The Whore Of Babylon free porn video

The Whore of Babylon By Cassandra Morgan My mother is a whore. Go on. Roll the word over your tongue. Feel how crass it is. How vulgar. It is a word filled with spite, with judgment, filled with scorn. It is a dirty word about what most consider to be a dirty business. It is a brand that identifies her among all other descriptions. Still, that's who she is. She's a hooker. A lady of the night. A working girl. Think of her as you will. Think of me, her child, as you will. She's a skank. A hoe. A puta. A prostitute, a courtesan, a harlot. An escort, a trull, a floozie. A strumpet, as they used to say. But that's what she does. It's not who she is. Look, my mother is gorgeous. She's an independent woman. Smart and caring and funny. She's not on welfare, and she doesn't hurt people. She's not in jail, and she's not diseased. She goes to church, and she votes, and when I was younger, she belonged to the PTA. There are worse things than the fact that she got onto her back to pay the rent. Her name is Lilly Bridgeman, and she works at the Babylon Ranch near Reno, Nevada. It's a legal profession there, and a lot of women work in the field. If you want to know the truth of it, my mother is my hero. She kept me when she could have given me up for adoption. She changed her life from a wild child to a caring mother. She put me through college, although it wasn't always easy. She helped me with my homework, and she cared for me when I was sick, and she spent time with me in the park on the weekends. Compared to all of that, what does it matter how she made her money? Oh, I'll be honest. I didn't always understand. There was a time in high school I was shame-faced over what mom did for a living. I cared more about what strangers thought than I did that she was always there for me. Everyone knew what my mother did for a living. The men in town acted as if they were outraged, but only in the daytime. At night, they would sneak around to the Babylon and see her. There were a lot of men; I could only surmise that she was good at her job. As a teenager, when you're embarrassed by a lot of things, I didn't get it. But I grew out of it, and these days we're closer than ever. I'm Brett Bridgeman, and I've just graduated from the University of Utah in early education. I'm on a bus, going to see my mother, to thank her, to tell her I love her. I have a job lined up in Salt Lake, working at an elementary school. But first, I have some time I can spend with her at the Ranch. It's like going home in a way. As the bus approached Las Vegas, the. years peeled away. I was a small child, lonely and ignored. But mom made me feel complete. She would take me to the park, and onto the duck boats. She would come to my soccer games, although I rarely got to play any significant minutes. When I was in play, she was front row, center, every time. The bus pulled into Las Vegas at 10 a.m. It's a bright-lights city, but it seemed to be asleep in the morning. The real rollers wouldn't be out until after dark. That's when the lights came on, and the city turned magic. That's the Vegas I remember; lights so bright you don't see the secrets. Thank God. * * I took a cab to the back of the Babylon. That's the door the girls used, and out of habit I wanted to draw the least amount of attention possible. But when I walked in, the girls were a swarm of bees, hovering around me, embracing me, kissing my cheek. Then Lilly was there, and she shrieked as she approached me. She through her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. "My Boo!" she said. "My Boo is a college graduate! He's the smartest man in the world! Who knew?" I smiled at her. She looked a little older around the eyes, but she could pass for a girl in her late 20s. I hadn't seen her since Christmas, and I took her hands and held them out to look at her. She was wearing a red bustier and black hose -- working clothes -- and sipping an iced tea. She smiled that smile that made you want to grin along. My mom always had a way of making you feel good -- hey, she got paid for it -- and already, I felt her warmth spread through me. Most of the old gang were there. Dolly, who had helped to raise me. Mrs. Adams, the madam. Abbie, who was just starting when I went to college. Lee Anne, a black girl with an amazing smile. Josie, the queen of kink. It was good to see them all. They were family to me. I had grown up at the Babylon