Free Politics. Escorts. Blackmail. by Pynk Page A

to paying Kemba, never said anything about calling a booker first. And Kemba said nothing, either, only that he’d met her at the store, they’d talked on the phone, and, after having a drink, ended up in the hotel room. To this day, I still book her and Kemba. And the woman is still married to the same impotent man.
    Money came back to the present and spoke to herself again. “Romeo’s ass is the thorn in my side. Offering thirty thousand for Kemba. Please. I’m a millionaire.”

The Republican candidates gear up for tonight’s debate in Manchester, New Hampshire, where Kalin Graves, the mayor of Philadelphia, was born. CNN will cover the debate. The Republican presidential hopeful does not support same-sex marriage, which is expected to be a hot topic. Same-sex marriage is illegal in Pennsylvania, but became legal in his home state of New Hampshire in 2010.
    Six
Money
    Monday—July 11, 2011
    M oney was dressed and ready for her expected guest. She sat on the sofa in the living room when her doorbell rang. Stepping toward the door, she yelled, “Who is it?”
    “It’s me,” her man, Jamie, yelled back.
    Jamie Bitters, a bigwig with the sheriff’s department before he got sticky fingers, would come by maybe once a week and hang out with Money. He was the only person she really chilled with who wasn’t shocked by what she did. They could talk about miscellaneous bullshit, like stock market rates or sports, or watch the latest episode of Love & Hip-Hop together. It was less than a love affair but more than a friendship.
    “What’s up?” she asked after letting him in.
    “Not much. You?”
    “Oh, nothing much either.”
    He placed a plastic bag on dining room table.
    “Chinese?”
    “You know it.”
    She nodded. “That’s what’s up.”
    They enjoyed their meal, sipped on wine, and sat in her living room watching TV. She didn’t bring up Romeo. She just lived like an everyday woman who had a man that came by. Average stuff.
    After a few hours went by, his attention went from the television to her body. He began kissing her neck, rubbing her bare legs, and playing with her breasts. Before long, they got up from the couch and headed to her bedroom. For her, it was private dick time because she wanted to fuck, not because she had to.
    He stood at attention next to her canopy bed, which had ivory sheers draped from the top to the floor. She lay on her back with her legs over the edge, a pillow under her hips.
    The room was dimly lit. The iPod speakers shared the smooth sounds of the tail end of D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar.”
    Jamie hummed along as he worked at choreographing their sex session.
    Money followed his lead, just enjoying the escape from reality.
    Upon the side of her bed, he lifted her brown legs and held them straight up in front of him, moving himself so that his dickhead was lined up with her pussy. He gave a deep thrust with a jerk of his hips to plunge his entire penis inside of her. Her legs rested along his chest. He stroked them and licked the heels of her bare feet, sucking on her toes while fucking her pussy.
    Then they got up and he arranged their bodies so that they were on the settee at the foot of the bed, him on his back with his legs on each side. She sat on top of him, facing his feet. She looked down and rubbed his balls, squeezing them together. He massaged her firm ass cheeks while she rubbed her clit. She released her creamy white femininity on his dick, masturbating while fucking him at the same time.
    The song was now “How Does It Feel?”
    “Fucking good,” she said from out of nowhere, as if replying to D’Angelo directly and not speaking to Jamie.
    They ended up standing, with her leaning over the bed, him spreading her legs as far apart as he could, guiding his penis to penetrate her again. She pushed her hips backward toward him in reply to the sensation his entry brought. He was deep and he pulled out, yanking off his condom as he spewed cum on her ass