Life & Death In an American Harem: "Based On True Events"

By L. M. Ollie

Based on true events which took place in the early 60's, this is a story that confirms the truth of the adage "Be careful what you wish for".

Determined to leave behind a life of poverty, Lizzie Lambert dreamt of becoming a high-class call girl, "just like Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8" â beautiful apartment, lovely clothes, dripping in furs and jewels. It was a dream typical of a young girl who has nothing. But as everyone knows a true courtesan is discreet, intelligent and well-educated in a wide variety of special skills and that takes time and dedication.

Lizzie was just sixteen when she first met Merhot Capritzo, a man who was not only charismatic but extremely dangerous. He was an accomplished lover who would teach his "Lilly" everything she would need to know in the comfort and safety of his Boston harem. There she would meet other girls each with their own story to tell; each with their own dream for a better future but there were others there too; girls who, for various reasons, were doomed. This is their collective story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9780473259846

Book preview

town.’

2

It was 1969, the summer I turned sixteen and for the first time I was going to visit Susan in the U.S. For some reason the Warwicks decided not to take the cottage that summer so, as Susan put it, the mountain came to Mohammed; whatever that means.

We had a great time together and, as always, her parents were terrific. They trusted us totally and we never betrayed that trust, except … One day we took the bus into Boston, just the two of us. That bus trip would turn out to be a major turning point in my young life although I didn’t know it then.

Just after finishing lunch at a posh little sidewalk cafe, Susan made a telephone call.

‘I’ve just called my sister Barbara. She’s home and she’s invited us over. Come on, it’s not far; we can walk it.’

I had already noticed admiring glances earlier but as we crossed the Boston Common there were more; lots more. Maybe Susan and I asked for it because we were wearing mini-skirts, tight-fitting blouses and stiletto heels; around my neck, a brightly colored silk scarf. That was one of the first things I learned about men. They like women who wear scarves; why I don’t know. Gold bangles clattered on our wrists and matching hoop earrings dangled either side of my face, tickling me. We thought we were the cat’s whiskers and I guess, thinking back, we were.

Oh, to be sixteen again, and innocent.

It took every cent of my babysitting money but I managed to chemically eradicate the strawberry out of my hair which was long. Usually I wore it in either a ponytail or pigtails but today it hung loose and free down my back almost to my waist; a beautiful pearl blonde color. Fair hair, blue eyes, pale skin; my parents got all that right at least. When I entered puberty my freckles disappeared. What a relief that was!

Barbara Warwick’s apartment was just one street back from the Common. It was beautiful but more than that, it was elegant. For a sixteen year old this was absolute heaven. Shag pile carpets, glass top tables, a chandelier in the entrance hall and another over the dining room table, crystal lamps and a bed that was huge. The color scheme was white on white with splashes of color in the wall paintings, the throw pillows and the silk flower arrangements. I wondered about keeping it clean. Barbara must have picked up on that because she told us that she had a housekeeper who came in twice a week and did everything including the washing and the ironing.

When I asked Barbara what she did for a living, she smiled then quickly changed the subject. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to talk about it. That would come later.

Barbara suited the apartment because she was beautiful and elegant too. Just like her sister, she had long black hair and amazing blue eyes. When she opened the door she was dressed in a white silk negligee. Quite a bit of skin was showing and all of it was pale and flawless. She reminded me of Elizabeth Taylor, only taller.

Susan and I stayed for about an hour. Barbara was going out soon so she had to get ready and we had a bus to catch back to Concord.

*****

I returned to Huntsville a week before school started. I was miserable. Everything around me was depressing; everything and everyone. The day school started, I left town with all my worldly possessions stuffed in one small suitcase. I should have said goodbye but I didn’t possibly because I stole the money for the bus ticket from my brother Tom’s secret stash. He was saving up to buy a motorbike. As far as he knew, he had nearly enough.

‘Sorry Tom, I promise, one day I’ll pay you back, with interest.’

I had lots of time to think as the miles ticked by. I remember seeing a movie called Butterfield 8 which, coincidentally stared Elizabeth Taylor. I can’t remember the character’s name but she was a call girl in love with a married man. The story was kind of silly and the ending stupid but, the more I thought about it the more I became convinced that Barbara was a call girl too. It made sense.

It was nearly six in the evening when I rang her apartment, hoping against hope that she would be home. She was.

‘What are you doing here Liz? I thought you had returned home.’

‘I did just long enough to realize that I didn’t want to be there anymore so I … I ran away. I ah … I was hoping maybe you could ah … I need a job and a place to stay. I don’t know anyone and … and I certainly wouldn’t want to bother your parents because they’ve been so kind to me and …’

‘Liz, you’re sixteen years old! You can’t just walk away. Your parents will be frantic by now.’

