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.