Chapter 6

Daphne drove the battered Volkswagen Greg had procured for her to the entrance of the whorehouse. Her entire body shook from nerves, but she had made up her mind. She was a woman, and she would use the equipment God had given women to break this case. She would share a by-line with Pulitzer winner Gregory Stafford, and achieve new heights in her career. Her ex-fiancé would be stunned; her family would stop pressuring her to come home; her friends would no longer see her as a starry-eyed idealist.

She took a deep breath as the doorman yanked open her door. "May I help you, ma'am."

"Yeah," she said in an affected voice, chewing hard on the gum Greg had given her. "I want to see the madam."

"Madam? I'm afraid you've made some sort of mistake."

Daphne laughed. "Cut the crap, friend. I know all about this place, and I'm here for a job. I hear the pay's pretty good, all things considered."

The doorman's face remained impassive, set in stone. 'This is a private residence, ma'am. Perhaps you have the wrong address."

"Cut the crap," she said, the words feeling alien on her lips. "What this is, is the biggest, best whorehouse in the East, with politicians a specialty. You know it, Jeeves, and I know it. So let's just knock off the pussyfooting around."

Still the doorman would not give in. "Perhaps I should get the owner."

Daphne leaned back on the dirty VW and crossed her arms across her breasts. "I think that's a fine idea," she said. The doorman watched her for a moment, indecisive, then disappeared inside.

Daphne stopped jawing her wad of gum and let it sit under her tongue, out of the way. Her heart smashed against her ribs, and the sound echoed in her brain. What would her parents say if they knew what she was doing? She could picture it: Hi, mom, guess what? I just got a job as a whore. No, don't get upset, it's with the best whorehouse around. The doorman reappeared, and she resumed her furious gum-chewing. The doorman was followed by an elderly fellow wearing an expensive-looking smoking jacket. He sucked on an unlit meerschaum pipe, held in one hand. The other hand smoothed out a distinguished gray handlebar moustache. Daphne stood. "I understand there's been a bit of a misunderstanding," the gentleman said in a rich, aristocratic tone.

"No misunderstanding, pal. I want a job here, simple as that."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "We're getting nowhere plenty fast," she said, laying the accent on thick. "We all know what goes on here, but we keep playing these goddam games. I guess if nobody'll even give me the courtesy of an interview, I'll just have to tell someone else about this place."

"Someone else?" the gentleman said.

"Like the Washington Tribune. Christ, I'd bet that Greg Stafford would give his left nut to know about you and your little operation." The gentleman looked concerned with her threat, but made no move to invite her inside. "Have it your way," she said, shrugging, then slipped into the driver's seat.

The old gentleman held the door open. "Wait," he said.

She looked up at him.

"All right," he finally sighed. "You obviously have no doubts about our . . . operation, as you put it.

Certainly, we'll give you an interview. Won't you come in?"

She grinned and smacked her gum. "That's more like it."

She followed him inside, and was awed at the lavishness of the place. It was the same type of building that Hassan owned, but their interior decorators must have been worlds apart. Only the finest of antique furniture and the most exquisite of paintings and carpeting graced the house. No plush velvet or cathouse red, as she had anticipated.

"So this is all yours, huh?" she said.

The man laughed. "Good heavens, no. I'm just an employee. I'm here in case somebody shows up who doesn't belong." Suddenly his accent was gone, and he sounded like anybody else. "It's good, steady work for a dowrt-on-his-luck actor. Jason Laraby's the name."

"Candy Semple's mine," Daphne said. It was the name she and Greg had chosen before she had left his office.

"So where we going?" she asked.

"You wanted an interview? You're going to see the head lady." She walked upstairs dogging his footsteps, and then through a tall set of double doors. When she looked behind her, Laraby was gone. Before her, one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen sat behind a Louis XIV desk. She was middle-aged, and had taken no pains to cover it up. Still, she had smooth skin, a firm body, and soft silvery hair.

"Miss Semple," she said, and Daphne wondered suspiciously how she had learned her alias name so quickly. "I'm Jennifer Diamond. Won't you please sit down?"

Daphne settled into a chair and crossed her legs. She wore a short skirt Greg had chosen for her, short enough to display her long, tapering legs, but not so short as to make her look cheap. Like Greg had said, this was a high-class place.

"You're looking for a position." Jennifer's words were more a statement than a question.

Daphne said she was.

"Experience?" Daphne was nervous. Jennifer was a professional, and she was treating this exchange in a purely business manner.

"I ran away from home when I was sixteen. I went to Hollywood, and turned tricks on the street for a while. It wasn't any fun."

Jennifer examined her closely. "Go on."

