The Girlfriend Experience Ch. 02

“When I was younger, I liked these to be lightly toasted. But now that I’m older, I like ’em … charred.”

“Well, you’ve always had a thing for flaming balls.”

Amusement reverberated through Pamela’s abdomen. “Stop being silly!” Full of sweetness and eternal sunshine, the thirty-year-old elicited positive energy and made everyone around her feel like they were important. Her compassionate heart and spirit were downright infectious. Pamela appreciated who she was and was grateful for what she had in life. Above all else, she understood that kindness was a language everyone gravitated toward.

Colt dabbed at his chin with a napkin and raised an eyebrow. “Do I still have marshmallows on my mouth?”

Snuggled together in the brothel’s backyard with the sands and stones of Calafell Canyon as their backdrop, Pamela sloped her head and locked on a grin, and stole not one, not two, but three quick kisses from her husband. “I don’t think so.” She pulled away for a second glance and then kissed Colt again, all the while holding her own marshmallows-on-a-stick over an open bonfire flame.

Waiting for them to char.

Pamela grazed her lips along the sweep of Colt’s collarbone and clutched his chest. “Oh, you’re so cuddly.” She nestled her face upon the crook of his neck and a content sigh slipped out. “A million times cuddlier than Beary Potter, even, and that’s saying something.”

Pamela and Colt McCarron recently celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary by spending a week and a half in Bora Bora. A marvelous, fertile oasis of verdant valleys, azure skies, and sandy beaches, the idyllic island paradise had topped their bucket list for years. They rented a 1,576-square-foot Tahitian-inspired contemporary living and sleeping space – an overwater bungalow on stilts – which featured a wraparound sun deck, a stunning two-tier infinity pool overlooking the horizon, a hammock suspended over the lagoon, and a spacious bathroom with a rainfall shower and deep soaking tub.

Whether it was enjoying French Polynesian cuisine, snorkeling with the stingrays and sharks, bicycling to a dormant volcano and hiking to its summit, touring the region aboard a yacht, or witnessing the sunset amid a blaze of glorious tropical colors while sipping cold beverages, Bora Bora was the perfect binge for their milestone anniversary.

But when their vacation ended, it was back to the harsh, unforgiving climate of the Nevada desert and their professional lives. Colt had worked at Happy Ending Ranch his entire adult life and inherited ownership responsibilities after his father passed away on October 17, 2008. He didn’t agree with many of his father’s business tactics and set out to make immediate changes, both for employees and customers alike.

A darling, fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, Pamela Annabeth Prescott arrived on the scene from Fairfax, Maryland two years prior on July 8, 2006. The house manager at the time, Colt found himself enthralled with Pamela. He had interviewed thousands of exquisite young women over the years, but none gave him butterflies until she came along. Nothing seemed disingenuous between them. Everything was comfortable and authentic.

Colt recognized he had stumbled upon a gold mine, but it had nothing to do with Pamela’s earning potential. Her thoughts on every topic fascinated him. His curiosity led to more questions, and their conversation veered from the traditional interview to more personal matters. Colt’s heart rate sped up, his body temperature spiked, and the smile wouldn’t leave his face.

He hired her on the spot.

And was already in love.

“The first day we met, I called my mom and told her I you were the man I would marry one day. I had an inkling right away.” Pamela’s eyes glistened with tears as she shared her own recollections. “Odd I came to such a magical aha moment in a brothel with you being my new boss, huh?” Pamela kneaded his hand and held it over her heart. “We liked each other right off the bat, but I …”

“We did?” Colt cut her off with a goofy grin, fingers from his opposite hand stroking her thick, sumptuous hair. “When did that happen?”

Pamela tugged at his wrist and offered a callous glare but couldn’t suppress her smile. “Let me talk.”

Colt extended a hand.

“I remember I felt like a schoolgirl and couldn’t stop feeling ridiculous.”

Colt motioned toward her breasts. “And looking like that?”

“Looking like what?” Pamela hooked a finger around his belt and stifled a grin.

“Looking like that.” His bride dazzled in a bright, neon-pink bikini top and denim booty shorts with golden blonde tresses sweeping down her back in long, vibrant waves. Her eyes were warm and sparkled with that trademarked air of mischief.

