Geisha

It wasn't until she'd reached her third silent, panting climax that she realized she had an audience. Three young men-- high school boys, probably-- had seen what she was doing and were staring, rapt, at a fantasy come true. Unfortunately, at the same moment, someone else discovered her audience, too, and with an offended cry had leapt towards her.

She'd run, then, down the staircase to the front door, and in a huff, trying to appear casual, she'd proceeded to check out the books she had. The librarian, coming down the stairs a minute and a half later, winded, hadn't been fooled, but had apparently not wanted to make a scene. She'd waited until after Jilly had checked out the books, seized her elbow, and dragged her to the front door.

I was there to pick her up when I saw her escorted from the library building by a stuffy-looking old bat in a red blazer. The woman had her by the arm, and as soon as she was out the front door flung Jilly away from her as hard as she could without risking injury. Jilly kept her balance, but in the process her armful of books and a little white card collapsed onto the sidewalk. The elderly woman, no doubt an administrator at the library, snarled "Disgusting slut!" at her and returned to the building. I got out of the car and helped pick up Jilly's books.

I looked at her library card as I handed it back to her, along with all the books she'd dropped. "'Jill'?"

She blushed. "Well, you know, 'Jilly' is kind of... um... babyish, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat, sweetie."

So Jill it was.

***

The second time Jill got kicked out of the library, they almost arrested her, and at that point I forbade her to go back. She was crushed, and sulked for days until I finally told her she could use the computer in my office to connect to the internet. It wasn't a library, exactly, but I was sure that it would be an adequate substitute, for her purposes.

Of course, she had no idea how to use a computer, so I had to teach her the basics, which was kind of a pain in the ass. She was a quick study, though, eager and open, and after she learned elementary mouse-clicking and web-browsing she excused herself to go to the adjacent rest room. I shook my head and laughed to myself, and when she returned flushed and reeking of cunt it became clear she had been fingering herself to a messy orgasm while away.

I indicated she should sit down, got my purse, and headed for the door. She looked embarrassed when I said, on the way out, "Perhaps you could sit on a towel, so you don't ruin my nice leather?" but I heard her clicking away as the door swung shut behind me.

***

Jill's first customer in her new role was Clarence. It was actually her idea to contact him, as word had gotten around my house that he preferred brains to pussy. While I make it a point not to contact customers at home, I had an email address for him, so I dropped him a brief note: "Think I may have something that would interest you. Contact me for details. Tess."

A couple of days later, he called me and I told him I had a new girl he might like to meet. "She was a college gal who had to drop out in her senior year because her college found out about her escort business and expelled her."

Clarence was skeptical. "On what grounds could they do that?"

How the hell was I supposed to know? I'd just made it up on the spot! "She was doing it out of her dorm room. I'm not sure of the details, Clarence. But I'd like you to meet her and see what you think. No strings attached. Heck, if she decides she's into you, she may even give you a freebie." My girls never did, of course, but there was nothing wrong with letting the customer think it was a possibility.

In the end, Clarence decided to give it a shot, and she met him on a Tuesday night in the downstairs foyer. She had scorned her usual lycra micromini and tube-top, instead opting for something more subtle. She'd raided my costume vault for something a bit more dressy, but not formal: I recognized the Sexy Woman Executive suit, but she'd dropped the businesslike blouse in favor of a transparent top made of form-fitting nylon. She kept the suit jacket buttoned, but it was evident her 38Ds were only covered by a delightfully thin film underneath. I introduced them, and watched as Clarence's eyes bulged.

They moved to one of the fuckrooms, and I moved to my office to watch it on closed circuit.

Jill had classed the place up a bit with a vase of flowers and a tablecloth, and had some bottled wine and fresh bread on the table, at the ready. She was sitting across from him, her legs crossed at the ankle, leaning in to look into his eyes. I couldn't get all of the dialogue, but I caught the highlights. She was asking him about his hobbies, and apparently they got on the topic of crime novels. She was a fan of James Ellroy, he liked Dennis Lehane, they bantered lightly about their difference of opinion, and she touched his hand whenever she made a point. Soon she was laughing out loud with him, and stealing meaningful glances in his direction. Good fake-demure stylings; I wouldn't have believed this was Jilly if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. I suppose really it wasn't: it was "Jill".

