East Texas Whore

August 24th, 2006 -- Kenner, Louisiana

It was 4:30 p.m. and I had just got off the cell phone to Randy. Our talk put me in a good mood, a damn good mood.

I was standing in the kitchen of a 5th wheel mobile home. It was one of four that were leased by the project manager for the roofing crew a young prostitute and old friend, Ruby Trenton, was sent to service three months earlier.

* * *

Quick bio: At the time, I was 31, 5feet-7inches tall, 175 pounds, blonde and stocky Polish-American from East Texas with a 40D chest.

Back in the hell of my May, I didn't know how I was gonna to change her life around in my favor when I came by Katrina-fucked-me country, but I had faith -- had to have faith! -- that we would work something out.

I was motivated to be in this mosquito-infested, sweat land by the hope some assistant district attorney back home would make good on a deal sealed with a blowjob that the court would show mercy in my prostitution charge and let me see my children again. The assistant D.A., a friend of Ruby's family, made it a condition that I bring her home and get her out of whoring.

That seemed an awful tall order. Ruby loved whoring. My God, she was born for this. She was a die-hard, party morning girl who started fucking early in life and ... well, from what I'd seen of her recently she wasn't capable of even entertaining the thought of slutting, easy money and bad men.

But surprise! It turned out not to be that hard.

Ruby, poor young thing, hated her assignment. Her idea of whoring was going to parties in the Houston area. It was a nightlife thing for her.

Cool, smokey clubs, air conditioned motels, brash players with wads of cash to throw around, their comfortable apartments, getting stoned, listening to music, and a whole lot of suckin'-n-fuckin' the night away - that was her style.

Servicing an illegal immigrant crew in hot, humid, bugged-out New Orleans country weren't what she had in mind. She hadn't been there but just over a week and she was homesick and woeful.

And heartening to me, she was sweetly sympathetic to my plight and jumpy for any excuse to weasel out of her situation. We got on our cell phones and tag-teamed her pimp Sam.

When I wasn't negotiating business in his one ear she was whining like a baby in his other.

What I worked out was she would go home and take a vacation. I would stay in Kenner in her place. She'd go spend quality time with her ma and pa, hopefully until my situation with Child Protective Services worked itself out.

Sam knew I was a good entertaining whore. His only concern after three hours of dickering around on the subject - with numerous hang-ups and dead air connections to aggravate my patience - was whether his client, Josh Felton, would be upset by what Sam called a "bait and switch."

I objected, and with some of my own feelings weighing hard on Sam's conniving head.

"Terry, I'm just sayin' you a big girl. These boys, they gotsa a taste a my Ruby. She all sweet and young and slim and she got that tight lil ass, is all I'm sayin."

"Sam, I'm curvy! I ain't fat! And you know, YOU KNOW, you done had a taste a me your own self, you know I deliver. I give it good, baby."

"Baby, baby! Hey hey now don't be ... aww, Terry let me just say."

"Fucking hell, and I can cook. These boys is out in the godforsaken fucking wasteland. Ruby can't boil water, you heard her say so herself. She's all outta sorts and givin' these men attitude, and they want her to be their fuckin' maid and she ain't up for that. Sammy, I can do it all. Ain't that the truth? You know what I'm saying."

Sam comes back, "It's just - you know baby, I know you stacked like the brickhouse. You is fine, but you know some men's idee of fine and stacked is another men's idee of plumpness."

"Oh no NO you did not! Sam, don't insult me. Don't fuckin' go there! Shit, what are you goin' on about, I'm giving you better than a fair swap. Better! You get me, you get experience and a maid, I'm sayin' I do it all and I ain't gonna give these boys no attitude. No shit, just sugar. You got Ruby over here whinin' on them all damn day. She ain't good for business."

Sam starts to turning on Ruby, "You think I need to give her a whuppin? Cuz I can come up there n remind the little bitch who she belong to!"

Hell, I don't want that, so ... "Sam, Sam, Sam. Nooooo. I'm not trying to get her in no trouble."

He says, "Sound to me like she is axin' for trouble."

So, I remind him, "Sam, you ain't that way with your women. You get what you want cuz you a charmer. You turn on the magic."

He picks up on the compliment.

"Yeah, you know I'm a sweetheart player n all, not like my brother but I will fuckin slap the bitch if she's bein' all ..."

