore last year when
I was investigating a company for insurance fraud.  You
could wear that; it's not one of those super cheap ones
where you can tell it's a wig. And you could touch your
eyebrows up with mascara.  That way it won't look like a
dye job."

"Thanks, Remy, you're a lifesaver!"  I kissed him on the
cheek.  I could have sworn he blushed. "You go downstairs
and find that wig, and I'll just do the mascara touches and
be down shortly."

= = = = = =

Discriminating Delights was in a high-class business slash
residential section of downtown.  It was not what I'd been
expecting.  The office was in a renovated colonial style
home, traces of old wrought iron fence posts framing the
front entrance.  The trim was done in a light pink color
with a gazebo off to the side, a profusion of roses
climbing up the trellis.

I walked up the brick path and through the large oak
doors.  A receptionist in a room off the foyer took my name
and asked me to have a seat.  I looked around, feeling like
a hick on her first time to the big city.  The understated
elegance of the whole place had me wondering if I'd gotten
the address right.

"Mrs. Coopersmith will see you now."  The secretary's
voice broke through my perusal of the room.

I shouldered my overnight bag, and walked through the door
that the secretary had gestured to.  An older woman was
inside, sitting behind a large desk, and she smiled and
stood as I entered.  "Trudy, so nice to see you.  Please,
have a seat."

I sat in one of the plush chairs in front of her desk, and
automatically handed her the sheaf of papers that Mr.
Peterson had prepared for me.

She took the papers, and started rifling through them. 
She asked me some basic questions: Where was I from? How
long had I lived in Dallas?  Why did I want to be an escort?

I'd rehearsed what I would say on the drive over, so I
answered her with confidence.

Mrs. Coopersmith put me at ease.  With her upswept hair,
chic suit and friendly demeanor, she reminded me of
someone's well-to-do grandmother, not the owner of a
successful escort service and potential blackmailer.  I
wondered what was wrong with her.

"Well, Trudy, all your paperwork is in order, and your
physical checks out just fine.  I'm willing to take you on
a one week trial basis if you're still interested."

"Oh, I am!"

"Good." She looked at the top paper again.  "I understand
that you don't have any place to stay, is that right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Her laugh was as clear as newly spun glass.  "Please, just
call me Constance.  We're not that formal here at
Discriminating Delights."

"Okay, Constance."

"Very good.  Now, I'm writing down Cynthia's address. 
She's one of my most popular girls and she's got a spare
room you can stay in until you get on your feet."  

"Are you sure she won't mind?"

Constance handed me a piece of paper with an address on
it.  "She won't mind if she likes her job."  She smiled and
stuck out her hand.  "Welcome to our family."

= = = = = =

Cynthia lived in an upscale condo with an Olympic sized
swimming pool directly behind it.  I thought that if most
of the escorts had similar places, I was in the wrong line
of work.

A girl wearing workout clothes answered the door.  "Hi,
you must be Trudy.  Constance called to let us know you
were coming over.  I'm Priscilla," she said, stepping aside
to let me enter.  From what I could see of the condo during
Priscilla's quick tour, it was almost as nice as the
company's office.

Priscilla led me upstairs to a room at the end of a long
hallway.  "This is your room.  I'm right across the hall,
Cynthia's roommate, more or less."  

The room was huge.  I could have fit my whole kitchen just
in the closet alone.  

While I put my clothes away, I kept glancing at Priscilla
from the corner of my eye.  She looked awfully familiar,
but I couldn't quite place her.  "Where is Cynthia?" I
asked, placing my empty bag under the bed.

"It's her turn to do the grocery shopping.  She should be
back soon."  

The phone started ringing and Priscilla reached across my
bed to the phone on the night table to answer it.

The conversation was brief and she scribbled something
down on a piece of paper.  When she hung up she said, "That
was Constance.  You've got a date tonight.  Mr. Adams will
pick up you at 8pm, for the opera."

"Already?"  Damn that was quick.

"Yes, it doesn't take long for her to 'initiate' you to
the business."  She laughed.  "If you stay in this line of
work, one thing you won't lack for is a date.  Do you have
something to wear?"

"For the opera?  No."

"You're about Cynthia's size.  I'm sure you can find
something in her closet that's appropriate."

"I've got it!" I said, snapping my fingers and giving a
Cheshire cat grin.  "You're Priscilla 'Princess' Erwin
aren't you?"

Her face turned a pale white.  "Oh, God."  She sat down on
the bed.  "I knew someone was bound to recognize me."

