A Wolf and His Cougar

Mickey was a massive asshole and I hated him and feared him in equal measure. I’d known that since I’d met him sixteen years before, so I was never surprised when he pulled shit. I never did groups, he knew that. I always preferred one on one because it made me feel less like a whore or some kind of carpet cleaner you rent from the store and return once it’s done its job. Yet there I was, sitting on the lap of some rich, old businessman with all his rich, smarmy friends around and trying not to let any of them see my eye twitching uncontrollably.

I had once been a young, desperate sixteen-year-old girl trying to run away from a daddy who beat her and a mama who couldn’t keep coke out of her nose long enough to pay attention. In my desperation, I ran from my backwoods town in Alabama all the way to Detroit. When no one would hire a homeless runaway with no license and no proof I was even a US citizen, I turned to the only work left for me to do.

Prostitution.

I told myself I would only do it when I really needed money and when I got a job, I would stop. For two years I told myself that until I got a client who couldn’t get hard unless he beat me. That’s when Mickey found me, eighteen and half alive from the beating. He lured me in with promises of safety and better money. Having a pimp did keep me safer. Can’t have anyone bruising one of your cash cows.

What I didn’t know was that Mickey wasn’t a normal pimp. He was the leader of a gang whose main income was from prostitution. For some reason, he liked me more than the others, would fuck me occasionally when he felt like it. I was always too scared to say no because he told me if I ever said the words no to him or ever left, I would be put six feet under. Sometimes, I wanted to tell him no just to put myself out of my misery and maybe the cops would find my body and he’d go down for my murder. But a stubborn sense of self preservation always had me bending to his will.

Egotistical asshole.

Which is how I found myself here with four other girls working for Mickey and all these stuck-up douche bags with fat wallets and fatter heads. They all had a girl either in their laps or perched beside them. They were young, some eighteen at best (I hoped they were anyway) and had a look in their eyes I recognized. Life hadn’t hardened them yet and they all had a sheen of sorrow over their eyes. I had carried that look once upon a time until I built walls so high around me my mind and heart were more secure than Fort Knox.

The man who had pulled me into his lap inched his hand further up my thigh until it was almost under the skintight, blue dress I was forced into. Which is saying something because every dress Mickey forced on me barely covered the necessities. I wished I could take a whiskey glass from the low coffee table and smash it over the man’s head. His hands made my skin crawl and my pussy want to shrivel up like a dried husk.

They continued to talk about business and the newest yacht they’d purchased. The man whose lap I sat on had paid a lot of money for even us, but no girl here would see much more than a dimes worth of it. All of it went to Mickey and his men. The gang paid for our housing and food, but none of us had a penny to our names. It was how they kept us from running. Can’t get very far without any money and no one takes a prostitute seriously because we were seen as dirty low lives who deserved to be smacked around.

“Did any of you hear about Elijah Carr?” One of the men asks. “His wife found out he was fucking the help. She left him, took the kids, and plans to take half his assets as restitution. Poor bastard.”

Poor bastard? More like poor wife. Although it was her fault for marrying the man. It was hard for me to trust anybody, let alone a man. Men had been hurting me and using me my entire life, so I wouldn’t willingly trust one with anything. The poor woman had likely been used for status and an image. Powerful man with a beautiful caring wife and their gaggle of offspring. That was the image most of these men wanted and most of them had it. It wasn’t the first time a client of mine had worn a wedding ring and it wouldn’t be the last. When I worked the streets, I used to refuse them if I saw one, but now I was unable because saying no to these men was as good as saying no to Mickey and I’d learned my lesson the hard way.

The men continued to discuss their mutual acquaintance while I tried to ignore how they slammed this woman for ruining her soon-to-be ex-husband’s life. It all boiled down to that adage. Boys will be boys. Like somehow having a dick made acting like an asshole totally okay. If a woman had an affair, she was a whore, but if a man did it’s just what men do.

Fuck the patriarchy.

Needing to get away and collect myself before I made a mistake that cost me, I smoothly slid off of the man’s lap-what was his name again?-and told him I was just running to the ladies room for a moment.

