Eric touched her hairless cheeks and pumped them with cum, recovering his erection almost immediately. That night in the presidential suite – what they called the patch between the bushes where the grass was softest – Acilde sucked him and let him grab her head.

A Cuban doctor with movie star looks, Eric didn’t need to pay for sex but he was crazy for those middle-class white boys who sold themselves so they could buy the pills they were addicted to. This was how she’d met Eric, Esther’s right hand man, and shook him up. Sometimes she took such great pains to come off like a schoolboy out for fresh air, just leaning back on the bench, her legs crossed with a foot on her knee, that she’d forget what she was there for until a booming car horn brought her back to El Mirador and the desperate men checking her out from behind the windows of a BMW. The more disinterested she made her boyish self seem, the more clients she had. She’d usually wear a Polo shirt a size too big so she’d look even younger and, rather than assiduously pacing the block like her colleagues, she’d sit on a bench under an orange lamp light pretending to read a comic. She had a regular clientele, mostly married men, sixty-ish, whose dicks only perked up in a pretty boy’s mouth. Before she worked at Esther’s house, Acilde sucked dicks at El Mirador, without ever taking off her clothes, under which, her body – with its small breasts and narrow hips – passed for that of a fifteen year-old boy.

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