"Your face was plastered in all the papers when your
father threw that 21st birthday bash for you last year. 
It's not everyday the daughter of the premier oil baron of
Texas turns 21."

"You're not going to tell my father what I do for a
living, are you?" she asked in a quiet voice, looking up at
me with worry in her eyes.  "He thinks I'm modeling."

"I won't tell," I answered, sitting beside her and putting
my arm around her shoulders.  Call me crazy, but the cute
little waif was already starting to grow on me.  Maybe
because she reminded me of the kid sister I'd never had.

"I need to tell you something before Cynthia gets home,"
Priscilla said in a low voice.

"Priscilla, get your bitch ass down here and help put up
these groceries!"  The front door slammed shut, and I could
hear high-heels tapping across the tile floor.

"Too late," Priscilla said with resignation.  "Coming!"
she yelled back and left me sitting there on the bed.

I wondered what she'd been about to say.

= = = = = =

Within the first five minutes of talking to Cynthia I'd
come to the conclusion that she was a self-centered, stuck
up little cunt.  She'd informed me that if I was to be
staying there, it was her way or the highway.  

"Some of us girls do a little work on the side," she
explained while she sifted through her closet, looking for
something that would fit me.  "You live here, you're going
to do it, too.  If not, I call Constance and your ass is
back on the street."

"What do you mean by 'a little work'?"  I already had a
pretty good idea, but I wanted to hear her say it.

"You look pretty smart, Trudy, I'm sure you can figure out
what I mean."  Cynthia tossed me a black strapless gown,
floor length -- a Versace, if I guessed right.  It probably
cost a month of my salary.  "Ruin it and you'll pay me for
it."  She crossed to her dresser.  It was only when she
started to sort through her keys that I noticed one of the
drawers had a lock on it.  She unlocked it and took out a
small wirebound book.  "For the after hours stuff we all
have code names.   Yours will be . . .  Trixie, I think." 
She wrote something down.  "I've got an appointment with
Sam tonight, about 1am or so.  It's a two-person job so
you'll come with me.  That way I can watch you in action
and know if you're going to give me any shit."  She snapped
the book closed and gave me a look that practically dared
me to make trouble.  "Any questions?"

Without a word, I turned around and walked back to my
room. I flopped down on the bed and sighed. Remy, hunk
extraordinaire and star of many of my wildest fantasies,
was spending the night in my apartment, and I was stuck
being an escort for some stranger. Life wasn't fair.

= = = = = =

Mr. Adams turned out to be a kindly old gentleman, a
retired lawyer who was so polite to me, you'd have thought
we were related.  He took me to see Phantom of the Opera
and I had one of the best times I'd had in a long while. 
He told me all about his son who'd taken over the firm and
just opened a branch office in Ft. Worth, how his wife had
died recently of cancer, and how his granddaughter had just
been accepted to Vassar.

He dropped me off back at Cynthia's condo and gave me a
chaste kiss on the cheek.  With a smile and a wave, he
climbed back into the limo.

I had less than 30 minutes until the "1am or so" that
Cynthia had mentioned earlier.  I went up to my room to
change clothes.  She hadn't said what to wear, so I grabbed
one of the few outfits I'd brought: denim mini-skirt, blue
western-style shirt and some low sandals.  I went to walk
back downstairs when I noticed that Priscilla's light was
still on.  I tapped quietly on the door and then opened it.
She was laying on the bed, dressed in a frilly nightgown,
an open book on the bed in front of her.  

"How was your date?"

"Surprisingly, I had a great time."

She smiled.  "Good. I'm sorry I didn't have time to warn
you about Cynthia earlier."

"It's okay," I said.  "Are you in her little book?"

The smile became a laugh.  "Oh, no!  Cynthia told me early
on that I was 'butt ugly' so thankfully I'm spared from
having to sell myself."

"Are all the escort girls in on it?"

"No, just those that want to be.  The exception is anyone
who stays here with Cynthia is automatically drafted into
it."

"No one busts her?"  

"They could go to Constance, but she wouldn't believe
them.  Cynthia is her niece."

That explained it.  

Cynthia appeared in the doorway.  "You ready?"

I nodded.

"Then let's go."

= = = = = =

"Oh yeah, that's it baby, right there.  Fuck me with your
long tongue.  Mmmmmmm  Don't stop now.  Fuck it!"

