Chronicles of a Prostitute Book2

Short Story

Chronicles of a Prostitute

By Lawrence Kadzitche

Part 2-The Art of the Deal

My drink arrives. I pick it up and sit at a corner table facing my prospective ATM machine. Strategically positioned, there is no way he is going to fail noticing me. At the same time, I am making it clear to all the other girls in the club that I have staked my claim on the man. You may not know, but when one stares at you, something makes you aware of the stare and it is not long before my man notices that I am gazing at him. He looks my way and I smile at him. I see a frown on his face, he is obviously trying to recall where he saw me before. Hitherto, he has never seen me but I have captured his interest. A minute later he glances at me again. I give him my bewitching smile. This time he responds with a smile of his own. With that I know that I have his full attention.

Men do not know that there is no man who can resist a woman who has designs on him. None. They cannot. It is in the bible. The stories of Ruth, Bathsheba and Esther are but a few example. Although I am not a fan of Reggae, one of my favourite songs is by the Jolly Brothers which goes like, ‘Solomon was wise but couldn’t find the secret of a woman…Samson was strong and deceived oh yes by a woman.’ So a woman is not someone to play with. She is God’s special creation. A man makes the advances, thinking he is the one who is controlling the moves. But in reality he is just a puppet. It is the woman who pulls the string. If a woman is not interested, any moves a man makes are in vain.

My maxi dress has a deadly secret weapon: a hidden slit that goes all the way to my hip. The next time he looks my way, I cross my legs and the dress parts. His eyes widens, his mouth opening in a silent ‘o’ as he takes in my shapely thighs. With a sweep of my hand I cover them after allowing his eyes briefly feast on them. He smacks his lips and I wink at him. I shift in such a way that I offer him a full profile of my twin towers. I see him move uncomfortably in his chair. Game over!

Before I know it, a voice hisses, “Hi!”

Aww, it is my lovely man, exuding expensive perfume. I wolf him over. My eyes had not deceived me. Everything about him speaks of money. Lacoste golf shirts or Calvin Klein designer jeans are not worn by every Jim and Jack. Even the sleek iPhone in his hands costs a fortune. A good prostitute is not cuckolded by a man’s looks. A simple look tells you whether the man is a businessman, a civil servant, an employee in a private company, a farmer or some nonentity trying to pretend to be someone. It is all in the way they talk and behave-something betrays their true identity. This enables you go for the big fish in the pond.

In my case, I had deduced my man to be a manager at some big public organisation. Very likely he is from Blantyre and is in Lilongwe to attend a meeting. And that means he is loaded with cash. These guys get hefty allowances when they go for meetings. My teeth are already sharpened to sink into his dosh.

“What are you drinking?” he wants to know. Of course he can see I am drinking Coke but I know what he means is ‘what drink can I buy you?”

I look at him from under my artificial eye lashes and flash him a smile which makes dimples in my cheeks and reveals my gleaming teeth. I call this my killer smile and so far no man has been able to resist it. Then I choose the most expensive whisky in the bar. Men always wonder why women go for expensive drinks when asked to pick out a drink. When you select an expensive drink, you fool the men into thinking you are a girl of class. But it also helps in another way which I will explain later.

He pulls a chair and sits down facing me. “I’m Fred,” he introduces himself offering me his hand. With satisfaction, I notice that his wrist watch is a Rolex. “May I know your name?”

A glance at Fred tells me he is a respectably married man and more likely a church elder. A model husband. He is the type that goes after prostitutes only when far away from home and when it is the prostitute who is making the initiative. I know if I just talk to him we just will chat and chat and later, without the shaking of the sheets, he will thank me for offering him good company and depart happily. But I will not let that happen. The novice has met a professional. Born from the line age of Adam, there is no way he can escape the death of Adam. Whether he likes it or not, he is going to dance the horizontal tango with me.

While taking his proffered hand, I lean forward to give him a full view of my cleavage. “I’m Esther,” I purr, giving him the teeth. This is a good name from the bible. It makes the man think he has found a responsible prostitute. Calling myself a sexy name will put him off.

