A Coming Of Angels

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


Hollywood: August, 1982

“This isn’t me,” he thought, as he threaded his way through the evening traffic. The nimble little Turbo Carrera responded instantly to the touch, propelling him effortlessly down the broad expanse of Hollywood Boulevard. It seemed he merely had to envision a gap between vehicles in one lane or another and the speedy coupe teleported him there in the blink of an eye. The speedometer’s final hash mark on the MPH scale read: “180”. He had no doubt a quick trip up to Mulholland Drive would confirm it – if he didn’t plunge off the hillside first. Most men would be oozing from the thrill the hideously-expensive wunderkar provided. He was not most men and he was already bored.

This was supposed to be a good time; the first day of a self-imposed one-month vacation. He didn’t even want to think how long it had been since he had taken time off – from anything. He had purchased the car, on impulse, scant hours before; saw it through the showroom window, went in, wrote the check without so much as a test drive and drove away, leaving his mother’s Sedan de Ville behind. He had mixed emotions about that. On one hand, he felt somehow disloyal to his parents’ memory; on the other, he had grieved long enough.

They had been dead two years; killed in a fiery auto wreck on the way to the ceremony marking the end of his final surgical residency. That, following so closely on the heels of the stunning denouement of the Moscow Olympiad, made it the worst year of his life. He had trained so hard – for both – to make his parents proud. The then-26-year-old prodigy, sole heir to a family legacy five generations in the making, voted by his high school classmates as “the one most likely to exceed”, threw all his energies into his new practice – it was all he had left. One way or another, he was going to justify his claim to the family name and heritage; if not in their eyes, at least in his own.

His practice had really taken off. Everyone in Hollywood knew he was the go-to guy if they wanted anything from a little touch-up to a major overhaul – and, of course, there was his specialty. It was a new procedure that was sweeping the nation and the world. Many surgeons were now performing it – with mixed results. He had championed it from the beginning of his practice and had established himself as its most skilled and artistic practitioner. All of Los Angeles was his for the taking, but they came from as far away as New York as well; the adventurous, the ambitious, sometimes the desperate, seeking from him what Nature had denied. He was only too happy to help; for him, it was a labor of love.

He had a vision for the future, too. The architects had presented him with the drawings the previous day. He had no doubts whatsoever he would get his clinic built. Money? As the sole heir to the family estate (five generations’ worth), the only problem remaining was what to do with it all – and that was before he added in his own earnings.

So why was he cruising Hollywood Boulevard on the first night of vacation, like some damn high school kid, when he could be on a beach anywhere in the world? That’s easy, Dummy, he thought to himself. You didn’t bother making plans to go anywhere because you have no one to take with you. For all his wealth, success, and fame, he was alone.

There had been opportunities, to be sure. There seemed no end to the eligible socialites (some eligible for the second, third, or fourth time) who wanted to add his name to their own – at least, long enough to qualify for community property (“Let’s see; fifty percent of everything is…”). He could have taken his pick – and been as quickly bored with her as he was with the car. That would be one Hell of an expensive lay, he thought with a chuckle. In truth, he would not have had time to become bored with her because time was one luxury he did not have in abundance. The hours he put into his practice would destroy any marriage. He often joked about being married to his career, and how demanding a bitch she was. No, he had other needs, special needs, the kind you didn’t find in Beverly Hills.

He ought to know; he had lived there all his life. He still did, in the same house he had grown up in; part of the legacy from those who came before him, whose vocational and social traditions he continued to flout. He knew exactly the kind of woman his parents would have – had – wanted him to marry: one of their own kind. They had certainly set him up with enough of the vapid vamps over the years. The very thought of coming home to one of them every night revulsed him. Even the straightest of arrows has at least one little kink; his wasn’t so little. Finding the right woman, one with the right attributes was not easy.

