The Girlfriend Experience Ch. 01

He cared for everyone on his staff and ran his brothel like a legitimate business. Well, to him, it is legitimate. At this early stage, Lindsay understood why such excessive praise regarding Colt McCarron peppered the Internet, not only from customers and employees, but also from the media and former employees. He could talk and handle himself and had a charming, handsome smile. On the rare occasions he flashes it, at least.

"Aaliyah is an exercise nut but is too scared to go into town by herself," Pamela said. "The whole thing with the sheriff scares her. So, she jogs around the perimeter of the backyard for two hours every morning and every evening unless she's with a customer. Granted, it's a huge backyard, but in an ideal world, Aaliyah would jog around town."

Colt idled back, brought both hands up and linked his fingers, and inclined his head. "Tell me, young Miss Anastacio, why are you interested in becoming a prostitute?" His tone of voice way different, Colt made a trio of clucking noises with his tongue that lingered way too long. "Prostitute ... such a rotten word around these parts. A horrible, evil word that should be stricken from the dictionary. We prefer working girl, provider, or courtesan. But let's be honest, shall we? What made you decide to pursue this line of work?"

Pamela shot him a deadpan stare. "I prefer working lady, not girl."

He allowed two notes of a chuckle to escape. "People in Hell want ice water too."

Lindsay needed a moment to devise a suitable response. Patient, Colt allowed her the time she required as Pamela reached across the desk and gave his wrist a spirited, playful swat.

"I love sex." Is that an adequate answer? "I've been sheltered my entire life and want to branch out and explore new things. I wanna make good money and save it, go to college one day, maybe buy a house."

"College?" Colt's hard-boiled demeanor transitioned to curiosity. "What major?"

"I'm leaning toward Sociology." But my grades in school were the pits, and I doubt any decent university would accept me.

"We've passed through Citronelle before in our travels. It's a quiet, laid-back town. Has the Coachella Valley Preserve on one side and Joshua Tree National Forest on the other. I bet less than twenty students were in your graduating class. Am I correct?" She raised her chin as Colt continued, "What type of experience do you have in terms of sex? A lot? A little? Still a virgin by chance? How many guys have you been with? Any girls?"

Pamela fluffed her hair over her shoulders and leaned closer. "Be honest, okay? Don't lie or exaggerate. It'll help you in the long run. We want you to tell the truth."

"Two guys and no girls." Lindsay's words fell shaky and clipped. "I ... I have minimal experience, I guess."

Evie joked that one day, people would gather around the campfire in Citronelle and talk about Lindsay's sexual exploits like they were an urban myth. But here? Here, it's a whole different story. She was no one, and her experiences couldn't hold up to these women and theirs. I'm the basic girl here, all alone in her corner.

"I enjoy sex." Lindsay lost count of how many times she let her ex-boyfriend sink his dick into her. Over a hundred, maybe? Still, in the grand scheme of things, her experience was lacking. "And I love oral."

"Sucking dick? You any good at it?"

Holy shit. You don't pull any punches, do you? Colt's audacity was equal parts offensive and thrilling. My pussy is wet enough already. After the long sermon on policy, she almost forgot this was an interview for a job at a brothel.

"Yes sir. I-I've been told I'm ... good at ... sucking d-d-dick." She witnessed, again in her mind's eye, Colt rise from the desk and step forward, pumping his hard shaft, ready to engulf her willing mouth. Let's see how good.

Back to reality, Lindsay blew out a series of short breaths in a failed attempt to regain control.

A white crescent of a smile decorated Pamela's face. "You want me to explain the finances?"

Colt anchored his feet on the desk. "Go for it."

"We're an intermediate-sized house and, though we're within a comfortable driving distance from Vegas, we want to provide our customers a good time that is affordable. But we also want them to come back. You can set your own prices, but we don't charge two, three, four thousand dollars an hour like the southern houses do for a standard GFE party. I'm talking about Chastity's Ranch and the other brothels in, say, Nye County. We don't attract the rich clientele like they do. Not consistently, at least. Nor can we offer the upscale, resort-like atmosphere they can. This house is over a hundred years old and needs major repairs in several areas. We're a rural brothel and our target demographic is the middle class."