from the time I was seven, from the time my mom gave up dealing blackjack to join the gang. There were some new girls, younger than the others -- Keisha and Suzanne, Tanya and Molly. "Boo, it is so good to see you," Mom said, again using my nickname as a kid. "Are you eating enough? You look thin. And you need a haircut, hippie." She ran her fingers through my hair. "You got a girlfriend? You got a boyfriend?" "Mooooom." She giggled. Across the room, Dolly picked up my suitcase. "I can get that," I said. "Just spend some time with your mom," Dolly said. "I'll put these in the hot room, okay. You'll have to sleep there, okay? Most of our beds ... are used at night." I laughed. No judgment was coming from me. I threw my arm around my mother, and she led me to the grand room in front. It was where the girls met their clients, but it looked like a hotel lobby. Clean and spacious. "Anything new?" I asked her. "Same old, same old," Mom said. "Mrs. Adams still takes care of me like I was her own. Roger still wants to marry me. He's even agreed to let me keep working if I want. I've never had a man offer me that. But I like being single. You know that." I grinned. Roger Jennings had spent 20 percent of his paycheck on mom for a 10 years now. He had it for her bad. There had been other men like that over the years, men who wanted to rescue her from this "life of depravity" and make her an honest woman. But prostitution is a lifestyle. Besides me, mom's true family was the girls. That's who she talked to, who she spent time with, who she argued politics with. If you aren't on the street, or you don't have a pimp to take most of your money, prostitution can be as rewarding as any profession. "You sell it and yet you still have it," Mom often says. "What's a better business plan than that?" We ate early to avoid any conflict for the after-work crowd. And, as you might expect, it turned into a question-and-answer session for me. Dolly wanted to know if I was going to graduate school. Lee Anne wanted to know about my college apartment. Mrs. Adams asked about my new job. Josie wanted to know how much sex I had in school. Mom bitched about rising tuitions, and about a Republican government that wouldn't help. We laughed, and we told the old stories. We talked about old friends. Kendra had gotten married and had left the life, I was told. Rebecca had found God. Jenny died in a car wreck. No one knew where Marianne was. We were quiet for a minute. There are always the fallen in life, aren't there? Then my mother was taking me by the hand. "Let me show you where you'll be staying," she said. "Work starts soon, baby. Mama needs new shoes." I laughed at her. "You have more shoes than Florsheim," I said. "Yeah," she said, her eyes twinkling. "But I need shoes. A lot of times, the shoes are the only thing that stays on." "Too much information," I said, plugging my ears and acting as if her words had offended me. They didn't. It was how mom talked. She laughed, and it sounded like home. * * The hot room was the wardrobe room at the Babylon. It was the storehouse for all of the girls' fetish clothes, the shackles and the cuffs and tiny whips. There was also a costume shop full of clothing, the leather and the PVC and the the see-through negligees. The prom dresses and the nun's habits and the school-girl outfits. But there was a bed there, and a small television set. I'd be fine. Mom had a break at 10 p.m, and I promised to meet her. I was tired, but I liked spending time with her, chatting and gossiping and joking around. I sat on the bed and bounced up and down to test it. Yeah, this would do. Ladies of the evening were good at picking out mattresses, I thought. I grinned, then I looked in the closet. There was a wedding gown there. I chuckled. There were maid's dresses and a Supergirl costume and a saloon girl's dress. There was an Indian sari and a Southern Belle's gown and a leather dominatrix outfit. There was a school girl dress and a flapper's dress and a costume that looked as if was designed for Pocahontas. The drawers had several sexual toys, as well as various pieces of naughty lingerie. I ran my hands over the fabrics. They felt smooth and slick, just the way they used to. But then I crawled into bed and picked up the novel was I reading. An old Robert B. Parker. It was pure fluff, but it was an easy read. There was great dialogue, though the characters all seemed to talk like each