Sam turned out to be short for "Samantha."  She was built
like a linebacker, talked like a sailor, and handed enough
money to Cynthia to make Midas smile with glee.  I was
quickly learning more than I'd ever wanted to know about
lesbian sex.  We'd gone through several toys, some I
couldn't identify, and both my ass and pussy felt like
they'd gone ten rounds with Evander Hollifield.  Sam liked
to give as good as she got.

Cynthia had taken perverse pleasure in telling her how
much I loved doing women, and vice versa.  Now, with my ass
stuck up in the air like the Goodyear blimp, and my face
being squeezed between Sam's meaty thighs, I wondered if
I'd have a blister on the end of my tongue come morning. 
It seemed like I'd been tongue-fucking and clit-licking Sam
for hours.

While I was getting up close and personal with every hair
on Sam's bushy mound, Cynthia was using a strap-on to go at
me from behind. Every time she rammed the fake penis into
my pussy, it shoved me forward deeper into Sam's crotch. If
Cynthia was trying to make me come, we were going to be
there a long while. Or so I thought.

I jumped as I felt a vibration against my clit. I came up
for air and looked down between my legs.  Cynthia had
picked up a small silver vibrator and was using it against
my clit while she continued to fuck me from behind. Okay,
maybe I would be coming soon.

"Get back here," Sam growled, she reached to take a
handful of my hair and I quickly bent back to her pussy. 
The last thing I needed was my wig coming off.  I don't
know how it'd stayed on this long -- Remy must have used
industrial strength tape.

"Yes, baby, give it to mama.  Make me squeal like your
pig, honey. Fuck this pussy good."  Sam went back to her
verbal encouragement, gripping the bed sheet in both hands
and grinding her hips up against my face.

I could feel my own orgasm imminent, all because Cynthia
had found my one weakness -- the old vibrator on the clit
trick.  I bucked my hips in counterpoint to Sam, trying to
reach that exalted plateau.

"Ungggggghhhhhhhhhhyeahhhhhhh!" Sam screamed, her whole
body stiffening. I quickly raised my head before it got
crushed in the viselike grip of her legs.

Cynthia applied her tools with more vigor, and my own
orgasm swept over me like a rush of icy hot water.  I cried
out in pleasure, and swore I could see stars at the
periphery of my vision.

I collapsed on the bed, out of breath and out of energy. 
Sam leaned over and smacked me on the ass.  "Damn you're a
hot little piece of ass.  This one's a keeper, Cyn."

That was not what I wanted to hear.

= = = = = =

I awoke at 8 o'clock the next morning, feeling soreness in
my limbs that had nothing to do with the hard mattress I'd
slept on.  I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed some
cold water on my face.  I didn't have much time to find out
who was behind the blackmail scheme, and I needed my wits
about me.

Stumbling back into the bedroom, I tugged on a pair of
sweatpants and a tank top.  I gathered my hair up in a
loose knot on top of my head, and headed downstairs to find
something to eat.  A wad of cash on the dresser stopped me
in my tracks.  Cynthia must have left it there while I was
passed out from exhaustion.  I quickly counted it -- $1675.
Damn! I never knew I was that good.  I shoved the cash down
into the bottom of my dufflebag, and headed down the hall.  

On my way downstairs I noticed something that hadn't
really registered with me the previous day -- along the
walls were beautiful photographs of prominent American
landmarks.  There were some fantastic European scenes mixed
in among them, but what was unique, other than the quality
of the photos, was that Cynthia was in every one of them. 
She must really have traveled to. . . .

I let the thought trail off as I started playing back the
events of the past twenty-four hours.  I backtracked and
knocked at Priscilla's door.  She opened the door, hair all
sleep-tousled and eyes barely opened.  "Trudy."

"Priscilla, you said your father thinks that you're
modeling.  What makes him think that? Just your word?"

"No, I send him some pictures every now and then."

"Do you go to a studio to have them taken?"

She frowned, clearly wondering what was up with all the
questions.  "No, Cynthia takes them."

"And she does such a good job, your dad thinks they were
professionally done?"

"Well," she chewed her bottom lip, "she scans the pictures
in and then uses this high-tech photo manipulation program
to make them seem like they're ads that would appear in
magazines."

I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my system in
full force. "Is Cynthia home now?"

"No, she usually goes to the gym every morning for a
couple of hours."

"Excellent."  I hurried back down the hallway to Cynthia's
room.  Lucky for me, the door wasn't locked.

"What are you doing?" Priscilla asked, following me into
the room.

"Trying to catch a blackmailer," I answered, deciding to
start at the computer desk.  I already knew where she kept
her tally book; I needed to find the disk she kept the
pictures on.

