It's not prostitution, or at least that is what Trevor tells me. It's not sex in exchange for money, not exactly, because that would be illegal in L.A., but there's nothing illegal about a phone call is there? I would have actually wanted to ask Mr. Facelli about it, but he didn't seem much for small talk when we met, he was more about getting straight down to business the minute he got me alone in his car. He flashed the money the moment we were alone, like a good customer, though Trevor doesn't like any of us calling them that. He prefers us call them "friends" for I guess that's what they are for the time we have together. I didn't have time to count it, but I saw the stack of bills in the envelope, a bunch of 1s with a whole lot of 0s, and that was enough for me.
I almost laughed when I got the call from Mr. Facelli, his daughter Ally a classmate of mine at Deering High. I was a bit worried he might recognize me, but truth was I didn't really know what even he looked like, the few parties Ally had thrown kept secret from her parents at their beachhouse. I knew him by name though, Ally's father of course, and one of L.A.'s most well known criminal defense attorneys. He had developed some notoriety at my High School when he defended Brian Seslin, the supposed rapist and murderer of Lauren Green, the wife of one of our English Teachers. The case closed without a conviction, and that pissed Mr. Green off, obviously, but that wasn't why I was here. It wasn't my place to argue anyone's guilt or innocence. Mr. Facelli knew that, and well, again, I didn't have any time to really ask him anything before I found his cock stuffed in my mouth as he drove.
Trevor had given me the run down before I received the call. Mr. Facelli liked good girls, very good girls, and he enjoyed doing bad things to them. He needed a good actress, that is, after all, what Trevor told us we were, and I was the best of them, Trevor's favorite. I could act like I had never had sex before. I could act like it frightened me. I could act like Mr. Facelli's cock was way too much for me to take into my tiny mouth, which wasn't entirely acting, and what made me Trevor's most valuable asset, I would cry on queue, letting tears fall down my cheeks, down my lips, and over my "friend's" cock as he forced it over my tongue and down my throat.
It wasn't all acting, like I mentioned. My hands upon Mr. Facelli's stomach and thigh, pushing him away, and the fight I put up to lift my head from his crotch, that was really just a natural reaction when I found it hard to breathe. Gagging on his cock when he thrust the whole eight inches of it down my throat, bucking his hips up into my mouth, that again was reaction. My muffled screams as he forced me to suck him, that was the acting part. The tears, also fake. Pretending the whole of the night that I had no idea it was Mr. Facelli's intent to rape every entrance I had, that is why I was Trevor's favorite, his best. It took a great deal of control for girls like me to whimper all night in fear and pain like a pure, innocent schoolgirl, rather than moan like a slut.
It was only a ten minute drive from where we met to Mr. Facelli's beachhouse, nine and a half of which he kept me held down hard to his cock, instructing me as if I didn't know what to do, to kiss it, lick it, and take it all the way down my throat. As if it weren't forceful enough while he was driving, when he parked his Porche in his garage and no longer had to concentrate on driving he was able to focus solely on the game he played with my mouth, holding me down with the both of his hands and bucking his hips up even more powerfully so that the back of my head slammed against the underside of the steering wheel. I was a bit surprised it lasted as long as it did. Not many men had the ability to hold it in for ten minutes while I blew them, but Mr. Facelli kept it up for another three minutes or so before he gripped my hair even tighter in his fists, thrust his hips up until my lips tasted his balls, and exploded wave after wave of cum into my mouth. His near breathless words were like harsh demands, commanding me to take it all, his hands refusing to let me up until he felt my throat swallow three times, the only remnants of his semen coating my lips and making them glisten.
When at last I was able to rise, coughing and crying like the talented actress that I was, he gave me his one ultimatum before he exited his car.
"Not a single fucking word," Mr. Facelli demanded of me, and the way he said it... the look on his face when he said it... to be honest, I wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.
He opened my side door and drew me out by my wrist, leading me into his empty beachhouse, never turning on a single light.
