The Girlfriend Experience Ch. 01

The Uber ride from Vegas had been more efficient and comfortable, and the driver made her laugh, but it set Lindsay back $221 and obliterated the rest of her budget.

"Would you like a bottled water? Coke or Pepsi? Powerade? Coffee? All free of charge, of course."

Her eyes still taking inventory, she flashed a perfect row of teeth. "No, Mr. Mayer, but thank you." Most of the indoor lighting came from strings of Christmas lights. While bush-league on the surface, Lindsay recalled a prostitute on Twitter who claimed low lighting conditions made it difficult for customers to find physical imperfections in their chosen ladies. She said every brothel is dark and spooky like this. It also helped protect their anonymity. "I appreciate you asking."

"Please, call me Jim."

She drew a deep breath that lifted her breasts higher in her tank top. "Kk." I wonder if this is one of those houses where management has nonstop sex with their employees. At first, Lindsay hoped that wasn't the case, but now here, she welcomed visions of Jim ripping her clothes off, throwing her on top of the bar, and feasting like she was Thanksgiving dinner. Give me a test drive, Daddy. Her body tingled and burned as anticipation continued to build. Devoid of any logic due to the circumstances, Lindsay would let him have his way.

She caught herself staring at his hands. They were strong and masculine, and she imagined them gripping her ass as he fucked her from behind. Hmm, I bet you're an animal in the bedroom. Her daydreams transitioned to what he might be packing between his legs. Can I see? I'd love for you to ... throat me.

"Your ID checks out, and we've already verified through our background check that you're eighteen. You don't look eighteen. You look younger, which is the best thing you have going for you, at least to start." Lindsay bit her lip and a rosy blush dusted her cheeks as Jim continued to talk. Her mind was still racing, her pulse pounding. "The big boss, Colt, has been hoping for some younger talent. Play your cards right, be willing to listen, to learn, and you'll make a considerable amount of money here."

Glancing down, she twirled a sneaker-clad foot upon the floor. "I hope so."

"I need to inspect your backpack and make sure you didn't sneak anything on to the property you shouldn't have. A full search is mandatory."

When Lindsay's head shot up with arched brows, Jim added in a soft, reassuring voice, "All employees or turnouts - prospective employees, that is - have their belongings searched every time they enter the building. It's a safety thing." He reached forward and carefully snatched her bag without waiting for permission.

Oh, rip. What the fuck? An infusion of adrenaline rocked Lindsay as Jim emptied the backpack's contents and sifted through what amounted to all her worldly possessions. I have nothing to hide, but seriously? The brazenness of the search insulted her, and she didn't like the prospect of losing all semblance of privacy either.

But that's how these places operate. You knew that coming in, did you not? It was time to face facts: as long as she was here, her liberties would be subject to the whims of management.

The epitome of professionalism, Jim inspected and placed each of her bras and panties into separate piles. Though she stared at him with clenched fists, Lindsay appreciated the respect with which he regarded her things. Calm down, don't jeopardize your chance of getting hired. It's just a simple search. Her sneakers squeaked on the hard marble floor and her fingers fidgeted. It's not like he's going to find anything that'll land you in trouble.

Jim did the same for her tops and bottoms, shoes, socks, hair and beauty supplies, purse, laptop, iPad, and paper notebooks, and gave her smartphone a quick courtesy glance. Evidently, it wouldn't be confiscated after all. Thank God. I'd die without my phone.

Jim offered no visible reaction to Lindsay's long silver dildo and the Ben Wa balls she would occasionally insert into her vagina first thing each morning and go about her day as usual. The balls were hollow and weighted with smaller metal balls inside them. These balls bounced as Lindsay moved and kept her in a constant state of arousal even as she did the most mundane activities.

She once wore them to school and experienced an orgasm when walking from one class to the next. Oblivious, friends feared she was about to faint (or worse) and called the nurse for assistance.

Until today, that was the craziest, naughtiest thing she had ever attempted. I love getting fucked with every single step I take.

"Your stuff checks out," Jim said. "All clean."

What? No full-body pat-down? Lindsay's lower lip protruded. Disappointing.

"You want me to put everything back or would you prefer to do it yourself?"

"I'll do it." Without hesitation, Lindsay grabbed the plastic baggie with the Ben Wa balls inside and clutched them like they were her most cherished possession. Uhhhhh. Her face flushed fifty shades of red as she realized how silly she must look for having archaic, old-world sex toys like this and, with trembling hands, refilled her bag. But I love my Ben Wa balls.

