Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Apartment 7E, (Mf, prost, intr)

   by this guy (thisguy.1066@gmail.com)

   Summary: A brilliant young white man meets a teenage girl who recently
lost her parents.  First he becomes her lover then he begins managing her
family's business: the sale of sex...



   I've been a pimp for a while now.  That's right; I help girls sell the
use of their bodies to guys for sex.  The image of the stereotypical pimp
(a loud colored or patterned crushed velvet suit, wide brimmed hat with a
feather in it, platform shoes or boots, one or more gold teeth, lots of
gold jewelry, a large luxury brand sedan or SUV that has been the victim of
so many aftermarket modifications that it is visible from ten miles away on
a foggy night) is about as far from reality as the notion that politicians
actually care about people who don't contribute to their campaigns.

   Perhaps it would be best if I begin by telling you a bit about me: who I
am, what I look like, and the few things that make me unique.  Let's start
with the easy one: my name, Jim Collins.  To the casual observer, I'm a
fairly average twenty-some year old white guy.  I generally wear normal
clothes: jeans or slacks, or shorts if it is particularly warm; a t-shirt
or shirt with a collar, with a sport coat or sweater when I'm at my day
job; frequently casual shoes, sometimes sneakers, or if the weather is
particularly warm sandals.  The only piece of "jewelry" I wear is a fairly
simple (antique) wind-up wrist-watch that I inherited from my
great-grandfather.  As you can see, I blend into the background of the
general population.  The thing that makes me unique as a pimp isn't me, as
much as my operation.
It all began when I met my wife.  At the time she was seventeen, and had
recently become an orphan: her parents had been killed by a drunk
hit-and-run driver while crossing a street...locally it was pretty big
news. Anyway she was a hot seventeen-year-old girl and I was wrapping up
the second semester of my first year as a college professor...that's right,
I'm an academic.  It was a particularly unpleasant day: very windy and
pouring.  We literally walked into each other on the sidewalk a block from
the main gate to the university campus; we both ended up on the ground in
the same huge puddle of water.  I stood, helped her to her feet and began
apologizing profusely.  She started saying that it was an accident and not
to worry about it, then suddenly freaked out; explaining that she felt
something moving in her hair.  I informed her that my apartment was just
around the corner and offered to let her use my shower to get whatever was
in her hair out.  She thanked mye and we ran the thirty yards to the door

of my apartment building.

   In short order we were both in my apartment.  I showed her to the
bathroom and suggested that she toss her soaking wet clothes out the door,
so I could toss them in a dryer.  After less than a minute there was a pile
of wet clothes on the floor outside the door to my bathroom.

   I stripped down and dried myself off with a towel from the kitchen and
put on fresh clothes, before gathering up the soaking wet clothes both of
us had been wearing and taking them to the laundry room at the end of the
basement of the building.

   When I stepped back into my apartment, I was more than slightly
surprised to see the girl standing in the living room.  She had a towel
wrapped around her body and was looking at the collection of books on the
shelves next to the windows.