Stupid bastard. All their mamas should have smacked them upside the head more as children, maybe then they’d have a crumb of respect for anyone who wasn’t themselves.

As I walked toward the bathroom, I felt eyes on me as I walked. I didn’t look bad for being thirty-four years old, but I did still look too old to be wearing a dress that my ass hung out of. There was always judgement and I’d heard every comment under the sun. The biggest being that I was a cougar in the making. Not quite old enough to be considered one, but another ten years and I’d be wearing leopard print blouses and leather skirts. My world was full of people thinking they were morally superior to others. Even girls in my line of work, surprisingly enough.

I went to the bathroom, the one farthest away from the quiet VIP room, and wet my hands before fluffing the curls put into my naturally wavy ruddy-blond hair. It didn’t matter to me what I looked like but if even one bad word got back to Mickey, I’d be in for it. I was held to a higher standard than the others because I was his favorite. The girls always disliked me for it despite me telling them I would trade places with them in a heartbeat. Being Mickey’s favorite had meant always being under scrutiny and having to be touched by the slimy piece of human trash. I had always prayed for the day someone would use him for target practice, but I had never even seen the man bleed at that point.

A trio of twenty-something girls rush the bathroom in a flurry of giggles and toxic perfume. When I was their age, I wanted something like that. Girlfriends to laugh and have fun with, but I was stuck sucking the cocks of crusty old men and low lives. I was the oldest of all of Mickey’s girls so after a few years, there was nothing in common between us. The younger ones I tried my best to take care of, but eventually they all started to dislike the extra attention I received. They all wondered why Mickey hadn’t tossed me to the curb for being too old. I wished he had.

“Oh my god, did you see that guy? A total hunk,” one of them shrieked while I cleared a slight smudge of eyeliner from beneath my cornflower blue eyes.

“Yeah, but he has to be a few years younger than us. Besides, he looked like a lost little puppy and none of us need a guy with mommy issues,” another one chides with a laugh.

They all cackle again as one of them calls from a bathroom stall, “Yeah, but who said we’d have him stick around? One night and then it’s adios. Wouldn’t even give him my number unless his dick was big enough.”

Stuck up little bitches. They saw the outside of someone and decided it was all they needed to see. A boy whose mommy didn’t love him enough. But didn’t they crave their mother’s love? Didn’t we all? And someone could easily say they’re just sad little girls with daddy issues, so they don’t have a leg to stand on.

Their eyes landed on me, and they all muffled snickers. Yuck it up, I thought, and thank your parents for loving you enough to keep you from my kind of life.

Everyone judged and pitied, but no one empathized, and no one ever did anything to help. If even one of my teachers in school had noticed me wincing when I moved, I would’ve been put into foster care and at least gotten a diploma. I wouldn’t have had to sell my body for whatever someone was willing to pay just to eat because that was better than being beaten if I so much as breathed funny.

I left the hyenas to their cackling in the bathroom. The rooftop restaurant I was in had grown crowded, people sat in groups at tables or at the bar. Rapturous laughter and chatter filled the spice scented air. A knot of unease began to form in my chest at how many people there were. I had never done well in crowds. Maybe it was growing up with all the space outside one could desire, or maybe it was because in my mind everyone in that room knew exactly what I was, and I could feel the disgust clogging up my lungs. My eyes flitted around the room, taking in groups of young people living their lives, until they landed at one table with only two men. One of the men had messy blond hair and was leaning his head on the table despondently. But my eyes had stuck on his companion. Thick, messy dark hair and eyes the color of an amber whiskey met mine. His broad shoulders and toned arms were encased in a blue flannel that didn’t fit with what most people wore in Detroit. He couldn’t be older than twenty. But what caused my breath to freeze in my lungs was the flash of his brilliant white teeth.

