Rebecca Ranghorn – Texas P.I. 3

Monday, 10:21 p.m.

The woman was a bit mature for this line of work. But nobody had ever complained. Her customers always walked away happy. She made sure of that, by giving them even more than they asked for.

This particular john had requested lights out. That was fine with her. She did her best work in the dark, knowing the little imperfections of her maturity could not be seen.

Newbies thought they could outperform the senior members of their profession through sheer physicality. Eventually they would learn that sex is more mental than physical. If your brain thinks you’re turned on, then Baby, you’re turned on.

She was a magician of sorts—a wizard, practicing dark arts not easily mastered. Seasoned practitioners, such as herself, could cast a sexual spell upon a man, gently massaging his brain with her words, slowly but surely leading him into mind-blowing, convulsive ecstasy.

Occasionally, a man would stop her, just as her magic began to envelope him, having been frightened by the power of the spell. But this rarely happened. And once the orgasm became inevitable, he was beyond the point of no return.

The young whores didn’t have a clue.

She was also smarter about money. Hers was a solo operation. No pimp to slap her around and take most of her earnings. A simple online ad, offering escort services brought in plenty of business. Two-hundred bucks for an hour’s work. And she could handle two to three customers per night.

Her only regret about her work was its effect on her daughter. She had successfully hidden her true profession for years.

Mommy’s a nurse, and some nurses have to work at night. So, be good for Daddy, and I will see you in the morning, Sweetie.

But her baby girl turned sixteen last year and got a driver’s license. And one night she followed her mom to work. That’s when she found out mommy wasn’t healing sick people. She was screwing sick bastards.

That night, as soon as the first john left, there was a knock at the door. When she looked through the peephole and saw her sweet, innocent daughter standing there, her heart dropped. There was no denying what she had just done. An ear to the door had provided all the gory details.

But instead of the expected disappoint or insults, there were probing questions about money. And how to get into the biz. There were visions of cash and shopping sprees and new cars.

“So, you want to turn tricks like your mother? Make a lot of money? Fine. All I ask is that you wait a while—until you’re older. Wait until you have a dud for a husband who can’t ever seem to make enough money to support his family.

“Wait until you’re about to be evicted from your home. Until the repo man comes after your car. Then you can be a hooker like your mother. Then you can do nasty, disgusting things with sweaty old men who can’t get sex without buying it.

“But not now. You’re sixteen years old. Have a normal life while you still can, for heaven’s sake. I pray to God your life never sucks as bad as mine.”

She inspected her motion-activated piggy bank. It was armed and ready to go. The cash went into the bank before any work was done. And if the john messed with miss piggy, the little porker would squeal loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

There was a knock at the door. It was a young man in a uniform, holding a tray of food. “Room Service.”

Poking her head out the door, she said, “I didn’t order anything.”

He looked down at the receipt. “Well, it says here…oops, sorry.” He walked away.

She released the door handle, and the automatic door closer pulled it shut. Turning and walking into the bathroom, she didn’t notice that the door did not completely close.

A couple of minutes later, she turned off the light and walked out of the bathroom into the darkness.

“Hello.” The man’s voice came from across the room.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Who’s there?”

“Who do you think?”

She stood frozen in place, wondering how the hell he got in.

“It’s me. John Doe.”

His body, and the chair he was sitting in, began to materialize as her eyes adjusted to the dark room. A sliver of hallway light peeking in below the door provided the only illumination.

The john stood up. He was wearing a black trench coat and a hat. “Here’s your money.” He tossed some bills onto the center of the bed.

She reached over and picked up the money.

“Five-hundred, as agreed.”

He was to be her only john for the entire night. She had discounted her hourly rate.

Holding the five bills at an angle, she was able to catch enough light to confirm their denomination. She folded the bills and stuffed them into the piggy bank, expecting to hear the usual snide comments about the bank.

“Ready to get down to business?” he said.

“Sure. You’ve got my undivided attention for the next six hours.” Thirty minutes of sex with her, and he’d be asleep for the rest of his time.

He walked around the bed to where she was standing. “Sit on the bed, please, with your back to me.”

“Don’t you want to get comfortable first?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.” She got up on the bed reluctantly, wondering what he had in mind.

He placed his hands on her shoulders.

Her nose caught the familiar scent of latex. She thought she had made it clear that he must use her condoms. She never trusted a john’s rubbers.

But, no, it wasn’t a condom she was smelling. It was latex gloves. Why was he wearing gloves? A chill ran up her spine at the thought of how vulnerable she was. His hands could easily go around her neck.

“You seem tense,” he said. “Maybe this will help.” He began to massage her shoulders, and up her neck to the back of her head.

Just as she had begun to relax, she heard an aerosol can spraying. The back of her head felt cold and numb.

She pulled away. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Take it easy,” he said. “You’re going to enjoy this.”

He pulled her head back to himself and massaged it.

There were two clicks, and she felt something weird. She bounced to the center of the bed and turned around. “I don’t like this. You paid me to have sex with you—not to let you get all weird, and spray stuff on my head.”

He reached into his coat pocket and took out some gadget. It was a small silver box with buttons, lights and dials. “Tell me how this feels.” He pushed a button.

“No. I’m done with you. Get out of—” She felt a tingle between her legs. How strange, she thought.

He adjusted a dial.

The tingling intensified. “What is that thing?”

He turned it up another notch. “Feel good?”

Stretching out on her back, she said, “Don’t stop.” She couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth. It was as though she was under one of her own sexual spells.

He turned it up higher.

She had not felt anything like this in years. No john had ever turned her on. Nobody ever gave her any sexual pleasure.

Tossing and turning, she moaned in ecstasy.

Gradually, he lowered the setting on his remote.

She lay sprawled across the bed, spent.

“Let’s go again,” he said, turning up the dial.

“Who are you? And where can I buy one of those things?” Her voice sounded more sultry than she could ever fake.

“How’s this?” He increased the intensity more rapidly than before.

“Damn.” She grabbed her breasts and held on tight for another wild ride.

He spun the dial to the maximum setting.

“No, that’s too much. Stop!” It was like twelve orgasms coming all at once. Her body began to quiver. Convulse. “Please, stop!” She grabbed her chest. An elephant foot crushed her ribcage down against her heart. Her body bounced around on the bed like a ragdoll in an earthquake.

“Stop,” she gasped. “I can’t breathe!”

Next Chapter —>