Chapter 2- His Angel

Need.

Greedy, self-serving, with a grip of iron that doesn't let go until it has had its fill. No wonder they are here in their numbers, looking for the thrill that lies behind closed doors… except, in the glass walls of Babylon, need spills outside closed doors, desperate hands groping sweaty bodies, a constant circus of naked screams, frantic movements, and constant and unabashed fucking.

A different kind of need consumes me, though, as I am pulled along to my first customer. But it is still as potent and heaven knows I could get an orgasm from it, unstimulated. The desire to be punitive tugs on me like an impatient master, seductive, melting in my mouth like icing sugar. And now, I have a smile on my face as I am led to sit in the midst of three men in a secluded booth, bass and moans surrounding us.

Bronco stands behind me, keeping watch, but since I sit demurely, innocently, his precautions look a little exaggerated.

Yet he is right to be cautious; I do want to bolt.

But I force my muscles to relax and watch the occupants of the booth. The men seated at the table are dressed in corporate clothes. Politician-types, with grey streaming their beards in a way that they think is fashionable, smoking more than a chimney in winter, eyes half-shut as they watch the table.

And on the table? Not their drinks or their endless supply of lung cancer inducers, but a woman- one of Babylon's girls. She is spread over it, knees in the air as one of the men runs his tongue over her breasts. Her eyes are closed as she grips her knees with white knuckles, moaning at the top of her lungs, writhing. Her naked torso is covered in dollar bills, the crisp notes all over her waistline and belly, leaving her bare breasts and the apex of her thighs in the glare of the crazy, red lights.

The other men are quiet as they smoke and watch, sober voyeurs as their friend runs his tongue over a nipple with a silver ring decorating it, his tongue sliding over the steel, teeth grazing it as his hungry eyes consume the woman's every reaction. Soon, he is in-between her legs, tongue dancing along the slit of her clit. The glint of something hidden in the folds informs me that there must be a fancy ring in there too.

And she proves this. Every slight tug with his tongue makes her jerk, the tiny metal lodged there heightening the sensation. Soon, she covers the table with cum.

The man steps back, licking his lips as he coos at her. "Good girl. Now, go wait for me in our room." He lights himself a cigarette, chuckling to his friends. "Not called Liquid Gold for nothing. Creams like a darling."

The men share a laugh as Liquid Gold gets up and prepares to go to the room. Her movements are almost robotic, her eyes glazed over. She is so high she probably doesn't even know what is happening.

She leaves and I watch her, my lips in a grim line. Tobacco smoke fills the air like a mist, leaving the men's nostrils almost cinematically as they lean back on the upholstery. Finally, they notice me. My client puffs his cigarette in my face, nodding in satisfaction. "The rumours are true. You do look like a sweetheart."

Brown-haired, just a little over forty, virile with the distinct aura of predatory dominance in his sultry gaze. His hand grips my jaw, caressing my neck and I immediately want to bat it away, but I keep calm as he does his invasive assessment, groping the rest of me. I internally cringe, willing myself not to break out in hives.

It stops, and I nearly thank him. For finally deciding to keep his hands to himself.

"She will do," he says, meeting Bronco's gaze.

Soon, they finalize prices and I follow him to a room. It is dimly-lit, with a glassed-in view of the Las Vegas cityscape. There is a bed in the center, complete with high posts and attached restraints. There are handcuffs on the bedside table. Lubes on the dresser. Ropes in the drawers. I go about the room, taking note of everything while my client makes himself comfortable on the chaise longue.

"I sure as hell didn't pay for you to just swing that ass about the room," he says. "Come over here right now, and do your damn job."

I freeze mid-action. I almost forgot about him.

I turn, pulling on a sultry smile as I watch him. Slowly, I lower myself to check the bottom drawers, back arched, my movements deliberately provocative. "No, you come over here."

He rushes for my side, pressing me against the bedside table in seconds, his erection pressing against me. I try not to show my disgust, forcing a smile onto my lips. Faking a moan would be too much of a gamble at this point.

I free him of his belt and slide his pants and briefs off. And then I sit him down on the edge of the bed. "I'll just handle this quickly and then we can take our time playing with the toys, okay?"

He grins as he licks his lips. God, he nauseates me.

I kneel before his shaft and run my tongue along it, from tip to balls, eliciting a groan from him. His elbows are on the bed, and he braces himself against them, throwing his head back as I cover his tip with my lips, accommodating more and more of him inside my mouth. And then I suck on his length, tongue caressing his cap, the slit, slowly, methodically.

He begins to jerk against the bed, gripping the back of my head as he pumps into my mouth, a desperate, groaning mess, begging for release. I keep my grip on his length, caressing the underside of his shaft with my short nails.

His grunts are louder now, more frantic as he thrusts inside my mouth. In. Out. In. Out.

I pull back and run my tongue along the circumference of his balls, coating it with saliva.

And then I bite it off.

My teeth don't release until it is in my mouth, severed. I step back and spit it out.