From the title, one might think that this is a Biblical story. Wrong!! One connection is that our heroine, Joanie, that's me, practices the oldest profession, the one mentioned in said Bible. Nor is our Whale that Biblical sea creature who swallows a sinner and spits him out when he repents. Here, you might say that Whale and sinner swallow each other.
Most people are aware that the word Whale in the casino business refers to an extraordinarily wealthy person, usually male, who wagers ridiculously large sums of money on any card, spin, roll, whatever, at a casino, amounts on each bet often more than equal to the yearly wages of most everyone else in the casino. They are treated like royalty by the casino, and often they are royalty, and comped (given complimentary) for any and all of their extravagant expenses in the hotel. And don't worry, the House always comes out ahead.
We were in Marco's office, a wood-paneled luxury suite on the Executive Floor of one of the newest and gaudiest casino-hotels on the Strip in Las Vegas. His tuxedo jacket hung neatly on a caddy alongside his desk, his polished black shoes next to the jacket. The shirt collar was open, the bow tie hanging loosely from the collar. His shiny black silk covered feet were on his desk. Also on the desk was a wooden thingy that announced him as Director of Client Relations, matching the embossed sign screwed into the other side of the oak door.
I sat near the doorway, in the supplicant's chair, listening to the last of his phone call. "OK, Mr. Foster, Joanie will be at the Presidential Suite at 9:00 P.M sharp. She will receive the usual fee. She's very discrete. She's been with us since we opened and she's amenable to anything you desire ... I mean Anything ... Yes, blonde, five foot even, extremely well endowed ... Yes, she'll accompany you for as long as you wish. I believe you said three days? Enjoy your stay."
He looked at me casually. "You've got a really high roller for three nights. You'd better keep him happy; anything he wants, you give him. The tip should be good. OK, Joanie, time for you to practice."
I stood and kicked off my shoes. I pulled my sweater off over my head and unbuttoned my jeans, letting them drop to the floor. Left with just my bra, 38D, and my panties, I walked behind his desk and stepped over one of his legs, kneeling down between them. My fingers went to his belt and I began to pull down his pants. He stood so that the pants would slide off and then sat again. Next to go were his underpants, revealing a solid seven inches of cock and a set of hairy balls.
"Suck me hard, Joanie. My balls are really loaded."
"Shit, Marco, you insist on me sucking your cock or something else every time you set up one of these dates for me. And then you take half of my money too. You know damn well that I can give the best blow job you'll ever have."
"Shut up, cunt. You know that no girl works this hotel without my OK, so if you want to keep getting the jobs, you have to pay. And putting out for me is just a part of the price. You can go to some cheap dive any time you want, I'll even give you a reference but you know you won't be getting big spenders and big tippers like you get here."
I wondered if I'd ever get up the nerve to bite his fucking cock off. Probably not. The whales are heavy gamblers and damn big tippers. I make a lot of money peddling my pussy here and truth be told, if I wasn't doing this for money, I wouldn't mind cleaning Marco's pipes for free. As long as I didn't have to look at him or listen to him.
The very first day that I arrived in a place I'd never been, Las Vegas, or rather that evening, I had put on a cocktail dress and walked into one of the fancier hotel-casinos – or is it casino-hotels? – and wandered around the high-roller tables. Born and bred in Kansas City, a place where whores are not particularly welcome, I had been chomping at the bit to get away. My assets, cultivated at home by a soul-less Daddy, consisted mainly of three bodily orifices – and a pretty face. While I had grown to enjoy men giving me money to diddle with those openings, K.C. was not the place to get rich.
After moving from table to table for only five minutes, I felt a tap on my shoulder. A well dressed man asked me if I would be so kind as to follow him into his office. Oh shit, I thought, I've barely hit town and already I'm being thrown out. Well, I thought, there are plenty of other places in town to peddle my ass. Still, I followed him quietly. When he closed his office door, he asked me my name, referring to me as young lady, " ... and where are you from?"
