In My Line of Work

I arrive within five minutes, impossibly fast unless I was already in the vicinity, but if it – or my attire –surprises Mr. E he doesn't show it when I knock. He simply lets me in without a word or emotion exchanged and shuts the door with a soft touch, engaging every lock before double checking to make sure the blinds are shut tight. My money is waiting, as always, in a sealed envelope marked "GIFT" on the opposite desk across the two bed motel room. I don't even bother checking it, I simply begin stripping down as he slips out of his awkward looking Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian t-shirt, sitting down and straddling him when he sits down and go to work on his erection with my eyes closed. I have this routine down so pat my mind starts to wander again...

***

If it was a vigil, it was a strangely aggressive one, and my unease only built as more and more men stood up, shouting words through a bullhorn (which I thought was rude given it was late at night, but none of the adults complained) until they became red in the face, then handed the bullhorn and platform to another man who stepped up and shouted more words. I couldn't understand them through the distortion, but people were pumping their fists in the air, yelling approval and shouting words of encouragement to the speakers. My Papa and Mama held my hands tight between them, Mama occasionally looked down and smiled at me, which was even more unsettling than the speaking or the trip over, but I didn't say anything.

Instead I tried to focus on the speeches, but it was too difficult – all the adults yelling and shouting and screaming and hollering between the platform and my ears just made muck out of it all. Still, it couldn't last forever and it didn't, and Papa was smiling again when we loaded back into his truck, "We're going to confront the evil Pumpkin Patch, just you watch, we're going to show you have to keep goodness and light in this world and keep the shadows at bay."

I'd nodded, but his smile didn't have any mirth to it.

***

Mr. E finishes inside me without fanfare, his orgasm as silent and structured as his love-making. Afterwards, I mechanically pulled my panties and jeans up, threw on my shirt, scooped the envelope and simply walked out. Mr. E was too busy getting his wedding ring back on to care about what I might have said going out. He wasn't a bad client by any stretch, but the predictability was long past the point of affecting my attitude and job performance. It's not something I'm proud of, but Mr. E is the kind of guy that hates and fears change, so I'm not about to make him uncomfortable.

Fortunately, traffic has smoothed out and so I finally get back to my hotel room a short while later. The receptionist, an obese Indian woman gives me a bit of questioning look, but I chalk it up to the early nineties fashion disaster I'm wearing rather than suspicions about my profession. Once I get to my room I practically rip the flannel shirt off and let the jeans fall down my legs. I draw up a hot bath, then let myself soak for the better part of an hour while I relax and unwind. In my line of work, there is a nice gap between the post-work screw crew and the night-stalkers looking for sex so it's the best time to decompress and spend some time to oneself. Lazing about in the warm soapy water, I think back to that night, the night that I learned what real evil was...

***

We didn't head home after the vigil. Instead Papa followed several other cars and trucks ahead of us. "Papa, where are we going?" I asked, tired of riding around the potted dirt roads, bouncing up and down all over the place.

"Sweetie, we're going to place where evil lives and we're going to cast it out," he replied, a sort of sinister enthusiasm underlining his words, "Cast it out and replace it with the light."

"With candlelight Papa?"

"That's right Pumpkin Patch," he finished with some degree of finality, his tone suggesting he was through talking. I slumped down into my seat, bracing myself for the next bump, but there were none to come. We were back on real paved roads in town, with streetlights zooming by, illuminating the interior. That was when I noticed Papa sweating, something I've never seen my Papa do at night. It made me afraid, very afraid and I hugged up closer to him, only to have him wordlessly push me away as he brought the truck to a stop. Papa didn't make a sound when he brought the truck into park and killed the headlights. I expected he'd say something eventually, but no words came out of his mouth in the darkened, silent truck.

It was Mama who spoke instead, "We're here Papa. You go on out there and do what you have to do, I'll stay here and keep the baby hushed."

***

At around seven I get a call from one of my occasional working partners, a Brazilian party girl rapidly approaching the age when her bleach blonde hair and bubbly personality would seem to be just a bad acting job who goes by the name Iracema. It's almost certainly not her real name, but I don't really care: she's honest, reliable, willing to do almost anything and – even more important – just as capable of saying no to anything truly crazy, so I have no issues working with her and readily answer when she calls.

"Hi-hi-hi! I got something hot lined up, but it's too much for me to work alone. There's a party at ten, going to be five guys there, young ones, and they paid for three hours upfront. Are you down?"

It's not nearly that clear through her Portuguese-accented English, but hell yes, I'm down. In my line of work, you don't pass up an opportunity to make new connections, especially not the stag crowd. I catch the rest of the details from Iracema and take the time to do myself up nice. "Nice" in the stripper sense that is - this is a stag party I'm working so a sexy schoolgirl ensemble: red tartan skirt, extremely shear blouse, thigh high white stockings, lacy red bra that shows through my blouse and matching panties finished off by liberal amounts of makeup to emphasize my porcelain features. I look like a whore, which is the point of the whole exercise and smile into the mirror before throwing on a large overcoat and practically skipping out of my room and into the waiting car of Iracema's driver with time to spare.

