20 comments/ 172219 views/ 21 favorites Desperate Measures Ch. 01 By: jack_straw I walked – strutted, actually – into the plush lobby of the downtown Hilton, headed for the bar. As I walked into the bar, I felt the eyes of every man on me, as well as some of the women. They saw a tall, slender redhead with long legs wearing a thin beige short-sleeved blouse, a tight khaki mini-skirt that stopped right about halfway down her legs, tan-colored hose and four-inch high heels. I'm sure most of them were riveted to the sight of my breasts jiggling invitingly as I walked, unfettered by a bra, the nipples pushing into the silk material of my blouse. I smiled inwardly at the reaction, because there had been a time when I would have shied away from such attention. I had the description of the man I was meeting, and he had my picture, so it didn't take long for him to wave me over to his booth. I sat down across from him, the waitress came over and I ordered a soda, while he ordered a Chivas on the rocks. I looked across at the man, studying him quickly, as I had learned to do. He was a businessman from Detroit who was here for a trade show and he was looking for some action. He was a nice-looking fellow, harmless, I decided. He was a little under six feet tall and slightly on the heavy side, with close-cropped brown hair that was beginning to thin in front. I noticed there was no ring on his left hand, but there was an indentation on his ring finger, indicating that he'd probably removed a wedding band earlier. I sighed as I realized that I was causing another husband to cheat on his wife, but then I looked at my own hand and saw the engagement and wedding rings that I still wore, and understood that I was no different. We quickly got down to business. "So how much are you worth?" said the man, whose name was Curtis. "Five hundred for two hours, a thousand for four," I replied. "That's a little steep," Curtis said. "You sure you're worth that much?" "Honey, if you want cheap pussy, you go on down to Broad Street," I said in the sultriest tone I could muster, referring to the city's notorious red-light district. "You want the best piece of ass in this city, an experience you'll never forget, you'll pay me what I'm worth." "I was told you didn't come cheap," Curtis said. "All right, let's go." We finished our drinks, then walked arm-in-arm out of the bar. I nodded at the bartender, a fellow I'd known for some time, though not professionally. He looked out for me whenever I was in his bar, and if there was something about the man I was with that I should know about, he'd call me on my cell phone and give me a heads-up. He simply smiled this time, so I figured I was OK, and Curtis and I took the elevator to his floor, walked to his room, then entered when he opened the door. Curtis pulled his coat off, draped it over a chair, went to the safe in the closet, opened it up, rummaged around in there for several seconds, then stood up holding five hundred-dollar bills. He handed the bills to me; I folded them up, stuffed them in my purse and set it on the bedside table where I could get to it easily. I pulled him to me and we kissed, hot and hard, then broke the embrace and I slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt, and as I did, I planted little kisses and licks on his chest as it was revealed to me. When I had his shirt off, he stepped back and sat down on the nearby chair. It was obvious that this wasn't the first time he'd been in the company of a hooker, because he seemed quite calm and self-assured. He pulled his shoes and socks off, then told me to strip for him. I smiled seductively and slowly unbuttoned my blouse. When I had it open, I let the sides fall away and idly played with my stiff pink nipples. I ran my tongue languidly over my lips, which were still covered with the red lipstick I'd been wearing. I slid my blouse off and carefully placed it on the dresser top, then reached back and unzipped my skirt. I did a slow shimmy to let the material fall to the floor then stepped out of it, bent over, picked it up and just as carefully set it on top of my blouse. I stood in front of my customer clad only in my thong panties, thigh-high stockings and my heels. I looked down to see Curtis kneading his cock through his pants. He stood up then and filled his hands with my tits, softly caressing the flesh and lightly pinching the nipples. As he stood there, I reached down and unbuckled his belt, undid his pants and let them fall to the floor, then he too stepped out of his pants and kicked them aside. As we kissed again, he felt my tits again, a little harder this time and I squeezed his cock. "Suck me," he commanded, and I immediately pulled his jockey shorts away from his dick and let them fall. Curtis' cock was about average, not too big, not too small, just about perfect for sucking. I held it by the base as I squatted down and spread my legs. I licked up his shaft lightly, and he groaned in lustful surrender. My lips were just barely brushing over the rigid pole in my hands, and I could see the big dollop of pre-cum that boiled out of the tip. With a light flick of my tongue, I swept up the ball of fluid, savoring the taste for just a second, then I went back for more. I swirled my tongue around the head of his cock and slowly let his meat pass my lips. I slowly drew him into my mouth, until I had about half of him in me, then I pulled back slightly and began to work him with my lips. I sucked ever deeper with each back-and-forth motion, until I had his entire length in my throat. I worked my lips at the base of his cock for just a second or two, long enough for him to groan heavily, then I pulled back and set to work again. I looked up and we locked eyes, then he spoke again. "Play with yourself, get that pussy nice and wet for me," he said in a slightly shaky voice. I was already wet, from anticipation. Part of my allure was that I gave every bit as good as I got. When a man paid for me, they got a whore who made sure she got something out of it, a woman who acted as if he was the greatest lover in the world. I pulled the gusset of my panties aside and Curtis whistled when he got his first look at my pink pussy and the tightly trimmed, flame-colored bush that surrounded it. I slid one of my manicured fingers between the glistening folds and moaned around the meat in my mouth. I slipped two fingers into my juicy pie as I stroked his cock with my lips, feeling a nice climax beginning to come to a boil. Abruptly, Curtis pulled my mouth off his cock. He picked me up gently and we walked to the king-sized bed. I reached in my purse, pulled out a condom, handed it to him, then pulled the covers down and lay on my back, looking up at him with a wordless invitation. Curtis climbed on the bed, but instead of getting on top of me, he lay between my legs, pulled my panties off, tossed them aside and plunged his face into my cunt. I squealed, then laughed wantonly as he used his lips and tongue on me. I writhed on the bed as he lashed my pussy with a very talented tongue and sucked on my clit with very active lips. I could feel my orgasm climbing, climbing, climbing ... but before it could peak, he pulled his face away and got up on his knees. I groaned in frustration, but I wasn't frustrated long. Curtis slid the rubber on, worked the head of his cock between my labia several times to get his cock lubricated then pushed his length into me in one hard thrust. I reached up, pulled him to me and howled as my climax exploded from the feeling of his cock entering me. Curtis worked his cock hard and fast as he stared at me, and I wrapped my long legs around his waist and humped him for everything I was worth. I could tell he wasn't going to last very long, the way he was going at me, and frankly, I was ready to feel his cum. I was about to hit a second climax, when he said something that threw cold water on my passion. "I'll bet your husband doesn't fuck you like this," he said heatedly. "If he did, you wouldn't be turning tricks, now would you?" I knew this was part of the fantasy he'd wanted to use, since he told me he got off on the thought of cuckolding husbands, but still it was a sobering reminder of why I was there. I tried to blink away the tears that filled my eyes, but Curtis wouldn't give up. "Well, does he?" he said. "No, God, no, he doesn't fuck me like you," I stammered, then closed my eyes and waited for him to finish, and he was right there. With a loud grunt, he lurched forward one final time, then gasped as he shot a huge fountain of cum into the condom. I could tell it was a big load from the way his semen oozed around the base of his cock. I clutched at him, as if I was coming with him, but it was an act. The thought of my husband, sitting at home in his wheelchair, or perhaps in the special bed that took up half of our den, had ruined the mood for me. Once Curtis was finished coming, he rolled off of me, his sated cock slithering out of my pussy. He pulled off the rubber, tossed it in the trash and lay back with a self-satisfied smile on his face. Then he saw the look on my face, and I guess he took pity on me. You see, my husband couldn't fuck me like Curtis did, or do anything else, for that matter. He was a quadriplegic, a shell of the strong, sexy man I'd married, and I was a whore who was doing what I had to do to keep him at home and keep him alive. Curtis was apologetic when I told him about Brett, but by then I'd re-hardened my heart, the way I had three years earlier when I had made the agonizing decision to go from a faithful housewife to a brazen slut for money. After a little time to rest and talk, we fucked again, this time a little more leisurely. Curtis got me on my knees and pushed his cock into me from behind and worked himself in a steady rhythm. I tried to get my lust re-ignited, but I was having trouble. No problem. I'd learned how to fake an orgasm with the best of them, and I did just that, thrashing, moaning and clutching the sheets in a sweaty act of passion. When Curtis grunted, filled a second condom with his cum and pulled his cock out, I did something wicked so he'd remember me with a lustful shiver. I had him give me his semen-filled rubber, then I rolled onto my back, held the flaccid tube over my open mouth, squeezed it from the tip down and dribbled the fluid onto my tongue. Then, when the condom was empty, I swallowed every drop, smacking my lips with relish. Curtis just stared at me with his eyes wide and his mouth open. I knew then that I had a regular, that he'd look me up again the next time he was here. All part of the game, I thought grimly, all part of the act. I looked over at the clock and saw that his two hours was about up. With a sigh, I got up off the bed, picked up my purse and went into the bathroom. I peed, then pulled out the small bottle of douche I'd brought along and cleaned myself thoroughly. When I was reasonably fresh, I got up, went out and got dressed. Curtis stood watching impassively as I got ready to leave. When I turned toward the door, he walked over, gave me a deep kiss and pressed two more hundreds into my hand. "A little tip for you," he said. "I'd like to see you again, maybe next year, and I promise I won't bring up your husband again." "It's all right," I said. "Yeah, maybe next year. And if you have any friends in Detroit who are headed this way, tell them to give me a buzz. Tell them I'm the best fuck in the city." With that, I walked out of the room and headed down to the parking garage. I climbed in my little two-door sedan, but didn't do anything right away. I looked around to see if anyone was coming, and when I saw no one, I quickly slipped off my skirt and blouse, then pulled off the heels and stockings. I reached in my little bag and pulled out a bra – black to match my panties – put it on, then took the pleated skirt and starched white blouse off the hanger in the back. I quickly pulled them on, tucked the blouse in the waist of my skirt, reached in the bag again, pulled out a little school tie and tied it quickly and loosely around my neck. Satisfied that I was dressed appropriately, I pulled my curly, shoulder-length red hair into two tight pigtails, wrapped rubber bands around them, touched up my make-up, then turned the ignition and headed out of the garage. I had an appointment in a half-hour at my next client's apartment. He was a regular, and he had a fetish for schoolgirls, hence the outfit. I gave a deep sigh as I drove, thinking about the rest of the night's schedule. After this fellow, I had another appointment at another motel on the edge of town. It was all in a night's work, but by the time I made it home around 3 o'clock in the morning, I would have $2,000 in my pocketbook, the wages of my sin that came about from necessity. ------ "... To have and to hold, in sickness and health, for better or worse, forsaking all others, until death do you part." I took that vow when I married Brett Summers, but circumstances dictated that I couldn't keep it. I was compelled to choose. I could abandon my husband at his worst moment, at the point where his very life was in jeopardy, and forsake all others; or I could stay with him, care for him, and have others - many others. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I made my choice. Most of you, I am sure, will condemn me for the choice I made. You'll call me a slut and a cheating whore, and you'd be right. I was a slut and a cheating whore. Oh, by the strictest definition, I was a call girl rather than a streetwalker, but a whore by any other name is still a whore. For four years, I took money for sex, and that's what a whore does. During that time, I did things that should have a made a "nice girl" like me blush in shame, but I don't. I'm certainly not proud of what I did, but I'm not ashamed of it, either. I did what I had to do to put a roof over my family's head, food on our plates and, most importantly, provide for the care of my husband after he was crippled in a car crash. I don't necessarily ask for your approval at what I did, but before you condemn me, you'd better walk a mile or two in my shoes. Let's start at the beginning. My name is Katherine, but everyone calls me Kate. I was born and raised in a small town. My father was a pharmacist who owned a drug store downtown, and my mom helped out part-time. I'm the youngest of four; I have a sister who is 10 years older than me, and my two brothers are seven and four years my senior, respectively. I wouldn't say I was spoiled, but as the baby of the family, I had things a little easier than perhaps my siblings did. The flip side of that is that I had high standards that I was expected to meet, and I did. My family was quite religious and had high moral standards that reflected what they saw as our place in the community. And I didn't have any problem with living up to those standards. I was a quiet kid who behaved herself and did what she was told. I met Brett when we started our freshman year of high school. We just seemed to gravitate to each other. He was smart, especially in math, and our personalities were similar. Although our faiths were different, he was equally religious, and we had no problems remaining virgins. I was not quite the student that Brett was, and I was tired of classrooms and teachers by the time I finished high school. I figured I'd give college a try after a few years, but that never happened, and that decision would hurt me later on. Brett and I dated pretty exclusively in high school, but when he went off to college, while I stayed home and worked for my father, we dated a few other people. I had been kind of gangly in high school, however, in my late teens, I filled out some and I had a pretty active social life. I kissed a few of the other boys I dated, but I never had sex with them. It was important for me to be a virgin on my wedding night, and I was. By the time Brett reached his junior year of college, we both realized our feelings for each other were deep and enduring. We were married right after he graduated and he started in with a nationally known company. I was 21 and he was 22. I honestly don't know whether Brett was a virgin when we married; I never asked and he never volunteered the information. I sort of doubt it, because he was awfully skilled when he bedded me on our wedding night. Nevertheless, it was truly a magical night. Brett was patient and made sure my pleasure was of prime importance, and when he finally got his cock in me for the first time, after he broke my hymen, I exploded in a tremendous climax. That set the stage for our sex life together. We weren't especially adventurous, but there was nothing I wouldn't do for him. He was my husband, my lover, and I wanted to please him. I quickly learned how to suck his cock, and even swallowed his semen when he orgasmed. We fucked in every position, and we even experimented with anal sex maybe a half-dozen times. I had to be really horny, and he had to work at it awhile, but once he got me going, I enjoyed it. Naturally, as the years passed, the frequency waned a little, especially after we had our daughter, but we always had a normal loving relationship. I'm telling you all of this about my background to emphasize just how hard it was for me to prostitute myself when things went bad. It went against everything I had been brought up to believe. Sex was for my husband, period, and it certainly wasn't for sale. After we'd been married three years, Brett got a big promotion that brought him to the company headquarters in the city where all of this took place. For a couple of small-town kids, we took to the city like ducks to water. We loved the pace of life and the many activities for couples our age. We had been living in the city about two years when we decided it was time to start a family. It took a little over a year, but we finally succeeded. Right before Christmas, not long before my 27th birthday in January, I gave birth to a girl, Ashley Noel. By then, we had bought a house in the suburbs, in a nice neighborhood with excellent schools. It certainly wasn't a mansion; in fact, it was fairly modest by the standards of some of the houses in the area. But we liked it, and it became home. Brett had a fair amount of pride, and he didn't like the idea of me working while we had a small child in the home. We talked vaguely about the possibility of my trying to go back to work part-time after Ashley started school, but not until then. And, truthfully, I loved being a stay-at-home mom. I had always been a good housekeeper, and I was an excellent cook. In addition to the mundane chores, I had some flowerbeds that I kept, I exercised quite diligently, I took care of the household finances, I did crafts and I loved to read. It was a comfortable existence. We were living out the American Dream, a happily married couple with a beautiful daughter, and we were talking about trying for another baby. And in one awful night it came crashing down around us. It was 10 days before my 30th birthday, on a bitterly cold Tuesday. Brett and I had made love the night before, snuggled warmly under the comforter. That morning, I sent him off in his car the way I'd done countless times before. After listening to the weather forecast, I grew concerned, so I bundled up Ashley and we went to the grocery store to stock up on supplies. They were saying a severe winter storm was coming, perhaps as early as that evening, and I wanted to be prepared. Brett was usually home from work by about 6:30, 7 at the latest, so when 8 o'clock rolled around and he wasn't home, I started to worry. By 9, I was getting frantic, and as 10 o'clock approached, I got a premonition that something was wrong. Desperate Measures Ch. 01 I was right. At 10 minutes to 10, the phone rang. It was a nurse from one of the city's hospitals, telling me Brett had been in a serious automobile accident and was in real bad shape. He'd been driving home on the expressway when it started sleeting. His car hit a patch of ice, went into a spin and was broadsided on the driver's side by another car that couldn't get out of his way because of the lack of traction. I frantically called my best friend Betty Sue Montgomery, and managed to get her to let me drop Ashley off to stay with her. I was trying to fight off hysteria and failing when I arrived at their house with a sleepy, cranky three-year-old. Betty Sue and her husband Terry live down the street, and they have a daughter the same age as Ashley, plus Betty Sue also has an older daughter by a previous relationship, a 13-year-old who was Ashley's regular babysitter. I was absolutely a basket case, so when I got to Betty Sue's, she insisted on driving, and I didn't argue with her. I did not grow up in a place where icy roads were a regular thing, and Betty Sue had. And besides, as distraught as I was, I'd have been unsafe even on a dry road. I was glad she was there with me when we got to the hospital. Brett had been pinned in the wreckage of his car and they'd had to get the Jaws of Life to get him out. He had suffered a serious head injury and was undergoing brain surgery when we arrived. We stayed in the waiting room all night, drinking bad coffee and trying to engage in small talk. At regular intervals, I'd break down and cry, and Betty Sue would comfort me. It was a little before 6 o'clock in the morning when they wheeled Brett out of the operating room and the surgeon gave us the news. Brett had a broken neck as well as the head injury. But he'd made it through the worst, and there was a 50-50 chance he'd live. He did, but it wasn't much of a life that he got back. I'll probably burn in hell for admitting this, but it would have been better for all of us – including Brett – if he'd died that night. He was left completely paralyzed from the neck down, and his mental capacity was severely diminished. He could speak, with difficulty, but he had trouble forming coherent sentences, and difficult ideas and concepts were beyond him. Worse, he was unable to breathe or swallow food on his own, so he had to be hooked up permanently to a ventilator and a feeding tube had to be inserted. They kept him in a coma for six weeks, to let his brain heal, then gradually brought him around. After three months in the hospital, he'd recovered as much as he was going to recover, so I brought him home. By then, I'd learned some hard truths about health insurance. It was good, but it only went so far. Brett's health plan through his work took care of his initial hospital bills, after we met the $1,000 deductible. But when he was released from the hospital, their obligation ended. Under the state's disability plan for paralytics, we could have a home health nurse come in to care for Brett, but it only covered 12 hours of the day. We had to cover the other 12 hours. We had thought we were prepared for such a situation when we bought an insurance policy a few years earlier that covered long-term disability, never realizing that we'd need it so soon. It wasn't a bad plan; it just wasn't nearly enough. The plan only paid 80 percent of his medical expenses and it maxed out when those expenses reached $1 million. And there were some things the plan didn't pay for, such as the wheelchair-converter van that we needed to ferry Brett around to doctor's visits and rehabilitation appointments. The food processor I needed to puree his food so it could go in the feeding tube was one of the little expenses that also wasn't covered. I had managed to get a contractor out to the house to do some fast remodeling, so that it would be compatible with a wheelchair and for the care of an invalid. I used all of the money we'd had in our savings for that. Brett's company paid half of his salary for the first year as part of its disability package, and we were able to get some Social Security money and some state money, so we didn't fare too badly that first year. But the second year was when things started going downhill in a hurry. After Brett came home, it became obvious pretty quickly that taking care of him and Ashley at the same time was a task that was more than I could handle. Brett required round-the-clock nursing care, and it wasn't possible for me to do that with a three-year-old in the house. When Brett was in the bed, he had to be turned constantly to keep from getting bedsores. His ventilator had to be monitored at all times, he had to be cleaned whenever he soiled himself and he had to have his meds administered intravenously. So after a month of fumbling around trying to take care of Brett, I hired a private home health agency to provide a nurse during the day, while the state nurse came at night. After I hired the private nurse, I went out to find a job, but I wasn't able to find much of anything. The economy wasn't the best at that particular time, I didn't have any marketable skills, and even if I had, employers wouldn't look at me twice when they learned I had an invalid husband I was caring for. I finally managed to find a job working for a nearby day care center, which allowed me to keep Ashley there for a reduced rate. But that paid less than minimum wage, with no benefits, and I frequently missed work to take Brett to his appointments. The money I was able to earn, the disability check from the state and the Social Security money was barely a drop in the bucket for our needs. About 15 months after the accident, I finally broke down and went to the state office and applied for food stamps. That was a humiliating feeling, but I couldn't feed my family without them. Being on food stamps quickly changed my political thinking in that regard. While I used them carefully, for staples such as sugar, flour, coffee, dry milk and cheap cuts of meat, I saw others who used them on things like beer, cigarettes and candy. I'd always been a little liberal where the poor were concerned, but I quickly grew to understand why conservatives were so angry about welfare abuse. It pissed me off too. I scrimped, cut corners, did everything I could think of to keep our household expenses down, but it wasn't enough. As Christmas approached that second year, I was facing a grim situation. Our medical expenses hit the $1 million mark in October of the second year, maxing out our policy and leaving us with no insurance. We already had $200,000 that we owed the various clinics, doctors, medical supply companies and the home health agency. I was trying to pay a little bit of what I owed on that, but I wasn't making much headway. I talked to the insurance company about renewing our policy and extending our benefits. At first, they were reluctant to give us anything, given the enormity of our needs and the financial situation we were in. But the agent seemed sympathetic, so finally she wrote us a policy similar to the one we'd had. The problem was, the premium was three times what it had been before. In addition, by then I was three months behind on the house note, two months in arrears on the van, the house phone had been disconnected because of my inability to pay the bills and our auto insurance policy had been cancelled because I couldn't keep up with the premiums. We were getting just barely enough income to keep up with the utilities, occasionally falling a month behind before I could scrape together enough for the bills. We were judicious with the water, taking spit showers, and we kept the heat set low in winter and the air conditioner set high in summer. I still had a gas credit card that I kept an owed balance of about $1,500 on. Any other credit cards we'd had were long since maxed out; we still owed about $12,000 on those, and they were threatening to take us to a collection agency. I managed to keep a cell phone, and I tried to stay current with it, and we kept the cable connection pretty much up to date. You might think cable television would be an extravagance we couldn't afford, but Brett had to have something to keep him entertained as he sat there immobile in his wheelchair, or in his bed, and TV was it. We were up against the wall financially. Our debts were steadily mounting and my ability to pay those debts was feeble at best. The alternative was to put Brett in a nursing home and have Medicaid and Medicare pay for it. That would have eased the financial burden somewhat, though it still wouldn't have done anything about what we already owed. But I had a couple of reasons why I didn't want Brett in a nursing home. One was irrational and one was practical. When I was about 6-years-old, my parents had taken me with them when they to see my great-grandmother. Mom had come from country folks and her grandmother by then was in her 90s and senile. She was in this God-awful nursing home way out in the country. It was old, rundown and smelled putrid. All I can remember was Granny moaning in abject misery, and that image has stuck with me all of my life. And even if modern nursing homes aren't like that any more, I was still leery of the quality of care they provided. My husband needed someone with him at all times, and I didn't think that would be possible in a nursing home. Besides, I wanted Brett at home, in familiar surroundings, where his loving wife and daughter could be with him most of the time, rather than just visiting. But I wasn't sure if I could continue to manage that. We were in a vicious cycle of debt, and I couldn't see any way out of it. However, a way soon presented itself. About 18 months after the accident, I was about to go stir crazy, when Betty Sue insisted that I start getting out of the house. She, Terry and Mallory – her older daughter – would stay with Ashley to allow me some time alone out of the house. I quickly came to cherish those days and nights when I could get out and forget my troubles. I'd go to a restaurant – nothing fancy, but not McDonald's, either – and maybe I'd go to a movie afterward. I'd go out about twice a month, sometimes alone, sometimes with Betty Sue and sometimes Terry would go with us. I have to stress here that Betty Sue and Terry went above and beyond the call of duty for us. We didn't have a real wide social group before Brett's accident, but we did have a circle of friends, neighbors and his co-workers. And of this group, Betty Sue and Terry were the only ones who stuck around after the accident. The rest just drifted away, uncomfortable, I guess, at Brett's condition. Not even the church we'd joined stayed with us. Oh, they came around with some help and sympathy for a few months. But out of sight was out of mind, and the longer we went without attending services, the less they came to visit. I don't know if Brett noticed it, but I sure did, and it gave me a bitter perspective on the value some people placed on friendship. I hated what this was doing to me. I had always had a bright, cheery nature, but the constant strain of taking care of an invalid husband, a young child and worrying about finances was turning me into a shrew. I needed help, and one night in December, things came to a head. One thing I noticed whenever I went out, whether alone or with Betty Sue and Terry, was that I always got hit on by men, even though I still wore my wedding and engagement rings. I didn't think I was all that sexy, at least not in a conventional sense, but obviously the men I encountered thought otherwise, and that was a revelation. Although I loved my husband, I have to say that the attention I got from men when I went out was flattering. I had no interest in going with any of them, but it was nice to know I still had the ability to turn a man's head. It was in that frame of mind that I accompanied Betty Sue and Terry to a dance club one Saturday night a couple of weeks before Christmas. I really didn't want to go, but they insisted. I danced a few numbers with Terry, Betty Sue and I boogied a bit, and I was starting to have a pretty good time. Eventually, a fellow asked me to dance, and I thought, "why not?" He was a 40ish man, nothing special, but he seemed nice. We shook a tail-feather to a couple of songs, then a slow number came on. I was ready to leave, but he asked me pleasantly if I'd slow-dance with him. As he pulled me in close, and his arms wrapped around me, I felt myself getting wet between my legs, and it hit me then how long I had gone without the intimate touch of the man I loved. It was a thought that I had tried to suppress over the previous months because I knew how painful it would be. But when that man pulled me to him, and I started to respond physically, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I managed to mumble an apology before I dashed to the ladies room sobbing. After 20 minutes, Betty Sue came in looking for me, and she managed to get me pulled back together enough where we could make a hasty getaway. However, a funny thing happened that night when I crawled in bed. I was restless and horny. I kept replaying the closeness with that man – whose name I never learned – and thought about how it made me feel, and I started to become aroused. Hesitantly, I slid my hand into my panties, and when my middle finger touched my clit, the feeling swelled to a white-hot fever. For the first time in over 10 years, I masturbated, and the images that tumbled through my mind ran the gamut from Brett to the man I'd danced with to Terry Montgomery. I quickly pulled my panties off and attacked my pussy with both hands, thumbing my clit with one hand and filling my aching hole with the other. Faster and harder, I worked myself until I arched my back and let an unbelievable orgasm rip through me. Sex had never been an obsession with me before, but I had grown to like it and accept it as a part of my life with Brett, and I missed it. More than that, I missed the things that accompanied sex, the closeness with another person, the giving and receiving of pleasure. I had been denied that when Brett was incapacitated, and that night I let out almost two years of sexual frustration with that one act. The next day, Betty Sue came over for coffee, bringing Rachel – her three-year-old daughter – over to play with Ashley. I apologized for losing it the night before, but she waved it off. "You needed it," she said. "You keep too much of that bottled up as it is." She asked me if I wanted to talk about it, and I did. I told her about how I had repressed my sexual feelings for so long, how dancing the night before had triggered my arousal and how I had taken care of myself when I went to bed. Betty Sue looked at me evenly for several seconds, then we changed the subject. Looking back on it, I believe that what happened on the dance floor that night and my reaction to it afterward planted the seed for me to accept a life of prostitution. For the next few weeks, I started to masturbate quite regularly. I found that it helped release a lot of tension, took away a lot of my frustration. My fantasies were pretty mundane, memories of sex with Brett or just imaginary encounters with men I met in the course of the day. It certainly helped me get through a bleak holiday season. The year before, we had gone home for Christmas, the way we had most years before. But it was one of the most depressing times in my life. Everybody seemed to be tiptoeing around Brett and his condition, or they were overly solicitous and annoyingly sympathetic. This year, I resolved that we were going to spend a quiet holiday at home, and that's what we did, except that Mom and Dad came over to spend it with us, so we weren't totally alone. At Dad's insistence, we got a tree and got out the decorations, and Mom and I spent Christmas morning in the kitchen the way we always did. It helped, but it was still a pretty hollow holiday. Once my folks left, and the new year approached, I began to worry again about our desperate financial situation. The bank had called again right after Christmas, seeking a house payment. The man I talked to was nice, but firm. If we didn't come up with a payment in January, they'd have to see about starting repossession proceedings Later that day, I was having lunch with Betty Sue when we had the conversation that turned my life around. I guess the worry showed in my face, because she asked me about it, and I told her I thought we were going to lose the house. I hadn't planned on unburdening myself like I did, but I ended up laying out exactly how bad off we were in dollars and cents. "Betty Sue, I just don't know what I'm going to do," I said. "If we lose the house, if we can't keep the van, where will we go? What will we do? I don't want to put Brett in a nursing home, but what choice do I have? It'll kill him if we lose the house." She looked at me with a long look, almost a sad look. Based on what she was about to say, I can understand why. "Katie, I'm going to suggest something, and please don't get offended by it," she said. "You know I love you like a sister, and I'd never suggest this if I didn't think there was any other way for you to get back on your feet." "What do you mean?" I asked, as a nervous feeling grew in my stomach. "Have you thought about sex?" she said. "Sure, I think about it all the time," I said, a little flippantly. "No, I mean sex, for hire," she said. "You don't mean ... p-prostitution?" I said, and I couldn't help the horror in my voice. "I couldn't do ... that." "I don't mean walking the streets, but you can make a lot of money as an escort," she said. "I mean, a lot of money." "Me? You've got to be kidding," I said. "I'm a 32-year-old housewife and mother. Men aren't going to want me like that." "Bullshit," Betty Sue said. "In the first place, every woman has something that men want. Men have paid for pussy since the beginning of time, and they'll especially pay for someone like you. You can command a lot for what you have. You're good-looking, slim and you have a maturity, an innocent elegance that will draw men like flies. I've seen the way men hit on you when we're out. You're gorgeous, and you don't even realize what you've got." "But ..." I stammered. "It's one thing to be attractive, but to be a whore? God, Betty Sue, I don't know. I mean, I couldn't do that to Brett. He still has his pride, and the thought of me with other men would devastate him." "Look, let me ask you something," Betty Sue said. "How much did pride pay you this year? Girl, pride doesn't pay the house note, pride doesn't pay the doctor's bills and pride sure as hell doesn't buy groceries. You wouldn't be the first wife who had to spread her legs for money in order to take care of her family, and you won't be the last." "That's easy for you to say," I said. "You're not the one spreading her legs for other men." My best friend looked down at her hands for long seconds, then looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. "Kate, honey, I've been there, done that," she said softly. "I'm going to let you in on a secret that only one other person in this city knows about me. I worked for an escort agency for five years, from the time I was 18 until I was 23. I fucked more men than I can count, and quite a few women, as well." I'm sure the shocked look on my face spoke volumes. I'd always thought of Betty Sue as a person of such high moral standards, a dedicated wife and mother. She smiled sadly, as she continued. "I got pregnant with Mallory when I was 17, and my father was so angry he threw me out of the house," she said. "I managed to find a job through my pregnancy, and I was going to give her up for adoption. But about a month before I delivered, I backed out and decided to keep her. I've never once regretted that decision, because, as you know, she's turned out to be a special young lady. But it was hard. I was an 18-year-old single mother, a high school dropout with no future. I was one step away from the street, one step away from losing Mallory to the state, when a social worker took pity on me. I told her I was about ready to start screwing to get by, and that's when she gave me a card for this company that specialized in escorts for businessmen. She told me that if I told anyone where I got the card, she'd deny it and make sure I paid a steep price, but that if I kept my mouth shut and went to work for them, I could make a good living and keep my baby. I made enough to live on and saved enough money to go back to school." Desperate Measures Ch. 01 "Does Terry know about this?" I asked, a little overwhelmed. "Hell, he was one of my clients," she said. "That's how we met. He was an out-of-town businessman, and we really fell for each other. He was the reason I quit." "How much did you make?" I said, not quite believing that I was actually beginning to consider her suggestion. "Well, the agency got half of everything I made, but I still cleared an average of about $80,000 a year for five years," she said. "It was just like working for any other company. They made all the bookings, paid me a salary and had a benefits package that covered regular doctor's checkups. Every customer was screened for STDs and a background check, and the owner was the cousin of the mayor, so we had no trouble with the law. It was a good set-up." By then, we were finished with lunch and it was time to go. But I still had some questions. Frankly, the idea of grossing over 150 grand a year had my head spinning. For that kind of money I could put aside a lot of my moral and ethical objections. "How would I get started in a business like that?" I asked. "And would I necessarily have to work through an agency? Could I freelance and not give up half my earnings?" "That I don't know," Betty Sue said. "I don't know people here who are involved in that business. I guess you could freelance, although you'd have to be real careful about how you set it up, careful about your contacts. Terry might know a little more about that than I do. I think he knows people around here who frequent escorts, and he could certainly advise you about setting yourself up in business." "I don't know, Betty Sue," I said as we were riding home. "I don't know if I could become a whore. That's such a drastic step, and once you take it, there's no going back." "Believe me, I know," Betty Sue said. "But you get used to it. You learn to separate the act from your emotions. You just do it, and don't think about it. And, in your case, you get the bonus of getting some of that intimacy that you've been missing in your life. Look, why don't I let Terry talk to you about the nuts and bolts of getting off the ground with this. We've got plans for tonight, but he can come over tomorrow. How about it?" "OK," I said, a little dazedly as we pulled into my driveway. "In the meantime, why don't you get on the computer tonight and peruse some websites that might give you some insights," she said, and she jotted down a few addresses on a sheet of paper. "And Katie, regardless of what you decide, know that I love you and want the best for you. I'll never judge you for what you do. You know that. And I'll help you any way I can. So will Terry." "Thanks," I said. "I will think about it." I was reeling as I went back in my house. Could I become a whore? Could I fuck other men without guilt? Could I separate my love for Brett from the sex acts I'd be required to perform with others? Was I really that desperate? Was there really no other way? That night, after I put Ashley to bed, and looked in on Brett and the night nurse, I got on-line and it was a revelation. I had never delved into Internet porn before, and the images I came across both shocked me and aroused me. I read stories and saw pictures and film clips of slut wives doing things I'd never even imagined. I couldn't help myself; I slid my hand into my sweatpants and found myself dripping wet. It wasn't long before I was squirming uncontrollably in my chair as I masturbated myself to a shivering climax. I slumped back in my chair a little stunned at what I'd seen. After I cleaned off my hand, I looked up one of the last websites Betty Sue had given me. It was Literotica, reputed to be the best and most popular erotic story site on the Internet. I was drawn like a magnet to the Loving Wives section and read a number of stories about wives who cheated, wives who were coerced into sex, wives who were blackmailed into prostitution and wives who were pushed into slutty behavior by their husbands. It was deep into the night when I came across a two-story series that took my breath away. The story was called "Working Girl," by someone who called himself magmaman, and it was eerily close to my situation. In the story, a loving wife has to take care of her paralyzed husband and must choose either financial ruin, and her husband's probable death, or prostitution. After I read that, I knew in my heart that I was going to do it, I just didn't know how yet. My needs were too great and my resources too meager for any other solution. That night, I crawled in bed naked, the first time I'd done that since Brett's accident, and I went at my body with a vengeance. I worked my pussy over hard with one hand and assaulted my tits with the other, and ended up bringing myself to two gut-wrenching orgasms, the first time I'd given myself more than one in a night since I'd rediscovered the practice a few weeks earlier. And the images that flashed through my mind were the obscene images of sex acts that I would have considered deviant a few hours earlier, sex with women, sex with blacks, sex with more than one man at a time. I was really conflicted emotionally. On the one hand, I felt a positive feeling about making a decision that would get my family out of the crushing financial burden we were under, yet the thought of whoring – actually lying on my back and letting some strange man fuck me for money – was repellant. I just didn't know if I could go through with it. But I wasn't sure I had an alternative. The next night, Terry came over with a six-pack of beer for the stated reason of watching a college football bowl game on TV with Brett. This wasn't just a cover for us to discuss the matter of my going to work as a whore. Sports was one of the concepts that Brett could understand. It didn't take complicated thinking to watch a game, root for one side or the other and figure out that one team would win and the other would lose. Brett and Terry had always enjoyed going to games and watching games on TV before the accident, and Terry still came over quite often to watch games with Brett. It was one of the few things that brought joy to his life, to have his friend come over to visit and watch a game. We sat and had a couple of beers before halftime, then Brett started to nod off, so I made him comfortable in his wheelchair and he went on to sleep with the TV going. We helped the nurse get him into bed, then left them alone. I walked into the kitchen, Terry followed me and we both sat down at the table. There was an uncomfortable silence while we both searched for an opening. Finally, I broke the ice. "I guess Betty Sue told you about our conversation yesterday?" I said. Terry just nodded his head so I continued. "Terry, I just don't know what to do. I can't possibly begin to pay the bills we owe, the bank is going to take the house and the van, and where does that leave us? Where does that leave Brett? I mean, where do we go if they take our house? A nursing home? That's no life for him, and you know it." "It's a tough thing, Kate, I know," Terry said. "I know if there was any other way, you wouldn't even consider it. But sometimes we have to do things we don't like. Sometimes we have to set aside our feelings and do what we have to do to survive. I think that's where you are right now." "What about bankruptcy?" I said. "Isn't that an option?" "Yes and no," he said. "There are two options, Chapter 7 and Chapter 13, and both have their good points and bad points. They'll both wipe out your debts, but they both have pitfalls. In Chapter 7 they'd probably take the house and any other major assets you have in order to satisfy part of the debt. If that happened, you'd have to rent and Brett would almost certainly have to go to a nursing home. With Chapter 13, you could keep the house, which is the advantage there, but the problem with it is that you've got to have significant income, which you don't have, so you probably wouldn't even quality. And even if you do successfully file bankruptcy, you won't be able to get credit for an extended period of time, usually seven years, and the record stays on your credit report indefinitely. It's a way out, but not one you want to take if you can help it. And that still doesn't address the problem of ever-accumulating medical bills. Declaring bankruptcy would wipe out one set of bills, but then another set of bills would start growing in its place. You need a steady source of income, period, and as much as I hate to say it, Betty Sue's right. Prostitution, as odious as it sounds, may be your only way out." "Terry, I'm scared," I said. "I'm scared for what might happen if I don't do something, and scared for what might happen if I do. I mean, could I possibly make a living as a call girl?" "Now that's easy to answer," he said. "You'll make a killing. My God, Kate, with your looks, your body and your ... the air about you, you'll be able to command top dollar, and I mean TOP dollar. Hell, if I were single, I'd be all over you in a heartbeat. You're the second-sexiest woman I know." "After Betty Sue, right?" I said with a chuckle. The man's not stupid. Betty Sue is a doll, and Terry loves her without reservation, and she does him, as well. "Seriously, if this is something you want to do to get back on your feet, you'll do well at it," he said. "But if you go into this, don't hold anything back. Men can tell when the girl they're with is just going through the motions, if they're only in it for the money. If you take a man's money, especially if it's a lot of money, you need to give him something special, not just a piece of ass. You need to make the customer think he's the most wonderful lover in the world during the time you're with him. That's what first drew me to Betty Sue. She treated me like I was a king, worshipped my body like it was a shrine, and that was special. I mean, I'd been around these girls enough to know that it was just an act, but she put everything she had into it that first time, and after the first couple of times, suddenly it wasn't an act." "It doesn't bother you that she was a whore?" I asked. "Not in the least," he said. "I wasn't exactly the picture of innocence, either. Once we started dating, away from the agency, she pledged herself to me exclusively, and I to her. She told them she was quitting and we never looked back." "OK, so let's say I do this," I said. "How much should I charge? And for how long?" "Most of the higher-class call girls set their rates high," he said. "Kind of weeds out the riff-raff. For a woman like you, with your maturity and your innocent look, I'd say $500 for two hours is about right." "Five hundred?" I said, incredulously. "You'd pay $500 for me?" "Well, if I was buying?" he said. "Absolutely. Don't ever sell yourself short, Kate. And I'm saying two hours, instead of an hour, because I always felt an hour limit kind of rushed things. Like I said, you're not just selling your body, you're selling an experience. You want to be able to take your time and give the customer something he'll never forget." "I'd like to avoid an agency, if I could," I said. "I just don't like the idea of someone else getting half of my earnings, especially since I need every dollar I can get right now. What do you recommend?" "Well, there are advantages and disadvantages to an agency," he said. "The obvious advantage is safety, security and convenience. You don't have to make the bookings; the customers are screened ahead of time, so there's less chance of getting hurt. All you have to do is show up on time and be ready for whatever the customer wants. Of course, the main disadvantage, like you said, is having to fork over half of your pay. You're the one taking all the risks, you ought to be the one making all the money." "So, how could I get set up if I freelance?" I said. "It's easier now than it used to be," he said. "I know of several websites where you can go and put a personal ad up. This one here (and he wrote an address on a sheet of paper) has a free 30-day personals section. It's one of the more reputable sites. We kind of play around there occasionally. You find the slot for our area, write up your ad and post it. Just put an e-mail address where you can be reached, then sit back and see what you get." "But what do I say?" I said. "'Desperate housewife looking for men to fuck for money?' I mean, what do you say in a situation like that?" "Well, in the first place, no website will accept a direct solicitation like that," Terry said. "And second, that's too easy for the law to trace. You want to make it clear what you're offering without directly saying so. And you want to make it clear that you don't come cheap. You want gentlemen, businessmen, people of means." "Once I get started, how do I cover the money?" I said. "I mean, how do I explain where I'm getting money from when I start paying off some of these bills?" "Good question," he said. "What you do is set yourself up as a dummy corporation, selling ... oh, I don't know, quilts or blankets or some of that beadwork you've been doing. As long as you have something that sounds plausible to the bank, they're not going to question you too closely about how you're getting the money. The main thing is to have some way you can record your earnings for the IRS. You want to make damn sure what you report on your income tax return matches up pretty close to what goes through your bank, because they will check. And if they audit you, you're screwed with no jelly. Of course, you can set up some legal ways to avoid paying a lot of tax, with deductions and such, but you don't want to just not pay any. And I can help you with all of this." "Terry, I don't want to get you and Betty Sue involved in anything illegal," I said. "I'm willing to do this because I don't see any other way to survive. But you don't have to take a risk for my sake." Terry was a CPA, and a good one, and I didn't want him to jeopardize his career for me. "Nonsense," Terry said. "I've been trying to figure out a way I can help you guys, and this is a way I can help. I promised Brett a long time ago that if anything happened to him, I'd do what I could for you. You've done so much for him over the last two years, and you need help. I'm here to give you whatever help I can." "Thanks so much," I said. "You don't know what you and Betty Sue mean to us. You're the only friends who've stayed the course. You've always been there for us, and it means a lot." "That's what friends are for," Terry said. "What is it they say? A friend in need is a friend indeed." "One other thing," I said, and this was the hard part. "What do I tell Brett? What do I tell my family? I can't just say, 'oh yeah, I'm a hooker, now, fucking for money.' I'm not sure how much Brett can understand, but I'll bet he's not so incapacitated that he won't figure out what I'm doing when he sees me dressed up to go out on dates." Terry thought about this awhile, but he finally looked up at me, and damned if his eyes weren't glistening. "That's the part that sucks so bad about this," he said. "My best friend's wife has to whore herself out to pay the bills and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. Life sure does suck sometimes. I'd just tell him you've found a full-time job that requires you to work odd hours and leave it at that. If anyone asks, tell them it's a sales job and don't elaborate. If Brett does figure it out, tell him the truth. Whatever you do, don't lie to him. He deserves at least that much consideration." It was settled then. I was going to be a whore. That night I composed my ad, got on the website Terry had given me, got an account, opened up the personals section and wrote out my ad. It read, "Sophisticated lady seeking dates with discriminating gentlemen. Serious inquiries only." I gave my e-mail address as a contact, hit the send button, got the confirmation that my ad had been accepted and went to bed. I was stunned when I opened my e-mail the next morning and found a dozen responses. Most of them were crude and rude, or appeared to come from men with overblown egos. Those I deleted out of hand. But there were a couple that looked promising, so I kept them, and when I checked again later that day, I had over 20 more responses and several that looked worth exploring. In all, that first day I got six that I answered, sending a picture of me and a brief description of what I was looking for. I didn't come right out and say that a date with me would cost them, but it was implied, especially when I wrote that, "I don't come cheap." Two of the men thanked me for my response, but said rather pointedly that they'd decided to save their money. That left four. By New Year's Day, I'd made dates with all four to meet them for drinks and whatever else came up. My first client was a businessman in town named Clayton Howell, and it was at that point that I finally had a stroke of good luck. I was a bundle of nerves as I walked into the restaurant of the downtown hotel where we were meeting. He shook my hand warmly when we met, and quickly put me at ease. He ordered me a drink and we sat back to become acquainted. I liked him right off. He was an average-sized man in his late 40s who had been divorced for several years. He was the regional branch manager for a large multi-national corporation that did extensive business with overseas companies. "I must say, the pictures you sent don't do you justice, my dear," Clayton said. "You have a certain look that is very appealing, a maturity that suits you well." "Thanks, I guess," I said. "Look, Clayton, let's get this show on the road. Please?" I was nervous, and ready to get this encounter going before I got cold feet and backed out. We left the restaurant, then, and went up to the room he'd secured for the night. I had dressed for the weather, which was quite cold, in jeans, a tight sweater and boots. I was shaking in those boots the closer we came to the moment of truth. I peeled off my coat and pulled off my sweater, revealing the tight tank top shirt I'd been wearing underneath it. I pulled my boots and my little ankle socks off, then stood in front of Clayton. He looked me up and down and smiled gently, then took me in his arms and kissed me, slowly and sensuously. After a minute or so, he pulled away and looked me in the eye. "You've never done this before, have you," he said softly. "No, no, I ... haven't," I said, as my composure began to crack. "I ... I don't ... have any ... any other way." And I lost it then. I just fell into his arms and let him console while I told him why I was doing this. "Clayton, I love my husband, and I can't stand the thought of cheating on him, especially for money," I said when I'd calmed down a little. "But ... I don't see any other way." "Sweetheart, I understand," he said. "I can help you in a lot of ways. I think you have a good heart, and you certainly have a killer body and dazzling looks. You'll do well at this, and, like you say, you don't have many options right now. So, I guess then, we need to get down to business. What are you charging?" "Fi-five hundred, for two hours, a thousand for four," I said. Clayton just nodded and pulled out his billfold, pulled out 10 hundreds and handed them to me, then sat down in one of the chairs. After I secured my money in my purse, I walked over and stood in front of him. He nodded again and I took that as my cue. I pulled the T-shirt off and tossed it aside, then unbuttoned my pants and slid them off, and my panties came off with them. I stood in front of Clayton naked and watched as he stood up again and took his own clothes off. When he was naked, we sort of moved together and I reached down and grasped his cock in my hand. It was hot and hard, and I was hot and wet from the soft touch of his hands caressing my body. Desperate Measures Ch. 01 We kissed again, and this time his tongue bored into my mouth as I lost myself in his lips. He was a very good kisser. At length, he broke the embrace and he escorted me to the bed. Clayton propped the pillows up and sat back, his gaze intent. His body was nothing special, but he radiated a quiet sexiness that I found appealing. He was right at six feet tall and decently built, without much excess anywhere. His cock stuck out from between his legs atop a fat pair of balls. I climbed on the bed and took his cock in hand. I knew what he wanted, and I was ready to provide. Now that I'd gone this far, I figured I might as well let myself go. I followed Terry's advice and held nothing back. I bent down then and took Clayton's cock in my mouth. It was just an average-sized cock, a little fatter than some, and I gobbled up about two-thirds of his length before he hit the entrance to my throat, and my gag reflex kicked in. I worked my mouth up and down on that part of his cock that was in my mouth, getting myself accustomed to the taste. I happened to look up and saw that Clayton had his eyes closed as if he was savoring the moment. Then he opened his eyes and showed me a few tricks, like how to use my lips and tongue up and down on the shaft, how to suck his balls and how to lick right around that sensitive spot right under the crown. As I sucked, I could feel my long-simmering arousal heating up. I had gone so long without a man, and now I had one in my hands. At that point, all thoughts of husband and family were gone. I was just another horny woman in need of fucking. I pulled my mouth away and got up on my knees. Clayton was about to roll me over onto my back, but I told him no. "This is for me," I whispered, and he didn't argue. I was swaying lustfully as I straddled Clayton's hips. I held his cock by the base as I lifted myself up, fit the head of his cock to my juicy slit and slowly – very, very slowly – impaled myself on his cock. We both groaned heavily as I sank down on his meat, until I felt his wiry pubic hair commingling with mine. "Ohhhhhhh, yessssssssss," I panted as I felt a man enter me for the first time in almost two years. My eyes were closed in reverie as I slowly began my up-and-down motion. I could feel a hard climax building up steam just from the feeling of Clayton's cock in me. I felt his soft hands caressing my hips, subtly working me on his cock with just the right amount of pressure. Slowly, his hands traveled up my sides and he filled them with my breasts, his fingers softly twirling my nipples. That did it. An electric shock crackled from my tits to my crotch and lit the fuse on my long-overdue orgasm. I threw my curly locks back, arched my back, bared my teeth and let it roar through me. I would soon learn how to fake an orgasm, but that first time with Clayton, it was real, and it was powerful. Clayton just kept leisurely thrusting his hips upward, driving his cock ever higher into my twitching cunt, and now I was ready to really let it go. I bent over slightly, put my hands on his chest and began to work my body up and down with a harder, brisker motion. As I leaned over, Clayton took my tits in his hand, brought a nipple to his mouth and sucked me with a soft sensuality that took my breath away. We were both moaning in mounting ecstasy as we really started to pick up speed. I could feel the twitter in his cock that I knew was the precursor to his orgasm. I was getting close too and I emphasized the thrust of my clit on the base of his cock to help get me there quicker. Faster and harder, we worked our bodies together, and just about the time I felt myself tumbling off into the abyss, I felt Clayton's cock jerk upward hard, followed by the spewing flow of his cum. As we ground ourselves together in mutual release, I leaned over against his chest and we kissed wildly, while I tried to milk his cock of every drop of semen he had to offer. For long seconds, we jerked together until at last we felt the rush subside. But Clayton wasn't quite finished. As soon as he was finally done filling my cunt, he had me swivel around, so that my pussy was over his face, then he clamped his mouth onto my sex and sucked out every bit of the juice he'd shot into me seconds earlier. It was a feeling like nothing I'd ever had before. Certainly, Brett never did that to me, never even thought about it, although I guess if I had asked him to, he'd have done it without hesitation. Nevertheless, Clayton's rather lewd act sent me into another, smaller climax that left me drained. I rolled off Clayton's body and idly played with his flaccid cock. Then I crawled up the bed and let myself relax in the afterglow of sex, a feeling I'd been certain I'd never experience again, at least not while Brett was still alive. Clayton and I spent the next hour just talking. For the first time since the accident, I talked candidly about Brett, about our sex life together. I'd never even talked to Betty Sue about that, but I felt like I owed it to Clayton, since it appeared that he was going to be something like a sugar daddy to me. I wanted him to know what he was getting with me. "I can help you, quite a bit, you know," he said. "I have a lot of contacts, know a lot of people in this city. I like you, Kate, and I don't want to see you get hurt. If you are going to do this, you need someone who will look out for your interests." "What's in it for you?" I said, just a little wary. "Nothing, just a regular date, same time each week," he said. "I'll pay you your regular fee, and I'll spread the word about you through my grapevine. I'm sure many of the people I do business with will thank me in little ways for sending you their way." "I appreciate that," I said, then I kissed him, and that led us to a second, more leisurely fuck that ended with me on my back howling in another intense climax. After I was dressed and headed toward the door, Clayton handed me his card and he'd clipped another $500 to it. Then I kissed him one final time and headed out the door in the direction of home. As I walked to my car, a sense of melancholy swept over me. It was official. I was now a whore, and my life would never be the same. (To be continued) Desperate Measures Ch. 02 Author's note: A number of readers commented after the first chapter that these two stories are a basic retelling of magmaman's two-part series "Working Girl," and it is, up to a point. I was impressed with the way he (or she) developed the main character into a figure of sympathy, and at the low-key tone of her narration. However, as good as those stories were, I felt there was something missing. I felt the sex was a little matter-of-fact, the background was a little sketchy and I wasn't happy with the downer ending. So I've taken the framework of that story and gone in a couple of different directions with it. I think those differences will be much more pronounced in this final installment. ------ The woman was easy to spot. She was an elegant-looking blonde sitting in a booth at a popular chain restaurant, looking very out of place. She recognized me from the picture I'd sent and she waved me to her table. As I walked to where she was sitting, I was well aware of the looks I got from the men I passed. After all, I was dressed for my work on a hot summer afternoon – a thin sundress that seemed to cling to my body, sandals and absolutely nothing else. I don't know if they could tell that I wasn't wearing panties, but it was plainly obvious from the indentations my nipples were making in the thin material of my dress that I was braless. Just the thought of going out in public with no underwear was arousing, especially considering that a year earlier the idea would have horrified me. But you learn to accept the unacceptable when you become a whore, and after eight months of working as an independent call girl, walking around with nothing on under my skirt was a common occurrence – stimulating, but common. The woman stood when I approached her booth and shook my hand, greeting me with a small smile. "Kate, it's a pleasure to meet you," the woman said in a soft accent that hinted of magnolia blossoms and Tupelo honey. "Please, join me for lunch." I sat and ordered a salad for lunch, then turned my attention to the woman sitting across the table. Her name was Nadine and she was in her mid-40s. She owned a children's boutique in a small Southern town and was in the city for her semi-annual visit to do her buying for the fall season. She was quite pretty, with a thick, flowing mane of blonde hair that was just starting to show some gray. Her figure could fairly be described as Rubenesque, with ample proportions everywhere except her face. She had crystalline blue eyes that seemed a little ... sad. Nadine said she'd heard about me from a singles website where I had an ad posted. She'd contacted me by e-mail to see if I might be available during her visit and I said yes. I was intrigued by the prospect of having sex with a woman who was willing to pay a call girl for such a thing. In fact, I was intrigued by the idea of having sex with a woman, period, since I'd never done it before. After some small talk, I asked her the question I'd been wondering about. "Tell me," I said in a low tone of voice. "Why did you hire me? Why are you willing to pay another woman for sex?" "I ... I live in a small town that is very conservative, and my husband is quite prominent – his whole family is, really," Nadine said. "It wouldn't do for his wife and the mother of his children to be exposed as a lesbian. My husband is tolerant of many things, but a blow to his reputation is not one of them. And, too, my business would suffer. But I crave the touch of another woman, so when I can, I indulge myself, feed my craving." "But why pay for it?" I said. "I mean, there are plenty of places where gays and lesbians can pick up lovers." "Too public, and I have too much dignity for that," she said. "I abhor a mob scene. Every gay bar I've ever been to has been like a meat market, and you're never sure what you're going to get. No, this way, I have control over who I meet, it can be done discreetly, and I know I'm going to get someone who is professional." "Does your husband know you do this?" I said. "He's the one who gives me the money to do it," Nadine said. "He allows me to indulge my desire for a woman when I'm safely away from home, and in return I play the dutiful wife and mother when I get back." "I see," I said. "Well, I have to tell you that I've never been with a woman before. I haven't been doing this all that long, and I never had a lesbian relationship before I started." Nadine looked at me kind of odd, then she smiled – really smiled – for the first time since I'd sat down. We finished lunch, then she gave me the room number at the hotel where she was staying and told me to give her about a 10-minute head start and to meet her there. As I drove to her hotel, I thought about how my life had changed since I'd made the gut-wrenching decision to prostitute myself in order to keep my invalid husband at home and to provide for my family. I had been brought up to believe that homosexuality was a mortal sin, an affront to God. But then I'd also felt the same way about adultery, fornication and a whole lot of other sins that I had become proficient at in the eight months since I turned my first trick. I had already done things that would have shocked and shamed me before, things that a supposedly "nice girl" didn't do, things I would not have done under normal circumstances. I had been a happily married woman – a woman who was a virgin on her wedding night – and I had never had another man besides my husband. But a serious traffic accident on an icy expressway had left Brett a quadriplegic, dependent on a ventilator and a feeding tube, and needing 24-hour nursing care. After two years of mounting debts that had reached a quarter of a million dollars, I had made the fateful decision to become a whore – a call girl, actually – in an effort to start paying down on those debts and to keep my husband at home. And now I was about to cross another barrier by engaging in a lesbian encounter, and I couldn't decide whether the nervous feeling in my stomach was excitement or dread. After a short drive, I found myself standing in front of the door to Nadine's hotel room. I took a deep breath then knocked. The door opened, and I sort of gasped as Nadine ushered me in. Gone was any semblance of the married matron she'd appeared to be in the restaurant. Her conservative dress had been replaced by a long satin gown that clung to her voluptuous curves like a second skin. My eyes took in the vision of her fat breasts, with the large nipples pressing into the material, the swelling of her belly that spoke of her maturity and the wide hips that suggested power. And the sad look that had been in her eyes had been replaced by a look of hunger, of a need that was about to be requited. I was in a kind of trance as Nadine shut the door and drew me into her arms. We kissed, deep and luxuriantly, and I felt my pussy gush from the feeling of her satin-covered breasts against my thinly clad tits. Our tongues slashed together as lust swelled between us. I needed to regain a measure of control before I surrendered completely. I broke the embrace, and was panting as I held Nadine at arm's length. "Business before pleasure," I said hoarsely. "So, how much will it cost for me to teach you how a woman makes love with another woman?" Nadine said softly. "Depends on how long you want to take," I said in a husky voice. "I charge $500 for two hours, $1,000 for four hours. For that, I do anything you want except bondage and water sports. That's where I draw the line." "You look like you're worth it," Nadine said, sweeping her blonde hair back. "I want you for four hours. I want to show you what you've been missing." Nadine walked to the dresser, got an envelope out and handed it over. It contained 10 hundred-dollar bills. I rifled through them briefly, just to make sure they were all real – you know, standard procedure – then stuffed the envelope in my purse. Nadine was just staring as I sat the purse on the dresser. "You are very beautiful," she breathed. "So very, very beautiful. I think we're going to have a wonderful time." I excused myself to use the bathroom and freshen up, then emerged naked to see that Nadine had also shed her robe and was reclining on the bed like she was in some kind of Romance-era painting. I could almost hear myself squishing as I walked, that's how wet I was. Now that I was here, now that I'd been paid, I was eager to experience this. We came together on the bed, two wives in very different circumstances united by our crushing need. I kissed her full lips and raked my hands through her hair. We stared into each other's eyes as our hands delved between the other's legs and we felt the wet heat of our sex. Nadine had soft hands and nimble fingers, and she cupped my breasts with one hand while sinking two fingers of her other hand into my hot pink pussy. I just did what I knew I liked, mimicking Nadine's motions, and slid my fingers between the folds of her well-trimmed blonde bush. I worked them into her steamy cunt, then pulled my dripping fingers out and played with one of her breasts, swirling the juice over her nipple. I dipped my head down and sucked the fat tip into my mouth, licking and nibbling on her nipple. Nadine hissed in pleasure as her fingers picked up the pace in my pussy. We were on fire with lust, and I knew it wouldn't take long for me to reach what I hoped would be the first of several hard orgasms. As if reading my mind, Nadine rolled me onto my back and slid her plump body between my legs. Truthfully, she could have probably stood to lose 30 pounds, yet there was something incredibly sensual about her body, the way her curves seemed to move as one. I felt her hands opening my legs, exposing my angry pink pussy to her gaze. She slid two fingers into me and I arched my back as the feelings swelled. She finger-fucked me for a few seconds, then I felt her hot breath on my cunt, followed immediately by her wet tongue as it traced a path between my labia. I gasped and groaned in pleasure as Nadine circled her tongue over my hole, and lapped up to tease my clit. I was writhing on the bed as she expertly used her mouth on my boiling flesh. By then, I'd had a lot of men put their mouths on my pussy, but I'd never had a feeling like this. Maybe it was just the knowledge that it was another woman, or maybe it was just the delicate feel of her mouth, but Nadine had me soaring in lust in seconds. She licked my slot, sucked my clit, kissed my labia and vacuumed by whole crotch into her voracious mouth. And when she did that, I tumbled over the top. I felt the hot rush of climax flow through me in waves as Nadine lapped up the fruits of my orgasm. I clutched my breasts, pinching my nipples at the intensity of the feeling. My bright red curls thrashed on the pillow as I came, long and hard. As the feeling ebbed, I wanted – no, I needed – to reciprocate. I wanted to taste Nadine and pleasure her the way she had me. And she was ready. There was a wild look in her eyes as she crawled up from between my legs. She pulled my sweaty body to hers and we kissed ravenously. I felt a jolt as I tasted myself on her lips and tongue, but I didn't linger. I deftly rolled her onto her back, and I just stared at the hot, pleading look in her eyes. I marveled at the way her large tits heaved as they flowed over her chest. Even as I watched, she brought her hands to her nipples and played with them. I could see the moisture, the flow of fluid as it seeped from her wide-splayed pussy. I wanted it, and I wanted it badly. I reached down with both hands and spread her lips open, then slid down the bed and got after it. I planted my mouth right on her cunt and sucked, then ripped my tongue up her groove, right up to her fat clit, which hung out of its hood red and swollen. I don't know if my inexperience showed or not, but Nadine sure wasn't complaining. She thrashed on the bed, gasping and moaning, telling me how good it felt. Over and over, I lashed her pussy with everything I had, and it didn't take long before I felt Nadine shudder and her pussy spasmed hard in her orgasm. I gripped her butt tightly as her climax worked its way through her body, hard and fast. Then she gave a throaty laugh as she pulled me to her. "Yes, I'd say you were worth it," she said softly as we caressed each other. I spent another three hours in Nadine's company, and we did it all. We slid into a hot 69 and brought each other to a simultaneous orgasm, then she brought out her bullets, a pair of battery-operated ovals that we slipped into each other's pussy. Then Nadine turned the switch, and it was like I'd grabbed a live wire, especially when she maneuvered herself so that our legs were scissored and our pussies were mashed together in a wet, steamy tangle. By the time I left her hotel room that afternoon, I had come countless times, and I had a new appreciation for the ways in which women could please each other. I also had another regular customer who would pay me well when she came back to town, and who would refer me to anyone she knew who might be interested in sampling the best piece of ass in our city. Such was my life as a whore, always in search of new clients. Let me be clear on this. I hated having to whore myself to pay my bills, but I'd be lying if I said it was all work and no play. Certainly, there were plenty of encounters that I didn't like, but I also had a lot of clients who treated me well and who made me come. I had to get some pleasure out of what I was doing, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to stand it. As it was, I never quite got over the guilt I felt at what I was doing, but I managed to put those feelings aside and did what I had to do. It didn't take long to get myself set up in business. My best friends, Betty Sue and Terry Montgomery, were invaluable in guiding me into my new life. And before you accuse them of leading me astray, they didn't lead me into anything I didn't want to do. I never fucked Terry – or Betty Sue, for that matter – and they never demanded anything from me except continued friendship. Betty Sue had spent five years as a call girl in her younger years, and she was full of advice on what I should wear, what I should and should not do. The best piece of advice she gave me was to stock up on condoms, and to make my clients use them unless I was absolutely certain they were clean. Terry was a CPA, and he helped me set up a business front, in order to disguise my earnings and provide a means to pay my taxes. I called it Fisher Enterprises, Fisher being my maiden name. I registered my "brand" with the IRS and I was officially in business. Moreover, their older daughter Mallory, now 15, was almost a part of my family, because she kept my little girl, Ashley, who was now 5 and about to start school. Ashley was best friends with Terry and Betty Sue's younger child, Rachel. I had Mallory on my payroll, at a substantial weekly salary to baby-sit Ashley, and she was also showing an interest in helping the home health nurses who cared for Brett. Clayton Howell, the man who had been my very first customer, was a huge help. He had a wide network of friends, colleagues, business associates and clients that he referred to me, and I was quickly working as many as six days a week. Sometimes, I had clients in the late mornings or afternoons, but more often I worked at night. The frequency varied from one night to the next, but I usually saw at least two clients in a given night, sometimes three, but rarely more than that. A few times, there wasn't any sex involved at all; I was simply hired to escort some gentleman to a social function of some sort. These were usually married men – faithful married men – whose wives weren't interested in the event in question, or who had some other reason for not escorting their husbands. Many of my clients were people of means, people with influence – businessmen, businesswomen, politicians, lawyers, doctors – and I quickly became adept at moving in a higher social circle than I'd been accustomed to in what I came to call "my other life," the one I had before Brett was hurt. Most of the time, I met my clients at a hotel or motel, but not on the first meeting. When I saw a man for the first time, I always met him in a public place – a park, a restaurant or a hotel lobby – where I could meet him first and do a quick study on him. I got to be very good at sizing up a person and figuring out what they were really like, whether they could be violent or whether they had a drug problem. It didn't work every time, but it worked often enough to keep me out of major trouble. For example, I backed out of one engagement with an out-of-town businessman, and I later learned that he was arrested for assaulting a woman back in his hometown. I also became acquainted with bartenders and hotel clerks in certain establishments who would alert me if the person I was meeting was someone I shouldn't go with. It cost me a free fuck or perhaps a blowjob to get that kind of protection in some cases, but others simply did it because they liked having me in their bar. I was always pretty quiet and a little shy when I was younger, so I hadn't realized it until fairly late, but I'm a pretty woman with a great body and a nice personality, and men liked being around me. I'm not bragging; that's just the way it was. The final piece in the establishment of my business fell into place in mid-May that first year. I'd been at it about five months, and the one thing that really concerned me was being arrested for soliciting and/or prostitution. One morning, I got a call from Clayton asking me to come to his office around 1 o'clock that afternoon. He said he had someone I needed to meet. I thought it was odd that he'd want me to meet him in his office, but he said it would be all business. I arrived right on time, and was ushered into Clayton's office, where I saw another man sitting in a chair. He stood up when I entered, shook my hand with a very firm grip and introduced himself as Owen Hester. Owen was a good three inches shorter than my 5-foot-10, but he was stocky and powerfully built, with a shaved head that I soon learned was a disguise for baldness. He had a bushy moustache, though, and an infectious smile, which I was soon learned masked a stern demeanor. Clayton said Owen was the deputy commissioner of public safety – the city's No. 2 cop – and I guess I must have flinched or something, because Owen smiled and told me to relax. "You're among friends here, Mrs. Summers," Owen said. "Please, call me Kate," I said. "Kate, Owen and I have been friends since childhood. I told him about your situation and the lengths you're having to go to deal with it," Clayton said. "He thinks we can work out a solution that is mutually beneficial." Owen had just gone through a very contentious divorce, and he wasn't interested in playing the dating game and trying to get into another serious relationship. But he did have a deep-seated need (his words) for sexual release and intimacy with a woman. The proposal he had for me was that if I'd spend several hours each week servicing his needs, he'd see to it that I was protected, both from arrest and from the criminal element. "Why would you risk your career for me?" I said, not quite believing my good fortune. "I mean, if it ever gets out that you're seeing a prostitute in exchange for protection, your career could be ruined." "Well, Kate, unless one of the three of us lets it get out, I can't see how anyone will find out," Owen said. "I'm not paying out any cash, since this would be a quid pro quo deal, so as far as anyone else is concerned, you're just a girlfriend I meet with on a regular basis." Desperate Measures Ch. 02 "How will you be able to protect me without tipping anyone off?" I said. "You're a smart girl," Owen said, flashing me his million-dollar smile. "You ask good questions. I can see why you're so taken with her, Clayton. You're right, I can't ask Vice to back off on you specifically, but I can keep you informed of what's coming as far as raids go, whether you're under investigation – which you are not, yet – and whether one of your clients is an undercover agent. In my position, I know everything that goes on in the department." "One more thing," I said. "Do you have any unusual fetishes, anything that might involve rough stuff?" "You have my word as an officer and a gentleman, and Clayton can vouch for me," Owen said. "I have a strong sexual appetite, but I'm not into pain. I'm a lover, not a fighter, although I can fight when I have to. Kate, I've been lonely since my divorce, but my ex-wife burned me pretty good as far as relationships go. I just need a reminder that I'm still a man, and if you're half as good as Clayton says you are, you're going to be just what I need." There was such a plaintive quality to his last statement, almost a plea, that he got to me. And, I'm damn glad he did, because ... well, let me tell you about the first time I went to his apartment. We decided to set up our meetings for 1 o'clock in the afternoon on Saturdays, and I was to dress casually, so as to not arouse any suspicion that I was what I was, a hooker meeting a customer. Owen's place was in a high-rise building, so there wasn't much chance of prying eyes seeing me come and go. But we weren't taking any chances, so I parked my car in the building's garage and took the elevator to his floor. I was nervous, because I still wasn't quite sure what to expect. But he greeted me warmly and led me into his apartment. I walked over to the window and gazed out at the city that was spread out before us. This was the city I'd come to love, my adopted hometown, but it was also the city where fate had dealt me a losing hand, where the love of my life had been stripped of his manhood, forcing me to sell myself so we could stay together as a family. Owen was cool; he wasn't in any hurry. As much as anyone, I think he truly understood the dilemma I was living with, and he didn't push me, but let things flow at an easy pace. We spent the first hour just talking, becoming acquainted, while I sipped on a couple of glasses of wine. He was quite well traveled, he was a fascinating conversationalist and I found myself growing to like him a lot. Eventually, the conversation petered out, and he slid over to me on the sofa. He drew me to him and we kissed, slow and sensual. I felt his hands sweeping over me, and my arousal began to grow from his touch. I returned the favor, running my hands over his hard body, and down between his legs, where his cock was bulging. Our tongues were doing a dance of lust in each other's mouths, and our lips were on overdrive as we sucked at each other. Finally, we broke apart, catching our breath. Owen looked at me with his sky-blue eyes casting an intense glow. "Shall we?" he said, as he stood and offered me his hand. We walked to his bedroom, and leisurely stripped. There was no dance of seduction, no strip show, just two adults getting ready for an afternoon romp. Owen whistled when he got his first look at my naked body – the modest breasts, the long slender legs, the well trimmed bush that framed my pink pussy, the firm butt – and I nodded in appreciation as I swept my eyes over his body. He was hard and muscled, without an ounce of fat anywhere. The only part of his body that wasn't absolutely perfect was his cock, or so I thought at the time. In fact, I was about to learn an important lesson in the relative meaninglessness of cock size. In the four years that I screwed for a living, I found that the optimum size for a man was about 7 inches. That was enough to fill me good without becoming painful. Anything up to about 8 1/2 was tolerable, but anything over that was difficult. Not only were the really big cocks painful, but almost invariably the men they were attached to had egos in proportion to the size of their cocks. Guys would flop out a 9 or 10-inch dick – and I did see a few 10-inchers – and expect me to just swoon in abject lust. And most of the time, they had little control and less regard for my pleasure. What's more, I discovered that men who were a little smaller than average tended to work harder to compensate. They were better with their mouths and better with their hands, and Owen Hester definitely fell into that category. Fact is, I routinely got more pleasure in one afternoon with Owen and his 5-inch dick than I did with all of the 10-inchers combined. My God, the man knew how to fuck. Out of all the men I've ever had, the only one who was in Owen's class was Brett. My husband had a very nice cock, and he knew what to do with it, plus he had the advantage of true love on his side. But Owen surpassed all the rest, as I found out that first afternoon. We lay on his bed, kissing and running our hands over each other. I gasped as his fingers found my sex and he began to play a symphony on my clit. He stroked me expertly, then slid two fingers in my juicy pie, while I slowly jacked his rock-hard cock. We just seemed to flow together, him on his back and me on top, my legs straddling his head. He pulled my hips down, so that my pussy was planted firmly on his mouth, and I got my first taste of Owen's expert tongue on my twat. Owen had a long tongue that quickly had me squirming, and his thick moustache was making my clit sing. As I slid my creamy cunt over his mouth, I threw my hair back and licked up and down on the shaft of his cock, then up until I was over the head. I opened my mouth wide and filled my mouth with his cock. I took every bit of him in one delicious plunge, and I was gratified to hear his muffled groan in my pussy. I was able to suck all of Owen's cock with no problem, and I gave him every bit of my newfound expertise. I worked my lips over his rigid shaft and rolled my tongue over the sensitive places under the crown. We were soaring to a peak of passion, but as Owen wormed his lips and tongue over my spastic pussy, I pulled my mouth off his cock and let the feelings wash over me. Owen just chuckled, in a seductive way that sent chills all over me. He redoubled his work on my cunt, and I squeezed my eyes shut as a huge climax came to a head. I managed to keep a slow stroking rhythm on his cock, but that was about it as the feeling of pleasure exploded through my body. I twitched and shuddered as my climax ripped through me from the tongue-lashing I'd just gotten from Owen. As the climax finally worked its way out of me, I bent over and pounced on Owen's cock. I vacuumed his throbbing hardness into my mouth, while jacking him with my hand. I wanted to taste his cock, wanted to feel his eruption, feel his hot jets of cum hit the back of my throat. Owen idly fiddled with my juicy cunt as I sucked his cock hard and fast. It didn't take long before I got what I wanted. I felt Owen's body stiffen under me, then his hips jerked upward, followed a second or two by the swelling of his cock as it exploded in my mouth. I kept my throat working, swallowing his thick, spicy cum as it burst from the end of his cock. I was gratified to hear Owen's satisfied groan as I milked his cock with my hand and my lips. I had to admit, it was a very erotic feeling to please a man like that. We were lying back relaxing when Owen looked at me very seriously. He had a finger playing lightly in my pussy, and I was doing a slow simmer from the way he was stroking me. "Kate, can I ask for something special?" he said. "Sure, I'm yours to do whatever you want, within reason," I said. "My wife – my ex-wife – never let me have her ass," he said. "She thought it was disgusting, and as a result, it was always something I wanted badly. I mean, I know I could just take it from you. But that's not the way I want to do things with you." "Owen, I told you, anything you want and it's yours," I said. "All I ask is that you get me good and hot for it." By then, I'd had men fuck my ass a number of times, and I'd accepted it as part of the job. Some were better than others at it, but there was never any question about denying any man my ass. Owen got up, went to the bedside table and pulled out a tube of lubricant. I got on my knees, with my butt slightly elevated. Owen knelt behind me, and I felt his hot breath on my crotch. His tongue slid up and down my slippery sex, boring into my hole. I'm not sure how many times he worked his tongue up and down my cunt, but it must have been about a half-dozen times before he made a swipe up to my pink anus. He circled his tongue over my pink starfish, then pulled back and eased a finger past my sphincter. He gently massaged the inside of my rectum with his middle finger for a minute or so, then bent down and licked me again, and this time he pushed his stiff tongue past my increasingly-relaxed hole. I groaned in lust as I reveled in the sensations of Owen's tongue as it wormed its way wetly into my ass. I could tell Owen was getting excited about the prospect of fucking my ass, but he was still taking his time, getting my lust worked up to a fever pitch. I gripped the sheets as another orgasm came to a quick frothy head, but before I could get there, Owen pulled his mouth away. I moaned in frustration, but I wasn't deprived long. Owen quickly replaced his tongue with a finger coated in jelly, and I growled in response. I raised up slightly and pinched my nipples as he began to finger-fuck my ass at a brisker pace than before. I gasped as the sizzling sensations radiated from my breasts all through my body, mingling with the mounting glow of lust from Owen's powerful work in my ass. Again, I climbed ever closer to a climax, and again Owen pulled away at the last second. "God, Owen, please, make me come," I pleaded. "In good time, my dear," he chuckled softly. "You're going to come, don't worry, and when you do..." I moaned then, because I knew I was about to be taken on a ride to nirvana by a man who knew what he was doing with a woman. Sure enough, Owen quickly resumed finger-fucking my ass, this time with two fingers. He pressed the index and middle finger of his hand into my ass and worked them hard back and forth in my buttery rectum, while the other two fingers wormed their way into my pussy. I looked back, and saw that Owen had an intense look of almost reverent lust on his face as he slowly worked his lube-slick cock with the hand that wasn't in me. Just about the time I finally reached an orgasmic peak, I finally couldn't stand any more. "Please, sweet Jesus, Owen, fuck my ass," I wailed. "Put that beautiful cock in my butt and fuck the shit out of me." Owen groaned himself as he pulled his hand away. I was so far gone; I reached back and spread my butt cheeks to give him a wider target. I'd always been slightly ambivalent about anal sex, even with Brett. But now I wanted Owen to fuck my ass like I'd never wanted it done before. I felt the rubbery head of Owen's cock as it circled the outside of my anus, and I panted while I willed myself to relax as much as possible. It seemed like time stood still as he added subtle pressure until suddenly the head popped past my sphincter. Owen and I both groaned heavily as his cock slid slowly but steadily into my ass. It was absolutely a perfect fit. He was fat enough to fill me good, but not so long that he hurt me with his size. We quickly got into a passionate rhythm; his cock pumping back and forth in my ass, and my hips working to keep as much of his throbbing cock as I could in my twitching rectum. It didn't take long before my head was pressed into the bed, with my fists full of the sheet, as a huge orgasm exploded violently through my body. I writhed on the bed, on my knees, as Owen fucked my ass relentlessly, his hands gripping my hips tightly. I thought he'd go on and come, but he had other ideas. Just about the time I was climbing the ladder to yet another orgasm, Owen pulled his cock out of my ass. I whimpered as I felt the emptiness of my rectum. But I wasn't empty long. Owen took my waist and flipped me onto my back. I spread my long legs as wide as I could, and he obliged me by hooking my knees with his elbows. That had the effect of opening me up wide – and I was already cored open really well. I kept my legs high in the air as he pushed his cock back into my waiting ass. "I want to watch your face as you come," he panted. "You are so beautiful, and I want to see that glow." I was more than halfway there, as my head lolled on the bed in abject surrender to his pounding lust. In this position, he could really fuck my ass hard and deep, but again, not so deep that it hurt. I mean, he was exquisite with the way he could use his equipment, and I responded by thrashing on the bed, moaning and gasping as my third – or was it my fourth? – climax burst through me. I was hyperventilating as Owen began to pick up speed, and I could tell from his face, the way he was huffing and puffing, that he was close. "Come ... on, baby!" I stammered. "Come ... come ... with ... me! Fill ... your ... whore ... GAAHH! Yeah, fuckme, fuckme, fuckme, fuuuuuuuuck meeeeee!" I was absolutely gone with lust as the mini-orgasms began popping off in my body like a string of firecrackers that's been set off all at once. Through a red haze I saw Owen squeeze his eyes shut, seconds before I felt his cock balloon in my ass, seconds before he spewed a barrage of hard jets of cum deep into my bowels. We thrashed together on his bed as we spent ourselves in, on and around each other. Owen collapsed onto my heaving chest, our sweat-covered bodies sliding together as he spit out the final afterbursts of semen into my clenching hole. Slowly, we floated back to some semblance of consciousness, until Owen finally rolled off my body and lay back next to me. "I think this is the beginning of a very nice partnership," Owen gasped. Indeed it was. I'm not sure whether anything ever was said, but I never had a bit of trouble from the police, and very little trouble with bad guys. On the rare occasions when I did get stiffed by a client, or did get roughed up a little – and it did happen, in spite of my precautions – those clients never got a chance to repeat their offense. It took me about 18 months to get caught up with the bills, and that included squirreling money back for taxes and for a rainy day. I was taught at an early age the value of thrift, and I didn't abandon those lessons when I started making a lot of money. And I made a LOT of money. When it came time to do my taxes after that first year, I was astounded to learn that I'd grossed over $170,000. If you think that figure is excessive, do the math. That first year, I worked a total of 45 weeks, taking off two weeks for a vacation to visit my family, a week off right before Christmas and a few odd weeks through the year when Brett was hospitalized. I worked an average of five nights a week, which added up to around 200 working days, and I averaged right at $1,000 a night. Terry helped me set up some ways to avoid paying an outrageous amount of taxes, but I still paid out about 30 percent of my income to the IRS. I was on pins and needles every year at tax time, worried that I'd get a call from an auditor who would want details about my business, but I never did. I guess as long as I paid, they didn't care too much how I made my money. I wish I could say that everything hummed along smoothly, but that wasn't the case. One night toward the end of my second year as a whore, I came home to find Lovena, the night nurse at the time, sitting at the kitchen table. Usually, the night nurse stayed downstairs in the den with Brett, reading, sometimes dozing next to the monitors, but either way, I never saw her when I came in from working. But it was apparent that she'd been waiting for me, and she had a very disapproving look in her eyes. "Sit down, Miz Summers, please," she said. "Can't I get changed first?" I said. It was 3 o'clock in the morning, I was tired from a particularly strenuous night of sex, and all I really wanted was to get in the shower and wash away my sin, the way I did every night, then get into some comfortable clothes to get ready for bed. "I think it would be best if we got this out of the way now," Lovena said. I sat down then, and she told me that Brett had been asking her about my job. She said he was really puzzled about it, like he couldn't quite put together what I was doing for a living. "He sees the way you dress when you leave here," she said. "He's brain-damaged, but not so brain-damaged that he can't see that you're dressed up awfully nice and sexy to go to work. I haven't told him anything, because I don't feel like it's my place to. But I'm not stupid. I know what sex smells like, and I know you don't get that smell and you don't make the kind of money you're making unless you're whoring. Am I not right?" I just dropped my head into my hands and pinched my eyes with my fingers, trying to quell the sudden headache that had just sprung up. I tried to explain my situation, how I had dreaded the idea of putting Brett in a nursing home, how I was drowning in debt, how starved I was for affection, for a human touch. But it all sounded very lame, like I was making excuses. Lovena looked at me evenly, then her features softened somewhat. "Miz Summers ... Kate," she said slowly. "I think you're basically a good person, and I believe you're doing what you think you have to do. And, maybe there is no other way. But I'm telling you, Mr. Brett is going to figure it out pretty soon, and I can't predict his reaction. You need to find a way to tell him. It'll be hard, but it'll be harder if it comes from someone else, someone like me, because I'm not going to lie to him. If he comes right out and asks me if you're hooking for a living, I'm going to tell him the truth. Better it come from you, than from me." I had been dreading that moment for slightly less than two years, and now it had come. I had taken a sort of don't ask-don't tell approach to Brett's possible reaction to my job; that as long as he didn't ask, I wouldn't tell. And, truthfully, I wasn't sure whether Brett's diminished mental capacity would allow him to comprehend what I was having to do to keep him home and to keep that home paid for. But it seemed that Brett was curious at the very least, trying to work it out in his mind what kind of job I had. I was really trying to walk a fine line, because Brett's mind was something like that of a child in so many respects, yet I couldn't be sure that he didn't understand adult concepts like prostitution. I told Lovena that I would handle it, and asked her to come in about an hour later than usual the next day, to give me a chance to sit down alone with Brett and break the news to him that his loving wife was a whore. I never felt so dirty in all my life. As long as I live I will never forget the look in his eyes when I told him what I really did for a living. I don't know, maybe he'd already figured it out, and with the slow way his mind worked, he was in a kind of denial about it. "What did we always say?" I said to him in as soothing a tone as I could muster. "Tell the truth, no matter how hard it hurts. Well, this truth hurts. But, I can't see any other way. Would you rather be here or in a nursing home? Would you rather have me and Ashley around you all the time, or a bunch of faceless, nameless nurses? Do you think I like doing this to you? God, Brett, I love you and I'd do anything if you could be whole again. But I can't. There's no going back. Not now. All we can do is stay together as much as we can, and if I have to be a whore for that to happen, then that's the way it has to be." Desperate Measures Ch. 02 He just looked at me with puppy-dog eyes then he nodded slowly. I think it was in that moment that he finally realized, once and for all, that he was truly helpless, that he would never walk again, never feed himself again, never wipe his own ass again, and that he would never be able to fuck me again. Most men would have simply given up after that, and after seeing the look in Brett's eyes that night, I figured he'd be like most men. But, amazingly, my revelation had the opposite effect. Suddenly, he became more determined than ever to walk, to do for himself, and he told me, in his hesitant, almost childish voice, that he was going to come to me someday and make it so I could quit being a whore. It was almost like he blamed himself for forcing me into such a decision, and he became fixated on getting back to a point where I wouldn't have to do that any more. I encouraged him in that pursuit, even though I knew in my heart that it would never happen. Still, I cut back on my schedule and spent more nights with him, just sitting with him, watching TV or just talking, trying to get him to exercise his mind more. We began to get out of the house more, going to the park or just travelling a little. Maybe it was a guilty conscience, but I wanted to do as much for him as I could. For all of his newfound determination to at least attempt to recover for my benefit, we never again discussed the nature of my job. It was like a great unspoken in our lives; that if we didn't talk about it, it didn't exist. I would spend most days when I didn't have a job puttering around the house, doing housework and engaging Brett in conversation. After Ashley came home from school, I'd help her with her homework, we'd have dinner then Mallory would come over and I'd go upstairs and get ready for work. Whatever else was happening, I always told my husband good night and gave him a kiss before I left. And when I left, I didn't linger. I didn't want to see any yearning or any looks of reproach in his or anyone else's eyes. You know, out of sight, out of mind. And let me say here that I did not want him or anyone else close to me thinking about, or knowing in any specific way what I was doing, because I occasionally got into some pretty crazy situations. Indeed, there was one other aspect of my work that developed as the second year of my job progressed, and that was the group scenes I did. The first time I fucked more than one man in a session came in December of the first year when two businessmen, one of them a regular from Atlanta, bought me for the night. Most of the time, there were just two men, but every so often, I'd get three or four, and on rare occasions, I'd be hired for a gangbang. The price was still the same, $500 a pop, although I generally waived the two-hour limit if there were a lot of guys to service. These jobs varied, but the one constant was that I was brought to a continuous series of climaxes, and I came to really like them. Hey, by then, I'd become such a slut in my own mind that it didn't matter what anyone else might think. Sometimes, they were bachelor parties; others were trade shows where I worked a "hospitality room" with several other girls. Once, I even joined a married couple and their friend for a foursome. Probably the best group scene I did was a New Year's Eve party at the home of a regular, near the end of my third year of work. It wasn't necessarily the wildest – that was a 14-man gangbang that left me a physical wreck for three days – but I think it was the best, because of who it involved. Milton Bass was a bachelor of around 40 who owned a dry-cleaning service that had several outlets, and had done well financially. His younger brother, Andre, was a master sergeant in the Army who had just returned from a tour of duty in Iraq, and his youngest brother, Derek, had come down from New York for the holidays. They were going to have a fairly quiet New Year's Eve, but Milton wanted to hire me to entertain him and his brothers, and he had a special request. He wanted me to leave the condoms at home and do the three of them bareback. I was a little hesitant at first. I knew Milton was clean, so I wasn't worried about him, but I never let a first-time customer fuck me without a rubber. Milton assured me, however, that both of his brothers were as clean – if not cleaner – than he was. Andre had been in a committed relationship when he left for Iraq, but he'd learned she'd been cheating on him while he was away. He'd been pretty broken up about it, so he hadn't been laid in over a year. And Milton said Derek was a kind of a shy type who hadn't had many women in his life. I finally agreed, but told Milton that it would cost him an extra $500. He agreed, and the date was made. I arrived at Milton's house about 10 o'clock dressed in jeans, sweater and boots, because it was cold that night. I'd brought along an outfit that I planned on changing into for the "show" that was about to transpire. Milton already had my fee ready, in the form of a cashier's check in the amount of $2,500, the price we had negotiated ahead of time. I was nervous, but a couple of quick shots of brandy helped calm me down. When I came out from the bedroom area into the den, I was introduced to Milton's two brothers. Milton is an average-sized fellow with short hair, a moustache and skin that was a rich mahogany color. Derek was actually kind of small in stature, maybe 5-foot-7 and slender, with skin that was more of a sepia tone and short curls that were trimmed tight on his head. But Andre, the middle brother, was like some Zulu king. He was about 6-feet tall, quite well built with a shaved head, classic African features and skin the color of fudge. I'd had quite a few black men before, and, of course, Milton was a regular customer. But for some reason, I'd never had more than one at a time, and I'd never encountered anyone like Andre Bass. He had a very commanding presence, and yet I would quickly discover that he had a very gentle way with women. I was dressed in a tight leather miniskirt, silk blouse, thigh-high stockings, g-string panties, high heels and a string of faux pearls. I had done my makeup in a fairly exotic way; not thick so much, but with a lot of eye shadow and bright red lipstick. Since Andre was the man of honor, I had Milton put on some tunes, some sexy soul music, and I gathered Andre in to dance. I knew I was in for a night to remember as soon as he enveloped me in his arms. He was strong, but smooth, an excellent dancer, and I shivered with lust when his hands caressed my butt. By the third song, we were kissing hard and grinding our crotches together, and I could see wanton lust on his face. When the song ended, Andre looked at me with penetrating eyes, leaned in and whispered in my ear. "Why don't you strip for us, dear?" he said softly. "Show us that sexy body." In truth, my nipples were like bullets poking into the soft material of my blouse. Andre sat down and smiled knowingly, as if he could read my mind. His look seemed to say, "you may be getting paid, but there's a part of you that would do this for nothing." Of course, if I hadn't been a whore, I would never have been in that situation to begin with, so he was wrong in that respect. But he was right in another sense. I was going to enjoy the experience to the fullest, and the money was just a lucrative part of it. And, boy, did I. I danced to the tasty soul that was playing on Milton's sound system. These men were mostly from a generation that was a little older – more soul than hip-hop – and they were grooving to the show I was putting on as I swayed to the cool music. I slowly undid the buttons of my blouse, so that my modest breasts were just peeking from the opening. I played at showing my tits several times before I discarded my blouse. As I danced, I played with myself, softly twirling my nipples between my fingers. As I watched the look on the men's faces, I gauged just how long to keep the tease going, and I knew I needed to speed things along. I quickly shed my skirt, then gave each of them a quick close-up of my ass, bending over low so they could see the thin material that was snug against my asshole. Finally I rolled onto the floor and slid the panties off my legs and gave them all a quite lewd view of my clean-shaved pussy. I really didn't much care for the bald look, but Milton had said that Andre had specifically asked that I be clean, so I did as I was asked. I was quite wet as I displayed myself. I slid my fingers between my labia, the pleasure mounting in my hard core. I wound up on my knees in a very suggestive pose, stared at Andre and beckoned him to the center of the room with a come-hither look. He stood in front of me, and I reached up, unzipped him and fished out his cock, which was already hard and leaking. Like everything else about him, it was gorgeous, a classically cut piece of meat that appeared to be about 8 inches and thick. His was without a doubt the best "big" cock I ever encountered. I took my time with it, running my tongue all over the shaft, then working it between my lips, not sucking yet, but just tasting. At length, I opened my mouth and sucked in as much as I could take, which was a little over half. The rest I fisted, sort of feeding it past my lips. Although I tried, I never could quite master the art of deep-throating a big cock, but I don't think anyone ever complained about my oral skills. I sucked on Andre's cock with relish, getting it all nice and sloppy, and as I did, I looked up as he was looking down at me, and we shared a smile. As I took his cock out of my mouth to grab a deep breath, I looked around the room, and I could see Derek squeezing the bulge in his pants as he stared at how I was sucking his brother. I think maybe he was a little worked up over the color contrast, my rather pale, freckled complexion next to Andre's deep dark skin. I returned to my work, and as I sucked on Andre's cock, I could sense him starting to strip. He pulled off his sweater, then unbuckled his belt and unfastened his pants. Then I let his cock go free so he could complete his strip and we could get down to what I'd come there for. The room was nice and toasty from the fireplace that dominated one end of the den, and there was no chance of the cold seeping in. It was going to be hot and nasty, just the way I'd come to like it. Andre sat back in the chair and just held his cock straight up in the air, as if it was beckoning me. I climbed onto the chair, straddled his hips, let him ease the head of his cock to my hungry, wet hole, then I slowly slid down his length until I was fully impaled on his liquid stick. I know I groaned as Andre began to work me up and down with his powerful hands. I glanced around in a lustful haze and saw that Milton and Derek had removed their clothes and were fisting their dicks. I motioned for the other two to come over to where I was briskly working up and down on Andre's cock, and they bracketed me on either side of the chair. In that position I could lean over and take them in my mouth. I alternated sucking on Milton and Derek while still fucking on Andre. Andre was starting to pick up steam, however, and I could feel the little twitters that told me he was about to come. So I let the other two go and concentrated on Andre. I leaned over and kissed him deeply, letting my tongue explore his mouth, and he reached up and squeezed my jiggling breasts, and lightly pinched my nipples. I was beginning to feel my own climax start to build as Andre's cock filled me just to the brim. If he'd been any longer, he'd have been uncomfortable in my pussy, but as it was, he was just right. I could feel his twitching that told me he was ever so close, and sure enough, I watched him screw his eyes shut, seconds before he lurched upward and shot a fountain of cum deep in my womb. He was just a little bit ahead of me, but as I ground my cunt on the base of his cock, where his kinky pubic hair was located, I felt a rush of sensation as I shivered in my orgasm. I just sat there on my knees, trembling in the afterglow of orgasm. Then Andre gently slid me to the floor, his wet cock flopping from my gooey hole. He got up and relinquished the seat to Derek, while Milton took up position behind me. I groaned as Milton scudded his cock into my flooded hole in one smooth motion. I looked up through lust-glazed eyes as Derek offered me his cock, and I swooped down on it like a bird of prey. Milton's cock wasn't quite as long as Andre's, maybe 7 inches, but it was almost as fat, and Derek's cock was about the same length as Milton's, but a bit more slender. Trust me, they were both more than adequate. I was able to work all but the last couple of inches of Derek's cock into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the shaft, while Milton worked his cock expertly in my steaming box. He was taking it at a strong, but measured pace, fucking me just hard enough to stoke my fire to a fever pitch. I could sense that Derek was pretty close, so I redoubled my efforts with my mouth. In response, he laced his fingers in my red curls and began to fuck my mouth at a stronger pace. Milton, too, was getting close, and I hurled my hips back to get all of his cock on the incoming thrusts. About the time I felt Derek's cock swell, he jerked his cock out of my mouth and sprayed his cum all over my face. He shot ropes of semen over both eyes, over my nose, into my hair, then slid his cock back into my mouth for me to get the final dregs of his orgasm. Just the sheer lewdness of the act sent me tumbling over the edge, and seconds later, I felt Milton's cock explode deep in my pussy. I shuddered in climax as he filled me with a second hard load of cum. When it was over, there was almost a collective sigh as we relaxed. That was just Round 1, however. After a brief respite, Andre positioned me on a coffee table right at midnight, and when the ball dropped in Times Square, he took a bottle of champagne, shook it up good, popped the cork then let the fountain of liquid cover my body. The tingly bubbles sent waves of sensation racing through me, and then I was astounded when he pushed the neck of the bottle into my cum-drenched pussy, almost like an alcoholic douche. I've never had an experience quite like the feeling of those tiny bubbles popping off in me. I came like a rocket right there on the table, and they didn't let up. While Andre knelt between my legs and worked his lips and tongue over my sizzling cunt, Milton and Derek took up position on either side of me and took turns pouring champagne over my breasts and licking it off. They also passed the bottle around for a toast, until it was empty and I had come again at least twice more. By then, they had all three gotten hard again, and they took me right on the table. Derek lifted my legs high and pushed his cock deep in my hole and he fucked me quite a long time, then pulled out and fucked my ass. Milton followed suit, planting a big, hard load in my rectum while Andre bent my head back and slowly fucked my mouth, until he came down my throat. After that, we retired to Milton's Jacuzzi where they took turns cleaning my body. I even did something I'd never done before and that was give Andre a rim job. He bent over the edge of the tub and asked me to lick his ass, and I did. I can't say I got anything out of it, but it sure fired him up. And that led us to Milton's bed, where they gave me a true triple penetration. Andre lay on his back, and I eased my well-lubricated ass onto his cock, then Derek climbed between my legs and pushed his cock into my pussy while Milton knelt beside me for me to suck him. I'd done DPs before, but there was just something wicked, something slightly forbidden about letting three black men fuck me in all of my holes at the same time, and I was quickly transported into the nether world of multiple orgasms, a place I rarely visited. Derek was the first to come, filling my cunt with his wet load, then Milton came on my tits and seconds later, Andre grunted hard and shot off in my ass. By then, I was absolutely a smoking shell, burnt to a crisp inside. After a few minutes to rest and get my bearings, we untangled ourselves and I went to shower so I could be reasonably clean when I got home. I saw Andre twice more before he left for his next duty assignment, and he was every bit as good on those occasions as he was that New Year's Eve. As the fourth year went by, and I passed the age of 36, I began to think about life after hooking. By then, I had my finances in order. The house mortgage was paid for, as was the van, and I had plenty of money saved in a college fund for Ashley and for me to use after I retired from prostitution. There are those who say that once a woman gets caught up in the life of whoring, the lifestyle and the money become so seductive that it's hard to break free. It wasn't that hard for me, however, because I never let myself grow to like the life of a whore. Oh, I enjoyed the sex, and the intimacy that often came with it, and the money certainly was a godsend. But I did my best to stay grounded emotionally, I stayed way away from the drugs that many hookers get caught up in, and, in fact, drank very little alcohol. I never wanted to be a whore forever, and I began to be more selective in the jobs I took. I took on very few new clients, and cut my workload back tremendously. It's a good thing I did, because Brett's health started to deteriorate rapidly that year. The irony is that through the first half of the year, he was starting to make a little progress. He managed to get a slight bit of movement in his right hand, enough to operate a mechanized wheelchair, and he finally was weaned off the ventilator. He still had to have oxygen, but he had finally gotten enough strength in his chest to breathe on his own. As a result, that summer, I took Ashley, Brett and one of the nurses on a long vacation to the West. We saw the Grand Canyon, the Pacific Ocean, the Rocky Mountains and many other well-known spots in that part of the country. I don't know if that contributed to his decline, whether the physical exertion that was involved in that trip or the dry Western air left him open to the infections that finally killed him. But even if they did, it was still worth it. It was the happiest time we spent together in the six years that he lived after the accident. Nevertheless, Brett started getting sick almost the moment we got back. He was in and out of the hospital with pneumonia the rest of that year, and it didn't help that it was an unusually wet autumn and a very cold winter. Even though it took a supremely difficult effort, we packed up and went home for Christmas that year. By then, everyone – even Brett himself – knew he was dying. Even so, it was very nice holiday. Brett was as lucid as he'd ever been in the six years since the accident, and we spent the time laughing and crying as we relived all of the good times – and a few of the bad – with the people who loved him the most. Because we didn't live close to the old hometown, no one on either side of the family knew what I did for a living, but my mom had her suspicions, and she cornered me one day just after Christmas. "Kate, you've worked hard for four years now, and become very successful, yet in all that time, you've never told me what it is that you do," she said. I just looked at her with my eyes brimming with tears. Even after four years as a whore, it was never easy to admit to myself what I'd had to do to get by. "Mom," I said finally. "You don't want to know. All I'll say is that I've done what I felt like I had to do for my family." Desperate Measures Ch. 02 Then I turned and walked into my old bedroom, shut the door, fell down on the bed and bawled my eyes out. I cried like I hadn't cried in years. I had successfully dammed up my emotions to get through what I had to do in my job, but the stress of Brett's condition and my mother's question had burst that dam. Mom never brought up the subject again, but she's never been quite as warm to me as she had been before. I don't blame her. It's not easy to think of your baby girl doing the things I'd been doing to pay the rent. The end came rather suddenly. One night in early February – a cold, drizzly night – Brett woke up gasping for breath, even with the ventilator going. We took him to the hospital – again – and the doctor told us that his lungs were filling up with fluid almost as fast as they could draw it out. I looked in on him and his face was contorted with pain, even through the sedatives that they were giving him. In that moment, I made a decision that some might damn me for, but one I knew was right. It was time to let him go. I called the doctor over and told him I wanted him kept alive long enough for his family to get there and say their final good-byes, but after that I wanted him taken off the ventilator. He'd fought it long enough; now it was time for him to go to heaven and be whole again. It was the next morning when they started arriving, and they spent the morning with him. Around noon, they came out and we shared a hug before they went to the waiting room. I walked in with Ashley and we both hugged Brett, told him goodbye, then we stepped aside and let the nurses do what they had to do. Brett was buried on a cold, but sunny afternoon, and I held my head high as I greeted friends and well-wishers. I was gratified that many of the clients that I had come to call friends were at the service: Clayton Howell, Owen Hester, Milton Bass, they all came to pay their respects. And, of course, Terry and Betty Sue stood with me the whole way, the same way they had throughout. After Brett's death, there was no reason for me to whore any more, and I quit, just like that. I sold the house and the van, and moved to a mid-sized town much closer to my hometown. I needed a new life and a new start in some place that didn't constantly remind me of the years of struggle after Brett was incapacitated. I bought a house in a quiet neighborhood and settled down to rebuild my life after the ordeal of my six years of dealing with the aftermath of Brett's accident. I used some of the money I'd saved up and bought a crafts boutique, and used the entrepreneurial skills I'd learned to make it a success. Four years of fucking for pay had scratched whatever itch I'd had for casual sex, and thus I was celibate for almost a year after I turned my last trick. I finally started dating some, and some of those relationships did become sexual. I was determined that if a relationship progressed to the point where they became serious, I would sit the man down and tell him about what I'd done to survive after Brett's accident. The first two serious relationships I had foundered when I made my confession, but that suited me. If they couldn't take me as I was, warts and all, past be damned, then they weren't for me. I wasn't going to revel in my past, but I wasn't going to deny it, either. So I was sort of drifting in my personal life, working at my store and watching Ashley grow up, when fate played one final card. It was right after the turn of a new year, not long before I turned 40, when I got a call from someone I'd never expected to hear from again. It was Owen Hester, and he said he'd retired from the police force and was looking for a quiet place to settle down. "Truth is, Katie, I've missed you terribly," he said. "I always thought our relationship was strictly professional, but after Brett passed away and you moved on, I realized how deeply embedded you'd become in my life. I think about you all the time, and I want to come up there and see you. I know you want to put that part of your past behind you, and if you don't want to pursue a relationship with me, I'll understand. But I'm very fond of you, and I think I could grow to love you, if you'll have me." Of course, I told him to come on, and the rest is history. He took an apartment in town and we started spending almost all of our time together. Eighteen months later, we were married in a quiet ceremony at the church I'd joined when I moved there. Owen still has his high-rise apartment where we stay when we go back to the city, which we do several times a year. We visit old friends and pay our respects to Brett's gravesite. Whenever I run across an old client, I'm sometimes propositioned, until they learn that I'm now Owen's wife. Then they leave me alone. I truly wish I could have done things differently, that I could have gotten by without selling my body – and the large piece of my soul that went with it – but I did what I believed in my heart that I had to do. I can't go back and change the past, and if I could, I'd go all the way back and figure out some way to prevent Brett from being hurt. He was my first love, my best love, and I'd give anything to have him back the way he was before that awful night. But it happened the way it did for a reason, and he's gone now, so I can only look forward to make the best of my life with Owen, and finish raising my daughter the best way I know how. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I made a choice that I'll have to live with for the rest of my life. When that time comes, I'll know whether God has condemned me for that choice or forgiven me for that choice. Until then, all I can do is pray for salvation and hope for the best. THE END