Cruel Bitches
by NickelModelTales
CHAPTER 2: Drinks at Lvorne
Its now a little before eight o’clock in the evening.
I’ve just arrived at Lvorne, an upscale bar near Biscayne and NE 2nd St. Later tonight, I’m going out dancing with my girlfriends Darlisa and Sabine, who, yeah, are both models. We like to meet up at Lvorne, have a few drinks, then hit the clubs.
So I stride into the bar, keeping my head high and my expression contemptuous. My hair is neatly pinned up, and I’m now wearing my strapless black Valentino minidress, the matching purse, my fave pair of Jimmy Choo heels, and a black ribbon choker. As I by, three dozen male patrons grin and quickly straighten their ties. I ignore them all.
I like Lvorne. The décor is quite expensive, with high, ed walls of dark oak, chairs of full grain tanned leather, black-and-white artsy photographs perfectly displayed on the walls, and twin chandeliers hanging from the domed ceiling. The air smells faintly of fine cigar smoke. Every drinking glass from behind the bar is Baccarat crystal, and the minimum price of a drink here is north of fifty dollars. Nouvelle riche only, please.
Lvorne’s dress code is strictly formal: men must wear pressed suits, and women must sport a known label. The Lvorne wait staff all wear tuxedos and white gloves.
In the back of the bar, I spot my girl Darlisa. Dar is also dolled up in a tight-fitting party dress (Ralph Lauren, yo apostaré), and her hair and makeup look hot. So hot. She’s seated alone at a tiny little table for three, intently scrolling through her phone. All about her, men are slipping her sideways glances, if not openly ogling her. Dar disregards them all.
(Keep this to yourself, but I secretly think that Dar’s prettier than I am. She’s skinnier with less curves, but otherwise has a perfect model’s body: She’s got the long legs, the tiny waist, the compact little boobs, the thin shoulders, the long, graceful neck, the delicate hands, the perfect nails, and the breathtakingly gorgeous face. Dar is Columbian, so her skin the color of lightly blended coffee. She looks just radiant on camera.)
(Bitch.)
“Hey there, girl,” I fake-smile as I claim a chair at the table.
“Hey babe!” Dar cries happily, and leans in to give me quick air-kisses. “¡Olé, you look hot!”
“Thanks,” I say with the required disinterest. “You too.” I look around, annoyed to see so many of the male patrons watching Dar and me very closely. “Is Sabine late again?”
“Por supuesto,” Dar snorts in the affirmative. “That chica is late for everything.”
“She’s so fucking inconsiderate,” I agree, dipping into my purse for my phone.
“Technically, you’re late too,” Dar chides me, but with a playful smile on her lips.
Before I can retort, a skinny waitress appears at our table. Her lady’s tuxedo is freshly pressed. “What may I get for you, ladies?” she asks demurely.
“French martini with raspberry,” Dar orders.
“Sazerac,” is my demand. “But with no sugar.”
The waitress blinks and looks back at me helplessly. “I’m sorry, ma’am, a what…?”
“For real?” I scowl. “How can you seriously not have heard of a Sazerac? Cognac, rye whiskey, absinthe, well-mixed! Can you not fucking handle that?”
“I’ll… yes, ma’am,” the chagrinned waitress mumbles, then quickly retreats.
I stare after the young woman, surprised at the venom I just spat in her face.
“Damn, Cara,” Dar snickers at me. “You can be such a rageaholic before you get your drink.”
For some reason, I’m stung. I think back to my reviews on modeldata.biz: “Cara is a spoiled diva.” “Very difficult to work with.” “Seriously, what a fucking bitch.”
I frown. “Dar…” I ask.
My friend doesn’t look up from her phone. “Mmm?”
“Am I a bitch?” I ask. “Seriously, be honest. Se honesto.”
“Sí,” Dar says dismissively. “But I love you anyway.”
For reasons I can’t place, I suddenly feel uneasy. Am I such a horrible person? No, eso no puede ser.
Dar’s grin grows wider, and she leans forward. “Forget it, chica. You wanna know who’s really jodido? Really, really fucked up?”
Feeling wary, I reply, “Who?”
“Our girl Sabine!” Dar cackles, tapping on her phone.
She slides her chair right next to mine, and shows me the screen on her phone.
“¡Mira esto!” Dar declares, positively gleeful.
I blink. Dar has a video playing, what looks like a low-budget porno. Bruta! I see a well-endowed young woman, completely naked, tanned olive skin, on all fours, sticking her tush up in the air. You can clearly ire both of this chica’s well-muscled butt cheeks, as they are practically sticking straight at the camera. The nude woman is on a king-sized bed with the red sheets rumpled beneath her. Her dark hair has fallen over her face, so you can’t see her expression.