After a particularly vigorous laugh, Jill's ankle left its shoe, crossing his under the table, and slowly, throughout the subsequent conversation, it made its way up his calf to his knee. She pointed her toes and stroked his thigh that way, and she was suddenly quiet and thoughtful. She said something to him under her breath, and the look on his face was priceless. He slid his hand from her foot up past her knees and atop her thigh, and she lidded her eyes in apparent arousal when his hands penetrated her skirt. She moaned, leaning back (and pushing her ass forward on the seat) as he penetrated more than her skirt. She made little encouraging noises and there may even have been some words in there, but whatever sounds were coming out of her mouth were having a wonderful effect on Clarence. She suddenly grabbed his wrist under her dress and held the hand to her crotch, grinding on it with full force, and it was only seconds later that she cried out his name. As she panted there, and he panted in his chair, she brought the hand out from under her dress and took his fuckfinger in her mouth to the third joint, sucking it clean.

That was too much for her customer, who smashed the table aside, pushed her down to the floor, and tore his pants off with little ceremony. His lips on hers, his hands cupping her breasts, he was so lost in this scenario that he forgot to put on a condom, but Jill was ready and slid it onto his cock with an artistry even I had to admire, stroking him and cupping his balls as if aroused by the very act. He was ready to burst, and when he was properly adorned he thrust into her with a brute force which astounded me-- keep in mind I'd seen him with at least three of my girls. Nothing compared to this. He pushed hard at her, and was growling sheer animal noises into the cup of her throat, and she urged him on with vigor. When he came, his face was a rictus of near-agony, and Jill matched his tone with intense screams of her own. He collapsed on top of her, and she patted his head as he rested. Afterward, they just laid on the floor and talked of politics, of all things. When it was time for him to go, he picked her up off the floor, kissed her hand in a manner unseen since the 1960s, and asked when he could see her again. She told him she'd have to check her schedule (good girl!), but that sometime soon would be best of all. And with that, he gathered his belongings and moved into the nearby washroom. She was gone by the time he came out.

Clarence tipped big that night, and he left with a smile on his face. He even kissed my cheek on the way out the door.

Clarence's friends Todd and Ahmed called within the week to make appointments with Jill. And that was just the beginning.

***

Jill was making shitloads of cash for me, now. Not only had I opened up a whole new vista of customers by putting the cultured college co-ed fantasy out there, but the other clients started to favor her more, too. Val Vincent, who used to have a real thing for short brunettes who would spank him and call him degrading names in Spanish, was now regularly seeking Jill out instead of Maria-- a fact which pissed the latter off to no end. I had to break up a catfight in the dining room one morning; I had no idea what a "puta" was, but judging from the vehemence with which Maria had emitted it, it was not intended to be complimentary. Jill had apparently understood the term, though; while I'm not sure it insulted her, I think she was just sick of taking guff from the other girls. She'd plunged into her own tirade en Español, sunk her claws into the Hispanic girl's hair, and yanked her across the table before several of the other ladies had started pulling them apart. I docked them both a hundred bucks that week for fighting-- I can't have that sort of behavior going on in my establishment. Outside of the bedroom, of course; Ted Slobodov pays good money to jerk off while watching two elegantly coiffed and (faux-)Gucci-dressed ladies scratching and hair-pulling and at each other's throats.

The punishment annoyed Maria, but Jill was devastated. She'd been very close to some financial goal or other, and pleaded with me to punish her in some other way, but I was firm.

Thus it was a little under a month before Jill got enough cash scraped together to buy herself a computer. Who knew she could budget?