other. Still, it passed the time. It was almost 10 now. I went to the bathroom, then hurried down to the grand room to meet my mother. She was waiting for me, drinking coffee. She was wearing a negligee that didn't leave much to the imagination. "So how has your night been so far, mom?" She giggled. "A little slow," she said. "You sure. you want to hear this? I gave four blowjobs and had one special request." "Four?" I said, laughing. Mom always was a blunt speaker. "Blow jobs are a big thing," Mom said. "A lot of wives get tired of doing it. So they send them to us, and we do it. I actually like it. It's quick, it's easy and the guys are like putty in your hands." I laughed. "And the special request?" She made a V with her fingers and licked inside. "You had a trick who was a lesbian?" I said. "No. Some guy wanted to see your Aunt Dolly and me together. It wasn't like it was the first time." She laughed. "For a woman, she sure can kiss. And her dick doesn't get soft." "Work, work, work," I said. "It's never done," my Mom said. * * I went back to the room. Once again I opened the closet and looked, out of curiosity, I told myself. There was Wonder Woman. There was Betsy Ross. There was the softball player from A League of Their Own. There was Dorothy. There was Mary Poppins. Mary Poppins? Someone gets hot over Mary Poppins? I took off my pants. I crawled into bed. And I read. Hawk was being a bad-ass. Of course he was. In Parker's books, Hawk is always the bad ass. It must have been after midnight when I heard a soft rap at the door. I sat up in bed, just as a crease of light entered there room. Someone had come in. "You awake, Boo?" It was Molly. "Molly?" "Yeah. I thought you might want some company. I could throw you a freebie if you want." She slid underneath the covers and looked up at me. She could have been any coed on my college campus. She was young, and she had dimples. Yeah, she was somebody's daughter, all right. She ran her hands across my body and kissed me. It was soft and sweet, and she smelled like peaches. Her hands found my underwear, and she giggled and began to play with me. But after a minute, she stopped. She climbed out of bed and began looking through the drawers. She pulled out a pair of black-laced panties. "Put these on," she whispered. What? WHAT? "No, Molly," I said. But she grinned and said. "For me. I like to feel a man in silk." She dangled the panties over my chest, then trailed them across my stomach. She teased me, aroused me, tantalized me. "They're just panties," she said. "Put them on." Then she was tugging down on my boxers, and she was putting my feet through the leg-holes of the panties. She pulled them up. "Lift your ass," she said. I did. And I was wearing panties. It felt...familiar. They were cool and smooth, and they embraced me with a gentle hug. Molly ran her fingernails over my cock, and it stirred underneath the panties. I looked down, but I couldn't see much. Still, I knew there were there. She cupped my ass and squeezed. She kissed down my stomach. She kissed on the outside of my panties. It was erotic, and it was sensual, and I was harder than Russian Lit. "How does that feel, baby," Molly asked. "Is little Boo excited. Is his name Boo-Boo?" "Molly," I whispered. "My mother is down the hall." "Yes," Molly said. "Do you think she'll want to see your panties? Do you think she'll want to know that her little boy is really her little girl?" I moaned. I stretched my cock up, trying to reach her lips. But she pulled back. "Say it," she said. "Say 'I love my panties, Molly. Say 'I want to wear my panties, Molly.' Say 'I'm your little girl, Molly." I said it. I said it all. Molly was in control of me, the way I imagined she was in control of most of her men. She climbed on top of me. She shinned up until she was over my face, and she lowered her pussy onto my tongue. She was wet already. She ground into me, almost smothering me in her aggressiveness. She came there, a whimper and a shiver giving her away. Then she slid down my body and, still on top, she mounted me. I tried not to think of how many men had been in that vagina, but they were all lucky men. She was tight, and she was hairless, and she fucked the way a lumberjack cuts trees. She ravaged me, she overwhelmed me, she dominated me, and I loved every second of it. To be honest, my sexual experiences weren't that great. I had a girlfriend three of the four years I was in