Iracema is in back, wearing a sexy cowgirl outfit that pushes her tits up and nicely hides her stumpy legs, giving me a flicking finger wave before returning to chattering away on her cellphone in her native language. The party's location is actually a beautiful green three story house – some people call them McMansions but I like the style – and they're more than ready to have us. It's just a quick sweep of the premises by our bodyguards for anything untoward, then we make our grand introduce and our act begins.

It isn't much of a routine – these guys know they hired hookers and not strippers – so before too long Iracema has three guys all sitting bottomless on the couch, squatting on her knees and alternating between sucking their cocks while one of the party-goers (who is prematurely balding) demurs and I take the remaining man to a side room. He's Chinese (or Japanese or Korean, I can never tell the difference) with a baby face and dark, swirling pools for eyes with soft skin that's only the barest hint of olive. He's also impossibly shy and stumbling over his words as I peel his shirt over his head, "I-I have never been with a white girl before," he says, with a nervous expression on his face.

I hold his hips and kiss his neck lightly, before answering, "Well, that makes two of us. I've never been with an Asian before," and start kissing my way further down. It's the truth as well; I really have never been with an Asian. I briefly consider his looks and decide he can join my collection, "Hey, tell you what, since it's your first time, if you can fuck me three times, it's all on the house for you."

Even if it were just a joke – and it's not – the look of surprise on his face would have made saying those words worth it. I finish kissing down to his pants, undoing them with my teeth as I look up at him seductively. When he hesitates, I stand up and slide the red panties down my legs, stepping out with a foot, leaving them hanging off one ankle and unbutton my blouse, taking his hands into mine and putting them on my breasts. He's still slack-jawed at my offer so I gently guide him to bed, falling onto my back and spreading my legs, the skirt short enough on its own that I don't need to hike it up to give him all the room he needs.

I don't quite see his dick, he turns slightly off-angle as he slides his pants and boxers down, but what I feel is quite nice; thick and warm, it makes an audible squelching sound as it pushes into my pussy and I moan, my toes curling. He starts pumping in and out pretty much right away and I reach down, running two fingers in circles around my clit, my eyes closed in concentration, focusing on my own orgasm. Naturally, I lose that particular race, feeling a hot splash inside me, but I don't stop rubbing, yanking down my bra, pinching and twisting my nipples to keep myself primed while he recovers.

To his credit, he doesn't need any prompting to get himself hard again and with his hand wrapped tight around his dick, he's back in under five minutes, cramming it back into me, slower but more insistently this time. I bite my lip and squeeze a nipple between my fingers so tight it hurts, the hand between my legs bringing me closer to the finish line. Again he doesn't last long, blowing a second load inside me within five minutes, but I remain undeterred.

Bringing himself back to full mast a third time takes some serious effort and I do my part by continuing to pleasure myself while spread wide on the bed. I mix things up by pushing my nipple into my mouth and loudly slurping on it while I sink into my creamy pussy, digging out our combined juices with wet squishes of my fingers, moaning all the while. When that game runs long, I roll over, my ass up in the air and face down in the sheets, spreading myself wide open with one hand while the other works up a third finger. That does the trick nicely and he lines himself up for round three.

Third time is the charm as he puts his hands on my hips, pulling me back as he slams into me, his balls smacking into my clit every few thrusts, both of us grunting when he bottoms out inside me. I can feel every vein in his cock and my pussy is involuntary gripping down on him when he pulls back. I let my hands fall away, using them instead to grip the sheets in a vain attempt to keep from sliding forward under the onslaught. And it lasts for well over fifteen minutes, both of our bodies covered with sweat as he takes the final sprint to finish, nailing me like a railroad spike and letting out a primal growl as his final load deposits itself deep inside me.

I don't quite orgasm, but it's still good for me, which is uncommon when I'm working.

***

When I saw the cross in front of us I thought maybe it was an outdoor church. I didn't understand why they set it on fire, even back then it seemed sacrilegious, if not necessarily wrong. I would've asked Papa why he did that but I was mesmerized by the flames, reaching higher and higher on the wood.

Just as I'd broken the spell of the rising flames and turned my head to ask my Papa what was going on, I saw another man in white throw the bottle of fire against the house and a woman inside scream. Suddenly the question was taken from me. I knew exactly what I was seeing. I was seeing evil.

I broke away from my Papa's grip and ran away, screaming into the night, tears streaming down my face.

***

The Asian man quickly pulls his pants up, not bothering to finish zipping or to look back at me, as I'm still masturbating on the bed, quickly walking through the door and not bother closing it. I'm lost in my own pleasure on the bed, at an idle pace and lying on my side now, not caring if I can finish or not. My eyes are closed and I feel sated, losing track of time so I don't know how long I'd been going when the next guy walked into the room.