Daphne struggled through her anxiety to remember the story she and Greg had concocted. "I never wanted to get involved with those Hollywood pimps, so I asked all my tricks if they knew of a house in the area. Most of them were bums or bored husbands, a lot of them picking up some fun for the first time. It took about a month, but I finally found a guy who knew an outcall service. I hooked up with them, then I got traded to a house in Kansas City."

"Traded?"

"Yeah, funny, isn't it? Hookers operate a lot like sports. My main lady saw a girl in K.C. she wanted in her house, and traded me for her. It was in K.C. that I met Kim."

Jennifer's eyes widened. "Kim?"

"Yeah. She left about a month after I got there, but God knows why. It was a prime place. Easy hours, top pay, good food, and a room of your own. I'da never left if the cops hadn't shut it down."

"And Kim told you about us?"

"Sure. She and I were good friends. When we were put out of business, I called her. She said she was working for some Arab in a private harem or something. How about that? Anyway, she said she'd just left a good job, and since she knew I was one of the best, she figured I wouldn't have any trouble getting a job here."

Jennifer considered the story. "I want the phone number of your madam in Hollywood," she said.

Daphne's heart leapt into her throat. But she opened her purse and fished a number out, and handed it to Jennifer. She picked up her princess phone and dialed it. Daphne bit her lower lip, and waited.

Greg Stafford's phone rang, and he waved his arms frantically in an effort to quiet down the city room. After a second, there was silence, and he picked up the phone. "Outcall," he said.

The soft, feminine voice on the other end asked for Miss Cronin, and Greg said, "One moment please." He waved at Lois Payne, one of the paper's reporters, and she picked up his line.

"Cindy Cronin," she said.

"Good afternoon, Miss Cronin," Jennifer said. "I'm calling to check the references of one of your girls. Candy Semple."

"Candy, of course. She was very lucky to get away from Kansas City without landing in jail. May I ask who is calling?"

"I'd rather not mention names, Miss Cronin; our house here is very secret. But it is top-notch."

"I would assume so," Lois said. "Candy was one of our very best. I hated to trade her, but I absolutely had to have a skilled Creole. There's a big demand for Creoles in Los Angeles, but so few are available."

"I understand. Thank you for your time, Miss Cronin."

"Any time. And tell Candy I said hello, would you please?"

She hung up, and Greg, who had been listening on his own line, hung up too. He smiled, walked to Lois' desk and planted a huge kiss on her cheek. "Fantastic," he said.

The city room buzzed once again with its usual noises. "Just one question," Lois said. "That was supposed to be Hollywood. How did you fix it so she'd dial a California area code and get the Trib here in Washington?"

"Cross-channeling, sweetheart. I've got friends at the phone company."

Lois shook her head. "The great Greg Stafford has friends everywhere," she sneered, half-kidding and half-serious.

Jennifer hung her phone up and looked at Daphne with a little more belief, a little more admiration. "You do come highly recommended."

Daphne contained the sigh of relief she felt building up inside her, and merely smiled back with an I-told-you-so look.

"Still, we have to test you."

The confidence Jennifer's phone call to the Trib had instilled in her vanished suddenly, replaced by a cold fear like a fist up inside her vagina squeezing, pulling at her. "What kind of test?"

"To see if you measure up to our high standards," Jennifer said matter-of-factly. "As a working girl, I'm sure you have no objections."

She could think of several, but said only, "Of course not."

Jennifer pushed a button on her desk, and the actor Laraby entered. "Laraby," Jennifer said, "go get Paul, would you please?"

Laraby nodded, and closed the door behind him. "Paul Winter is our resident.. . I guess you'd call him our resident man. He does odd jobs, and occasionally takes care of our guests who have a preference for other men. Oh, and we have a rare visit from a female politician. Paul swings expertly both ways."

Daphne swallowed hard, and tried to make her head stop spinning with this new complication. She managed to force an expression of casualness, and said, "We'll see."

Jennifer lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, then smoked in thought as they waited. In a minute there came a knock on the door, and Jennifer shouted for him to come in.

Daphne's trepidation left her. Paul Winter was tall, blonde and bronzed. He came in shirtless, and Daphne felt a twinge of excitement flash through her. He had no hair on his chest, and his muscles were firm and solid, resembling the surfers she had seen once in California. His work pants, dirty at the knees from gardening or some other labor, hugging his legs, and his ass jutted sharply and roundly out. She wasn't aware of it, but her female juices had already started to squeeze forth from their sources, lubricating the inner walls of her cunt.

"Paul," Jennifer said, "this is Candy Semple. Would you be so good as to take her?"