Standard GFE party? Why couldn't they thump the brakes and explain things in more detail? And I thought I had the terminology down.

Colt straightened. "What we can offer our customers, unlike Chastity's and the other high-dollar houses close to Vegas, as well as those outside Reno and Carson City, is an experience. A genuine experience that makes them want to come back and spend more money in the future. We have the most beautiful and gracious professional girlfriends for hire in the state. The world, even.

"Customers coming to visit us has to be more than a one-time thing. We want it to be worth their while. Our location isn't ideal, much like the northern houses closer to Salt Lake City, so we aim for our prices to be affordable. Repeat customers are the key to our success, and word-of-mouth helps our business grow. I much rather a high-roller spend three thousand dollars here over three years instead of twenty-five hundred for a one-time-only visit."

"Most girls charge five to seven hundred dollars per hour," Pamela said. "We never go below five hundred for an hour because we don't want to undercut one another and cause any drama."

Right. Others told Lindsay during her omnibus through social media to expect an average of three hundred dollars an hour while with a client at Happy Ending Ranch. The going rate is six hundred here and the girls split their earnings with the house, tips included. According to her research, every Nevada brothel utilized the same fifty/fifty payout structure. They gotta snatch their share of the cheddar too.

"You can't go below five hundred per hour unless Colt or Jim approves it first since it's the house minimum. You can go higher if you want - seven, eight, nine hundred, even more, however keep in mind a higher rate will turn many mongers away. And management wants us to have, at minimum, five parties a week. You won't be earning your keep here otherwise."

In Nye County, typical negotiations at the posh, extravagant resorts such as Chastity's Ranch began at $3,000 per hour. While netting $1,500 sounded much more appealing than $300 for sixty minutes of her time, Lindsay faced one insurmountable obstacle in being employed at a Nye County brothel: I'm too young.

The minimum age for a legalized sex worker was twenty-one. Here, in Sulaco County? Eighteen. Throughout the state, the various counties and some local municipalities had differing rules and regulations for brothels. They were all over the place, and in several, houses weren't permitted.

Maybe in two-and-a-half years when I'm twenty-one, if I enjoy being a sex worker and am proficient at it, I'll take a job at Chastity's Ranch. That was Lindsay's endgame goal. Where every girl aspires to work. She wasn't going to tell Pamela or Colt about her plans though. Not now, not during her interview. That would be foolish. The earning potential was greater at the Nye County houses due to their proximity to Las Vegas and its free-spending tourists. Chastity's was the most famous of them all.

Rumor was, over a thousand women applied at Chastity's every month. I could save massive bank and set myself up for a decent life. With a clean background and loads of experience in the industry, Lindsay's chances of getting hired (in theory, at least) would be far greater than those of a turnout.

"Mariko is the only girl we have who charges more than seven hundred an hour for a GFE," Colt said. "Her regular fee is eight, but she gets away with it because she's our lone Asian girl. Mariko grew up in Japan and has been doing this for seventeen years. She's built quite the cult following. Many of our customers swoon over her.

"In fact, a customer from Great Britain travels here twice a year and drops twelve thousand bucks on Mariko each visit. Says she's his sole reason to come to America. Dominic always gets seventeen hours, a full day from open to close, and Mariko cuts him a deal."

"Twelve thousand?" Lindsay again fanned herself. "Oh, my." A payday like that would be straight fire.

Pamela's lips twisted to one side. "I wish he'd spend his money on me instead. Room and board run thirty dollars per day and the total is deducted from your paycheck at the end of your tour. But we'll waive it if you gross six hundred or more in sales any day. For that specific day, I mean, the thirty dollars. You won't have to pay it."

We'll waive it? Lindsay again sensed Pamela had a hand in day-to-day operations like Colt and Jim. Maybe she doubles as a bookkeeper or something.

... A sexy bookkeeper.

"We employ two certified chefs and they'll fix anything you ask. One will always be here from noon to midnight. Some days, they'll both be here. In the high-end houses, you're paying for the meals and drinks yourself. The living fees at them are much higher too.

"Other than rent, all we ask is you tip the chefs, bartenders, and maintenance staff a few bucks a day. You don't have to, but you should. Every day of my tour, fifteen dollars is taken out of my ledger. With seven or eight girls here and all tipping, it adds up. The auxiliary employees work hard to keep us healthy and ensure our surroundings are clean. They do a stellar job of it too."