"Sam! You know how she is back home. It's just she ain't used to this. This is too much. Don't be fucking with her head like this. She is freaking out here in this -- fuck, this place! This place is fucked. It's the fuckin' jungle. Sammy, baby, I'm just sayin' keep it real. You know what she can handle. You know I'm used to the shit. I am used to the fucking shit!"

I had Sammy's okay, long as I could smooth it over with the project manager, that Mr. Felton.

He was suspicious at first. He wanted a sample of my talents. So I went shopping. Came back with a bag of pasta, tomatoes, spices, hamburger, oil and cheese. I cooked up lunch for him and foreman.

While they was eating, I changed into something chambray blue babydoll in the bathroom.

And when they was done and I had them both stand in front of me, right there in the project site trailer of a shopping center they were fixin' up.

I knelt for those good ole boys and stroked two cocks, rubbing one to each cheek on my face. Then I turned my head and tongue into a wiper blade, swiping cocks left to right, right to left, swish, swish, swish. Stroking and licking two happy old white farts and receiving an occasional endearment.

"Mmmm mama," said one, "uhhhhh big bad baby," said the other.

I could tell early into the introductions that the thought of me being Ruby's mom appealed to their hotness meters. I was asked if I was her mom. I gave it a quick think and taking into count Felton's leering eyes.

I thought they'd have to think she is younger than she is and I'm older than I am for that to work, but what the hell.

"Yes, sir. She is my baby child. My very own sweet angel," I confessed with a wink.

Words to which they had a good laugh. And to that hearty laugh I offered a stiff lip, pretending mild offense.

I was there, I offered in my defense, to save what was left of my daughter's virtue. More laughs. More stiff lip.

The cocksucking was great. Why lie? I had not been in the mood for sex for a few weeks -- worried sick as I was over my children -- I needed to lick some bone as much as they needed a bitch wetting their stiff peckers.

It didn't take me long before I was begging them to fuck me in the raw. I tend to prefer whoring bareback.

I pulled off my sexy babydoll and offered a little drama when I hesitated to let it from from my upraised arm.

I led Mr. Felton to sit on his desk and lifted my naked heavy body onto his lap, sliding white old fart cock up my wet cunny. I encouraged the foreman not to stand around watching but to go ahead and invite himself to my asshole. I might have blurted out, "Fuck my ass!" in the head of riding on Felton's cock.

I rode with them both until each came inside me -- two dribble shooters with small cum loads. But I was happy.

Felton was happy with the sex and very happy with the cooking. It turned out no one else's opinion mattered.

So the next day, early in the morning, I drove Ruby to Baton Rouge, and put her on a bus home first thing.

The days went by slowly at first. I struggled a lot with depression. Doing all this whoring to get some kind of custody or visitation deal with my kids seemed a damn longshot.

But I had a domestic situation that appealed to me. There were four trailers, and four men to each trailer.

Of the ten immigrants that worked for Felton, eight were Mexican and two were Salvadorans. None of them knew a word of English, but I knew a little Mexican and more about Mexican cooking.

I made the 'huevos rancheros' or 'chilaquiles' every morning. And I was open arms for every hug, kiss and an ass pat they all offered before going off to work.

I spent the morning scavenging the few stores still in business for food and drink. I made sandwiches and hand delivered to the work site around noon each day. I didn't loiter. Felton said I was too much of a distraction.

So, it was a short, "Sorry muchachos! I'll see you later."

I went home -- home? Yeah, it didn't take long to feel like it. I was raised trailer trash, and these brand new leased 5th-wheelers were a few steps up in class from that ratty singlewide my husband kept me in.

I would work on dinner. That was catharatic. Keeping 12 men fed was a lot of work! It's a wonder Ruby didn't poison them ... uh-Oh, yeah. She did. Forgot to mention.

After dinner, I'd make the rounds to see who wanted companionship. There were two Mexicans in the group that were real religious. They had their Bibles close by and didn't much approve of me.

They would get into small talk, try to convert me, but we didn't fuck.

With the others, there was a sexual pecking order of sorts. I always checked on Felton's cock and that of his foreman first. Neither was exactly bursting to go in the libido department, but each was in the mood for some pussy fuck once a week.

Mr. Felton always insisted on a blowjob first thing in the morning. That meant I did all the work, and his participation amounted to saying, "Brush your teeth first, Teresa," and grunting when he came in my mouth.