I'm not sure why my body shuddered when the door locked shut behind me. I've been "raped" before. It's a more common fantasy than men will often admit to. Many of my customers, or "friends", have wanted me to play the victim, and it's a role I've gotten very good at. I've been raped before too, and as odd as it may sound, that night two years ago wasn't as scary as this single second when the door clicked shut. Maybe it was the sound of Mr. Facelli's voice in the car, maybe it was the look in his eye, or maybe it was because I was hopped up on coke that night with Trevor two years ago.
With most men, that can afford me anyway, that's all it is, a fantasy. They fantasize about being utterly dominant and violent because truthfully they're not. They'd never rape a young girl, and that's why they spend thousands of dollars to hire one who doesn't mind letting it happen, one who would never speak of the encounter. Some of them try talking dirty and I'm forced to do all that I can just to keep from laughing, to keep up the act that I'm frightened of them. Some of them try to get as rough as they can, thinking that if they bang me harder it will somehow make their four inches actually hurt. I let them believe it, but with some men it just isn't true. They pull my hair, they spank my ass, but they just don't have it in them to hurt anyone. A few times I've actually had to stop acting so well, sensing them about to break, reminding them that I was a hired slut and that they've paid for me for the night for, well, anything and everything. Wait, scratch that, I'm not supposed to mention that.
Suffice it to say, for some girl out there these kind of guys would be their knight in shining armor. Mr. Facelli for some reason didn't strike me as that.
I had met him once before, about two years ago at Ally's sweet sixteen party. He seemed like a good father, sparing not a single expense to give his daughter the perfect night. I was one of about 50 girls that night though, so I'm not sure why I was worried he would recognize me. Maybe, just maybe he might recognize my name, but that wouldn't really matter, since I don't use my real name for these encounters anyway. To my "friends" I'm merely Angel. I had seen him in passing too every now and then when I spent time with Ally, but it's not as though we were best friends or anything, so the encounters were sparce. All this wasn't to say however that he didn't have that grey shadow of mystery looming over him.
I remembered Kaisie McDermott's accusation two years ago that Mr. Facelli had raped her that night. I remember how she was so adamant about it, even though we all knew she was piss drunk that night, for about four days before she suddenly shut up about it and refused to ever speak of it again. I remember two months later when she found out she was pregnant. I remember how frantic she was, and I remember how all that drama seemed to end as soon as it had started when she somehow found the money to pay for her abortion without even telling her parents. I couldn't help but wonder if it all had been true, and just what I was getting myself into now.
Fuck it, I thought as Mr. Facelli led me deeper into his dark beachhouse. I may play the role of some innocent, naïve schoolgirl, but I'm tougher than that I told myself, banishing the worry from my head. What could he do that hasn't already been done anyway?
Mr. Facelli's beachhouse was, for all intents and purposes, my dreamhouse. Three stories of sheer glass walls, that sparkled silver in the daytime, and felt to glow even at night. The front door was less than ten feet from the warm sands of the Pacific Ocean. The windows of the master bedroom were just the perfect mix of protection and thrill. In the daytime the reflective glass shined far too brightly for any to see in, while letting those inside see out without trouble. At night, well when it was dark inside anyway, little could be seen from the beach, not without binoculars anyway. It was such a beautiful place. I had told Ally that I would give anything to be fucked in this very master bedroom.
Not that Mr. Facelli had any reason to contemplate this question, but if he ever was compelled to seek out the truth, he'd find that tonight wouldn't be the first time I've been on this bed, but rather the third.
For the brief moment that I could I glanced at a framed picture on the nightstand beside the bed. Mr. Facelli was in it, as was Ally. Mrs. Facelli too, looking the ever classy broad she always did, gowns, pearls, glitz, and glamor, and Brad as well. I tried not to grin at the thought. I wonder what Mr. Facelli would say if he knew. They were the All American Family, living the American Dream, or so the picture would lead one to believe. I knew more about their real family than perhaps even they did, most of them anyway.