It amused me more than surprised me; the iPod had been forgotten once little Jill had tasted the wonders to be found on the internet. She spent more and more time at my desk, constantly reading about one topic or another-- one week it was animal husbandry and the next it was early Siamese monarchs. At first it was merely annoying, but when it started to interfere with my work (and the office started to smell more and more like Jill's pussy-- I run a whorehouse, but I don't need that in my personal space, thank you), I cut her access time down to twice a day, one hour per session. She got surly, but adapted when my tone of voice grew very chilly and it became evident two hours per day would be better than none. Grace charged Jill fifty bucks an hour to use hers, and I'm sure she partook fairly often-- I don't think she could help herself.

I should have guessed she'd soon want her own, and when she did finally get a large package delivery in the mail, her eyes glowed with glee and she offered the mail guy a freebie (which I don't object to, in principle, as long as my girls pay back the house out of their own pockets for the lost revenue). He stammered something about being a married man and hurriedly left the premises (he returned as a paying customer months later, but that's another story), and Jill asked one of the other girls to help her lug all the boxes into her room.

After that, she was locked up in there for hours, setting it up, and didn't come out again until her eight o'clock appointment with Mr. Sosnowski. He was a new customer: a not-unattractive college professor who had obvious ethical issues with fucking his students but had even-more-obvious sexual issues with not fucking his students. Jill (or "Gillian", as she went by when she played the college-gal role) led him into one of the fuckrooms and begged him to help her pass his class. Before the door shut, she had asked him for special tutoring on molecular biology, and I could tell, with a twinge of pride at my own cleverness, that the eagerness in her voice was not faked as he began to lecture his way into her panties. She spent four whole hours with him (cha-ching!) before reluctantly letting him leave, but at least she was happy to go back to her room and play with her new toy. I listened outside the door as she emitted sighs and moans, and from time to time I heard words like "operating system" and "partition" and figured she must have been reading a manual or an online tutorial of some sort. I grinned, wandered back to my own office, and laughed out loud when I got an email from "gilliangirl" thanking me for being so nice to her and letting her work for me.

I added the good professor's latest contribution to the Tess VanTrin Retirement Fund into my accounting software, and I'm sure I looked smug as I did it.

***

It didn't take long for Gillian to get sick of using AOL.

It was kind of funny, actually; I heard her bitching about the idiocy of the software at breakfast one morning, and the other girls were absolutely floored. Maria made some not-so-subtle comments about Gillian getting too big for her britches, but Gillian blew the comments off completely. Which only made Maria angrier, of course, as will happen when the target of your offense refuses to get offended.

Gillian was going on and on now about how we should get broadband so our access times and download speeds would be faster, and the other girls basically glazed over. All except for Grace, who was ecstatic because it would improve her ability to get music from iTunes. She was fully in favor, and both ladies came over to my table to ask if we could get high-speed cable access. I informed them that I didn't see a reason to, at which point they offered to pay the full cost monthly, and Gillian even offered to network the brothel so that all three of us could share the connection. How could I possibly say no to a deal like that?

So two days later Grace had over a thousand songs on her iPod, my web pages were available at blinding speed, and Gillian was spending more and more time fucking herself silly in her room to the cadences of coefficients of sliding friction, analyses of Ibsen's dramatic plays, and cognitive science (whatever that was) She was not derelict in her duties, of course, and our good friend Dr. Sosnowski had apparently recommended her services to several colleagues. I was surprised, but not shocked, at how many tenured professors of both sexes harbored desires to fuck their students, and had even added a new fuckroom, complete with desk, chairs, and shelves holding several textbooks I'd scrounged from some sale on eBay-- that had been Gillian's idea. Or "Anne-Gillian", her new moniker. I asked her why she'd changed it again, and she said that the hyphenated name carried connotations of high-class with it, and that this subtly improved the mood and arousal of her clients. I thought that pseudo-psychological tirade sounded like absolute nonsense, and told her so, but I had to admit the new name was fetching. It got me a bit horny when I heard Sharee Blimtonhaus, dean of a local women's college, yelling "Anne-Gillian Raydon, you will eat my pussy right now or I will have you expelled." I spent an entire hour online finding co-ed pornography and vibrating my clit while mouse clicking with the other hand. I'd been spending more time online lately, what with the broadband access and all, and there was definitely a lot of good fuckmyself material out there. I came hard when I saw a petite blonde with pigtails and a plaid skirt slurping on the twat of a stereotypical schoolmarm. Spending time on my computer was giving me more orgasms, lately, than I'd enjoyed in the last ten years of whorehouse management and "sampling the goods".