“Ugh, who is that ho?” I ask, repulsed. “She’s probably got the ugliest face ever, no?”
“Just watch,” Dar tells me.
I scowl at this disgusting little video. On the little screen, you see the nude woman, and a little of the second-rate porno set. The walls are this horrid shade of pink—que insípida—and you can see a framed black-and-white photograph of more nude women hanging on the wall.
Behind the porno woman, and just off-camera, there’s a naked dude, very thin and very muscular. Its hard to tell in the poor lighting, but this guy looks very tanned. The camera cuts him off at the chest, so you can’t see his shoulders, neck, or head. But his erect silica is right there, at full attention, purple and thick and glistening and perhaps ten inches long. The dude’s shaved off his pubes, and he looks like an obscene, mutant chihuahua. He’s absently stroking himself.
As I watch, the naked woman moans wordlessly. The tanned dude steps behind her, grabs her by the hips, and then pushes his cock into ramming position. Soon, he’s thrusting away, right into her womanly catalina! She arches her neck and back and cries aloud. The whole while, her face is hidden by her thick hair and the poor lighting.
As the on-screen boning goes on, I recoil in my chair, covering my mouth with both hands. “¡Oh mierda!” I yelp.
The woman wails in sexual delight, gasping and screaming at the same time.
“Jesus, Dar!” I exclaim, shocked. “This… this is hardcore porn!”
I’m seriously embarrassed. The audio from the video is carrying, and now everyone in the bar is craning their necks to look in our direction.
Dar is unphased, however. She snorts with laughter. “Don’t you see it?” she asks me.
“Mute the maldita sound!” I hiss, grabbing at the little smartphone.
We kill the volume, but the video plays on. The naked woman is thrashing her head about as the thin-muscle man pumps her from behind. The woman’s thick, dark brown hair swirls about her head like an angry cloud.
“Don’t you see it?” Dar asks me again.
“See what?”
“That chick! ¡Su! That’s Sabine!”
Now I hesitate. What? No!
“Oh, it so is!” Dar laughs, pointing at the little screen. “See?”
I squint, unconvinced. Sabine is Italian… I think… and she does has long, brown hair like this porno chick. The woman in the video is throwing her head about, and you can’t see her face. Except when-
There! The woman rolls one shoulder and twists about, and for a split second, you can see her expression. She’s in the throes of rapture, her eyes screwed shut and her mouth wide open. But despite that…
“¡Dios mío!” I breathe. The sex woman sure looks like Sabine. I mean, I can’t be sure, but…
Huh.
So I should pause here and tell you that in addition to being a professional model, Sabine is also a high-dollar escort. She charges outrageous piles of money from Miami’s richest men, and then she sucks their cock. Or fucks them in their penthouse. Or I don’t know what else. How she can prostitute herself, I’ll never fucking know. Ella es una puta.
But I do know that Sabine is seriously addicted to sex. She fucks Miami’s rich men, and then she has a lot of lovers and one-nighters on the side. She fucks around a lot.
“Who woulda thought it?” Dar cackles, eyeing the video with a look of evil triumph on her beautiful face. “Our good, sweet friend, Sabine, a common porno puerca. Heh!”
“Why would Sabine film porn?” I exclaim, still scandalized. “I mean, she makes so much money! She doesn’t need to…”
“Maybe she’s taking the sex worker thing to the next level,” shrugged Dar, her lip curling. “Maybe her rich clients will pay her triple, if they think she’s a porn star.”
I’m still not convinced.
“You don’t believe me?” asks Dar. “Well, how do you think I found this video?”
I’m tempted to suggest that Dar regularly watches porn for fun. But I know that will enrage her.
“Sabine herself sent me this link!” Dar smirks, watching the little fuck video come to an end and fade to black. “Out of the blue, she just texted me the link! No explanation, no nothing! Ella está loca, ¿verdad?” She taps REPLAY.
I’m stunned. “Sabine sent you this link?”
Dar is to reply when the outer doors to the bar swing inward. Someone is entering from off the street.
Its Sabine! Fóllame, talk about bad timing!
“Put that maldita cosa away!” I hiss at Dar, grabbing for her phone.
Dar laughs at me. She sets the phone face-down onto the table, and now I know: Dar’s planning on ambushing Sabine with the video.
Meanwhile, the real flesh-and-blood Sabine is striding towards us, a thin smile on her face. She appears impatient.