Deciding to trust Priscilla, I filled her on who I really
was, and what I was doing there.  She seemed awestruck and
a more than a little excited.  She offered to stand at the
head of the stairs and be my "lookout."

There wasn't any sign of the disk, or possible negatives,
in the computer desk, on the computer hard drive, anywhere
in the dresser or under the bed.  I started on the closet.  

Priscilla stuck her head back in the room.  "Any luck?"

"Not yet." I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead.
"Is there anything that Cynthia is obsessive about?
Something that she never leaves the house without or
something she can't do without?" If she'd taken it with her
to the gym, I was out of luck.

Priscilla thought for a minute.  "She's addicted to Oreos,
but I don't see where that would help."

Oh, but it had helped.  I went back to the dresser and
opened the bottom right hand drawer.  Underneath some boxes
of cards, stationery and pens, I found what I'd passed by
earlier -- a bag of Oreo cookies.  

I took it out of the drawer and eased out the plastic tray
of black and white cookies.  There, in the bottom of the
package, was a round computer disk and an envelope.

I slid the cookies back in the package and replaced the
bag back in the drawer.  I found a metal file in her makeup
tray and used it to jimmie the lock on the top drawer. 
With disk, negatives and code book in hand, I headed back
to my own room, Priscilla trailing behind.

I slipped on my tennis shoes and then threw all my stuff
into my bag.  I slung it over my shoulder.

"Where are you going?" 

"To the newspaper.  I've got to get this stuff to my
boss." I stopped and gave her a quick hug.  "Are you going
to be okay, Priscilla?"

She shrugged. "Oh sure. I'll claim ignorance, and probably
get fired anyway, but that's okay.  According to my dad I'm
just 'spreading my wings' and will come to my senses sooner
or later."

"I'm in the book if you ever want to get together and do
something.  Something that doesn't require code names and
lesbian encounters, please."

She laughed.  "You've got it."

= = = = = =

"Remy, I do believe that you make the best margaritas I've
ever tasted."  I licked the salt from my lips and sighed in
satisfaction.

"You flatter me too much, ma cherie," he replied, his
Cajun drawl drifting around me like flower petals.  

We were out back on his patio, enjoying the rest of the
lazy Friday afternoon. 

He was back in his bug free apartment, and I was safely
back in mine. If I inhaled really hard, and closed my eyes,
I could smell traces of his aftershave on my couch. I vowed
never to clean it again.

"Are you sure you don't want to start your vacation
tomorrow, instead of hanging around here?" 

"Hey!" I protested.  "I gave you Priscilla my word I'd
stay while she smoothed out everything with her dad.
Besides, she's my vacation buddy."  Vacation buddy or not,
I could still hear Jamaica shouting my name.

I'd gotten the stuff from Cynthia's room to Mr. Peterson
in plenty of time.  Councilman Voeks had pulled a few
strings at the police department to keep the whole thing,
and the specific details, hush-hush.  By noon, Cynthia was
taken into custody, and the rest of the women involved in
her little extracurricular activities rounded up. 
Thankfully the councilman was the only one she'd attempted
to blackmail. But if she'd been successful, who knew where
it would have led to.

In gratitude for my snappy little detective work,
Councilman Voeks was paying for my vacation.  An all
expense paid, seven-day trip to Jamaica was mine for the
asking.  And let me tell you, I asked.  I didn't even have
to beg to bring along a friend; he suggested it himself. 
After all, what vacation is complete unless you have
someone to share it with?  To that end, I invited Priscilla
along.  I thought it was the least I could do since she'd
been a kind of help to me.

I felt a few twinges of guilt at what I'd done because of
Mrs.  Coopersmith; the lady had been nice to me, and I felt
she didn't deserve to have her business raided like that. 
I told Remy about my misgivings.

"Constance Coopersmith?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Didn't you read today's paper?  She was listed in
Cynthia's little book, too. Went by the name of 'Candy' I
think."

I choked on my drink, my guilt melting away.  I'd wondered
what was wrong with her; now I knew.

"Remy, are we the only sane people left in Dallas?"

"I don't know, Trudy.  Sane is relative to everyone." 

"You're right. Now, what should we toast to?"

He held up his glass.  "How about good friends?"

I clinked my glass against his and smiled.  "Good friends
who don't make me play footsies with big-boned women named
'Sam'."

Remy threw his head back and laughed.  "Trudy, you are
truly one of a kind."

I smiled. "Thanks, Remy."  I added under my breath, "I
think."



THE END 

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