Most of my action was with the two Salvadorans and three of the Mexicans, all younger boys in their mid-20s to late teens.

I spent my nights in the Salvadorans' trailer, with them and the Mexicans gathered round me. That's where my bed was. I lived amongst them those nights naked. Why bother getting dressed?

We would play cards. They'd put on their music. I would dance cumbias and polkas naked and they would take turns with 'la mami puta' in bed.

They preferred sex individually. An all-comers gangbang wasn't their style.

Oh, I would talk the Mexicans into an occassional threesome - hey, I love gangbangs! - but these immigrant boys were all homesick and getting alone time with a woman was important to them.

There was so much good sex! I remember my second night in camp, after Mr. Felton and his foreman passed on me, I went to the trailer where my Latinos were playing cards. I was still in tight blue shorts, a red thong and champaigne bra.

One of the Mexicans invited me to sit on his lap, so I did. When he wasn't handling his cards, he was fingering my pussy.

One by one, they all -- there was six men at the table -- started pulling on their zippers and stroking their cocks.

The man next to me, a skinny Salvadoran, would play with the strap on my bra. He pulled the strap off my right shoulder. I followed his playing by pulling my right tit out.

The man I was sitting on, he was getting hard. There was a lot of joking going on about me distracting them from their strategies.

They got into a playful argument about the man whose lap I was on putting me up to this for his gain. He did have a nice pile of bottle caps at the time, that being their substitute for chips.

He pushed me off to protest his innocence, and I turned up the music and started dancing alone as I stripped off everything but my thong.

They would take turns leaving the game for a round to dance with me. It was a relief to their concentration whenever I got one of my dancers aroused enough to go to the other room.

When I came back, it was usually one of the losers willing to take a break and satisfy our mutual lust.

The boys with bottle cap piles would have to wait.

All these men had wives or girlfriends back home. They all talked about their girls, their children, their hopes and dreams. It was mostly gibberish to me, but I got to know every family picture in the camp.

And they had family! Family was a big topic. They'd ask me about mine and I'd avoid that topic like it was the plague, at least in the beginning.

But one night while visiting one of the Bible thumpers, my mind went to my innocent days as a church-going mom, singing hymns with my little ones and I broke into tears.

I made them to understand my past through bits of words and sign

The Bible thumpers passed my tale of woe around to the others during the workshift the next day. By then, we were all best friends of sorts.

I got a lot of sympathetic hugs and fanny pats at dinner the next evening.

One Mexican in particular, a boy of 20 named Oscar -- he never passed a chance to have me suck his cock.

He liked to sit at the feet-end corner of my mattress, have me on my knees in front of him, me on the floor slurping softly, and he would caress my hair with one hand and call me, "Mami," and hold onto the corner bed post with his other hand and heave his shoulders and head back and forth like a happy blind man.

He told me his mother was a puta. She provided for him by bringing men into their one-room house. She'd draw a hanging bedsheet across a wire in the room and have sex while he was sent outside or made to sit in the 'kitchen' when the rains came down too hard. He often imagined his mother sucking his own cock, but she never really did.

That night while I had his nuts floating in my mouth he tried to tell me that my children would always love me no matter what. What did he know? What did I know? Maybe it was true.

But having sex like that, with a sweet boy who still loves his whore of a mother, it gave me hope. And my heart was warm with motherly love for him when he came on my 40D white tits and rubbed his sticky cockhead in the white shellac he spread there.

I felt like an angel and I felt like this was a good thing happening in a good place, and that everything would heal.

Even New Orleans.

Once a month, I took a day trip back home to take my drug test. Pee in a cup. Staying clean wasn't hard, being as I was isolated most of the time in an immigrant work camp on the edge of a wrecked city.

But one sorry day in the late afternoon of long July I sat in court and heard my name called and went up to a judge and admitted to the world that I was a whore. It was all on paper, all official. I was guilty.

"I plead guilty, your honor," I said, confessing out loud to my burning ears to my act of prostitution in my own home, this being the very reason CPS held my whoring ways against me.

And just to seal the deal, the assistant D.A. that was Ruby's cousin had me make a side trip after I saw the judge.

In the privacy of his office, the sneering D.A., his head power mad, made me squat and undo his belt and zipper.