I eye my tardy Italian friend, wondering if she is indeed the naked woman in the video. Sabine is tall and muscular, yet still very graceful. She is blessed with one of those metabolisms where she can eat whatever she wants, yet all the fat goes into her boobs and butt. Nothing sticks to her tummy or hips. Sabine’s wearing a blue evening dress with a big slit up the side, so her right leg is almost unclothed. (The dress is by Ellie Wilde? I think so.) Sabine’s long, dark brown hair is very thick, and it flows and tumbles down her neck like a chocolate waterfall. With that dress, that hairdo, and her makeup, she looks extraordinarily beautiful.
“Hey there, skanks,” Sabine drawls as she assumes the third chair at our table. Her strange European accent lilts through the air. “Did you two order drinks? I lost track of the time.”
“Did you now?” Dar asks snidely.
Sabine doesn’t seem to notice Dar’s wicked smile. “So listen, listen, listen,” our Italian friend announces, her big, brown eyes lighting up. “I think I have a meravigliosa opportunity for you two ladies! So great!”
“¿De sí?” I say dryly. “Does it involve keeping our clothes on?”
Dar snickers.
“Of course it involves keeping our clothes on,” Sabine retorts, looking at Dar and me suspiciously. “Why the fuck would we be naked?”
“No reason…” Dar says vaguely.
Before Sabine can snarl a reply, our skinny waitress reappears, a small silver tray in her gloved hands. She quickly sets a martini before Dar, a Sazerac before me. “And what might I get for you, ma’am?” she asks Sabine.
To my surprise, Sabine straightens in her chair, her gray eyes flaring with anger. “You fucking stupid bitch!” she hisses, stabbing a long finger at the waitress.
Dar and I jump.
With pure venom, Sabine harangues the waitress. “You don’t fucking know who I am?” she almost screeches. “Seriously??? Vuoi essere licenziato?”
The waitress covers, fear in her expression. “I’m… I’m sorry, ma’am!” she squeaks.
“Bring me my Crown Royal subito, before I have the owner fire your ass!” Sabine rages.
White-faced, the young woman swallows, then turns and dashes away.
Dar and I stare at our Italian friend, taken aback.
“…damn!” I mutter.
“What?” Sabine asks me, back to her earlier, sultry self.
“Jesus Christ, Sabs,” Dar asks in a low voice, “what the fuck was that? You know the owner of Lvorne?”
“No,” says Sabine causally. She grins. “Recently, I realized that if I’m a megabitch to the little people, they give me whatever I want for free. Now watch, this stupid white girl waitress will give me my drink for absolutely free.”
“Mierda,” is all I can say in response.
“I know, I know,” grins Sabine, showing off her perfect, white teeth. “I love it! Being a bitch is like… Its like my new superpower.”
With a dismissive wave of her hand, Sabine changes the subject. “Listen, chicks,” she says, “have you ever heard of… oh, what’s it called, what’s it called? Hang on…”
Our Italian friend sets her purse on the table, hurriedly dumping out its contents. I count two lipsticks, a pocket mirror, lip balm, two rumpled handkerchiefs, half-used tissues, some stray cash, a roll of breath mints… and then, four smartphones.
I stare. “Sabe, you have four phones? ¿Por qué?”
“I need them,” Sabine replies testily. “This phone, this one is my modeling business phone, I give it to my agent, my manager, and some really big clients. And this phone, it is for my escort business. I have to have a dedicated line for that. And this one? That’s for my sugar daddy.”
“You have a sugar daddy?” Dar asks, surprised.
“Si certo,” shrugs our tall friend. “He is a… what do you call them? …a mutual fund director at Willow Crescent Wealth Management. Sooooo rich.” Sabine laughs softly. “He thinks I’m totally exclusive to him. That’s why he gets his own phone.”
I must have made a dour expression, because now Sabine sneers at me, “Oh, don’t you judge, Cara. You’d fucking do the same, if you knew how much he puts in my bank every month. Besides, he keeps six other ‘exclusive’ girlfriends besides me. The man is a horny pig.”
Sabine stuffs everything back into her purse save her personal phone. Of course, her personal device is inside a cutesy Hello Kitty case, complete with plastic cat ears. Sabine begins tapping away at the screen.
“So…” Sabine says, as she works, “…have you chicks… ever heard of… DataMasters?”
“No,” Dar replies.
“No,” I second.
“Yeah, of course you two haven’t,” Sabine says contemptuously. “DataMasters is this new… Internet… thingee, and its real smart… or something. It does something with videos. It, like, makes billions of dollars every year.” She makes a vague gesture with one of her manicured hands. “And the whole company is owned by…”
Sabine shows Dar and me her phone screen. “…this idiota!”