Daphne whipped her head around. "Right here?"

Jennifer looked tired. "A working girl can perform anywhere."

Daphne smiled, excited now at the prospect of balling this tanned god in front of such a lovely woman as Jennifer. She looked up at Paul and said, "Well?"

Paul grinned, exposing a row of perfect white teeth. He grabbed Daphne by the shoulders and hauled her out of the chair, and shoved her up against the wall.

"Now, now, Paul. Not too rough. She may become house merchandise very shortly."

But Paul wasn't listening. He had shoved her hard against the wall, and smashed his mouth against hers so hard her teeth hurt. She felt his hand crawl under her dress, grab onto her panties and a small clump of her velvety pubic hair, and yank it. The panties ripped clean off, and she stifled a cry as the hairs came out with it. Then his hand was cupping her vulva, and one of his thick, meaty fingers had penetrated her shivering lips and dug deep into her pussy.

She bit hard on her lip as the finger burrowed deep into her, then hit the roof of her sopping vagina. She closed her mouth on his ear and let the tip of her tongue dart in and out, while she breathed hot breath into it. She remembered Jennifer's word, PERFORM, and her hand slipped down between Paul's legs, and as she began whispering to him, she unzipped his pants.

"Baby, I can't wait to latch onto your cock," she whispered throatily, her breath flooding his ear and sending waves of little quakes along his back. "Don't you want to put it between my lips, and feel my tongue underneath it. I have a fantastic tongue." Just then, she grabbed his exposed cock, standing like a flagpole out of his pants, and squeezed for all she was worth. He moaned loudly, and relaxed his grip on her. Score one for me, she thought.

"Baby, fuck me. Fuck me right here against the wall, standing up. Come on, muscle man, fuck me hard, hard!"

Paul put his hands beneath her ass, under her skirt, and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held onto his pulsating erection, pointing it toward her gaping, spread pussy. It occurred to her this was the first man she would have screwed in her quest to find out who was behind the leaks, but it didn't bother her in the least. It would-or might-have bothered her if it had been somebody else, but this was a man she wanted, instinctively, as a woman. His rigid cock head plunged into her, pushing away the folds of sensitive skin and driving deep.

She felt air driven from her as he pumped her, piston-like thrusts slamming into her, his rock-hard cock, swollen to a two-inch diameter pulling at her clitoris. Her nails raked his bare back, and she felt the slow, warm trickle of blood from her scratching. "Oh, just like that, only harder, faster," she whispered, licked inside his ear and bit his earlobe. He responded by increasing the tempo of his thrusts, and she heard him moan as she tightened the grip her legs had on his waist, pulling him even deeper into her. The solid head of his strong prick banged against her cervix, and she chewed on her lip.

The most incredible feeling wasn't from his cock, though. It was his strong, calloused hands holding her up, cupping both of her cheeks and squeezing them like so much bread dough. He held her entire ass in his massive paws, and she whispered, "Put a finger up my ass. C'mon, Paul baby, do it, do it."

She felt him shiver, and in the next instant his finger was burrowing up her rubbery rectum, and the combination of finger and cock almost lifted her out of his hands, suspended by sheer friction from fucking. She thought his finger was amazingly thick, as thick as her ex-fiance's entire cock, and she closed her eyes and pushed against Paul in rhythm with his strokes. He moaned and shivered again, and Daphne opened her eyes.

Jennifer was watching them with intent interest, and her own hand had disappeared under the desk, between her legs. She sweated on her forehead, her eyes were only partly open, and her ample breasts rose and fell in tempo with her raspy, excited breathing.

Paul's finger dug deeper into her asshole, too deep, and Daphne screwed her eyes shut to hold the tears back. His grip tightened on her ass, and she knew he was coming. He began moaning regularly, "Ahhh, ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh.. . " and then he came, smashing her brutally against the wall as he wrung every last possible drop of cum from his bloated dick. Just before he finished, he pulled his finger suddenly from her anus, and the sensation brought her to her own stunning climax. They slumped, still locked together, to the floor.

When Paul had recovered, he withdrew his limp, slimy penis and stood, pulling his pants up. He looked impassively at Jennifer.

"Well?" she said, even though she had induced her own orgasm with her vibrating finger at the mere sight of Daphne's proficient performance.

Paul grinned. "Give her an eight."

"Thank you, Paul," she said, and Paul nodded curtly and left the room. "You should be flattered," she said to Daphne, who sat against the wall, her skirt still hiked up around her waist and her wet, cum-stained pussy lewdly exposed. "Paul has only given one other eight, and only one nine."

"Who got the nine?" Daphne said.

"I did," Jennifer said. "You've got the job."