He was smiling, grinning really which caused deep dimples to indent his cheeks, at me. I almost wanted to look over my shoulder to see if there was someone behind me being blessed with that smile, but I couldn’t force my eyes away. Something had me rooted to the spot, my eyes glued to him, like if I looked away my heart would stop beating. A strange warmth was spreading from my head, down my torso, and to the ice-cold toes caged in my six-inch heels. Was I going pre-menopausal already? I had to be because it was the only explanation I had for the sudden influx of body heat. But it didn’t explain my nipples pebbling beneath the padding of my built-in bra. I should’ve been freaking out at the sudden change in my body, but I was too enraptured by that smile.

When was the last time anyone genuinely smiled at me when their cock wasn’t down my throat or up my ass? Mickey had called me his good little whore and that being a cum receptacle was all I was good for. So why was this boy smiling at me like I was the best thing since they first battered and fried chicken?

I was so preoccupied with that smile and those dimples I didn’t notice when they began to grow closer. Until a voice snapped me out of my haze.

“Hi.”

There was a sweetly innocent gleam in his eyes. I wanted to say it was because he hadn’t seen enough of the world, but it almost seemed like he’d seen too much of the world but decided it was still an okay place. Almost like a child. He wasn’t naïve, I could see it. So why was he talking to a whore? A whore at least ten years older than him.

“Hi,” I answered, my voice coming out softer than it has for years with a slight edge of suspicion.

The boy’s smile didn’t waver even at my lackluster response. He still looked at me like I was something fantastic and not in the way I was used to. Men usually eyed my cleavage like they wanted to lick it and calculated what it would take to get there. But this boy’s eyes never strayed down from mine. No poorly hidden glances at my chest or where my dress rode up my thighs. Just a gorgeous smile.

“Can I sit with you?”

I balked and, logically, I knew I needed to get back to my client or I was in for a world of hurt, but the thought of denying this kid anything made my heart ache. A little voice whispered in my mind that this is where I belonged, but I tried my best to ignore that. On my back with my legs spread was the only place I belonged.

“Sure, I guess. Any particular reason why?”

“You’re beautiful and if I don’t get to know you, I might stop breathing,” he breathed like all the oxygen had been sucked from his lungs just from standing in my presence.

He reminded me of a black lab. A six foot four lab, but still a puppy. I could almost picture his tail wagging as we walked to one of the few empty tables away from his moping friend. He oozed sweetness I didn’t deserve to be in the presence of. All I would do to this kid is dirty him and ruin his life, which he had so much left to live. But I couldn’t muster up the will to leave when he looked so happy just to have me sit across from him.

“My name is Mack Fuller,” he stated, his smile a little softer, but still so damn sweet it made my teeth ache.

A rule of mine was never to give anyone my real name. Not even Mickey knew my real name. I had abandoned it back in Alabama, but it lived on inside me with my sixteen-year-old self, locked away behind concrete walls, barbed wire, and 24/7 security. It was a safety measure, so no one would be able to find me or know who I was. So, when I opened my mouth, I planned to tell him my name was Opal Silva, the name I had adopted the first night I fucked a man for cash. What came out instead nearly made me faint.

“My name is Mable Morris.”

What was wrong with me? It was like I was incapable of lying to that squishable face. He didn’t deserve a whore’s name. He deserved to know that sad little girl that resided locked up in the deepest recesses of me. But how could I? After over a decade of hiding, lying, and whoring, how could I ever be that innocent again?

“Well, Mable, what’s your favorite food?”

He really meant it when he said he wanted to get to know me. I wondered if this is what did it for him, if this was some kind of foreplay before he asked how much a night was. The thought of being nothing but a fun night of debauchery and youthful rebellion to him was heartbreaking, and I hadn’t the faintest idea why.

“Avocados. I could eat them out of the peel,” I answered, tracing a pattern on the table top with my stupidly long, manicured nails that Mickey insisted I have at all times. I always fought the desire to rip them off, even if it took my nailbed with them. My poor nails were paper thin and ready to throw in the towel and fall off any day now.

“I’ll eat anything as long as it has sugar,” he said, watching my hands with rapt attention like I was speaking sign language. “Caleb says it’ll make me fat, but I think he’s just jealous that if he eats a single cookie, he’s so bloated he might float like hot air balloon.”