On her phone is a pic of a young guy, probably in his mid-thirties. He’s clean-cut, a little chubby, with pale white skin, a boring haircut, and a wide smile. Nice teeth. He’s wearing a black suit which doesn’t fit him very well, but he still looks confident. I’m guessing that this photo was staged for a company press release, or something.
“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen him,” Dar says, her eyes narrowing. “He’s on TV a lot, right?”
“He gets interviewed a lot,” nods Sabine. “He goes on cable talk shows to yak about big business and shit.”
“What’s his name?” I want to know. I’ve never seen this dude before.
“Ugh, of course you don’t know him,” scoffs Sabine. “He’s Lascivo Grasso. Easily worth seven billion dollars. And he’s only thirty-three years old! Been married and divorced twice, and he still has more money than he knows what to do with. I’ve read that his income is four million bucks a day.”
Sabine smiles evilly. “Lascivo’s rich and bored, ladies. Rich. And. Bored.”
Dar shifts in her chair; I can tell that she’s jealous of Sabine, who has obviously got this Lascivo Whats-His-Name wrapped around her little finger.
“So what?” Dar asks loftily. “¿Así que lo que? What good does that do me?”
Sabine stares at Dar as if she can’t possibly imagine a stupider question.
“You really need to watch the news,” Sabine tells Dar. “Because if you had, you’d know that Lascivo’s private yacht is docked in the Port of Miami right now.” She grins. “He’s refueling and stocking up on more lobsters and alcohol. Then he’s doing a five-day cruise to the Bahamas and back.”
Our Italian friend quickly swipes a few times on her phone, and now Dar and I are looking at digipics of an enormous yacht, white and gleaming, proudly photographed in a crystal blue ocean. Jesus, that boat is at least four stories tall above the waterline, and longer than a football field! I see its exterior dotted with hundreds of those round windows, and it looks like there’s a helipad on the back? Bonita.
“…and?” Dar frowns.
With a disgusted sigh, Sabine leans forward. “What, I have to fucking spell everything out for you? Sei proprio un idiota. Lascivo is back in town, and he’s looking for hot girls to sail with him. Lots and lots and lots of really hot girls.”
She swipes the phone some more, and now Dar and I are staring at photos taken from the yacht’s sun deck. There are about twenty to thirty young women there, all wearing string bikinis (or less), all lounging about, all laughing merrily. Most of the girls have champagne flutes in their hands. There’s a lot of cleavage and ass and beauty in this photo.
As Sabine swipes, I can’t help but notice that she appears in half of the photos. She’s always with at least three other young ladies. All the women in these shots are gorgeous and wearing the tiniest of swimsuits.
“You’ve already done one of Lascivo Grasso’s cruises,” I surmise.
“Duh!” Sabine sneers at me. “What, Cara, you’ve never heard of yacht girls?”
“Yeah, they’re hot women who just… hang out on these megayachts?” I say stupidly.
“Yep,” Sabine acknowledges, iration in her voice. “That’s all a yacht girl does. She looks hot, and she sails on these luxury ships. In exchange for lounging around in a bikini, she’s ridiculously pampered by the yacht crew. Lascivo’s ship is full service, by the way. It’s a private five-star hotel on the ocean. There’s also a spa and on-call masseuse on board.”
“Yeah, and how many dicks does a yacht girl have to suck?” Dar asks contemptuously.
“Oh please,” retorts Sabine, rolling her eyes. “Yacht girls don’t have sex, not if they don’t want to. Non capisci? These yacht owners, they just want to surround themselves with dozens and dozens of pretty girls.”
“Come on,” scowls Dar.
“Now of course,” Sabine continues, iring her photos, “some of the yacht girls do fuck the billionaire. Why wouldn’t they? They ride his cock for ten minutes or whatever, and he showers them in really expensive gifts. Scambio equo. But most of the girls just choose to lie about and work on their tans.”
“Did you fuck Lascivo Grasso?” I ask point-blank.
“No, but I tried to,” says Sabine ruefully. “Chicks were throwing themselves at Lascivo, I never got a chance. Next trip.”
My Italian friend eyes Dar and me mischievously. “You two skanks should totally come with me,” she declares. “I can get invitations for you both. Lascivo personally gave me the phone number of his scheduler.”
Dar and I sit up straight. “Us?” Dar echoes. “Be yacht girls?”
“Yeah, abs-a-fucking-lutely,” smirks Sabine. “Seriously, why wouldn’t you want to come? The cruise would be leave this Tuesday, returning Saturday afternoon, we’d be back in Miami to hit the clubs Saturday night.”