"I'm fine charging six hundred, even five hundred an hour." Lindsay didn't want to ruffle any feathers and make enemies as the new girl. My time will come when I'm older and more experienced. She wanted to fit in and have no drama. This place is a steppingstone to bigger and better things. "I'll be happy to tip each day too."

"You'll want to charge more for a specialty party, such as BDSM, certain role-plays, and fetishes," Colt said. "You're younger than any girl we have, and I can guarantee certain clients will want you to role-play as a daughter, a granddaughter, even a baby girl."

Lindsay's jaw hung suspended.

"Yeah, guys who are into that sort of thing often pack a diaper and will want to place you in it."

Huh?

"It happens to every eighteen-year-old who passes through here. Pamela can confer with you later about what to charge for these kinds of specialty parties."

Pamela fought off a laugh, rolled her eyes, and tore into a banana with gusto. "I once partied with a guy who had an extreme food fetish and wanted to role-play as a turkey I was preparing to cook for Easter dinner."

Lindsay burst into hysterics. "What the fuck?"

"I'm a vegan. I don't even eat meat." Pamela made a silly face as she savored her fruit snack. "We get all comers. I try, when I'm here, I am ... who I really am. I don't change my personality. I don't ... I'm still me. Other girls are the exact opposite, but they're talented actresses and the typical customer cannot tell the difference. Acting is their shtick, the way they make their money. We're all different in how we approach our job.

"But me? I offer my clients the most genuine experience possible. My friends will tell you I'm an Empath. I care about others and don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable having sex with me. I want them to have the chance to be themselves without fear of judgment, ridicule, any sort of ... I don't know, I'm the girl who'll take on all their strange fetishes. No one should ever feel weird. I take immense pride in clients being comfortable with who they are while in my presence."

Lindsay gulped her throat. "Am I allowed to deny any client or fetish request if I don't feel comfortable?" No fucking way anyone is putting me in a diaper.

"Of course." Pamela said. "You're not forced to perform anything here against your will. You don't like the way a guy acts or sense a negative vibe from him? Does he have a disgusting odor that repels you? He asks to do something out of your comfort zone or area of expertise? Decline him. It's your right.

"As long as you have a valid reason, Colt or Jim won't mind. You're an independent contractor and can make your own rules." Pamela hesitated and her jovial disposition morphed into a slight snarl. "For the most part, at least.

"And if things go south during a party and a client takes liberties with you or becomes too aggressive or belligerent, too demanding, there's a panic button. Every room has one." She sprung a grin anew. "So, when you press the panic button, it sends an alert to the sheriff's station, the front desk, Colt and Jim's cell phones, and mine too."

Yours too? Why?

"I'd rather the cops come rushing here to save me than a house full of naked girls." Pamela held both hands out and vented her laughter. "Know what I mean?"

"Has this button ever been used while you've been here?"

"No. I mean, that's serious, like, I need out now. You can always excuse yourself if you're getting a negative vibe from a customer. Plus, Colt and Jim would never let things escalate to where the panic button would be necessary. They'd step in, intervene, and defuse the situation before things spiral out of control. That happens, unfortunately."

Really? How would Colt and Jim know about any trouble to begin with?

Pamela grazed Lindsay's face as if were a rose pedal she didn't want to damage. "My favorite parties, though, are two-girl parties. I'd love to have a two-girl party with you, honey. I can tell by the way you've been looking at me that you're interested too." Lindsay's breath hitched as Pamela swiveled her head from side to side and her lips curled upward. "And you've never been with another girl before, huh? Awesome." The sweetness of her tone sent tingles along Lindsay's spine. "We'd charge fifteen hundred for the first hour and go from there since a threesome is a top-of-the-line specialty party. They cost more. Fifteen hundred may seem excessive, but threesome parties run seven thousand an hour in the houses closer to Vegas. Here, fifteen hundred is a bargain." Pamela guided Lindsay's hand to her mouth, lowered her head, and brushed kisses along it. "Oh, you're so pretty. Such an angel."