With mornings often slow for business, Pamela and Colt had opted to spend some one-on-one time out back by the bonfire pit. Enclosed with high, inaccessible security walls and barbed wire on top, the backyard offered both safety and privacy. It was nice to connect each day as husband and wife, if just for a short while, since most of their energy while in town was dedicated to the brothel itself.

Colt always had a million things on his plate at the so-called office. As a provider, Pamela was on call for seventeen hours a day, six days a week. She also did what she could to assist behind the scenes, such as screening new applicants from the website and talking to them over the telephone. But every decision was made by Colt.

“Oooooh, I adore you. I want to gobble you up sometimes.” She leaned forward and brushed her cheek against his. “You’re always complimenting me and giving me those steamy little looks of yours.”

He tipped his chin high. “You have like a thousand layers. You keep letting me discover them.”

Pamela slid a fingertip along his forearm. “What do you want to do?”

“How about each other?” Colt laughed in perfect unison with Pamela and brought her palm to his lips for a kiss. “You have such pretty hands.” His eyes marveled, just as happy about being with her as he was on their wedding night a decade earlier. “So delicate.” He nibbled on her fingertips and was extra careful with her fragile, manicured nails. “So precious.”

Every working girl was different. Some wanted no part of any relationship and found zero joy in physical contact. Sex was their job – the act itself was repulsive, and they tried to avoid it at all costs in their free time. Others feared having sex outside work given STIs were rampant, and if they caught one, it could ruin their career.

As for Pamela, her sex drive had been through the roof over the past several weeks. During their vacation, she demanded intercourse every night from Colt. He had no complaints and was thankful for her overcharged libido, however temporary it may have been.

Pamela had always differentiated her professional and private lives and never allowed the two to intersect. She may have been a pleasure and orgasm specialist who made herself available to anyone willing to pay her price, but Pamela loved her husband with all her heart. She would do anything to make Colt happy.

He reciprocated those feelings in full and supported Pamela one hundred percent. Colt had her back and would defend her and the choices she made to all four corners of the globe if necessary.

Theirs was a unique marriage. Colt often stood by in the bar and watched Pamela flirt with and seduce men of all ages, shapes, sizes, and ethnic backgrounds. From time to time, it would be another woman, or a couple. She was usually wearing a provocative outfit that would land her in jail if she ventured out in public.

In due time, Colt would watch them drift hand in hand back to her bedroom and listen to the negotiations through his earpiece and the electronic surveillance system.

“Are you sure you can’t go any more than five-fifty for the hour, baby? I’d love to show you a good time, but the party you’re asking for has a higher premium. It costs more. Can you do six-fifty?”

In this type of exchange, Pamela would hope to settle on $600 and grant the customer whatever he or she wanted during their time together. Sometimes, the client – let’s say a man for simplicity’s sake – would do everything he could to fuck her senseless. He’d pound Pamela into what he believed was sexual oblivion and live out several fantasies in the process: control, power exchange, and domination, among many others.

Of course, Pamela was accustomed to such treatment and didn’t wear out easily. Her goal with every party was for the customer to leave fully satisfied but also for them to presume she was fully satisfied too. Pamela was selling a fantasy, after all. Yet she embellished none of her reactions. Other girls would fake multiple orgasms during parties, but Pamela refused to. It was a line she wouldn’t cross.

And on rare occasions, Pamela received far more than she could handle. One day last year, she entertained a well-known NBA athlete – a perennial all-pro – for five hours and needed two full days to recover afterward. She had never experienced sex so rough and demanding before.

Customers had different needs and desires. Pamela spent entire parties hanging out and chilling with certain clients as some didn’t want sex or anything erotic. They wanted to pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend, or husband and wife, and talk. She’d curl up and snuggle in bed with a so-called trick, and they’d stream a movie or play video games. Maybe listen to Spotify or watch Monday Night Football. Pamela would act as a therapist as well, as these customers’ lives were often lacking and all they truly wanted was someone to share their issues with.

She also considered herself an expert at giving marital advice.

Intimacy in some form or another was preferred, but most took it a step further and wanted sex. Sex was on the marquee, right? Clients would ask Pamela to give them a nuru massage in the parlor, for example, and take a dual shower to rinse off afterward. Others would spend thirty minutes (or more) dining on her pussy like it was their first meal in weeks. Pamela had sucked cock an infinite number of times and gotten fucked in every conceivable position known to man.