PollyWannaCracker
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Oct 25, 2021
- Posts
- 125
Claire slipped into some casual clothes to begin her morning. Well, morning might not be entirely accurate; she hadn't awoken until a bit past noon, and now -- showered and fed with her day about to get underway -- it was nearly 2pm.
But there were benefits of being retired at age 24: no schedule to keep, no alarms to set and then silence.
Again, retired might not be entirely accurate either. Since just shortly after her 20th birthday, Claire had been working as the mistress of Tyler Timmons, one of Boston's most powerful crime lords. She'd been a dancer at a high brow strip club when they'd met; when he left three hours later and six grand poorer, he was a very satisfied man and Claire was no longer a stripper. They'd been together nearly every day over the past four years: sometimes for just a few minutes, a quick suck and fuck; sometimes for the whole day or a weekend or full week, out on Tyler's 44 foot sailboat or skiing in Canada or down south on some beach, often in little to no clothes.
Tyler had even incorporated Claire into some of his business dealings. Whether they be associate or competitor, Tyler had learned that men tended to be distracted by Claire's curves and the way she casually but often erotically shifted them about as she strolled about a room or simply sat in a chair with a long, lean leg crossed before her. Tyler often found that Claire's presence gave him an advantage in business dealings.
Of course, Tyler was now surely regretting having allowed the former stripper such access to his business dealings. Claire made her way to the ratty old twin bed mattress laying on the floor of her new abode and looked down into the unzipped duffel bag packed full of bundled money. She hadn't actually counted it yet, but when last Tyler had shown it to her, he'd told her there was nearly $2 million dollars in it. It had been intended to be their get-away money in case he'd had the need to get away quickly, either from competitors or the authorities. Well, the money had gotten out of town, as had Claire. Not so much Tyler, though.
Claire giggled and was then flooded with goose bumps. She couldn't help it. The emotional outburst was a combination of surprise, joy, disbelief, fear, and likely more emotions and reactions she couldn't even identify. She still couldn't believe she'd stolen a bag full of cash from the crime boss, let alone one of such value. It was the stupidest thing she'd ever done, and yet -- at the same time -- it was the only thing she could have done. She'd known she had to get away from Tyler, but she'd also known that he would never just let her leave. Disappearing had been her only option and disappearing with a sweet two mill' was the best option of all.
She padded barefoot over the bare wood floors of the loft apartment toward the kitchen -- again, not entirely an accurate description. The 800 square foot, second floor, open space had an old Coleman brand propane gas camping stove, a dozen or so empty crates stacked on their sides to create shelving, and the mattress, of course, which the bar owner had apparently had handy for those times when some local was too drunk to drive home -- or even walk home -- and needed a place to lay down their head.
The loft had once been the storage space for the bar downstairs apparently. After some renovating downstairs and the construction of a storage addition down on the ground level, this formerly jam-packed space had wound up mostly empty for the last year or two or ten. There was evidence that once upon a time someone may have been living up here. That would explain why an old claw-foot bathtub was sitting in one corner -- no walls, no shower fixtures (let alone a shower curtain), no nothing but a pair of pipes that brought hot and cold water up from the bar below and a third pipe that drained the water out the wall to the rain gutter down pipe.
It was rough as housing went, particularly compared to the Boston high rise condominium Claire had been living in for the past three years plus. But the 24-year-old hadn't always lived in luxury: her family had been poor and dysfunctional; her mother had had a series of boyfriends, many of them having more intimate interest in young but shapely Claire than in her mother. She'd gotten away from there while still in her mid-teens, only to end up living on the streets or in the back seat of cars or sleeping over with strangers who, of course, required something sexual in return.
Claire was starting over once again now, though. She'd slipped away from Boston and spent six days on buses and trains; she'd crisscrossed the country in various directions, though her overall direction had been westward. Yesterday morning, she arrived in Greenrock, Washington, a little town in the mountains east of Seattle. The day to come went quickly: the Greyhound dropped her at 9am; at a nearby cafe, she learned of the empty apartment over the bar; by 10am, she was rapping on the door of the still closed tavern, luring the reluctant man inside to her; and after he showed uncertainty about renting the space to the poster child for strangers, Claire held out $5,000 still wrapped in a bank currency strap and told him, "I really need a place to stay for a while. How long will this get me?"