Lindsay angled a subtle glance toward Jim. There's nothing like a bad boy who pretends to be a gentleman. This man was a bad boy, right? He managed a brothel, sold sex to random customers, and fucked the prostitutes in their downtime. And hell if that idea didn't melt Lindsay's panties into the twisting nether. I want his dick in me.

Jim meandered behind the counter and picked up the old-school, rotary telephone. "Colt? Yeah, hi. The turnout is here. Yeah, the girl from Palm Springs. Lindsay Anastacio, the eighteen-year-old. Early, yeah. Oh, you have us on surveillance?" He trawled his gaze down her figure and her soul shuddered. "A keeper, isn't she? I think so. Oh, yeah. Mighty fine. Better than I thought too. Want me to send her back to your office or do you prefer to come out and meet her here instead? Yeah, yeah, okay. I got you, boss. I'll tell her. No problem. Yeah, I contacted the lawyer first thing this morning like you asked. Blake's secretary said he'll call you at twelve forty-five sharp. Yeah, yeah, my pleasure." Jim placed the phone down and again regarded Lindsay. "Colt will see you in his office now."

"Who is Colt going to see?" A female's voice called from behind as Lindsay stashed the last of her belongings into the backpack. She whirled around and offered a visual sweep of the hypnotic, celestial blonde who'd emerged from the curtain on the right side, and a shock of something nuclear exploded within her.

Whoa.

At initial glance, this woman possessed it all: an angelic face; thick, healthy hair that flowed down to the midpoint of her back; soft, pink lips; a bronzed, voluptuous figure; and a disposition as bright and warm as the desert sun. She wore a yellow minidress with red trim running down either side of her ridiculous curves. Lindsay struggled to tear her gaze away from those succulent, tanned legs and the spiked high heels supporting them.

Those are stripper heels.

"Oh, you're the turnout. It's awesome to finally meet you in person." The woman, who appeared no older than twenty-one, shuffled over, brows raised, and extended a manicured hand. "Hi, I'm Pamela. You're Lindsay, am I right?" She pressed a hand to her lips. "I guess I'm gonna look silly if you're not Lindsay, huh?"

They must be six or seven inches high. Pamela's heels still distracted Lindsay, and for good reason. Those rides are fucking killer. Pamela's legs were pure muscle, pushing and pulling and shifting as she slinked closer with a beguiling grace, and the heels shone a spotlight on them. Lindsay was unable to comprehend how anyone could parade about in such dramatic pumps. I'd fall and fracture my neck in those things.

"No, no, you're right. I'm Lindsay." She stole another glance of Pamela in her minidress as they shook hands. Do all the girls here look like you? She expected them to be attractive, but not on the scale of international supermodels. How am I going to compete and make any money?

"Oh, look at you. You're so shy. What a doll. Are you nervous? Don't be nervous, sweetie. Those pictures you texted me didn't do you any justice." A joyous flame danced in Pamela's chocolate brown eyes as she hooked an arm around Lindsay's elbow and motioned toward the hallway to the left. "Want me to escort you back to Colt's office?" She rubbed gentle fingertips across Lindsay's inner elbow.

"Uhh, sure, I guess?" Lindsay's heart rate, which finally leveled off in the past few moments, soared again. Who is this woman? Her body reacted to Pamela's intimate touch, the closeness, tingles sweeping across her skin.

I love it. Coming here, Lindsay didn't expect any inhibitions or boundaries. Why would there be? It's a brothel. She had never been with another girl in bed before, either, although the idea of experimenting with her best friend back home was a recurring fantasy.

Evie is so sweet and pretty. It had only been thirty-six hours, but Lindsay missed her already. In fact, she missed Evie more than anyone in her own family. We've been homegirls forever, like fam.

Did finding Evie desirable make Lindsay bisexual? Fantasizing about her? Or was she, instead, a modern, millennial woman who wanted to broaden her horizons? Lindsay wasn't sure and spent substantial time over the last several years pondering that question herself.

Being attracted to girls was nothing new. Her first-ever crush was Jasmine from the movie Aladdin. She was five at the time and had dolls and posters of the animated character plastered all over her bedroom. Mrs. Anastacio teased her about wanting to marry Jasmine when she grew up.