school, and we fumbled around, but I never felt strong enough, assertive enough. But this was perfect. Molly was in control, and I just had to hang on. Afterward, she lay, her arm around my shoulders. "What was that?" I asked. "What? Oh, the panties," she smiled. "You'd be shocked how many of my regulars love to be feminized. I just thought you'd like it , too. Didn't you?" "Well, sure," I said. "It was nice. They felt nice on me. But I wouldn't want it to be a regular thing." I looked at her. She smiled. "Would I do that?" she asked, laughing. * * At breakfast the next morning, Molly and I sat across the table from each other, still in the glow of new lovers. She'd laugh, and I'd laugh, and my mother would look at the both of us. She knew, I thought. Somehow, she knew. The girls had a breakfast game they played: Trick of the night. They would compare notes, about which John wore a football helmet, or which one was into toes, or which one wanted his girl to dress up like a Nazi and throw oranges at him and pretend they were grenades. It was light-hearted, and it was funny. It was a lesson that we're all flesh and bone, and that this person's kink wasn't that different from that person's. "Here's one for you. A John wanted me me to be Martha Washington. He wanted to throw silver dollars at me, like George on the Potomac. I let me. You want to throw money at me, that's cool." Finally, Molly spoke. "I had a new guy last night," she said. "You guys don't know him. But he put on my panties and he minced around the room, and I had to take my strap on and do him in the ass. He wanted me to call him Greta. Greta couldn't fuck worth a lick, but he had a glorious tongue." The girls laughed, and I stared into my coffee. I couldn't believe Molly had just used actual facts of our love-making as well as embellished others. I felt all the shame of my night with her, and my morning. But also, I felt again all the delight. And wondered if everyone knew. Everyone, I was sure, knew that Molly had slipped into my room and had taken over. But not even Molly knew how deeply this had affected me. You see, when I was in middle school, I used to slip into the hot room all the time. And why wouldn't I? The clothes were so soft, so pretty, and I was a boy living in a house of a rising sun. So, for over a year, I had worn the clothing. I loved dresses and learned to love wearing long-line bras. I loved skirts and heels. I loved school-girl outfits. On myself as well as on the working girls I'd glimpse in passing. Now, with Molly's unaware assistance though to her amusement earlier this morning, my dressing fetishes had reawakened. In the early days of my teens, I loved it, too. And I probably would have kept it up for a while. But Dolly caught me. She had come in to find a dildo, as it turns out. And I was there with my buddy Kenny -- Josie's son -- who was dressed in a prom dress. We had tried to put on makeup, but neither of us were very good at it. Dolly looked, then she shook her head. "So, sissy boys," she said. "How often do you do this?" We tried to convince her it was the first time -- don't all cross- dressers get caught their first time trying on clothes? -- and to please not say anything to my mom. And as far as I know, she never did. Mom never mentioned it. Dolly never mentioned it. But I swore off girl's clothes that very morning. It didn't take, of course, but I was never caught again. That's a small victory, isn't it? Now Molly caught me on the way back to my room. She kissed me, and she ran her hands along my butt. "No panties?" she pouted. "You should wear panties every day. It suits your nature, beautiful Boo." "I ... I can't do that," I said. "Mom will catch me." "So what if she does?" Molly said. "You're now over 21. You're not married. Who's being hurt? You're just playing with clothing. Fun with fabrics. I have clients who spend their entire hour flitting around while dressed as princesses. Fuck with me, and that'll be you too. Right, love?" I tried to laugh. I couldn't. * * That night, Molly slipped into my room again. She was so pretty and so strong, so in control. She went to the bureau, and she took out a pair of panties -- red this time. She took out a matching bra. She took out a tube of lipstick. I stared at her, transfixed. It wasn't just panties anymore. She had me put my arms through the bra, and then she began to work on my lips. Satisfied, she pushed me back on to the