‘No they won’t. My absence means one less mouth to feed and that’s all.’

Barbara frowned. ‘Look, I was just getting ready to go out. I won’t be back until late. You’re welcome to sleep in the spare room. Tomorrow we’ll talk, okay?’

I smiled. You can’t imagine how relieved I was. ‘Thank you Barbara, so much.’

She returned my smile. ‘Get yourself something to eat.’

3

I did a terrible thing and I hated myself afterwards but I just had to know. After Barbara left I searched her bedroom. In the bottom drawer of her side table I found her diary. Well, actually it wasn’t so much a diary as a Book of Johns or at least that’s what I called it - page after page of notes and cryptic comments. Full names were never used which isn’t surprising. Sometimes all that was noted were initials or Fred – one of Claire’s. Things like that.

Fred it would seem had a foot fetish. Red nail polish/toe rings - Vanilla cream – model airplanes.

Some of the entries were not so humorous. Like TD. S&M caution (Bridget) - moody/unpredictable/could be cruel – stay the lady NMW – snorts C.

And another similar entry with the name Richard followed by a stylized valentine. SS – caution. No kinky – stay the lady NMW. Irish whiskey straight/weed – scented bubbles – silk, pearls, diamonds - F$ Priority +++

After a few more entries I thought I could read some of the codes. NMW – could be No Matter What which was a warning all by itself. No matter what he says or what he does, stay the lady or he’ll hurt you. Nice.

S&M – easy, sadomasochism. But the SS I wasn’t so sure of. The only SS I knew were the Nazis. Flipping through, it didn’t appear anywhere else so maybe this Richard guy liked to pretend he was a Gestapo agent while lathered in bubbles, dripping in pearls and diamonds and smoking marijuana. That’s kinky. And what does F$ mean?

There were other references in the book too - jasmine tea, ribbed condoms, stuffed toys, dark chocolate, handcuffs, dildos – at the time I didn’t know what that was – mink gloves, silk rope, musk oil, baby bottles, wigs, candy cigarettes and aprons. The mind boggles.

I woke up about two in the morning. By the sounds coming from the room next door, Barbara was not alone and she was most certainly not asleep. I lay there in the dark and wondered how much she charged and if she got to keep it all. I also wondered if she was with one of her regular Johns or would she be adding a new entry to her book when she found time.

*****

‘I want to do what you do.’

‘And tell me Liz, what do I do exactly?’

‘I think you’re a call girl just like Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8.’

‘Butterfield 8: holy Christ. Look Liz, you’re sixteen years old, go home.’

‘My sister is almost twenty-one years old. She works in a bank back home and to keep her job she has to have sex with the bank’s manager which, when you think of it, is pretty disgusting. I think I can do better than that.’

Barbara stared at me for the longest time. Then she asked me, ‘Are you a virgin?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know what a virgin is, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, someone who’s not … you know, done it.’

‘Done IT; like ridden an elephant or scuba dived? Could you be a little bit more articulate please.’

‘A virgin is someone who has not engaged in sexual intercourse.’

‘Excellent. Well done.’ Barbara went into the bathroom, returning almost immediately with a white terry cloth robe in her hand. ‘Stand up.’ I did as I was told. ‘Turn around.’ She sat down on the sofa with the robe across her lap. ‘Undress.’

I whipped around. ‘What?’

‘Undress; I want to see what you look like naked.’ She smiled. ‘Think of it as your first audition and one of the things they will be looking for is pale, unblemished skin.’

I began to take my clothes off. I wasn’t particularly embarrassed, at least not in front of her. In gym classes at school we had to change from our normal clothes into shorts and tee-shirts so it was no big deal, except for the underwear part of course. ‘Who are they?’

‘Let’s take it a step at a time, okay?’

Stark naked, Barbara made me turn around and around, lift my arms up above my head, stand on my tippy toes. I guess she liked what she saw.

‘Go and have a shower and wash your hair.’ She threw me the bathrobe. ‘While you’re at it, I’ll make a few phone calls.’

*****

Barbara took another sip of her coffee. All I knew so far was that she had arranged an appointment for two o’clock.

‘His name is Merhot Capritzo and he owns and runs the Brownstones. Head Office is just around the corner.’

‘What are the Brownstones?’

‘Euphemistically they are Gentlemen’s Clubs, very expensive and very exclusive. There are, I think, about thirty of them worldwide; each identical to the other. The first two floors contain private dining rooms, bars, lounges and sometimes a billiards room. The third floor is by invitation only because that is where the brothel is.’

‘There’s a brothel here in Boston?’

‘And New York, London, LA, Paris, Hong Kong, Vegas; as I said there’s thirty of them. You won’t have anything to do with them of course, until you’re eighteen, but …’ She paused then, I guess trying to