Nowadays, reading lesbian romance novels on her iPad is a guilty pleasure. Most of the pornography she watched was of women her age getting it on with each other too. She would never grow tired of girl-girl action. The female body was too captivating and erotic to ignore.

She snapped back to reality. What am I thinking? I looooove cock, and always will. Yet at the same time, Pamela's dress clutched the outline of her breasts that Lindsay's tongue desperately wanted to follow. Her mouth flooded with moisture. Good God.

But she also figured in due time, a customer would want a ménage à trois, and she'd suck cock and eat pussy concurrently. Oh, I'd give anything to be in a threesome. Her mind a buzzing mass of static, this offered Lindsay enough reassurance that, at least for now, she made the right decision.

"Don't worry, Colt is the sweetest guy," Pamela said.

Speaking of crushes, I'm developing one for Miss Nevada here in a hurry. Moments ago, the possibility of meeting Colt excited Lindsay. She swooned over Jim and was developing an infatuation for Pamela too. Maybe all of them can gang-bang me.

"Most turnouts are apprehensive, even scared, about meeting Colt for the first time. There's no reason to be. Be yourself, honey, and don't worry." Pamela placed two fingertips on the back of Lindsay's neck and applied gentle pressure. "Oooooh, you're so tense. You need to loosen up."

Was Lindsay nervous due to the fact she was about to be introduced to her potential new boss? Or was it because she imagined Pamela having her way with her too? She linked her hands tight together to keep them from continuing their worried wringing.

"Don't try to impress him or you may come across as insincere. He won't like that." Sunshine abounded in Pamela's eyes and her pleasant voice overran Lindsay's senses. "Be straightforward and honest with everything he asks, and you'll be fine. Colt may be by the book, but he's really an oversized teddy bear."

Lindsay plastered on yet another smile. "Okay." She sensed Pamela was trying to ease her nerves but ended up having the opposite effect. Lindsay blinked slowly and summoned a deep breath, held it in for a spell, and glanced heavenward for strength. Don't worry. You got this.

"Jim, please go back and check on Kenzie. She needs you."

"Oh?" He diverted his attention away from the newspaper. "Why? Is anything wrong?"

"She had a five-hour party with an older gentleman last night and they both had way too much to drink. They were at it like crazed jackrabbits 'til three in the morning. Kenzie woke up a few minutes ago and has a massive hangover."

"Oh, boy. Not again." Jim winced and shoved the Las Vegas Review-Journal aside. "I'll see what I can do. That girl cannot control her alcohol intake."

"I love your denim shorts." Pamela was still gabbing nonstop as she soon strolled down the hallway arm-in-arm with Lindsay. "You have a nice little booty. So firm, so tight. I bet you get plenty of exercise, don't you?"

"Th-Thank you. Yes. Yes, I do. I mean, I try to, at least." Nice little booty? Lindsay tossed her backpack over her opposite shoulder and fanned herself with an open palm. She had never been spoken to like this before but figured it may be the norm here. No inhibitions. No boundaries.

"Your tank top is super cute too. You picked the perfect outfit for today. Colt loves his girls in tank tops and cutoff shorts." Pamela slid her hand to the small of Lindsay's back and guided her through the corridor while also allowing her to go first. "The country girl theme is a fetish of his. He's kind of weird about certain things." Pamela lowered her voice to the tiniest of whispers. "But that's one reason everyone here loves him so much. He's unique."

Lindsay leaned in closer. "Unique? How so?"

"The first time we had sex back in 2006, Colt made me keep my clothes on for the first forty-five minutes." Pamela's visage sparkled. "Wouldn't let me take 'em off."

An alarm bell rang in Lindsay's mind. "That's different." But her thoughts were elsewhere. Colt's kinks aside, this was a house where management fooled around with their employees after all. I'm okay with that. Lindsay again fantasized about meeting up with Jim later and giving him a sloppy cocksucking. Or, better yet, having Pamela ravage her like a lesbian plaything. I want her to go ham on me.

Pamela's hand was still at the base of Lindsay's spine. Part of her wished Pamela would lead her to the nearest bedroom instead of Colt's office. Forget just going ham. Make me your bitch slave, why don't you?

"Colt is different, that's for sure."

That voice; I knew something about you was familiar. After Lindsay applied on the website three weeks ago and attached photographs, Pamela telephoned a few hours later for a follow-up. I remember now. Lindsay bunkered down in her room with the door locked. Mom was creepjackin' out in the hallway, tryin' to get all up in my bizness.