bed. Again, she traced the clothes she had put on me. The bra cups. The panties. She kissed me on my red lips. I felt feminine. I felt as if she was my man and I was her girl, and the world was a whirlpool that pulled me under. She kissed my flat chest, her tongue tracing my bra. She nibbled at my nipples, and she rubbed my cock on the outside of my panties. I was a girl again for the first time since I was a teenager. I was sexy. "Say it," she said. "Tell me you want me to suck your titties. Tell me you want me to fuck your vagina. Tell me you want to suck my dick." Again, I said it all. I was under her spell, and I could refuse her nothing. We had sex, and it was even better than the previous night. "My girl," she said. "Tell me you're my girl." "I'm your girl," I said weakly. "Tell me you're a sissy." "I'm a sissy." She smiled. "Next time, we work on your hair," she said. "Next time you wear heels. Next time, maybe we'll invite the other girls to watch us." "No," I said. But I was thinking yes, what a thrill that would be. Molly reached into the night stand, fiddled with something. then rose to her knees. There, jutting out like a javelin, was her strap-on. "Kiss it," she said. Shame-faced, I did. I kissed the tip, then sucked the head of her dildo. She spun me then, until my ass was lifted into the air. She lubed me gently, then I felt the tip at my rectum. She pushed a little, and then a little more, until there was a mobile home in my ass. Then she started to pump, slowly, and the burn gave way to the fireworks. There is no nice way to say. On our second night together, she fucked me, long and hard and relentlessly. "Call me your Daddy," she said. "Fuck me, Saddy," I said. "Fuck me now." And she did. * * The next morning, Molly insisted that I wear a black blouse of hers. It was see-through, and obviously a woman's piece of clothing. Worse, she wanted me to wear a bra underneath. I argued with her about that. Everyone would see, and everyone would know. A bra doesn't lead to guesswork. It announced to the world that one is a sissy. It was a claim-staking move, of course. I knew that. Molly was flexing her power and the other girls would only look on. Even my mother. Even Dolly. In the end, we compromised. She didn't make me wear a skirt or heels. But she did make me wear her blouse, and with small breast forms the bra was evident to a blind man. She scrunched my hair into pigtails on either side of my head. It was emasculating. There was no doubt that I was dressing, and no question as to why. Three days in, and I was a sissy boy on display. I had seen Gay Pride Parades, and it seemed to me as if I was riding in the head float. I moved through the kitchen, and I felt the eyes of the girls on me. My mother looked at me and then at Molly, who was gloating. And then at me again. "Nice bra," Mom said to me. "Congratulations, Molly. You sure turned Boo around in a hurry, didn't you? You snapped your fingers, and the sissy came rushing out of him." "I guess I did," Molly said. "But your little girl is so pliable. I really think she's been a sissy all though college. You sure she didn't have a boyfriend? I think he must have." My mother kept her smiled fixed on her face. "Well, I don't know," she said. "It doesn't matter to me if she did. Just so he was nice to her. I mean, a real man is hard to find." "Tell me about it," Molly said. "I'm now involved with a sissy boy." I stared at the table. I didn't like the word sissy. But how could I deny it? I was sitting in front of my mother wearing a bra. I had sucked a fake dick. Molly looked at me. "Curtsy," she said. "Excuse me?" "Curtsy. You know. Like a girl." I wasn't wearing a skirt, but I stood and bobbed up and down, my arms extended. Molly laughed. The rest of the girls, too, except for my mom, laughed like they were at the circus. I giggled myself. Molly was off for the afternoon, so she decided we were going to roam down the strip. We went to my room, and she had me change into a blue dress. She had me shave my legs, and then put on dark hose and blue heels. She kept my hair in pigtails. I stared into the mirror. I didn't see that lovely young woman from the stories. I saw a man in a dress. But it didn't matter to Molly. She took my hand, and we left the house when the Uber arrived. We headed downtown, to the heart of the city of Wayne Newton and Siegfried and Roy and Cher and Bugsy Siegel and Elvis Presley and the Rat Pack. We