"It's just another fuck for you, isn't it, Terry? Fucking whore," he said as he made me look at the yellow copy sheet in his hand with the typed-out words of my status in society - 'Prostitution - First Offense, Class B misdemeanor.'

He insulted me as I swallowed his arrogant cock back to my throat. Then he put me over his desk, my stomach resting my weight with the desk top, my dress pulled up across my back and his cock plowing into my fertile furrow from behind. "I knew you was a whore even in high school. Mmmm! Mmm! You hot nasty bitch."

I'm from a small East Texas town, so my fall into slutting and whoring and all the more scandalous. Yes, he knew me. Everybody knew me, or thought they did.

His cock pounded into me as he spewed self-righteous justifications for treating me in a way he never would have any other girl he knew in high school. He made me seeth with anger under him, feeling his every thrusting effort to make it humiliating for me.

"How many boys have you fucked, whore? Huh? Shiiiit, must've been hundreds of whites boys and coloreds used this nasty hole!"

I grunted and moaned. As upset as I was, I still had to put on a good act. I needed the bastard, or at least his influence with the courts. And it was not altogether unpleasant having a hard and long-enduring cock. I am, after all, a slut at heart.

"Uhh, you such a whore, Terry, you don't even have to say it. It's a fucking fact. On the court record, you fine hot slut! Nnn, you loving how I give it to you? Huh, bitch?"

I would nod and yes with my head and moan for him, "Ohhh uh-huhh. Mmmmm, yea. Oh, give it to me!"

As he persisted in fucking me, I would have flashes of how my life was, of everything I lost. I wanted to feel penance.

I wanted to feel like doing this, with this asshole, was penance. I told myself that I deserved this for being such a damn fool as to let my rotten husband push me toward this existence, that I deserved this for letting the temptations of sex lead me into doing everything my parents and my former community had worked so hard to warn me against.

The assistant D.A. grabbed my hair and pulled hard, forcing my head up. He brought his other hand around and waved the court paper in my face and fucked me with renewed force. "What does it say, Terry? Read it!"

"Uhhhh!" I moaned, and now a rush of tears filled me eyes and watery black words on pastel yellow paper burned into my rotten soul.

"Prostitution ... first offense ... Class B ... misdemeanor .... plead guilty," I read it back, I read it back again, and again.

He growled and fucked and pulled hair, "You gonna keep whoring, Terry?"

I moaned and swore I would not.

"Liar," he said. "Once a whore, always a whore!"

He sped up his pace. He pulled harder. He growled like a parrot on steroids.

White collar cock doesn't feel like any other cock. There's an extra dash of cheesy bullshit to it. White collar cock might move the same inside my pussy, but it throbs different in the heart. It poisons the soul. While he was fucking me, I found myself preferring my Latinos and their blue collar white bosses back in Kenner.

And I wondered, not for the first time, if I would ever wannt to leave Kenner. What if I was to never get a chance to see my babies again? Why go back?

"Know where I'm gonna cum? I'm gonna pull out and cum all over your fat white ass, Terry. And you're gonna wipe my cum with the back of your dress, you dirty whore. And then you're gonna lick my cock clean. You got that, you dirty bitch?"

He fucked on. He had me wet. He plowed into me a long while. He made me cum. I resented him for that. I didn't wanna cum on his cock. Fucking prick. And true to his word, I had to wipe the sleazeball's cum off my ass and the small of my back with my dress, then kneel before His Righteousness and lick his cock and balls clean.

"Mmmmmm! That's a good slut. Yeah. Lick my staff whore."

When we were done, I asked if I could see my kids. He laughed and sent me on my way with no regard for my needs, "Get the fuck out of here, whore. You'll get what you deserve and nothing more."

I drove east with a pint of rum in my purse. I sipped, raged occasionally, flipped radio channels obsessively, looking for a song that was never going to be there, never going to take the judge and the D.A. off my mind.

Only Felton knew why I left. And it was only to Felton I talked about it that night.

He made me spend the night with him. He didn't ask for sex. He treated me like a daddy consoling his daughter.

I hugged him close. He brought me a small measure of peace.

While all this was going on, my errant husband was not idle. He got us a lawyer. We pooled resources raising cash for a fight with CPS and the social workers. He stayed out of trouble and jumped through his own set of hoops.

And then I got his call on the 24th of the hottest month in Louisiana. CPS would give custody to my parents.