At least he knew where to look – which explained his presence on Hollywood Boulevard. He knew in his heart isveçbahis she was out there, somewhere. His fantasy woman was bad to the bone. She would make him ooze on sight and do things to him no Beverly Hills Barbie would ever dream of doing. Even if he could not have her for a lifetime, he could at least have her for a night. His previous experiences had all been disappointments. The women had all been willing enough, but there was always some intangible that had been missing. Perhaps this time, he thought wistfully.


She was nineteen and newly-arrived in El Norte. She was exquisita; so the men had told her a thousand times. Her thick, lustrous copper hair cascaded past her shoulders in a full, fluffy mass of skillfully-crafted curls. Her delicate facial features were offset by prominent cheekbones, full, plush lips and sparkling emerald doe eyes. At 5’7″ and 38D-22-36, she stopped traffic wherever she went – an asset to her current vocation. So, too, were her voracious sexual appetite and animal intensity. She didn’t have to be working that street corner; not anymore. She made enough dancing for the rich Norteños (rich to her, anyway) at the gentlemen’s club on Pico to live comfortably – but not enough to finance her dream.

When she was very young, her abuela recounted stories of what her family had been, in the golden years before la Revolución. They had been patrónes then; the hereditary governors of Oaxaca. That title had been bestowed upon her ancestor by his cousin, Fernando de Aragón. Their lands extended as far as the eye could see. They had hundreds of peónes working the fields, tending, then harvesting the crops. Her family had lived in a manner befitting their royal lineage.

Their fall from grace had begun when her great-great-great-great grandfather had thrown his support behind the Usurper, Maximiliano. The vengeful Juárez had stripped him of his governorship after the emperor’s execution. The disgraced patrón had been lucky to escape with his life and some of his land. Even that had not lasted. After la Revolución, all but one meager parcel of land had been ‘redistributed’ to the peónes. The family fortune and all accoutrements of it were gone. Only the proud patrician name remained of their lost heritage. The little girl dreamed of those times, of wealth and privilege she had never known, and vowed she would one day find a way to recapture that lost glory.

The Dream had sustained her through the dark times. It had begun to take shape eight years before, with an early puberty. She knew no Inglés then; she had no idea what the word precocious meant. She knew only that she had a hunger she could never quite satisfy – and that men had begun to hunger for her. If she hadn’t run away to Mexico City three years later and found an outlet for her proclivities – one that paid reasonably well – she would probably still be in the nondescript little village in Oaxaca, all the men using her as their all-too-willing fucktoy por nada, which is what her life would have amounted to. The dream had beckoned her; distant, yet alluring.

The five years spent working the streets of the Districta Federal had matured her far beyond her years. She had met another like her. Lola was two years older, beautiful in her own right and already “street-smart”. They bonded and became best friends. With Lola’s help, she had learned Inglés – and so much more. Lola had impressive skills in hairstyling, makeup, and creating beautiful sculptured nails – skills so important in their line of work. The younger girl had learned some of those hair and makeup skills; enough to transform herself into a seductive siren who rapidly gained notoriety along the Avenida de la Revolución. She understood men now, had an instinctive feel for their minds and moods and knew how to manipulate both. Even so, men were fickle; whether they stayed ten minutes or ten months, they always left; moved on to newer, fresher thrills or returned to their wives and families – until the next temptation came along. Still, there were always other men….

It had been Lola’s decision that they had to get out now. The teen temptress hadn’t seen the need and said so. Lola explained that she wouldn’t until they put some distance between themselves and the streets. The elder enchantress added they could both do better going north to los Estados Unidos. The Dream called to her at the mention of that fabled place. This time, it seemed closer than before. She had to admit; the once-wondrous Ciudad de México had lost much of its perceived luster.