rode underneath a massive billboard with show girls displayed. "You could be one of them," Molly said. "You just need your own boobs. I think we have some pills for that." The Uber driver spun around and stared. Molly just laughed. We stopped at a strip mall. Molly had my ears pierced. She had my nails done. She had my eye makeup put on in a semi-permanent tattoo. We passed a wedding chapel. "You want to be my wife?" she whispered to me. She laughed again. It was odd. The more Molly took charge, the more I let it happen. I guess I'm submissive by nature, but the more feminine Molly's plans were, the better I liked it. And Vegas was the place for it. In Vegas, you see a lot of Elvis impersonators, a lot of female impersonators, and a lot of sissies. You know, my people. * * We turned to the ranch in time for dinner. Mom was sitting in the lounge, drinking a whiskey. She normally did not drink -- she needed all the control she had. But it isn't every day that her son comes out as a sissy. Molly was holding my hands as we crossed the lobby. "Molly, could I have a minute with my ... with Boo," mom said. "Sure, Lilly," Molly said, shrugging. She walked toward her room, leaving me face-to-face with the woman who gave me life. "Are you happy, Boo?" mom said. "Yes, ma'am," I said. And I realized that I sounded, well, like a sissy. "I know you're disappointed in me, but I am happy." "Hey, I'm the last person to judge anyone, Boo," she said. "I know what I am. I've taken my panties off for a lot of guys. Who am I to say you shouldn't put some on?" "Mom," I said. "Oh, lighten up, sissy-boy," she said. "I'm just telling you that it doesn't matter. If you want to be a cheerleader, be a cheerleader. If you want to be in Star Wars, well, may the force be with you. It's just clothes, Boo. It's just role-play. Molly likes to make girls out of boys. She'll play with you a while, and then she'll leave. You need to think about what happens then." "Mom," I said. "Molly cares for me." My mother laughed. "Jesus has been dead longer than you two have known each other, Boo," she said. "I've known Molly for a long time. And she doesn't like to be with sissies nearly as much as she likes to make sissies, you know? It's all a challenge to her. She wants to turn Sonny into Cher and Batman into Catwoman. Her voicer turned more serious. "Hey, you're an adult. If you want to grow tits, that's on you. If you want to marry a football player, that's on you. I'm just telling you to be careful before you do anything permanent." I nodded. "That's the thing you have to realize, Boo. None of the girls give a shit. They've all seen too much strange behavior. It's just clothes to them, too. You make your living being judged, and you tend not to judge yourself. You want to be a girl? Be a girl. Plump up your tits and walk the runway. You want to be a boy? Be a boy? Scratch your balls and belch." I looked at her. "And you, mom? What do you want?" "I want you to be happy, chickadee," she said. "That's all. When you were young, I used to think you might be a transvestite. And it was okay with me. Men are full of shit. They smell and they belch and they come. They put on cheap aftershave to cover the whiskey smells, and they lie about the size of their dicks because they think women are stupid, and they cheat on their wives because it's expected. So I was fine with you being a girl. If you were gay, that'd be okay, too. "Then I thought about women, and how deceitful they can be. They fuck around, too, and they talk bad to the help. They give a dollar to a guy on the street and think they're Mother Theresa. Hey, if there were no women, we'd have no use for the word "bitch." So I was fine with you being a guy, too. "Now? Now I just want you to be happy, and to be in love, and to fill your days with joy. I swear, Boo, that's all I want." * * I went to my room. I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw a girl there. I liked the lipstick. I liked the heels. I liked spinning and feeling the hem of my skirt swish. Was this me? Is this who I would end up being? It had happened so fast, and I had rushed to meet it. I didn't fight the panties very hard, nor the bra, nor the makeup. It was like I was holding a dress on the street corner and waiting for someone to tell me to put it on. A little sex, and I'd been ready to dress up like a circus clown if that's what Molly wanted. How many chances had I declined over the