"Management doesn't want model-type or prom pictures where you're dolled-up and glamorous. We want the pictures you have on your cell phone. We want the real you, but it has nothing to do with age or beauty or body. We aim to give our customers a varied mix. Men relish all types, you know. If you want any further consideration for a job, send a couple more pics to me. Real ones. Here, I'll give you my text number. It's a burner phone."

Who is Pamela anyway? Lindsay tucked her tongue into her cheek and stared off into the distance. Was she the house madam? No, not a chance. House madams didn't stroll around in tiny yellow dresses with fishnet stockings and blingy rhinestone, three-inch platforms and sky-high stripper heels. Lindsay's understanding was they were older ladies who dressed in everyday attire and policed the goings-on with an iron fist. Someone like Mom, minus the working in a brothel part. She couldn't envision a working girl - a courtesan they called them in the business - handling interviews like this.

"Were you a cheerleader in high school? A gymnast?"

"I did a bit of everything in high school," Lindsay said with blushing cheeks. "As much as a small school in a backward town could offer, at least."

"I can tell." Pamela's thumb stroked the exact spot on Lindsay's lower back that invariably made her lose all sense of time and place. "And your smile. I love the way it lights up the entire house. So pretty, so photogenic."

"Uhh, yeah. Thank you." Arousal swarmed as Pamela's fingertips skimmed away. "I inherited it from my mom." What's going on here? Shouldn't Jim be the one to introduce me to the owner? Not that she had any complaints, but why was it Pamela instead of Jim? He was the manager. She was just a regular employee.

Right?

Pamela knocked, then opened the door without waiting for an invitation or even an acknowledgment. Wow. Sure is ballsy of her, isn't it? Knowing her potential employer awaited inside, Lindsay tried to suppress the bright glow of fear that washed over her like a seismic sea wave.

"Colt, hi. How are you? This is your eleven-fifty appointment, Lindsay ..." Pamela eyed the paper she was grasping, "... Anastacio. A sweet little thing fresh from the pumpkin patch in California." She glanced back over her shoulder. "Come on in, baby. Don't be shy. I promise we won't bite." Pamela's body swayed to an unheard rhythm. "Not unless you want us to, that is."

Head still down, goosebumps chased the hairs on the back of her neck outward. Dammit. Lindsay hated letting fear seize the advantage.

She had done exhaustive research on Colton David McCarron, a forty-four-year-old who inherited Happy Ending Ranch after his father lost a prolonged battle with cancer ten years ago. Mr. McCarron worked here under his dad's tutelage beginning in 1992 and held degrees in both Business Administration and Finance.

Online news clippings detailed the philanthropy Colt did in Flagstone and the surrounding areas. He donated thousands of dollars every year to Cancer Care Center Las Vegas, the American Red Cross, the local animal rescue, and various battered women's shelters up and down the west coast. Though the media portrayed him as an upstanding citizen, he had to fend off city lawmakers and activist groups round the clock who preferred his business have its doors forcibly closed forever.

Lindsay read several quotes where Colt defended his brothel and its place in the community. "Our customers stay at the Twin Tops Motel, go to local restaurants, and purchase admission to the museum. They buy gasoline at Great Basin Travel Stop, shop at Flagstone Foods, and purchase gifts at various shops for our employees. For many people from all over the country, if not the world itself, Flagstone is their once-a-year vacation. Our business alone makes it a destination. I doubt they'd ever come here again if city council approved this measure and forced us to close our doors forever."

Lindsay's laundry list of worries came crashing back in. What if she wasn't attractive enough? What if Colt didn't like her? I spent my last dime to book it here and have no way back home. Gooseflesh rose stiff and fast on her arms. What happens if all my plans backfire? This man held her future in his hands. I must impress him.

The absolute last thing Lindsay wanted was to call her parents and ask for money to return to Citronelle a mere twenty-four hours after leaving. Talk about humiliation; she'd be terrified to leave that tiny hick town ever again. RIP my life. It'd be officially over.

Lindsay didn't want to settle for the sake of settling, and in no way, shape, or form did she want to marry Zack Cameron and pop out a couple of kids for him. Zack may boast some serious bedroom skills, but he was a conceited, arrogant jerk, and far more in love with himself than her. He's a heartless, disgusting pig; a pretty boy jock who's convinced the universe revolves around him. Unfortunately, the pickings were slim back home. Who else could she date? Zack treated me like shit. I hate him.