Stunned, Dar and I can only stare at one another.
“You’d each get your own private deluxe cabin,” coaxes Sabine. “Open bar, twenty-four-seven room service, free es to the spa, to the health club, you could even ride the jet skis along the ship.”
Dar scrunches up her nose. “How many other yacht girls?”
“At least forty,” replies Sabine, stuffing her phone back into her purse. “Fifty? Maybe more.”
For reasons I can’t place, I feel uneasy. “No sé…” I say slowly. “This Lascivo Grasso, he’s massively rich, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Rich guys always have the weirdest, sickest fetishes,” I point out. “They’ve already laid all the vagina caliente any man could want. To get their next kick, they’re into the fucked-up stuff.”
“She’s right,” Dar agrees quickly. “Billionaires are into sicko things, like getting pooped on. Or getting kicked in the balls. Or the live hamster up the ass.”
“Just stop, okay?” Sabine interrupts, offended. “Ti sto dicendo, Lascivo is a sweetheart, and totally harmless. He may be brilliant at making money, but shake your tits at him, and he becomes a drooling moron.”
“Uh-huh,” says Dar, unconvinced.
My two friends glare at one another. “What is with you, Dar?” Sabine demands, suspicion in her voice. “You’ve been such a bitch ever since I sat down.”
In a quick motion, Dar scoops up her phone.
“Don’t!” I implore her.
But Dar disregards me. She replays the porno video, thrusting her little screen before Sabine’s surprised face.
“Chick!” snaps Dar. “Is this you?”
Sabine gawks at the porno (thankfully the sound is muted!), her expression horrified. “That’s so crude!” is all she can manage to say.
“Oh, drop the Snow White act,” Dar sneers. “This is you, isn’t it? You did a porno!”
With impressive speed, Sabine snatches the phone. She glares into the little device, looking furious.
“Dar, you stupid twat,” she fumes, “this bitch isn’t me!”
“Oh no?”
“Can’t be, shithead!” Sabine taps the screen once, pausing the video. She holds the phone so Dar and I can see the frozen image. “See that ugly mole on the porn lady’s tit?”
Dar and I blink, re-examining the video. Sure enough, there’s a huge black dot on the porno actress’s boobs, near the bottom.
My mouth falls open. Sabine, like me, is a body model; from head-to-toe, her skin is unblemished and immaculately cared for. I happen to know that last year, she spent more than twenty thousand dollars at her dermatologist’s office, doing what, I have no idea. There’s no way she’d have a big black wart on her titties.
“Oh,” Dar says, deflating slightly. “Well, why did you text me this video, then?”
Still angry, Sabine hands over Dar’s phone. She thinks for a moment.
“On Saturday, I had a date with a client who wanted to watch porn in bed after we fucked. I used my escort phone.” She snorts. “The asshole probably sent that clip to random people on my list while I was in the bathroom, or something. That’s the last time I see his ass.”
Looking sour, Dar slips her phone back into her purse.
“I’ll ignore your incredible rudeness,” Sabine informs Dar, “if you and Cara here agree to come with me on Lascivo’s boat. Com’on, bitches, what are you waiting for?”
Dar and I look at each other, each of us wondering what the other one’s thinking. There’s gotta be a catch to this free yacht trip, right? ¿Qué podría ser?
“Fine,” huffs Sabine. “Fine. Stay in Miami and be fucking boring. I’m going. By the waaaaaaay, when I went on his ship last week, Lascivo gave all of his female companions a pair of… these!”
Sabine draws her hair back, and now Dar and I can see her right ear. Dangling from her earlobe is an sparkling earring, sculpted in the shape of a vine, crafted in polished rose gold. Marquise diamonds studs twinkle like stars from the tiny vine leaves.
I suck in a startled breath. ¡Santa mierda! I know those earrings! They’re in the Tiffany’s catalogue! They cost over eight thousand dollars for a pair!
“Motherfuck me!” exclaims Dar, actually gripping the table in shock. She’s recognized them too.
“Yeah,” grins Sabine, swiveling her head and showing off her left ear now. Sure enough, the matching earring is on that lobe, too.
“Oh my God…” I murmur, dazed by the beautiful jewelry.
“You didn’t have to fuck the billionaire to get those?” Dar asks suspiciously.
“Cazzo no!” exclaims Sabine with resentment. “I wish I had fucked him! The Sports Illustrated swimsuit model who was in his cabin all three nights of our cruise got a new BMW as her present.”
Amazed, all I can do is stare at those earrings. They look even more perfect than in the catalogue…!