years? Halloween? Costume parties? Rocky Horror? I was strong enough not to dress for any of those. But Molly tossed a pair of panties at me, and -- presto! -- I'm a girl. Molly walked back into the room as I was studying my image. "Sweet," she said. "Hey, Molly," I said. "So what did Mom want?" she said. I shrugged. "She told me to be careful," I said. "Well, that's good advice," Molly said. "Otherwise, I'll make you you my bitch and you'll have to call me Mistress." I laughed. "You're kidding ... right?" "Am I?" she said, giggling. "Try it. Call me your Mistress." "Yes ... Mistress," I said. "Oooh, I like that," Molly said. "Call me ma'am. I grinned. "Yes ma'am." "Call me goddess," she said. "You're a goddess," I said. "Mistress Molly," she said. "Call me Mistress Molly." "How may I serve you, Mistress Molly," I said. "Well, you can lick my pussy, maid," she said imperiously. "Kitty needs a bath." I fell to my knees. I lifted her skirt. I licked her, and I tried not to wonder if she had cleaned herself since her shift from last night. * * When we went to dinner the following night, Molly had me in a collar and leash. I was wearing a pink skirt and top and pink heels. I had pink lipstick on and the tips of my ponytails had been dyed pink. I felt like cotton candy. I felt like a vagina. It was all a show of ownership. I knew that. Molly was flexing her muscles at mom, trying to show who was really in control of me. Personally, I didn't doubt it. Mom yawned, as if to say that I was a big boy, that I could take care of myself. Then Molly said, "Hey, Lilly. Have you seen this?" She lifted the front of my skirt, and she showed a slight bulge to my panties. She tugged them down so mom could see the small cock cage, bright silver, that shone there. It was hard and cold and impossibly small as it hung there, a symbol of my emasculation. "We picked it out this morning," Molly said. "Boo agreed that I should be in control of her erections.It's an awesome responsibility, and I sure hope I don't forget it about more than three or four days." I laughed nervously. I looked down at the cage. Okay, okay. I know that lots of men long for these cages, and then a lot of men complain about them. But I wanted one. I liked the way they looked, like a flash of metal across your skin. Hey, Molly liked sex, too. She wasn't going to leave me in prison. Was she? Mrs. Adams looked at me and laughed. "Boo, girl," she said. "I can't believe how fast you've adapted to the sissy lifestyle. Two more days, and you'll be blowing clients in the parking lot. So I have a proposition for you. We need some help cleaning up. Making the girls' beds, doing their laundry, that sort of stuff. So why don't we hire you as a maid?" "Excuse me?" She smiled. "You've been a girl now, Boo," she said. "Completely submissive. So why not make a few bucks? I'll even pay you to cook. You can postpone that silly early education degree. You could even start on hormones if you want. Look, if you had any experience at all, I'd make you a working girl. You and mom. We could charge the big bucks." I looked at my mother. She seemed to be fighting back tears, but she shrugged. I nodded. "I'd like to try it, Miss Adams," I said. Hey, I could use the money. But the truth is, it wasn't money that motivated me. It was the lifestyle. * * Molly kept expanding my horizons. She seemed determined to make me one of the working girls. So what was next? Sex for money? What does a whore value more? I was a Friday night, and Molly brought me to her room. I was wearing a short black dress and makeup. I had been to the salon. And my hair was perfect. My boobs were new from the store. When I got there, there were two men -- Bobby and Ray Melville. They seemed fidgety. "Neither Nobby nor Ray has been with a ladyboy," Molly said. "But they want to give it a try." There were two of us, and there were two of them. Easy math, right? But Molly was the director in this movie. And it quickly devolved into a threesome. Ray rubbed my butt. Bobby kissed me. And there were arms and legs and penises in a ball. Molly watched and orchestrated us. And had my first threesome. I liked Bobby more than Ray, but who was counting? There is a vibrancy to a threesome. You're addressing one guy, and another touches you. I was on fire anally, and I was energized orally. I fucked and I sucked and I screamed in the night. "Now clean my room," Molly said. I rose, and I started to make