She and Lola had escaped together. They had dazzled the Border Patrol agent in San Ysidro with their spectacular beauty, forged documentation, and well-rehearsed pitch. Their Inglés was nearly flawless; their personal grooming and dress equally so – in the flamboyant, Latina style. They had isveçbahis giriş been visiting relatives in TJ, they had claimed. The childhood friends had both been born in Santa Ana, shared an apartment there, and attended cosmetology school in Lake Forest (Orange County, don’t you know). They paid the bills working at Mr. J’s on Ettinger, just off the Fifty-five freeway – Lola as a cocktail waitress, her friend as a dancer – and you really must stop in and see us sometime when you are not working. The Mister J’s business card, acquired from a Norteño trick some weeks before, had been the crowning touch.

Once through Customs, they were on the bus for San Diego’s Union Station, where they boarded Amtrak’s Coastliner for the trip north. They waved and blew kisses at the station in Santa Ana as the express train passed through. It seemed like a nice enough place; it just wasn’t enough. They settled back in their cushioned seats as the iron coach carried them ever closer to their goal. That they chose the City of Angels was a given; it was much closer than Nueva York and had a large Hispanic population they could blend into.

After only a few weeks, Lola was already on-track towards realizing her dream. Her cosmetology and tonsorial skills had landed her a job at an upscale salon in West Hollywood. The auburn-tressed temptress had a different ambition. She had gotten the job at the gentlemen’s club even faster, having been hired as soon as she walked through the door, newspaper ad in hand. The Dream was now enticingly close at hand.

The new videotape technology was changing the face of the entertainment industry. Fresh faces who had little chance of breaking into the multi-billion-dollar motion picture business could now be viewed on television screens all over America and the world via dozens of start-up video companies operating out of nondescript offices or homes on shoestring budgets. Nowhere was that more evident than in the field of adult entertainment.

The porn video market was new and wide open; just waiting for someone to stake a claim to superstardom. She had studied the available tapes in depth – was this what the Norteños called a “pun”? The current crop of video vixens was attractive enough, but most appeared to be sleepwalking through their sex scenes. She didn’t understand how any man could get turned on by such lackluster performances. The comely concubine determined there was an oportunidad to be exploited. The catch was, as with all new things, she would have to move quickly.

She could have been a star right then; just walked on, done an “audition” and been hired right away – but for one small detail. The existing ‘stars’ had at least one thing in common; they were all legal residents. She was not. Her forged birth certificate and driver’s license had been good enough to pass the cursory scrutiny of the bored border agent and an unscrupulous club manager who knew the score and wasn’t above taking advantage of it (part of the price of doing business, she told herself), but would never hold up under an official inquiry.

That was the thing about adult video; as with any new “fringe” market, it was subject to constant prosecutorial harassment. Actors, actresses, directors, producers, even adult theater and bookstore owners were being arrested left and right on knee-jerk morals and/or obscenity charges (“I can’t tell you what it is, but I know it when I see it”). They all had lawyers to get them out – a benefit they might not willingly extend to an “illegal” if that omission might cut them a better deal with the District Attorney. And once the dreaded INS got their hooks into her…. She put the thought out of her mind.

Her ambition was being threatened on yet another front. Although she was a natural for porn, “natural” was no longer good enough. Another new technology was sweeping America in general and her industry in particular; breast augmentation surgery. The reasons for this epidemic were simple: 1) Men had all the money, and 2) Men loved big boobs; the bigger the better. More and more D-cups were appearing every day. Several of the girls at the club had already gotten “done”, as had some of the current video porn stars. True, most of them had gotten cheap cut-and-paste jobs that left noticeable scars and asymmetrical bustlines. Still, she would soon be just another filly in the D-cup derby – unless….

No one in the business had it all; the looks, talent, erotic appeal and the kind of aesthetically-pleasing fantasy chest that made men ooze. The ambitious vixen had resolved to be that “it” girl; she would get the “boob job” to end all boob jobs and take the video industry by storm. Once she was a star, she reasoned, the rest would fall into place.

After a careful investigation of surgical options, she knew she would never be able to afford the isveçbahis yeni giriş surgeon she really wanted on a dancer’s pay alone. She made contacts all the time at the club where she worked, but most of them were sleazoid scam-artists who demanded much more than they could deliver in return. She wanted nothing to do with such men – at least, not on their terms. Commercial loans were out of the question. First, they were not being extended to women for breast enhancement surgery. Second, there was the issue of the credit check.