And now, here she was, in her new home. Sure, it wasn't much: no carpeting, no drapes, almost no furniture; the walls and slanted-peak ceiling weren't even insulated against the cold. But Claire looked toward the bag again, smiled, and thought to herself, I think I can afford to take care of that.
But there were benefits of being retired at age 24: no schedule to keep, no alarms to set and then silence.
Again, retired might not be entirely accurate either. Since just shortly after her 20th birthday, Claire had been working as the mistress of Tyler Timmons, one of Boston's most powerful crime lords. She'd been a dancer at a high brow strip club when they'd met; when he left three hours later and six grand poorer, he was a very satisfied man and Claire was no longer a stripper. They'd been together nearly every day over the past four years: sometimes for just a few minutes, a quick suck and fuck; sometimes for the whole day or a weekend or full week, out on Tyler's 44 foot sailboat or skiing in Canada or down south on some beach, often in little to no clothes.
Tyler had even incorporated Claire into some of his business dealings. Whether they be associate or competitor, Tyler had learned that men tended to be distracted by Claire's curves and the way she casually but often erotically shifted them about as she strolled about a room or simply sat in a chair with a long, lean leg crossed before her. Tyler often found that Claire's presence gave him an advantage in business dealings.
Of course, Tyler was now surely regretting having allowed the former stripper such access to his business dealings. Claire made her way to the ratty old twin bed mattress laying on the floor of her new abode and looked down into the unzipped duffel bag packed full of bundled money. She hadn't actually counted it yet, but when last Tyler had shown it to her, he'd told her there was nearly $2 million dollars in it. It had been intended to be their get-away money in case he'd had the need to get away quickly, either from competitors or the authorities. Well, the money had gotten out of town, as had Claire. Not so much Tyler, though.
Claire giggled and was then flooded with goose bumps. She couldn't help it. The emotional outburst was a combination of surprise, joy, disbelief, fear, and likely more emotions and reactions she couldn't even identify. She still couldn't believe she'd stolen a bag full of cash from the crime boss, let alone one of such value. It was the stupidest thing she'd ever done, and yet -- at the same time -- it was the only thing she could have done. She'd known she had to get away from Tyler, but she'd also known that he would never just let her leave. Disappearing had been her only option and disappearing with a sweet two mill' was the best option of all.
She padded barefoot over the bare wood floors of the loft apartment toward the kitchen -- again, not entirely an accurate description. The 800 square foot, second floor, open space had an old Coleman brand propane gas camping stove, a dozen or so empty crates stacked on their sides to create shelving, and the mattress, of course, which the bar owner had apparently had handy for those times when some local was too drunk to drive home -- or even walk home -- and needed a place to lay down their head.
The loft had once been the storage space for the bar downstairs apparently. After some renovating downstairs and the construction of a storage addition down on the ground level, this formerly jam-packed space had wound up mostly empty for the last year or two or ten. There was evidence that once upon a time someone may have been living up here. That would explain why an old claw-foot bathtub was sitting in one corner -- no walls, no shower fixtures (let alone a shower curtain), no nothing but a pair of pipes that brought hot and cold water up from the bar below and a third pipe that drained the water out the wall to the rain gutter down pipe.
It was rough as housing went, particularly compared to the Boston high rise condominium Claire had been living in for the past three years plus. But the 24-year-old hadn't always lived in luxury: her family had been poor and dysfunctional; her mother had had a series of boyfriends, many of them having more intimate interest in young but shapely Claire than in her mother. She'd gotten away from there while still in her mid-teens, only to end up living on the streets or in the back seat of cars or sleeping over with strangers who, of course, required something sexual in return.
Claire was starting over once again now, though. She'd slipped away from Boston and spent six days on buses and trains; she'd crisscrossed the country in various directions, though her overall direction had been westward. Yesterday morning, she arrived in Greenrock, Washington, a little town in the mountains east of Seattle. The day to come went quickly: the Greyhound dropped her at 9am; at a nearby cafe, she learned of the empty apartment over the bar; by 10am, she was rapping on the door of the still closed tavern, luring the reluctant man inside to her; and after he showed uncertainty about renting the space to the poster child for strangers, Claire held out $5,000 still wrapped in a bank currency strap and told him, "I really need a place to stay for a while. How long will this get me?"
And now, here she was, in her new home. Sure, it wasn't much: no carpeting, no drapes, almost no furniture; the walls and slanted-peak ceiling weren't even insulated against the cold. But Claire looked toward the bag again, smiled, and thought to herself, I think I can afford to take care of that.