Colt raised an eyebrow at Lindsay's seemingly catatonic state. "Are you open to a threesome with another woman involved? They're generally the most profitable for the house. Again, it isn't mandatory. One of our girls on leave, Gwen, outright refuses to touch another woman. It's not held against her. And some other girls we have, they're not bisexual in their everyday lives, either, yet will agree to a threesome party if the price is right."

Pamela grimaced. "Scarlett says she's gay for pay only."

"Umm, yeah. I'd like that." Desire titillated Lindsay's nerves at the explicit images dancing through her mind. I wanna have a threesome with Pamela.

And Colt.

"There's no anal here. We'll never permit it, ever. Other houses do, but we don't."

Getting fucked in the ass? Lindsay pressed a palm to her chest and emitted a huge breath. Anal sex was perhaps her greatest concern coming in. No matter how many times he begged, she never allowed Zack to do her ... back there. I always had to tell him no butt stuff. Lindsay wasn't against the idea but wanted to save that part of herself for the right person.

"When will I be able to work? Start, I mean?" she asked Colt. I'd make an exception and let you, Mr. Drill Sergeant, fuck me in the ass though. Just ask. "Today?"

"Well, we always have an independent doctor stop by on Monday afternoons - today - and he'll give you a vaginal swabbing and take blood samples. We're required by law to test for STIs weekly and HIV and syphilis monthly. All Nevada brothels are. To our knowledge, no customer has ever contracted anything from a girl here. If they did, I imagine we would've heard about it."

Pamela pursed her lips. "Colt is a real stickler for the law and its rules. Condoms are mandatory. We must practice safe sex at all times, no exceptions, and he has his own strict guidelines of dos and don'ts with mongers too. I'll go over them with you this afternoon."

"Legalization of brothels in certain parts of Nevada began back in 1971," Colt said, "and believe it or not, there has never been a case of HIV reported in the LPIN system. Customers, working girls, no one."

LPIN? I know what that one means. A strange burst of accomplishment blossomed from within. Legal Prostitution in Nevada. An industry term, most proprietors considered themselves part of the community.

"Since the mid-eighties, the state has cracked down on our trade, and I don't want my brothel to be the first with a case of HIV. It's the lone STD they could hold me liable for as the owner if a customer were to contract it from one of my employees. I'd be in a heap of trouble."

"In other words," Pamela summarized, "follow the law and Colt's rules, and be safe. Be smart."

"I will find out if you attempt something stupid or unlawful." Disdain and an ominous threat permeated Colt's dark, fierce tone. "Trust me, I will."

Oh, snap. Lindsay stilled her body. Stop scaring me. I've never done anything to break the law and don't plan on starting now. Dismayed by Colt's threat, Lindsay finally drained a calming, much-needed bottle of water.

"The doctor charges fifty dollars for the weekly test," Colt said, returning to the previous topic. He waited until Lindsay finished her gulp. "But you also have to pay for the monthly test as well, which is one hundred and ten dollars. Those charges must be paid for in full today."

What?

After the struggle to travel here, all Lindsay had was three dollars and some odd change in her backpack. How could she afford $160 in lab fees?

"Your results will come back in the morning and if you're given a clean bill of health, Jim or I will drive you to the Sulaco County Sheriff's Department afterward where you'll apply for a sheriff's card. They'll perform a background check and do their own interview with a social worker or a member of the clergy, probably a woman named Suzi. Don't worry about anything as you'll be with one of us. A sheriff's card is a license allowing you to work as a prostitute - again, terrible word - in a brothel. All counties in Nevada are different, but for Sulaco, a sheriff's card is valid for six months and will cost you one-fifty."

Three hundred and ten dollars now in fees? Lindsay's spine jerked upright. What the fuck?

"You're not permitted to work until you're tested and have your card. You'll also have to take a drug test, but we pay for it out of our own pocket. The doctor will administer it as well." Colt clapped his hands together in a sign of finality. Was the interview almost over? "If all goes well, you can work as early as tomorrow night."

"What's wrong, honey?" Pamela's ever-present smile withered away. "You okay?"

"I-I don't have any ... money." Lindsay blinked away an onslaught of tears, her voice a whisper. She swallowed hard to find more words. "I'm ... I'm broke. I have three dollars to my n-n-name. I can't p-pay any fees. I spent everything I had just to make it to Flagstone."