Fred is easy to talk to and soon we are talking as if we knew each other before. I was right. He works for a big public organization in Blantyre and is in Lilongwe for a meeting. He will be leaving the following day. I gather all this as the drinks continue to flow.

At each available opportunity, I slap him playfully on the shoulder and soon he is comfortable enough to hold my hands. He buys the drinks as if they are at a reduced price. Mindful that I am here not drink but coin money, whenever Fred goes to the toilet, I send the drinks back to the barman. This means he is paying for the same drinks that the barman keeps bringing. With the way he is ordering, I will collect a good sum from the barman tomorrow. It is not a new trick, all prostitutes do it to earn an extra kwacha when a man is buying a lot of drinks that cannot be consumed. It is also a move aimed at ensuring that you do not get plastered out of your skull no matter how many drinks a man buys you. We prostitutes do not go to bars to get inebriated. It is to make money.

I order some gizzards mixed with chips. Of course Fred will have to pay for them. Using a tooth pick, I lift a piece to his mouth, looking at him with deliberate longing eyes. He also picks a gizzard and sticks it into my mouth. In this way, we finish the snacks, while giggling like teenagers on a date.

I make a pre-arranged sign to the DJ. He puts a kwasakwasa song by Koffi Olomide. You know you cannot dance to these songs without shaking your waist.

“That’s my favourite song,” I say. “Let’s go and dance.”

I do not wait for him to reply. He is the type that listens to music without dancing. I drag him to the dance floor and soon we are dancing. We dance in close embrace while I wiggle my body sensually against his body. Without knowing it, he has his hands holding my booty as if he is afraid it will fall. I can feel something stirring in his trousers. With my face close to his, I encourage the movements by pressing my groin against his crotch while dancing with my eyes closed, my mouth slightly open, and the tip of my tongue out, my man killers resting heavily against his chest. His organ savagely kicks at the junction of my thighs. I find him kissing me and I eagerly respond.

I am in charge now. When a man gets hot, he does not think with his brain. Here, the woman has the advantage because she thinks with the brain. I playfully let my arms touch his ding-dong which is hammering against his trousers. “We can find a room close by,” I whisper, while nibbling at his ear.

Hand in hand we go to a motel that is just behind the nightclub. It is the best around, a big building enclosed in a brick fence. It is more of a brothel than a sleeping place. Most of its clientele are from the surrounding clubs there for full night shags. Those looking for a quickie go to the small dilapidated rest houses littering the area.

The receptionist, a young man in a black suit, is a professional. He acts as if he has never seen me before although I have been there several times. I pay and he hands us a key. We go into a dimly lit hall, passing along numbered doors from which we can hear moaning, grunts and screams.

We go into our room. It is a self- contained middle sized room sparsely furnished with a double bed and a small table. I throw my hand bag on the table and pull it close to the bed where I can easily reach it. As I have said, it is always important to have a weapon handy in case a customer gets violent.

Fred is in real heat. Still standing, we are soon kissing and running hands on each other’s body. As he pulls up my maxi dress up to my waist, I unbuckle his trouser belt. When he gently pushes his hand inside my panties, I unzip his fry. My dress hits the floor. His golf shirt and trousers quickly follow. He turns me around and unfastens my bra.  While I am still on my feet, he sits on the bed and slowly unties my G-string. He holds me by the hips and stares at my triangular patch as if he has never seen one before. He is literally drooling and swallowing like a dog eyeing a bone.

I push him gently so that he falls on his back on the bed. Kneeling between his legs, I move my fingers inside his thighs, slowly parting them. My arms reach his groin and gather his twin eggs in my palms and tenderly knead them as if I am working flour into dough. He lets out a sigh of pleasure. One hand still cradling his balls, the fingers of my other hand move to the base of his erect plonker, circling it with my thumb and pointing finger with some pressure so that it is standing stiff and upright like a candle. A drop like dew peeps out as I slightly pull down his fireskin. Muaah, muaah, muaah I kiss the head, lapping the droplet. In response the pecker thrashes about merrily as if it has a life of its own.