He mounts me without preamble, his cock is small and he's excessively hairy. I keep my eyes closed as I feel him piston in and out at a rapid, mechanical, pace and he's finished quickly. I don't bother opening my eyes to see his face, preferring to pretend it's the Chinese guy back for another go. But his hairy body sends my orgasm tittering away like a frightened rabbit and I groan in frustration, finally kicking off my red panties, stuffing them into my purse and heading back downstairs, with the Asian's rapidly cooling splooge running out of me and down my leg.

I don't care if anyone notices.

***

I ran screaming through the neighborhood, which really wasn't anything but a sparse collection of houses interspersed between light woods. It's only natural that I'd gotten lost within minutes considering the unfamiliar surroundings and darkness that was all around me. Some might say it's perfectly reasonable I found myself at the backdoor of the firebombed house. I say it was fate.

Someone had placed a plank of wood against the outward opening door, preventing it from opening. I could see smoke rising from the sides and below and a dull orange light inside and I knew what I had to do. So I did it: knocking that plank off the door and pulling the handle with all my might. To my surprise, it actually opened and I found myself face to face with a boy my age, wearing pea green pajamas and holding a stuffed turtle.

We stood there a good long while, just staring at each other in wild-eyed befuddlement, before another scream from inside caused him to turn around and run back. I hesitated for a second and ran after him, grabbing his hand with mine, pleading for him to leave the burning house. I could feel the heat from the fire and the smoke made the inside pitch black. I barely held on as he ran and screamed louder for him to leave, pulling on the sleeve of his pajamas, trying to wrench him back to safety. I might've saved my breathe because a second later someone scooped the both of us up and carried us right back out that back door, into the cool night air.

***

Iracema is still in the living room, using her dancer's body to good effect, on her hands and knees on the couch being spit-roasted enthusiastically; sucking one cock while the other thrusts into her upturned ass eagerly. Even over the sound of music and through the dick in her mouth, you could hear her moans of bliss, pushing the men inside her closer to the edge. Plopping down in a loveseat across from the couch, I lay back and just watch Iracema in action. I don't know how she manages to make taking it up the butt look so easy or enjoyable, but in my line of work that's a surefire money-maker.

She keeps her head moving, rolling her hips at the same time, looking like a venomous snake waiting for the right moment to strike her prey. It isn't long before the one fucking her in her butt finishes, slapping her ass and burying himself as deep as possible, butt clenching and arms tensing up, gritting his teeth while letting out a hiss of breathe. He holds himself inside her for a few seconds before exhaling theatrically and pulling his cock out. As he withdraws, looking at the filled condom, I can tell it's the short dicked guy that fucked me a few minutes prior and I'm glad I kept my eyes closed. He has the appearance of an overly-smug frog, nearly bald scalp underlined by bulging eyes, with thick body hair that's matted to his skin by sweat.

My stomach flips when I unintentionally imagine what he looked like on top of me.

Thankfully I have other visual distractions to purge the mental image from my head, Iracema bringing the guy in her mouth off with a flurry of head bobbing then a flourish of deepthroat, letting his flaccid member slip from her lips, a bulging condom her reward for faithful service. She looks up at him and wipes her mouth, smiling slightly as she gets off the couch and re-adjusts her ensemble, picking her panties up off the floor and signaling me that we're done here. We skip out together to the waiting car, Iracema quickly tabulating the night's earnings and a fair split. I simply nod in agreement with her, taking the envelope stuffed with money she's marked "GIFT" and suddenly very much hoping she can't see the fat splatters of cum leaking out in globs, coating my thighs and dripping as far as my ankles, making me shiver in the cold night air.

***

Back at my hotel, I do something I dread to do: go to sleep. Most nights I'm fine, no dreams whatsoever, but every once in a while I'll relive the night I saw real evil. It sends my heart racing and forces me awake in a clammy sweat. The only thing that keeps it at bay is thinking of home; my new home, the one I created for myself away from evil.

The black boy I saw in the doorway that night, I keep track him, clandestinely of course, without his knowledge. I couldn't not to do something for him after my own association with evil, I needed to cleanse my soul of its influence. And so thanks to an anonymous benefactor, he'd never pay anything for college: tuition, books, and living expenses paid for by envelopes marked "GIFT" sent every few months.

The local Klan chapter scattered into the night once they heard the sirens coming. It took close to two decades, but in the last few months the police are finally turning up good leads on the arson cases that claimed two homes and one life late one night, aided by private investigators hired by a very secretive client. Those charged so far include a member of the city council, a former district attorney for the next county over and a popular local police officer.

I've made a lot of mistakes with my life. I'm not nearly the angel I wish I could be... but in my line of work, you fight evil with anything you have.