Despite myself, I choked on a laugh and smiled for the first time in as long as I could remember. He looked up into my eyes with a proud grin, like all he needed to feel fulfilled in life was to make me smile. This kid was a mystery. Why he was talking to a thirty-four-year-old woman when he had the pick of all these bright-eyed little girls was beyond me. But I needed to keep that smile and those whiskey eyes aimed at me with every fiber of my being. It was a strange, all-consuming feeling, but it hadn’t felt wrong. It had felt like fate, even though I denied it to myself.

“Is Caleb your friend over there?” I asked, gesturing with my head to the table he was previously seated at.

“Yeah, my best and only friend,” he said, like he hadn’t just told me he only had one friend. Well, it was one more than I had. “He’s a grouch, but he puts up with me. We haven’t even been friends for very long since he only moved into my community a year ago to be with his wife. And he’s three years older than me, but that’s okay. He says he needs to make sure I don’t accidentally get myself killed because I’m an airhead. But he’s the one who pissed off his wife by not telling her he had to come here for work until we were leaving, so now he’s moping because she won’t answer his calls. I told him to tell her when we were coming, but he didn’t listen because ‘you’re just a kid who doesn’t know what he’s talking about’.” He lowered his voice and the gravel in it made shivers race up my spine.

Something happened to me that, even in all my years of being a hooker, had never happened before. Wetness pooled in my panties just from the sound of his voice. I wanted that voice caressing my ears while the large hands clasped on top of the table ran up my sides. Not once in my life had I ever wanted sex beyond the cash I had been in such desperate need of, but I was nearly creaming myself when this kid spoke with just a hint of gravel in his voice.

His nostrils flared and a dark heated look flickered in his gaze before it was smothered by a flush across his high cheekbones. Had he known how turned on I suddenly was? But how could he when I had so carefully controlled my facial expressions?

I cleared my throat and looked toward the bar. It was something I never indulged in while working, but that noxious businessman was the furthest thing on my mind and if I wanted to continue talking to Mack without going crazy trying to figure out what was wrong with me, I needed a drink. And I couldn’t remember the last time I did something for myself. Even if Mickey beat me to death the next day, at least my last day on Earth would be a sweet one.

“I’m gonna get us something to drink. Can you drink?” I ask on a whim, climbing to my feet to head to the bar.

That flush across his cheekbones darkened and made him look like a chastised schoolboy despite the chiseled jaw and broad shoulders. He bit his lip and slowly shook his head.

“How old are you?”

“I turn nineteen in three months,” he admitted in a quiet, shame filled voice.

I nearly shit myself at that moment. Mack was a kid, sixteen years younger than me, and he wanted to talk to my crusty old ass? Was I actually the cougar so many people had assumed I was? I felt like a cradle robber just by being turned on by him. He didn’t look like a kid, but his entire demeanor screamed sweet little boy. I was the disgusting pervert I had hated men for. Lusting after the young like a giant creep.

Taking in a deep breath and closing my eyes, I steeled myself to tell Mack this was a colossal mistake and I needed to go before I dug my grave any deeper. But when I opened my eyes, my shaky resolve fell apart. Those warm amber eyes were shiny with tears, his lips pursed into a tiny frown between where the dimples were supposed to be, and he looked like he might cry if I so much as sneezed.

“Does that make you mad? Please don’t be mad at me,” he pleaded with a soft whisper.

The tears that steadily gathered in his waterline blew apart any thoughts I had on leaving. Fifteen minutes and I was already a soft bitch. I felt like a massive bitch just for making him frown and I needed him to stop before I blew a gasket.

Sighing heavily and dropping my shoulders, I held up a finger and gave him what I hoped was a gentle smile. “I will be back in just a minute, sugar.”

I turned before I could see his reaction to the sudden term of endearment. It had just slipped out. I blamed it on the southern in me but knew that it was because it’s what he was. Pure sweet, undiluted sugar.