He turns me over on my back. Sitting astride me, he runs his arms expertly over my breasts, his palms rotating the nipples. Then he gathers my boobs together and his teeth nibbles alternately at my teats. I gasp with pleasure, my tits hardening. Shifting his lips down, he licks my belly button. With his fingers spread wide open, he drags his hands down my hips, then moves them in the insides of my thighs. He picks both my legs and hooks the knees over each side of his shoulders so that my gash is staring right into his face. His fingers fondle the lips of my cave of wonders parting them and then his tongue is searching for the treasure inside, finding the hooded ruby, rubbing and nudging it, setting me on fire. My punani dripping wet, I have to struggle to retain enough presence of mind to remember that this is a business transaction and I must not be lost in a tide of passion. A very difficult thing to do with his tongue going lick, lick lick at my point of fun with the sweetest rhythm.

He is about to enter my tunnel of love when I suddenly pull off, turn him on his back and slither backwards. He grunts with ecstasy as I go down on his lollipop. Holding his throbbing one-eyed monster with my left hand, I rub the fingers of my right hand in a sign that is universally understood to mean ‘cash, please.’

“How much?” he croaks.

I gently slide my hand up and down, slowly unsheathing and sheathing his uncircumcised banana and his breath starts coming in jerky sobs. Using dirty words, he implores me to take him in, at any cost, ‘any cost, babe’, while hungrily lapping my juicy pretty thing.

I love this moment, this brief moment when I am in full control. He can do anything I tell him just to gain access into my honey pot. Fred is now entirely mine. “I charge per thrust. A thousand for each pelvic thrust.”

I know this type of charging system is new to him. But I like to throw in a bit of fun into the game. “Just say how much, honey,” he groans.

“I charge per ‘nyekhu’, babe,” I repeat in vernacular, moving my hips back-and forth to demonstrate the point, without letting up on massaging his dick. “Believe me, this will make every thrust sweeter than honey.”

His face is congested with desire. He is gyrating his hips, his manhood bone stiff in my hands. At this stage it is clear that what he can think of is to find a way to enter my juice box. That is if he is thinking at all.

“Okay, baby, okay baby,” he sobs his agreement. “The money is in the wallet.”

I know I am going to make a killing. Like Shakespeare said in Macbeth, beer enhances the desire but lowers the performance. Of course Fred is not that sozzled, he is that type that would have to drown in a barrel of beer to get drunk. Still, when you have taken some alcohol, it is not easy to manage a quick ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’. So I will have made a fortune by the time he is able to offload his cargo.

I retrieve a condom from my hand bag. He tries to resist, saying we should do it bareback. But I know it is the head of his eggplant emoji thinking. One has to think for men at times like this, for your own and the man’s health. I have a trick for men who resist using gloves. While amusing their peckers, I pretend as if I am taking them down the road to christening and before they know it I throw the ramrod into the rubber and then slide it into the cock squeezer. Once there, no man has power to get out of the spasm chasm. Fred has baggage at home and I have to think for him. And so I throw his hard-on into the gumboot and guide it into the sugary walls.

We reach 50 grand and he is not yet through. He is at the peak and I know that is the best time to demand cash for the services so far performed. I whisper that he should not move. He stops with a groan.

“Wow, man, you’re strong,” I gush, my eyes wide open with amazement, the only motion being the small movements in my snapper squeezing his boner. “The weak ones barely manage 5 strokes. 50 jabs and you’re still performing. Did you take mthibu or chiswa, superman? You know what you are?”

“Tell me,” he answers proudly.

“My sweet poom poom pounding machine,” I enthuse. This is true. He knows how to bang. “Tell me what you are going to do to my pleasure chest, mi amor.”

Fred is now into my game. “Just wait and see what my weapon of destruction can do, kitten.”

“First let me see if my man’s money is as sweet as his massive jackhammer,” I whisper, running my tongue along the inside of his ear. He groans with pleasure. “We’re at 50 grand.”’

There is no man who does not like being told he is good in bed. And Fred is no different. He carelessly tells me to get the moolah out of his wallet. I hungrily peel off the 50 thousand quid and stash it in my handbag.

At 100 thousand, he is still not done. Sweetly, I offer him the choice to give up. You already know his answer. Show me a man who will take out his juice squeezer before coming and I will show you a woman who does not love money. I decide the money is enough. In addition, there is no way I can get this kind money when he is done and regained his senses. So, quickly, I get my other 50 grand and tell him the rest of the shagging will be for free due to his amazing performance.