the bed. The Ray reached over and placed $400 on the headstand. I was a pro. ? * Mostly, the house thought of me as the maid. I mopped, and I scrubbed, and I ironed, and I cleaned. With so many girls under one roof, the house was a constant mess. Molly seemed happy for me, but she was a little distracted. Still, I barely noticed. I was her girl, and I was crazy about her. But Molly had a vision impairment. It's called "a wandering eye." She had broken me, to tell you the truth. She had taken a male hunk of clay, and she had molded me into a sissy. I was hers, lips, butt and hand. Not even my mother could dissuade me. But when the gamblers and partners would gather in the evenings, and the girls would pair off with their clients, there was a guy named Lance who seemed to pay particular attention to Molly. Now, Molly was a whore, so she was going to sleep with whoever had the coin. And Lance picked her on Tuesday, and he picked her on Wednesday, and he picked her again on Thursday. How jealous could I be? Sex was her job. Of course he was going to fuck her. But her sessions took longer and longer with him, and one night, she went dancing with him. That's not supposed to be allowed, but Lance was steady money, and those clients can get away with murder. I started to feel as if Lance and Molly were dating while I was washing out her underwear. It was a hollow, bitter feeling. Then, one day, I started noticing two pairs of panties in her laundry, and two bras. I was smart enough to know what was going on. Hell, she had convinced me to wear panties, too. I talked to mom, and one night, Zeus the bouncer knocked on her door. "Who called security?" he yelled. And there in the room, Lance was wearing a bra and panties. Molly was wearing nothing at all. Some things don't end well. That's the truth of it. We are addicted to happy endings and riding off into the sunsets, and because of it, we imagine that stories end when the couple is happiest. But in the end, Prince Charming slept around on Cinderella, and Beauty spanked the Beast. and Raggedy Ann cheated on Raggedy Andy with Buzz Lightyear. For most of us, the end ends up garbage. And so it was. Molly resigned to go work for a nearby brothel, one that valued her talents more highly. And me? I kept working as a maid for four months. Then, one day, Miss Adams came to me. She wanted to give me a promotion. She wondered if I would like to be one of the girls for real. Mom cried. She'd never wanted this life for her child. She'd never wanted me to stand in the lobby and pick out my man of the night, then retire to a room for fun and games. For me, however, it felt like the completion of a circle. I was going to be a whore like my mother before me. What could be better? And so, one Friday night, Miss Adams had an auction. For the right price, a guy could bid on a (sort of) virgin for his bedmate, a trans girl who was very eager to please. The bidding ended up at $1400, and the guy was Gus Butler. There couldn't be many better choices for a girl's first time than Gus, a nice guy whose breath smelled lovely. He toasted the room with champagne, then he took me by the hand. He led me to the third room on the left. He kissed me there, and I kissed him back. Some hookers don't kiss. I did. I liked kissing. We lay on the bed, and we twisted around, and his cock saluted the world. I kissed it, and I swallowed its head. I bobbed up and down, getting into it. The taste was wonderful. The weight was wonderful. The firmness was wonderful. I had never thought of myself as gay, but this felt right. It felt like we fit together. He rolled me over, and he penetrated my rear. I backed up against him, and I let him thrust into me time and again, until he came in my butt. I was complete. And I was happy. * * I am a whore. A professional. A trollop. Go on. Roll the word over your tongue. Feel how crass it is. How vulgar. It is a word filled with spite, with judgment, filled with scorn. It is a dirty word about what most consider to be a dirty business. It is a brand that identifies a woman among all other descriptions. Still, that's who I am. I'm a hooker. A lady of the night. A working girl. Think of me as you will. Think of my mother, a whore before me, as you will. I'm a skank. A hoe. A puta. A prostitute, a courtesan, a harlot. An escort, a trull, a floozie. A strumpet, as they used to say. But that's what I do. It's not who I am. (c) 2019 Cassandra Morgan