She determined she would raise the money through a method she already knew well. She had had misgivings about slipping back into her old ways. It wasn’t that she hated The Life; quite the opposite. Unlike other girls (including Lola), who did it because they had to, she adored it – perhaps too much. She thrilled at being the bad girl, living on the edge, having anonymous sex with strangers and getting paid for it.

Lola was horrified at the news. The concerned cosmetologist cautioned it would be the death of her, that she was a sex addict, had gotten hooked on it once before and had barely escaped with her health and sanity. The streets of Los Ángeles were even meaner than those of the Distrícta Federál, Lola had warned; death for a girl like her came quicker – and uglier – here.

The auburn-haired angel had countered that nothing made her feel more alive. Verdad, there was danger, but that was part of the thrill. Yes, many of the men were forgettable; boom, boom, done and gone, next, please. But every once in a while, there would be one who was muy hombre, muy rico, y muy largo, one that rocked her world even as she rocked his. She lived for such men.

Every women fantasized about a knight in shining armor who would sweep her off her feet and carry her away to his castle to live happily every after. Her white knight adored her perversions as much as she and lived in a posh, luxurious mansion (so much more comfortable than a cold, drafty stone castle), where they would live happily and kinkily ever after. It was a nice fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless.

Still, she had to admit her older, more-experienced friend had a point. She had a goal now, and a plan to achieve it. She had to make her money and get off these damn streets before her constant cravings consumed her once more, prevented her from fulfilling her dreams of success.


He spied the dazzling red-headed hooker casually strolling the corner. It was as if she had just stepped out of a casting call for a “B” movie; tight black leather micro-miniskirt, low-cut halter-top, seamed stockings, stiletto heels. Her makeup, hair, breathtaking long fingernails – she was the one! His heart skipped a beat. If he could have given physical form to his recurring fantasies, his modern-day Pygmalion, it would be her; the complete antithesis of the chic, couture coquettes he had known all his twenty-eight years. This was a bad girl, a slut-for-hire, and he craved her with every fiber of his being.

The sudden swelling in his pants bore evidence to his desire. He knew nothing about this exquisite stranger, of course. There was no earthly reason to believe she would be any different than the others. He had only his instinct to guide him – and one split-second to make a simple choice. He chose – and almost totaled the Porsche cutting across two lanes of traffic, angling to pull up beside her.

She couldn’t miss the familiar sound of screeching tires, indignant horns, and angry curses behind her, so reminiscent of the Avenida. She turned to observe the silver flash of sport coupe as it pulled to the curb, its twin turbos winding down. She strutted confidently to the passenger window. The click-click-click of her stiletto heels beat a staccato rhythm on the sidewalk. She placed both elegantly-manicured hands on the sill and leaned over, flashing her cleavage. The scent of Shalimar wafted about her like a seductive veil.

With practiced eye, she duly noted the dealer sticker on the opposite window and pristine, fresh-from-the-showroom smell. But it was the driver himself that really caught her attention. She appraised him with a long, lingering once-over from head to toe. He was exactly the kind of man that made her ooze; a thick head of sandy blonde hair, piercing baby blue eyes, handsome, powerfully-built (an athlete, perhaps), expensive-looking shirt and pants…. ¡Dios Mio! It was all she could do to avoid staring at his crotch. The enchantress hid her excitement, did some quick mental arithmetic, arrived at an appropriate number and vowed to not let this “catch” slip through her fingers.

The arrangements were quickly made. Her accent was so thick it could be cut with a knife. She had discovered most Anglos – at least, the ones she met out here – found a Hispanic accent really attractive, especialmente when it belonged to a zorra like her. Her practiced come-on was all jiggly tits and breathy, whispered desire, so full of urgency (which was not a lie in this case). Money was almost an afterthought – by careful design.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın