In short, Happy Ending Ranch struck Lindsay as the ideal spot to test the industry. She’d gain valuable experience as an employee here and could, in theory, work her way up to the larger and more well-known houses where the real money was. I’d give anything if I could score a gig at Chastity’s Ranch one day.
Lindsay’s forehead scrunched as she stared at the battered metal sign mounted on the front door.
NOTICE: Cell phones, pagers, personal digital assistants (PDAs), laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios are prohibited on this property and will be confiscated.
She assumed the sign’s intent was to protect anonymity and safety and such rules were for the public, not the working girls. Surely, management wouldn’t forbid their employees from using cell phones, would they? That’d be whack. But to be safe, she stashed her wireless device inside her backpack. Ain’t no one touching my phone.
Lindsay extended her finger, pressed the doorbell, and an incessant chime emanated from somewhere behind the thick, reinforced mahogany.
And as if on cue, the sound set off an avalanche within her. Maybe I have it all wrong. Are Mom and Dad right? Seriously, do I understand what I’m doing? Thoughts swirled, rushed and chaotic. Am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life? Her mouth twisted to one side.
You’re insane, but welcome to the rest of your life, girlfriend. This is what you wanted, and now it’s here: time to get fucked for a living. She gripped the hair at the base of her skull as her pulse staggered. Hey, they can print that on your tombstone. Lindsay Michelle Anastacio, December 4, 1999, to … whenever. She was a prostitute – and she liked it. A flicker of a smile passed over her lips. A cocksucker du jour.
The young woman blew out her cheeks with a wheezing breath, told herself to stop over-analyzing this, and surveyed the peaceful setting one more time. Her mother was against the idea of prostitution, legal or otherwise. Mrs. Anastacio claimed brothels were “houses of ill repute” and the women who dared work at them “unholy sinners.” Mom is such a Karen. She watched daytime talk shows and insisted sex workers were the lowest form of scum on the planet and would forever rot in Hell.
If she ever finds out I’m here, it will be a disaster. The color drained from Lindsay’s face. Mom would spaz out and need years of therapy to recover. She bounced and shuffled on her insoles. Dad would suffer a stroke and call the National Guard. No, no, he’d do one better. He’d contact Seal Team Six and have me extracted.
Still, the door hadn’t opened. God, what is with this place? Was everyone still sleeping? Lindsay’s research suggested most denizens of these “cathouses” showed up at night under the cloak of darkness. But the establishment opened ninety minutes ago. Someone had to be awake and lurking about inside, right?
She pressed the buzzer again, shifted from foot to foot, and emitted a screechy, low-pitched whine. C’mon, let’s get this over with. Showing up here wasn’t an easy decision, but at least it had been a well-thought-out one. Lindsay again reminded herself that this was what she wanted to do with the next phase of her life. It doubled as a one-way ticket out of Citronelle too. I never wanna see that shithole again.
The rust-stained knob wheeled around, and the door squeaked, groaned, and scraped open, and a much older man materialized sporting a warm smile. “Hi, how’s it going? Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch.”
Dressed from head to toe in black, the gentleman’s face featured prominent cheekbones, heavy brows, and a defined jawline. Tall and lean, with a dark, healthy tan, he had green eyes that reminded Lindsay of the forest on a calm autumn day.
“Hi. I’m great, thank you. How are you?”
“Good, good. It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?”
She again tugged on her denim shorts and couldn’t peel her eyes off this silver fox. Lindsay often daydreamed of being with an older, experienced man who would control her in the bedroom. In those fantasies, she was defenseless, a submissive plaything, and at her lover’s mercy.
She craned her neck, her blue eyes shining, and nibbled on a finger. That face. I know I’ve seen your picture before, sir. Who are you? What is your name? She racked her brain for an answer but soon found her thoughts derailed by another impulse altogether: dropping to her knees and taking his cock into her mouth. Lindsay yearned to taste this sexy stranger, to swallow his sperm, and demonstrate what a productive, hard-working employee she could be.
She yanked her hand away from her mouth and squirmed in place as a twinge flared between her thighs. Through the thin fabric of her tank top, the twin peaks of her nipples stiffened into view. Lindsay’s libido, already the stuff of legend at Citronelle High School, was raging out of control. X-rated thoughts on the bus ride led to and peaked during an overnight masturbation session at the hotel. After all her careful planning, Lindsay was finally at a brothel.
And she knew what happened at these houses of ill repute.
“May I see an ID, please? Need to do an age check.”
“Uhh, sure. Hold on.” Lindsay’s imagination crashed back down to Earth as she fumbled through her backpack and presented a California driver’s license. My ID, huh? What a buzzkill.
Realization dawned – she recognized this man from the online videos about Happy Ending Ranch and various related pictures too. She couldn’t remember his name offhand but felt certain he was a high-ranking employee. He isn’t the owner. I’d know Mr. McCarron’s face in a heartbeat. Perhaps the head of security? The lead bartender?
Will I meet the owner today? Lindsay considered herself lucky she may work with not one, but two impeccable older men. I’d let both smash me at the same time.
“Oh, Lindsay. Lindsay Anastacio.” The knowledge brought a grin to his lips. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m Jim Mayer, the house manager.” He stepped aside and extended an arm. “Come on in. So nice meeting you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Mayer.” House manager, huh? You must be second on the totem pole. One side of Lindsay’s mouth curled up as she slipped by and navigated into the foyer. The structure gave the impression of a typical family home on the outside, yet inside Lindsay surveyed the wet bar, wraparound mirrors, and the stripper pole in the background with a rigid posture and wide-eyed countenance.
This den of iniquity – think sports memorabilia, poster prints of rock-and-roll legends and adult film stars, peeling paint and bright neon signage, and padlocked doors leading God-knows-where – was Flagstone’s gateway to glamorous women and salacious good times.
This crib is lit.
The lobby featured two booths and four bistro tables with worn, leather-backed chairs, with the bar itself as the focal point. Hardcore pornography played on two separate flat-panel televisions and a sprawling glass showcase displayed exotic toys available for purchase. OhmiGod. Is that a strap-on dildo? Look at the size of it. A jukebox with records, touchscreen games, mismatched glassware, a fake mounted fish, and a pool table in dire, yet technically playable disrepair added charm and character. Open doorways flanked either side of the counter with raggedy curtains draped in front of them. The air reeked of nicotine, booze, and sex. Is this what people mean when they say something is a dive bar? Several placards indicated condoms were “mandatory”, yet Lindsay inclined her head and smirked at a specific sign: Get your woody serviced here. That’s cute, it’s funny.
“You took a bus from Palm Springs to Vegas, yes?” Jim ran Lindsay’s driver’s license through an electronic scanner and handed it back. “Did you have a pleasant trip?” His gaze anchored into her. “Run into any problems?”
Warm and inviting, Jim spoke from the chest, not the head, and conveyed richness, wisdom, and stability. After years of dealing with boys her own age, it provided a welcome change of pace. Finally, I’m around people with the same maturity level as me.
“Nah, the trip was Gucci.” Lindsay sensed Mr. Mayer was sizing her up. She possessed the innocent girl-next-door vibe, standing five-foot-three with blonde hair and deep blue eyes atop a petite, blossoming frame. Back home, Lindsay was the two-time reigning Homecoming Queen, an accomplishment less impressive given her graduating class comprised a mere sixteen students. She took pride in a made-for-sex body but considered herself more cute than hot. An easy, charming temperament made her irresistible.
“My only gripe is it took too long. Ten hours from Palm Springs to Las Vegas with a gazillion stops and breaks.” Is that a cigarette vending machine in the corner? Lindsay blinked and drew in a lungful of air. What seemed like decades-old wafts of tobacco smoke would take some time getting acclimated to. Reminds me of Grandma’s before they dragged her off kicking and screaming to the nursing home. And what was the deal with this unholy music? Sounds hardcore ancient, like some eighties hair metal or something. “I have no clue why they found it necessary to pull over at every single rest stop.” She rolled her eyes. “It was so extra.”
Despite her comments, Lindsay thought the bus ride was a steal and would do it again. I like to complain. Dad says I’m such a whiny brat. Just thirty-five dollars to uproot her life to a whole new world? Can’t beat that.
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