The bar grew more crowded as the evening grew later. There were two bartenders standing behind it, working so quickly it was amazing how they managed to spit out drinks at such high speed. The hyena pack was sitting at the bar, eyeing me like I was some kind of foul creature. It wasn’t even a wonder why. They were there in their best dresses, probably having saved for a fun night out to get wasted and laid, and I swooped down and captured a young hunk of meat ripe for the taking. Those girls would’ve ground up that sweet boy and spat him back out. He was like a baby duckling that imprinted on you and just wanted to follow you everywhere. These girls would just kick him aside like he barely mattered and move on with their lives.

My thoughts wandered to the kid that waited for me at the table. Eighteen. Mack was only eighteen and I had tingles racing down my spine and straight to my pussy from just thinking of his hands. I was feeling as despondent as Mack’s friend, but also it didn’t feel wrong. He was legally an adult and two inches taller than me even with my hooker heels. For the first time in a long time, I wanted something for myself. Was it terrible of me to indulge even if it was with someone so young?

Thankfully, my turn to order came up and I could bury the self-hatred with alcohol.

“Two shots of vodka, please,” I ordered, trying to wait patiently, but just wanting the warm buzz from the liquor.

It wasn’t long before two shot glasses were set in front of me, and I sculled them like a pro. After I slammed the last glass onto the tabletop. I looked back to the bartender looking at me with the same wary look I’d seen so many times. He knew what I was.

“Can I also get a dirty martini?” I glanced over my shoulder and tossed out my next words like they burned. “And a coke too please.”

The bartender looked away and got to mixing my drink. The vodka was warming my stomach, but it wasn’t as pleasant as the warmth that had encompassed me when I first laid my eyes on Mack. The contentment I suddenly felt when thinking about him warred with the disgust I felt for myself for seducing a teenager. Oh god, a teenager.

The bartender set the glasses down and I slapped a bill from my cleavage onto the bar top. Thank God for clients who liked sticking cash between my tits. It was never much, and I usually used it for extra food for the apartment of girls I lived with. We were fed, but not well. Going to bed still hungry was something I was used to unless I was one on one with a client. Occasionally they wined and dined us, just to feel less like a piece of scum for needing to shell out cash for pussy.

Trying to ignore my job, I carried the drinks back to the table. Mack looked a little anxious until he caught sight of me. The relieved smile that graced his lips almost made me trip. Was I being Pretty Womaned? I felt bizarrely like Julia Roberts, only instead of a grown man hiring me to accompany him to lavish parties, I’m defiling a teenager with my thoughts. The words oh God repeated in my mind on repeat, praying that whatever special place in Hell they reserved for people like me had a seat open and ready.

“You came back,” he mentioned, like that fact alone filled his lungs with breath and gave him a will to live. “I was worried for a second that you left me.”

The me he added nearly broke my heart. Was he used to people leaving him? Did he have anybody besides his friend that he apparently hadn’t been friends with long? A large part of me wanted to wrap him up in bubble wrap so that sweet personality wouldn’t be soured by the world while another part thought it would be me that soured him if I so much as even touched his hand.

“I said I would,” I answer, placing the coke in front of him and taking a long drink of the salty martini before pulling out the toothpick full of olives.

When my lips wrapped around an olive and pulled it off the stick, Mack suddenly looked pained. Did he not like that I was drinking? He did seem sensitive so maybe he thought I needed to be drunk to endure his company when really, I needed to be drunk to endure my own. It had been a while since I cared what someone thought of me. I didn’t want him to know I was a prostitute or that I was filled with bitter hatred for the world. I needed the alcohol to loosen me up so I could actually speak and maybe he would think I was someone fun to be around.

“Don’t do that,” he mumbled, the gravel back in his voice, but instead of just wetness, this time my panties were flooded, and my thighs were squeezing together. I could feel my pussy aching, wanting to be stretched and filled. I had always thought I was broken, unable to get aroused without excessive heavy petting. But there I was, ready to spread myself on the table and beg to be fucked.

Mack chugged the coke like it was a pint of beer and asks in a strained voice. “You want to get pizza?”

I sling back the rest of the martini and pull the last two olives off the toothpick. I figured was already in for it from Mickey, so I might as well go the whole nine yards.

“Why the hell not.”