"Joanie. Kansas City." Fuck it, I thought. Just throw me out and I'll go quietly. This place isn't the only casino in town. It'll be easy enough to find some guy willing to pay to fuck me.
"I am Marco Polokosis. Don't you ever dare to call me Marco Polo."
What the fuck is going on, I wondered. I'm never gonna see you again, Mr. Marco Polo, and if I do, I'll call you whatever I want.
"I'm the Assistant Director of Client Relations here, Miss Joanie from Kansas City. No whore works this casino without my permission. I take half of your fee and I fuck you whenever and wherever I want. Just let me see your Driver's License. We don't allow jail bait."
"Half?" I exclaimed.
"I'm only the deputy here. I don't get to keep it all."
"What do you mean by wherever?"
"My name is Greek, but I don't have time for your ass right now. You're my cunt now. On your knees."
It was two years later. Marco had moved to this new casino and gotten a promotion. It was the night that I first met Mr. Foster.
I opened my mouth and bent forward to swallow Marco's dong. He didn't need any foreplay, he never does; he just wanted to fuck my face quickly. As my lips covered his meat, his right hand grabbed the back of my head, pulling my face tight against his groin. His crown hit the back of my mouth, effectively forcing me to breathe through my nose.
It usually took him virtually no time to shoot a load of cum down my throat, but I wanted to speed him up anyway. I used one hand to play with his hairy balls, jiggling his nuts. He gave a soft moan. Then he said the same thing he said every time I blew him. As the other girls told me later, it was his mantra.
"Finger me, bitch."
Oh shit, I hate that stuff. It's bad enough when some guy fucks my ass, but for me to have to stick my finger up inside him, he's rarely clean, it disgusts me. For a while, we all thought that he might have some gay tendencies, but beyond a finger, he's never given any hint that he'd like a cock up there. For sure he's never asked any of us to use a strap-on to fuck his ass.
Anyway, I shoved my middle finger up there to rub his prostate, and the second that I touched it, he always began to shoot off. Although the amount of the cum was usually larger than most such deliveries from johns, I'd had lots of experience swallowing and I never lost a drop.
Once the spurting stopped, his hand grasped my head even tighter, his signal, no, dammit, his command, for me to lick any excess cum from his cock and to dry it off with suction. Damn you, Marco, one of these days...
I walked to the wet-bar, washed my offended finger, retrieved my clothing and left his office.
In my really younger day, when I gave away the use of my pussy without charge, timing was never a consideration. Young men were so horny that they would wait any amount of time, suffer any amount of cock-teasing, acting patiently but truly impatient, going crazy until my legs or mouth were open and available. They didn't change as they grew older, even when they were paying for it, because they knew that even a whore like me will reject a man if they don't like his attitude.
Whales are different from other people. They have enough money so that they can buy just about anything they wish. That includes the use of some female body parts – and sometimes even ownership, for all practical purposes. And they are demanding, as people with excess funds often act. The appointment was for 9:00 sharp. So while with most men I can mosey in sometime between 8:00 and 10:00 and get away with it, this man was both a Whale and a stranger.
If I got there too early, he might say 'I said 9:00' and throw me out, never to return, my purse unfulfilled. The same might be true if I arrived late. I could imagine the Whale calling Marco at exactly 9:00 and screaming, "Your cunt is late. Call her off and send someone else here in ten minutes. I don't care if you have to send your daughter." Only in the case where there might be a second date could I have any instinct about his penchant for timeliness.
And so it was exactly two minutes before 9:00 that I stood in front of the door to the Presidential Suite. I was wearing a pale yellow cocktail dress, matching purse and shoes, the latter with simple two inch heels. Next to me was a rolling suitcase, large enough for the three days I expected to be entertaining Mr. Foster. When I had checked myself in the mirror before leaving my apartment, I decided that I looked reasonably virginal. My finger gave one light push on the doorbell. I counted silently. 'One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four... '
"You are Joanie?"
.... There is more of this story ...