The money was rolling in, now, and this goldmine made me think that perhaps I needed to alter the other girls in a similar way-- Anne-Gillian had only so many hours a day to spread. I considered each girl individually, and decided that the vast majority just weren't suitable for the hypnotic modification.. The only ones I could come up with, solidly, were Nikki and Maria. Both were the fairly unintelligent sort, though never as moronic as the old Jilly had been, and both were smoking hot fucks (and I verifed that with my own pussy the moment I had them hypnotized). I gave them the "orgasms for knowledge" spiel and watched them go to work. There was enough money pouring in that I bought Anne-Gillian a beautiful new laptop on the sole condition that she would give her old computer to Nikki and Maria, and I encountered little resistance from her.

The new laptop was apprently enough to smooth over any antagonisms of the past, but she warned me that the old computer was running Linux instead of Windows and that she'd have to do something to it (delete partitions? modify the boot sector?) in order to make it more easy for them to understand. I waved it off, knowing she knew a hell of a lot more about that crap than I did, and delivered unto her the Laptop of Gloriousness, and I know she spent all morning in her room with her hand up her snatch-- because I spent the whole time watching the hidden USB camera I'd installed in her room while she was on an outcall at the university. She was looking at websites about particle physics and something called "Linear A". Or so I gathered from the things she was chanting in between sucking her own juices off her fingers.

***

Maria and Nikki didn't advance as quickly as Anne-Gillian had; perhaps it was because they had more limited intellectual capacity to begin with, rather than merely having a psychological aversion to learning, as was the case with their predecessor. Still, the two women did learn how to use the computer in their room (I had moved them in together to facilitate their improvement), and even advanced enough to spend time teaching some of the other girls how to use it, too. Soon enough, Anne-Gillian was not the only whore I had who could play the smart, cultured girl role, though, unlike her, they plateaued at a certain level and didn't progress much farther. They certainly didn't spend time in their room looking up obscure facts about biofeedback mechanisms and opto-electronics; instead, they took turns reading translations of ancient Greek verses to each other, the listener using her tongue to reduce the orator to convulsions whose meter had little to do with the poetry. Their increased intelligence must have given them some sort of empathy for Anne-Gillian, and after a tearful apology the three girls became close friends. Sometimes they'd take turns letting Anne-Gillian read them poetry.

Anne-Gillian herself had gone back to her natural color, or perhaps a shade darker, and was making more outcalls; she'd get dolled up in expensive dresses and jewelry and leave the house for entire nights, bringing back some cash from her conquests and putting it in my coffers-- and it was always extravagant, so I didn't worry about her cheating me or anything. Too much, anyway.

When, one night in my office, I mentioned that some of her clients missed her and asked her about where she'd been going, she hesitated a bit, and I took the opportunity to put her under with a little trigger phrase I'd implanted when I'd first given her the learning bug. While in trance, she had no compunction about telling me what I wanted to know: she'd been frequenting high-class bars and even getting invited to parties where she plied her trade, under the name "Angeline", with high-power executives. That was the source of the cash influx, and I wasn't upset with her for buying herself expensive clothes with some of the money-- that was mere "investment capital", as she called it, for the real money she raked in as a result. I had a hard time disagreeing with that logic, though I was a little miffed at her for not telling me straight up. I gave her the suggestion that from now on she would tell me anything I asked of her, and she agreed without hesitation, smiling at me with her eyes closed.

My cunt was puddling into my panties as I watched her lie there; she was so much tastier as a brilliant little brunette vamp than she ever had been as a dopey blonde, even though she now wore clothes which covered her body more thoroughly than ever. "Angeline," I said, "tell me how you feel right now."