Business done, I now resort to pleasure. “Relax, now. I’m the player and you’re my guitar, baby.”

Yes, I know it more and I know it some. His body is a piano on which I bring out lovely melodies. It is a guitar on which I play every erotic tune until he is floating in a sexy heaven. I am sure he has never heard the tunes I play on his ‘flute’ the same way I am sure he never knew how good his drum stick could beat the drum. His hips rise from the bed as I massage his love muscle. He is literally crying with sweetness, ‘ih ih iiiiiih!’

 

In one fluid movement, he gets up, turns me around and is behind me. With his left hand gripping his cock like a gun, he traces his right hand along the length of my spine and playfully slaps my booty. Pleasure shooting within my body, I arch my back, ease my legs apart and lift my ass to fully expose my pulsating horny halo. Access granted. But instead of entering me, he drives his tongue into my dribbling pussy. I scream as his tongue swirls and swirls around a sweet spot. Before I can recover, he rolls me on my back and mounts me. I greedily use my hands to guide him in. True to his word, he gives my poom poom a  pounding of its life- steady, fast and deep. The experience is heightened by his rich vocabulary of obscene names of my hooded lady that he screams out in wild pleasure as he rams into me. The more pleasure he gets, the dirtier his jargon becomes and the more aroused I become myself.

Soon all I can feel is a tingling sensation from my head down to my toes as I twist from one side to the other with agonized bliss, my legs locked tightly around his waist, my fingers clamping the sides of the bed. He is clutching my bums very hard and pummeling with surprising energy that I curve my back and all I can do is to moan ‘oh yes, oh yes, oh yes’ with each plunge. He continues to pour obscenities as he drives into me with hard deep thrusts while still tightly clasping my ass as if he wants to drill it, the bed creaking as if it will break. My desire builds up in intensity with each thrust and I am yelling ‘Harder! Harder! Harder! I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m comiiiing!” until I hit the golden spot and my screaming bursts into a mind blowing orgasm. ‘Aaaaah uuugh oooooh-yes yes yes.’ Seconds later, he explodes like a volcano while crying my name and describing my cunt with beautiful names. We collapse into each other’s arms like pricked balloons.

In my line of work, I am always meeting all kinds of men. But no one has ever satisfied me the way Fred has. And I can safely bet I have done the same for he keeps on murmuring, “Oh my God, woman, you’re fire, you’re fire…” as he lays beside me on the bed, his heart beating like a ‘mganda’ drum, staring at me dreamily, his fingers playing with my clit slit. And as I help him dress, sweat streaming down his body, he even asks me for my number.

“I want us to meet again next time I come to Lilongwe,” he says sweetly. “Woman, I love you.”

I had always wondered what prostitutes who kept boyfriends really thought. I had always considered them stupid. But I understood now. Sometimes a man comes along and for unknown reasons you fall in love. Just like that. I could see love in Fred’s eyes. And my heart was telling me that I would love to see him again, not just once, but many times.

“Save my name as Chikondi,” I tell him after I have given him the number.

He stands behind me and puts one arm around my waist and uses the other arm to turn my head to look at him. “I thought you said your name is Ester?” he whispers into my ear.

He is a real green. A prostitute never gives her real name unless she has fallen in love with you and she is eyeing a long term relationship. And I have given him my real name. Your guess of what is going to happen between him and me in the future is as a good as mine.

I turn around, take his face in my palms and kiss him on the lips. He responds by opening his mouth and his tongue finds its way into my mouth. I respond by sending mine into his mouth. “Chikondi is my real name, love,” I tell him softly. “You just got yourself the hottest pussy in town, darling.”

“I’ll come see you next week, Chikondi,” he promises as we leave the room, walking hand in hand.

“I hope you’ll not mind sleeping in my little shack,” I say sweetly.

And some people have the effrontery to demean us prostitutes. We offer men what they cannot get in their miserable married lives and with no ropes attached. As my encounter with Fred has shown, if the god of love passes our way, we gladly embrace him. My Fred leaves a hundred thousand kwacha poorer but a much happier man.

 

End